Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (74 page)

   Barbara. The stories that had reached them from Paris. Shocking. She could not even think of the scope of some of them now without blushing, such as the one intimating that Roger and his distinguished friend, the Prince de Soissons, were lovers. Roger had his faults, and she would be the first to name them, but he was no effeminate horror like Tommy Carlyle, even now smiling at her across the room with his ugly, rouged face. And he was family. (She had forgiven him for Bentwoodes, having bought up the surrounding property and having sold it to the Cavendishes for a pretty penny last year.) And as for the Prince de Soissons, well, she had never met a more charming and sophisticated and masculine man in her life. Philippe was poised, well–mannered, of an impeccable background…even if he was French. It was certainly too bad she did not have a daughter to marry off to him. Mary was far too young; the Lord above knew Roger and Barbara had proved the mistake of that great a difference in age. (She also realized the closer she became to him that Philippe needed an older woman, a seasoned woman, a woman of calm reasonability. Those attributes all took time to develop. No girl would have them.) Not only was he an interesting and intelligent conversationalist, he was an expert dancing partner, and a perfect addition to any long dinner party…and a very attractive man. She could not say enough good things about him, and she was glad that at least one of Roger's friends had some refinement. The older Robert Walpole became, for instance, the more vulgar he was. As much as Abigail disliked Barbara, to be fair (and Abigail prided herself on her fairness), some of the blame for her conduct had to rest on Roger's shoulders. He was her husband. It was his duty to guide his wife, his duty to correct her conduct (instead of allowing her to romp around as free as a bird snatching up eligible young men).

   At that moment Diana swept into the room. She and Abigail nodded coldly to each other, and Abigail noted critically that her sister–in–law wore a tight gown of royal purple with a ridiculous matching turban and, naturally, too much rouge. And, unfortunately, she looked far better than she ought to. Abigail sighed and stared at the rings wedged on her own pudgy fingers. Nature gives you the face you possess at twenty, she always quoted to her daughter Fanny. Life the face you possess at thirty. But the face you have at fifty is the face you deserve. Diana was some ten years from fifty, and if she was going to receive the face she deserved, all Abigail had to say was that nature had better do some fast stepping. She herself was settling along decidedly matronly lines—yes she accepted it. She was not one to run away from the truth. Besides, as Philippe reminded her, it was a woman's character that was important, not her face. He had such charming manners. She smiled and smoothed the collar of her gown—a gown cut low at the bosom. At least her bosom had not failed her.

   Abigail watched as Diana knocked haughtily on the prince's private apartments door, gave her name, and was instantly admitted, as if she were a queen. Mary said that Diana had spent most of yesterday evening closeted with the prince in his private chamber, and Abigail knew what she was doing. Trying to repair the damage her daughter's latest scandal had caused, as if such a thing were possible. Like mother, like daughter. Diana had dragged the family name in the mud of scandal for years, and it looked as if Barbara was going the same way. Well, she had tried to warn them. She had told the Duchess Roger was too old, that his morals were unstable, his friends unsuitable. Had that stubborn old crone listened? No. Abigail could not blame herself. She had done her duty. As she always did.

   She frowned. Tony and his friend, Lord Charles Russel, had walked onto the terrace outside and were deep in conversation. Carlyle, sitting opposite her like the repellent reptile he was, caught her frown and swung around to see what she was staring at. When he turned back around, he smiled at her with an expression of complete understanding. She felt an urge to slap him. Of course she was upset to see Charles here. He was like a son to her; his mother was an old friend. He ought to be on one of his father's estates, letting time heal the damage to his reputation that the duel had caused—not that it was his fault. It was Barbara's. Where there was smoke, there was fire, she always said, and the things that had come filtering on to them from Paris. Well! No wonder Charles was infatuated. At least nothing would happen to him now, even though there was a law against dueling, because who would bring charges against the son of a duke? The prince had summoned him here to reprimand him. She only wished he had summoned Charles at a different time from Barbara. But the ruling family had no tact. It was their German blood.

   She sneaked another glance at the terrace. Charles and Tony were still talking. Or rather—naturally—Charles was talking and Tony was listening. Abigail's ample bosom swelled as she contemplated her future: one son a duke, one potential son–in–law the heir to a dukedom, one daughter therefore a duchess. (And then there was Fanny. She should have looked for a higher title, but she had been younger in those days, less experienced. She would see that Fanny's children made good marriages. If only Fanny would stop having children…but that was neither here nor there. At least, for the time being. Now she must concentrate on Mary. Fanny was pregnant again and so could wait.)

   As a brother–in–law, Charles would be an example to Tony. She looked him over approvingly. He was as big as, or bigger than, Tony, who was now one of the tallest men at court. And for her part, she did so like a tall man. So solid. So…well…big. Philippe was tall. And William had been tall. (Time was making her memory of William's physical attributes hazy, but she always thought of his height—if nothing else—fondly.) She hoped Charles was unburdening himself about Barbara, repenting his mistake. It was time Tony's own eyes were opened about his cousin, as Charles's must surely now be, for Tony had retained his foolish infatuation over his cousin, not that he ever said one word. (But when did he say more than a few words at best?) Abigail knew, however. She could not be fooled. She had a mother's instinct.

   Tony looked up and saw her. A slow smile spread across his face, transfiguring it to something near handsomeness. In spite of herself, she smiled back. The Duchess had done wonders with him; Abigail had to give her credit for that, and she always was one to give credit where it was due. It might make her heart burn with jealousy, but she encouraged his relationship with his grandmother. The old witch was good for him. She could not deny it. He was still very quiet, but when he spoke, it was in complete sentences, and his sentences usually betrayed a good deal of common sense. Perhaps the sense had always been there, and she had been so busy trying to change him into something he was not that she had missed it. Well, she had her faults. Who did not? And behind her pushing had been a mother's love. Always. Tony was so much improved these last years….

   Of course, compared with Charles, one was not quite so impressed. Tony had lost much of his excess weight, but there was still a layer of fat to him compared with Charles, who was lean and fit. Tony could not be called handsome, no indeed, but without the extra fat he had carried for so long, his face was attractive. He had a snub nose and a nice mouth. And his shy, grave manners were quite winning. No, he was not dashing like his friend Charles, but in his own way, he was at last developing satisfactorily. She no longer had to push and prod so. In fact, sometimes she had the distinct impression that maturity would only make Tony better and better.

   She saw him shake his head at something Charles was saying. She saw Charles begin to argue. She sighed. It would do Charles no good; Tony had developed a mind of his own. She did not know sometimes whether to laugh or cry over it. She might talk to him about something until she was blue in the face, and he would listen politely but then do as he wished. Now, for example, he had taken it into his head to stop wearing wigs. They were hot, he told her, and made him sweat. She frowned at his choice of words. She reminded him that they were the fashion, that no man wore his own hair. "I do," said Tony, and he let his blond hair grow long and wore it pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Seeing Charles's curling wig, she sighed again. She did not care that Tony's long hair somehow made his face more chiseled and masculine. Wigs were the fashion. One follows fashion if one does not wish to be stared at, she told him. And he had said, smiling at her (she did have a soft spot for that smile), "Perhaps I will set a fashion." Tony. Of all people. Eccentric. He was going to be eccentric like the Duchess. Well, thank goodness he was a duke and would be allowed to get away with it. And now she had heard that he had a mistress through Fanny from Harold. Not some quiet little shopkeeper or milliner, as might be expected, but an actress. Devil's spawn, all of them. Whores. Of course she wanted her only son to garner a little experience, but not with an actress. But it would do her no good to say one word. He was as stubborn as his grandmother.

   On the terrace, the Prince de Soissons limped by Tony and Charles. A war wound, he had told her. She shivered. She did have a weakness for military men. After all, William had been a soldier. She waved her silk scarf and called Philippe's name. He stood still a moment, looking at her without smiling, but then a smile spread across his face. He had such even, white teeth, and Abigail found his dueling scar both attractive and a little frightening. She shuddered deliciously as he walked slowly toward her, leaning on his cane. As he passed Carlyle, he nodded coolly, and Carlyle simpered. Abigail sniffed. Odious, odious man.

   "How charming you look," Philippe said, bowing over her outstretched hand. "Are you waiting for your daughter? I am searching for Roger. Have you seen him this morning? I called at his home, but his butler said he was coming here."

   "Leave a message with one of the equerries and join me instead for luncheon. I have some fresh boiled mutton, and it seems such a while since you and I have had a chance to visit." She could not stop herself. She batted her eyes at him.

   He smiled at her as if he understood her completely. She felt her breath catch. "You tempt me. But I must say no this time."

   She sighed. "Well, then at least sit down a moment and visit with me until Mary comes. I cannot stand being alone in this room with Carlyle. One would think he came to witness a freak show."

   "And has he not?"

   She frowned. He was not usually so blunt. Perhaps the duel had upset him also. After all, Roger was his friend. "Barbara is not a freak show, merely an undisciplined, spoiled woman, as you and I have so often agreed. Discretion. She lacks discretion. Surely this disgrace will teach her the necessity of acquiring some. I know I am mortified by it. That poor boy. I hope the prince dismisses her from court for a year." (In a year, Abigail could accomplish so much.)

   "A year," said Philippe. "Yes. That would be adequate. Look, Abigail, interest grows. Carlyle was merely early."

   The room was filling. Several members of the prince's household were strolling by in twos and threes: Philip Stanhope, John Hervey, Mistress Lepell, Colonel Campbell and Mistress Bellenden and Mrs. Howard. They seated themselves in random chairs or at the card tables placed throughout the room.

   Yes, thought Abigail, Mrs. Howard, the prince's mistress, would be more than interested in Barbara's disgrace. And the young Mistresses Bellenden and Lepell had been the beauties of the court until Barbara's arrival. She could almost feel sorry for her niece, but then she saw Tony and Charles coming into the room, and the expression on Charles's face as he leaned against the wall made any stirrings of compassion she felt fade completely.

   The door from the Prince of Wales's private apartments opened. Conversation, spasmodic anyway, suspended itself to begin again almost at once as Mary Saylor closed the door and went to her mother. Abigail sighed. Mary was not pretty, and there was just not much that could be done about it. On Tony, pale brows and lashes did not matter (and Barbara, hussy that she was, combed hers dark) but on Mary, unmarried, and therefore not able to wear artificial aids to beauty, and possessing a square face anyway, they were fatal. She did have a good figure, and large, blue–gray eyes like Tony's, but compared to Mistress Bellenden or Mistress Lepell (or Barbara), she fell short. Not that it mattered. She was the sister of a duke and that was by far the most important asset of all to possess. But Abigail had been pretty when she was Mary's age, and Fanny still was. (You cannot make a silk purse out of a pig's ear, she could just hear the Duchess say.)

   "Oh, be quiet!" snapped Abigail.

   Philippe leaned toward her. "I beg your pardon."

   "Nothing. A random thought…"

   The door to the private apartments opened again. Again, conversation halted. It was Diana, and she took one look at the gathered crowd, so casually resuming their conversations, and said loudly, "Damn!"

   Everyone heard, which did not seem to bother her in the least. It comes from running with Robert Walpole, thought Abigail, who stiffened as if someone had slapped her. Carlyle laughed behind his fan. He watched Diana walk over to her sister–in–law.

   "Why are you still here?" Diana said, not bothering to lower her voice. "If you left, some of the others might follow. I never thought you would stoop to gloating, Abigail, but then Barbara has dampened quite a few of your plans, has she not?"

   "I never gloat!" Abigail flashed before she could help herself. Her bosom swelled. She was not going to allow Diana to divert her into an unseemly quarrel. Not that she minded quarreling; there was a lot she had to say to Diana about her daughter—but not here, in Richmond Lodge.

   "I was waiting for Mary," she managed to finish calmly, "and she has just now appeared. We are leaving. I have no wish to see my own niece humiliated, I do assure you."

   "She is not going to be—"

   "Ladies," said Carlyle, in a purring voice, looming like a giant bear just behind Diana. "May I join your little circle? I felt so lonely over there, and I must say, it does my heart good to see families clinging together in times of trouble."