Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (69 page)

   "I had too much to drink…." She could almost hear her mother telling her to lean forward, to show him her bosom, but she could not bring herself to do so. It seemed dishonest and unworthy.

   "Let us leave," she said to him, softly. "We can go to my home, or to yours, whichever you please, and I will make you something to eat and then we will talk. As friends. But not here, Charles. And not now. Not in this way—"

He interrupted her. "I know where you were."

His shoulders seemed to block out light and air and space.

   "If you know that," she tried to say calmly, "then you also know you have no reason to be angry."

   "I can forgive a whore, Bab, but not a liar."

   She felt as if he had slapped her. A sense of both sorrow and futility filled her. "You know I am not a whore or a liar."

   "But you are," he said, his mouth pale with the effort he was making to keep his temper. "They told me so in France, but still I wanted to meet you. I dreamed of you. And when I did meet you, I knew I wanted you. I did not love you then, did not expect to love you, but I wanted you. I thought them wrong. Liars. Gossips. Now I love you….and I thought you loved me." His voice was soft. And dangerous. She hated the way he was looking at her, as if she had failed him, and he despised her for it. She had failed him. And herself.

   "I do care for you, Charles—"

   "Then why did you sleep with Jemmy?"

   What can I answer? she thought. I do not know why I slept with Jemmy. I do not know why I slept with you, I do not even know why I slept with Richelieu. That is a lie—sometimes my life seems filled with lies, Charles—I slept with Richelieu to hurt Roger. Only it hurt me more. And I slept with you to hurt Roger. Only that hurt me more also. The truth? You desire truth? All right, I will tell it, ugly as it is. Perhaps it is the only thing to help us.

   "I was drunk, drunker than I have ever been. As you are now. It was a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. Do not add to it."

   But she had guessed wrong. He was closing his eyes, his face was twisting with pain. He was blinking his eyes rapidly, almost as if he was going to cry. But instead he said, "He is a dead man."

   The words rang in her ears.

   "No! He is only a boy! Listen to me, it would be shameful to duel with him—"

   "It was shameful of you to lie with him. The boy acted the man." His face was gleaming with sweat. He seemed sick. "And he must pay for it. I stand for no one touching what is mine."

   "Yours! I am not yours! You are not my husband—"

   He stood up, knocking over his chair. The tavern around them was quiet, everyone staring at them, all motion suspended. Someone held a glass in midair. The waiter's hand was still, quiescent upon the table he had been wiping clear.

   "Wait!" she cried.

   Words babbled out of her as danger pressed down on her, over her, anger squeezing out her breath.

   "I did not mean it. I did not. Listen to me. You are angry, and I am angry. We never quarrel well. You have had too much to drink. And no rest. We will go someplace that is quiet; together, someplace that is private, and I will explain it all to you. You owe me that, Charles—"

   But he was already walking away from her.

   "Charles!"

   She screamed his name. Everyone was staring at her; all mouths a small
O.

   "Charles!"

   She did not care what they thought.

   "Charles!"

   The veins stood out in each side of her neck.

   The door made a thudding sound as it closed behind him. Outside, he leaned over and vomited in the street.

* * *

She had been waiting in Harry's room for an hour. I have failed, she thought over and over. Afternoon was fading; soon it would be the beginning of the summer twilight. She paced up and down in front of Harry's window; already she had sent Harry's man with another note for Jemmy. He was ordered to slip it under the door if no one answered. Wild plans went through her head. If Harry found Jemmy, she would have him knock him unconscious and then kidnap him, taking him somewhere in the country until Charles was calmer. She would learn where they were dueling and leap in front of their pistols or swords at the last minute so that they could not kill each other. She would tell the constable and have them both arrested. The whole thing was a nightmare tinged with melodrama, too poorly acted to garner anything but orange peels and boos from an audience. It could not be happening; yet it was. One act on her part setting into motion a chain of events that was leading to tragedy. If Jemmy died, she would not be able to forgive herself. Or Charles. If Jemmy died, the scandal would be enormous. She would have to withdraw from court. The Frog would read her a righteous lecture. The maids of honor would snicker behind their fans. Roger could divorce her. Easily. How Philippe would love that. She could envision him, a black raven on Roger's shoulder, advising him. Ironic that she had lain in her bath—was it only this morning?—and planned to go to Tamworth to sort out her life. Her life was now unraveling. She had it in her hands, but the threads, tons of them, slipped through her fingers. Do not let Jemmy die, she prayed as she paced back and forth. Please. Please. Please. She thought of all she might have said to Charles and had not. She should have listened to her mother; she should have gone on her knees there in the tavern, pleading. Weeping.

   The door opened and Harry stood there looking at her. She had to sit down, knowing what he was going to say even as he said it.

   "I could not find him—"

   Sweet merciful Jesus, pray for us now in the hour of our need. She held out her hands, and Harry crossed the floor swiftly to take them.

   There was a knock on the door. She and Harry stared at each other, one thought on both their minds. She found herself choking, unable to breathe as Harry opened the door. Jemmy….

   Diana walked in.

   "I could not wait another moment at my house," she said, going at once to her daughter and ignoring Harry. "I must have been to yours at least seven times. What is happening?"

   "The duel is set for tomorrow morning," Harry said with a glance at his sister. He still had the door open, as if by wishful thinking his mother would walk back through it.

   "Tomorrow morning!" Diana cried. "Did you see Charles? Did you?"

   Barbara did not answer,

   "I knew it!" Diana said. "I knew that temper of yours would ruin everything. Time and again I have told you how to handle men. And do you listen? No. You think you know everything. You have to cajole them, plead with them, make them think you are weak and frightened when they are angry. There are times to lose your temper, Barbara Alderley, and there are times to keep it, and a wise woman knows—"

   "Shut up!" Barbara cried, putting her hands over her ears. "Shut up!"

   There was a note in her voice that rose above their heads. Hearing it, Harry went to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. I am hysterical, Barbara thought, as if from a distance.

   "It is not true," she heard herself saying to Harry. "Tell me it is not true."

   "Bab," he told her gently. "They are placing bets on the duel at White's, which means that Jemmy has accepted Charles's challenge."

   "Where will it be?"

   "Who knows?"

   "If you could find out—"

   "You would do what?" Diana cut in sarcastically. "Show up in your carriage, scream, have hysterics while their seconds hold you, and they end up killing each other for certain because you are there! You cannot stop the duel, Barbara. And if you dare to be where it is held, your reputation will never recover. People will think you went there to gloat, to cheer Charles on, to—"

   "Damn what people think!"

   "No, Bab. She is correct. Listen to her."

   Barbara was silent, looking from Harry to her mother and back again. "The Earl of Camden," she said. "I could go to him." The earl was Jemmy's father.

   "And do what?" demanded Diana.

   "I–I could explain what has happened, and how it is my fault, and beg him to order Jemmy away."

   Diana pursed her lips. "It is unlikely he would…and yet…"

   "And yet?"

   "It might be worth a try. I know the old man, I will write a note so that he will receive you. Yes, it might work. Jemmy could be sent away immediately, confined for a while to his father's estates; Charles would cool off, you could disappear."

   "To Tamworth."

   "Yes. To Tamworth. And I would explain to the prince that your friendship with Jemmy was distorted, tell him how you worked to save him, and when you came back to court, say, in December, he would be as hot for you as ever."

   "Harry." Barbara's voice was barely controlled. "Tell her that I am not going to bed with the Frog. She will not listen to me."

   "Mother, she is not going to bed with the Frog."

   "And why not? You seem to have bedded everyone else."

   Harry flushed. "Out," he told Diana. "Get out."

   Diana sat down, deliberately fluffing out her skirts so that the elaborate edging on the hem should not be crushed.

   "It is my fault," Harry said to Barbara, "for answering the door without asking who was on the other side. Shall I drag her out forcibly?"

   "Get me some paper," Diana ordered, unimpressed with either of them. She waited. "Why are you two staring at me? I thought time was of the essence here."

   '"I am going to lie down a moment," Barbara said, her hand over her eyes. "You deal with her." She went out of the room.

   Harry motioned his mother to the cluttered table, finding the pen and inkwell for her while she irritably rifled through the crumpled papers littering the top of the table.

   "You remind me of your father," she told him, frowning. "All these unpaid bills. I have been bankrupt, Harry, and I tell you it is a terrible state to be in. Once we get this nonsense with Barbara settled, I am going to find you a wealthy wife. And you are going to marry her if I have to order you dragged to the altar. These receipts for South Sea stock—it is rumored Sir John Blunt has been quietly selling his. Since he is the principal director behind the massive selling, I would take note. I myself have already written a note to Roger, telling him I wish him to buy back my stock. What is this, ten guineas for green gloves? That shopkeeper is a highway robber; I would not pay it."

   "I have no intention of doing so. The letter, Mother."

   Diana concentrated on her task. Harry was silent, watching her. Once she asked him how to spell "favor," and once she asked him about the betting at White's.

   "Three to one that Charles will kill him," he told her shortly.

   She signed her name with a flourish; it was perhaps the only word which came easily from her pen, other than "money."

   "Good odds," she said. "Do you think he will?"

   "Yes."

   "Fool. Men in love are fools, but then so are women. I told Barbara to watch herself with him. Here. I am finished."

   He waved the ink–stained, blotted note to dry the ink.

   "What do you think will happen if this fails?" he asked his mother.

   "Jemmy will die. The scandal will be enormous until some fresh scandal replaces it, as it will. Barbara will have to retire from court for a few months. The prince will sulk, miss her, allow her return too soon. Roger may petition for a divorce, but I doubt he will. In fact, Harry, our best ploy is to reconcile them—do not scowl. It would be better for Barbara. By spring, most people will barely remember why she left court, though there will be a certain unsavoriness added to her reputation. But she can return, resume her place, and if we are fortunate, she will be more amenable to the prince's overtures after her brief exile."

   She eyed Harry knowledgeably. He blushed. She knew how easy it would be for him if Barbara became the Prince of Wales's mistress. There would be money, sinecures, other estates for the asking.

   "Barbara!" he called angrily. His mother read him too well. "You never give up, do you?" he said to her.

   She smiled at him. "No."

   In the carriage, Barbara said to him, "By the way, today I overheard two men talking. One of them said he thought the South Sea Company underfinanced. I thought you might want to know."

   He shook his is head. "I have a hunch stock will rise again, Bab. I cannot always be unlucky, can I?"

   She counted hedges and ditches and ponds on the wearying hour's journey to Islington, where the earl and his wife were in summer residence. She watched milkmaids herding their cows home, groups of them laughing and singing and swinging their buckets, barefoot in the summer dust. How free they look, she thought. The carriage had to stop for flocks of geese and sheep, ragamuffin boys herding them toward the village common where the animals would graze a while before going to night pastures or barns. In the fields, harvesters were still shucking corn, working as late as possible in the summer's long twilight, to bring it in. Their voices were raised in song, and women and children followed to gather the gleanings, that corn not harvested because of size or odor; and therefore traditionally left to whoever wanted it in other fields; yellow faces of corn peeped through green stalks, waiting their turn to be harvested. She thought of Tamworth, remembering its harvest seasons, the concentrated, sunburned faces of the workers, the harvest suppers as the sun set, the corn piled high and yellow, children playing in the stubble, the rich heaviness to the pears and apples and plums that would be waiting on the tree limbs for their harvest, the scurry and bustle all over Tamworth as her grandmother directed men distributing corn and fruit, some to the kitchens, some for drying, some for her stillroom, some for the poor who would have need of it during the cold winter. I wish I were there now, she thought, closing her eyes, seeing it, seeing the meadows, the corn waving in the breeze, the apple trees heavy with fruit.

   "We are here," Harry said, shaking her shoulder. "Wake up."

   The interview with the earl was difficult. Harry held her hand while she tried to explain. The earl's face became grayer with each word she spoke. Finally he stood with his back to her, staring out his windows at the darkening gardens, while the clackety song of crickets came clearly through the windows to compete with the sound of Barbara's low, throaty voice.