Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (81 page)

   Some of the maidservants were crying. Thérèse was sobbing, but then she loved Harry too, Barbara thought, the new grief at the sight of Harry making her faint and light–headed. The three of them—four with Hyacinthe—had been like a family in Paris and Italy. Harry had loved to tease Thérèse until she would make him stop. Thérèse could always handle him. Something flickered in the back of her mind as she looked at Thérèse, but she had not the strength to decipher it now. Not with Harry lying naked and still in front of her. There was so much to do. And she had to be strong, even though she felt as if lead were attached to the bottom of her long skirts, as if she were dragging them through thick mud. Even though she felt as if someone had battered her soul with a hammer. So much yet to do. See to the food for the funeral feast. Be certain that all spare bedchambers were cleaned and aired. Doors and windows and beds draped in black cloth. Mirrors covered. Dulcinea, protesting, looked away. A count of the rings and gloves and hatbands that would be given the mourners.

   Tomorrow, Harry would lie in state, and friends, villagers, relatives would come to pay their respects. Tomorrow evening, he would join all the others in the dark vault under Tamworth chapel. A memorial plate must be ordered. And a marble bust. She wanted a marble bust in the chapel. To commemorate her last brother. Gone now. Earth to earth, Tom and Kit, ashes to ashes, Anne and Charlotte, dust to dust, Baby and Harry, as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be: world without end. Amen.

   She walked past the winter parlor.

   "They are dropping like flies," she overheard her Aunt Shrewsborough say. "One cannot pick up a news sheet these days without reading of another suicide."

   "There is a run on the Bank of England," answered her Aunt Abigail. "The prince and Marlborough made deposits, but people are frightened. Hoare's bank is unloading stock, and it is rumored there will be no interest payments made this month."

   "My banker tells me I have lost a good fifteen thousand," said Aunt Shrewsborough.

   "Fifteen thousand?" said a man's voice. Harold, thought Barbara. Fanny's Harold. She ought to go. She ought not to stand here and eavesdrop like a child. Harry had always told her it was a habit that would bring more harm than good.

   "I have lost over thirty thousand," said Harold, and Barbara could hear in his voice that particular timbre of someone who is frightened. "I understand now why Harry did what he did—"

   "Hush, Harold," said Aunt Abigail firmly. Oh, yes, thought Barbara. You will know the decent emotion, the correct emotion. And you will not allow anything else.

   "You must not think like that," her aunt was saying. "For Fanny's sake, and the children's."

   "I blame myself," said Aunt Shrewsborough. "He came to me before he died—"

   "He came to us all," said Aunt Abigail.

   Not to me, thought Barbara.

   "—wanting money, and I gave him some, but I was angry with him. The goldsmith my banker uses had slipped away in the night with all the gold he could carry. Go to your brother–in–law, I said to Harry. He is as rich as Midas. It is his company that has brought all this crashing down on our heads. Ask him for money, I said."

   "You did not!" said Aunt Abigail.

   "I did, and I shall regret my words until the day I die. I knew he and Roger did not speak. It was my temper. My temper and that damned goldsmith."

   "I have heard Roger has made a fortune in all this,"' said Harold, and Barbara shivered at the unexpected animosity she heard his voice.

   "And I have heard," snapped her Aunt Shrewsborough, "that he is near bankruptcy. Which is probably more likely than these wild rumors that are circulating—"

   Barbara opened the draperies, and the three of them stared at her with the stupefied, guilty expressions of those caught gossiping. Abigail recovered first.

   "Come and sit here," she said, smiling kindly at Barbara and patting the cushion of a nearby stool. "We were just talking of your dear brother Harry. No one knew extent of his debts, Barbara. No one."

   He was alone in London, Barbara thought, staring at them with a face that was set and hard. Alone with you, who care nothing for anyone but yourselves. Alone and afraid. No wonder he thought there was no place to turn but death. No wonder he killed himself. Oh, Harry, why did you not come to me? Why? I would have helped you. And now I am alone. You did not think of me. And to her horror, she burst into tears before them.

* * *

   She lay on her bed, so weary now that she could hardly move. Her mother had arrived. Weeping, crying, falling on Harry's body in its coffin like a mourner in a Greek tragedy, having to be pulled off, fighting those who pulled her off. Hysterical. So hysterical that Fanny had fainted from the sheer commotion Diana created. Fanny was used to quieter families. The screaming. The crying. Why did he not come to me? her mother wailed, beating at her breast, pulling her hair, as those around her scurried and scampered to calm her. South Sea, her mother screamed. It is the South Sea that killed him. Where is Roger? Where is Roger Devane? I will claw out his eyes. I will cut out his heart and eat it myself. Where is he, Barbara? Where? I do not know, Mother. Where are you, Roger? Come to Tamworth, please. I need you.

* * *

   Now it was morning, the morning of the day on which Harry would be buried. Today, someone would place the final small square of flannel over his face, and she would have to watch as they lowered the coffin top and then he would be gone from her forever. Her heart was a stone in her breast, her throat ached with tears not yet cried. Thérèse was useless, sobbing, stumbling into furniture, and she sent her away and dressed herself, thinking, How shall I survive this day?

   Downstairs, they were already assembling, villagers, friends, relatives, gathered in small groups about the coffin, murmuring, some of them crying. She began to distribute mourning gloves. Gussy clasped her hand. My dear, I am so sorry, he said. Jane would have come, but our children are ill and she could not leave them. She sends her deepest love. Wart and some of Harry's London friends surrounded her, and she smelled the wine on their breath as they said their condolences, pulling on the black gloves she gave them. Colonel Campbell, representing the Prince of Wales, bowed over her hand and told her how shocked his highness was to learn of the tragedy. He would have come in person, said Campbell, if conditions in London were not as they were, and she remembered with a start that there was also a crisis somewhere else, and it was called the South Sea Company, and Harry lay in a wooden box for it.

   Bab, go and get something to eat, Tony said. Leave me alone, she replied. You are not my brother or my husband. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as he walked away from her. Wherever was the tongue–tied, abrupt, fat boy she had once known? She resented his solicitousness, his calm. Anyone would imagine this was his home, she thought, watching with narrowed eyes as he greeted his guests. But then, someday it would be. Everything would be his. She stared at Tony. He was becoming more and more good to look at—his height, his eyes, the sweetness of his smile. It was unreasonable to resent him, but she could not help it today, when she would bury her brother. Tony was alive, and Harry was dead. Tony's life was full of promise. He had unsuspected strengths that would carry him through life's South Seas. While Harry…Harry lay final and still in a wooden box.

   There was Charles, across the room, staring at her. She saw people glance from him to her and back again, saw Jane's mother mouth the words "duel" to one of Squire Dinwitty's daughters. She could feel something inside herself cracking, but she did not let go. She lifted her chin and walked over.

   "I did not expect to see you today," she said. "Thank you for coming." She gave him the ritual pair of black gloves.

   "He was my friend, also. My sincerest condolences, Barbara."

   She would not cry. Not now. Before all these people. If she started, she would not be able to stop.

   "Did you—did you see him before he—before, Charles? Did he say anything? Anything at all? I have to understand, you see. And I do not."

   He shook his head. "London is a different place these days, Bab, a place you cannot imagine. It is like a city under siege. People hoard gold. They make demands for immediate repayment of loans, or they refuse to pay what they owe. Goldsmiths leave in the night for Brussels with whatever they can carry. People are frightened. There is talk of rebellion at tea parties. There have been riots in Exchange Alley. Every man has lost something, and he no longer trusts his neighbor. Do not blame Harry." He looked at her. "We all have an edge to which we can be pushed."

   She flushed.

   "I wrote you a hundred notes." His voice was lower now, more urgent. She shivered at the sound of ft. "I tore them all to pieces. I have to speak with you. Where can we be private? I have to explain—"

   "There is nothing to explain." She was suddenly afraid, afraid of the emotions floating up inside her.

   "But there is. More than you can imagine. Where is Roger?"

   His abrupt question caught her off guard.

   "I–I do not know," she stammered. "I am sure he is on his way. The crisis in London delays him."

   "You are not reconciled, are you?" he said, stepping closer. Suddenly, she could not catch her breath.

   "There you are."

   Both of them jumped at the sound of her aunt's voice. Abigail, all in black, round, plump, determined, smiled at them, though her smile thinned a little on the edges as she looked at Barbara.

   "Come and sit with me, Lord Charles. We have much to say to each other. Barbara will excuse you. She has her other guests to attend to."

     Barbara allowed her aunt to lead him away, glad of the reprieve. She felt vulnerable, dazed, no longer in command of herself. Roger, she thought. Please come. I need you. She walked back toward the others.

   "The banks are going down," she heard Squire Dinwitty say to a group of men as she walked forward. "Atwill and Hammond, Long and Bland, Nathaniel Bostock have all suspended October payments."

   "There needs to be an inquiry," Sir John Ashford replied, slapping black gloves in the palm of his hand. "A public inquiry. The directors must be held responsible for their actions."

   There was a murmur of agreement.

   "Is Devane coming to the funeral?" someone asked.

   Sir John shrugged, and then they saw Barbara, and one of them nodded solemnly at her, quiet until she had passed. Jane's mother swept forward and embraced her. "We loved Harry too," she whispered. "He was like another son." And yet you were glad he could not marry Jane, thought Barbara. Harry. The prodigal son only in death.

   Where is Grandmama? she asked Annie. In bed, where she needs to stay. And my mother? Annie smiled sourly. A cordial to calm her nerves, she will not stir until this afternoon. Good, said Barbara. Very good. She felt faint and went to stand outside in the chill. Wart was there with a friend of Harry's.

   "Coal prices are down, and the sale of ships has been canceled at Lloyd's for lack of bids," Wart said to someone standing beside him.

   "I had to cancel my order for a new coach," the other man said. "And the coach maker said his yard was full of canceled coaches. Do you think Lord Devane will come?"

   "I doubt he dares to," said Wart.

   The words echoed in her mind.

   In the afternoon, Perryman approached her. "Another visitor is arriving."

   She went outside to the courtyard. Two riders were coming down the avenue. One of them rode a stallion, Spanish, black, magnificent with a deep chest and strong, muscled legs, The horse cantered and fidgeted and tossed his head, and his rider handled him with graceful ease. Barbara's breath caught. She walked forward to the edge of the avenue. The rider of the stallion looked up. From where she stood, she could see he had eyes the color of the summer sky and high cheekbones, like an archangel's. The handsomest man there ever was. Still.

   A sob caught in her throat. Roger. She lifted her black skirts and ran like a boy down the avenue. He leapt off his horse and opened his arms, and she flung herself into them. His arms, his beloved arms, were tight around her. His gloved hands stroked her hair. He was saying her her name over and over as she began to cry while he covered her face with kisses. She was safe. Safe at last. Now nothing else could hurt her.

   "You taste of salt," he murmured, and she cried harder and held on to the lapels of his coat and told him Harry was dead, her Harry was dead, and she had no one, no one in the world, and he hushed her and kissed her and dropped his stallion's bridle to the ground and held her in his arms.

   Montrose, on the other horse, reached for the bridle and trotted past them. He nodded to the young Duke of Tamworth in the courtyard, his eyes shaded with his hand as he stared down the avenue, a grave expression on his face. In the avenue, Barbara and Roger stood together, and finally they turned to walk toward the house. She saw Tony, standing tall and still in he courtyard, and something about the way he was standing, the way he watched, made her heart ache.

* * *

   "'Behold, I show you a mystery; we shall not all sleep; but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality; then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. Death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?'"

   Tamworth church was filled; household servants and the servants of neighboring houses had to stand in the side aisles, heads bowed, sprigs of wilting rosemary in their hands, as Vicar Latchrod read the funeral lesson. Harry's coffin was in the vault now, somewhere below them, final prayers having already been said over it, clods of earth thrown on it. All that was left of his burial was this—the psalms and lesson. Where is Death's sting? thought the Duchess wearily. In my heart. Man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down….Harry, why did you not come to me? Beside her, Diana wept uncontrollably, and in her mind the Duchess saw the ghostly whiteness of Harry's face as he lay in his shroud. In June, that face had been laughing, flushed. He had come to see her, brimming over with plans, with ambitions. He wanted to borrow money to play the market. He had the deed to a colonial plantation he had won in an endless card game to give her as collateral against the loan. This time it will work, Grandmama, he had crowed, kissing her cheek and laughing. I shall win and pay off the worst of my debts and settle down to become a gentleman farmer. I promise. I do not trust the market, she had told him. In my day, hard work, the right marriage, land, gold, a few investments in solid companies—proven companies—were the ways to build a fortune. South Sea is solid, he told her. You will see…you will see….She put her hand to her eyes. I am too old to bury any more of my grandchildren, she thought.