Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (89 page)

   I would like to walk to Tamworth chapel, she thought, and sit awhile. Say a prayer for Jeremy, for Harry. For Roger. The snow outside was as white as Harry's face in death. She closed her eyes. Charles and Mary would be married now. She remembered her own white wedding gown, trimmed with green. How excited and happy she had been. Her brothers and sisters had crowded around her, loud in their love and excitement. How tired I am, she thought. It was as if the Christmas play had taken the last of her strength. Jeremy's death and doing the play in spite of it and Roger's fever. She must write a note to Jane and Gussy. Dear little Jeremy. How white the snow was. Tomorrow she would go outside and build a snowman with Hyacinthe before Roger's window. He would like that. And she would pick more holly to put in his room. He was sleeping now. When he woke, she would tell him about the snowman and the holly. And how in just four weeks, it would be their anniversary. They would be married—

   Justin made a sound. She lifted her head.

   He stood staring down at the bed. She felt her heart begin to beat so rapidly that it hurt her head. She stood up. Justin looked at her.

   "He—" He did not finish.

   She tried to run to the bed, but it seemed to take her a long time, an eternity of time. Roger lay on the bed, not restless now, not tossing and turning as he had done all night and into the day, so that she could not eat her dinner, could not say Christmas prayers, could not think of anything but him. He lay still, and peaceful.

   Timidly, she reached out and touched his face, his beloved face, which was too thin. He would look better when he had some of his weight back. The fever was gone. He was cool to the touch.

   "Lady Devane," Justin said, his voice breaking as he took her by the arm. "He is—"

   "Do not say it, Justin."

   She could hear how calm she sounded. How cool. Like Roger's forehead. She sat down on the bed and took Roger's hand in hers. "Do not say it just yet, and then it will not be true."

   She felt something splinter inside herself, but did not know what it was. She heard Justin leave the room, and she was glad, glad to be alone with Roger for a moment, just the two of them, because until someone said the words, cried and screamed, it would not be true. He was alive until someone said he was dead and began to grieve.

   "I loved you so," she, said to Roger, who did not answer, who did not move, who did not even breathe, but lay there, so silent, so peaceful, handsome to her even in illness, even in death. She rocked back and forth now, his hand against her breast, the beginning of grief welling in her, grief that seemed dark, bottomless, opening like a dark chasm beneath her. "Since I was a little girl," she said to Roger, and in her mind was a sudden shining memory of how handsome he had looked atop his great black horse, smiling down at her, the child who loved him, smiling and leaning down and lifting her up, up into the sky it seemed, and putting her before him in the saddle, holding her close with one strong arm, his horse leaping forward under them; she could feel the power of that leap still if she closed her eyes, propelling them forward, faster and faster, past gardens and cottages and hedges, and her hair streamed out behind her and he laughed, and she felt—in her childhood—there would never be a moment as good as this one. Never. Galloping with Roger Montgeoffry holding her on his great black horse across the tender green fields and pastures of Tamworth.…

Chapter Twenty–Eight

The snow fell and fell and fell. It was impossible to get in or out of Tamworth, even by sled, for the horses stumbled in the drifts. Roger lay in the great hall, huge candles burning at the head and feet of his hastily built coffin, a coffin of raw boards. He lay packed in snow, but even so, he was changing, his face somehow sinking in, pulling toward the earth, the faintest but most inevitable of shifts. "We must close the lid," the Duchess said to Barbara gently. "Tomorrow, if the snow should stop even for a short while, we must bury him. Vicar is ready." But I am not, thought Barbara. The notes informing family and friends of his death lay piled neatly on a table. How late into the night, as the candles burned down to guttering stubs, had she and Thérèse and Annie written, their pens scratching over the paper, writing words, terrible, final words…and now the snow made their being sent impossible, just as it made the ordering of elaborate coffins or funeral palls or invitations or mourning rings and gloves from Maidstone impossible. The church bell would toll, muffled by the snow which had transformed the landscape, and only she and her grandmother and the servants and those neighbors who might brave the snow would attend his funeral service. He would lie in Tamworth vault; there was no place else to entomb him.

   It is not fair, Barbara thought, leaning her swollen face against the icy panes of a window. He will be buried with no pomp, no ceremony, and it is not fair. She wanted crowds; she wanted a long lying–in–state as mourners filed past his coffin; she wanted an elaborate funeral procession, the carriages draped in black, black bridles, black feathers on the horses; she wanted weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Sitting cross–legged on the cushions of a window seat, staring out at the snow which made all impossible, she rocked to and fro. He would lie in Tamworth vault; yet surely he had planned to lie beneath the stone floor of the church Wren had begun to build for him at Devane Square. They had never discussed it, yet surely it was his plan. Not to lie in the vault of her ancestors, near the coffin of her brother. He and Harry had not spoken in the last years of their lives, yet now they were equals in death. Would their ghosts rise up from their coffins and bow coldly and make peace? Surely death had taken the edge from Harry's temper…as it took the edge from all things….

   The dogs leapt unexpectedly into her lap and licked at her face.

   "Come," said someone.

   Thérèse. Her dear Thérèse. And Hyacinthe, standing solemnly, taking her hand, leading her away, as if she were the child and he the grown–up. "You must rest now," said Thérèse. The two of them led her to her bedchamber; actually, four of them, with the dogs winding in and out of her skirts, knowing something was wrong, wanting to lie in her lap, to lick her hands, to offer their devotion for Roger's going. Such a final going. So much more final than she could have ever dreamed.

   "Do not cry," said Thérèse. "Hush now, madame. We will stay with you while you rest."

   And so they would. Her family. No more brothers and sisters. No Roger. No child. But two dogs and a page and a serving maid.

* * *

   Rosemary, that was for remembrance, and all the holly she could gather as she stomped through the snow, her hands blue with cold, and ivy leaves, forever green. Nothing else to lay atop his coffin. Only bare branches rimmed with frost. No need for black gloves. No need for mourning rings. No way to buy them. No one to give them to. Look who bore his coffin in: Squire Dinwitty, Tim, Perryman, Justin, two grooms. Lord Devane, who dined with princes and laughed with kings and served under generals. The church was as cold as ice. All of them shivered in their cloaks. Vicar Latchrod's teeth chattered as he hurriedly read the funeral service.…I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.…Roger had not believed in God. Murmurs of condolence surrounded her, a blur of chapped faces and doffed caps. They were in a hurry to go home, to sit before their fires, and she could not blame them. The sun shone as she walked out of the church. Everyone's boots crunched in the snow, which glistened wetly, like tears. Icicles hung from the bare, brown branches of the trees. If the sun shines on them long enough, they will weep too, thought Barbara.

   "We shall send out the notes today," said her grandmother, staring up at the sky. "In the spring," she said, staring just as intently at Barbara's face, "you could hold a memorial service for him. In London."

   "Yes," Barbara said, her face changing slightly, becoming more alive, "so I could. I want a marble bust and a memorial tablet and—" she stared at her grandmother. "I miss Harry," she said, her face changing again. "He was with me in Paris, Grandmama, when Roger left before—"

   Her grandmother patted her hand. "It must be a fine service," she said. "One befitting his station. You must plan it carefully."

   "Yes," said Barbara. "Yes, I must."

* * *

   Montrose burst into the small room at Devane House which White was using as a bedchamber. His face was red from the cold outside, and he still wore a cloak and gloves.

   "Is there a letter for me?"

   Without waiting for an answer, he shuffled through the papers and notes on White's table, found what he was looking for, and ripped past the seal.

   "Oh, God," he said. "Oh, God, it is true—"

   "What is true? Francis, what is wrong?" White got up from his comfortable chair by the fire.

   "Lord Devane is dead."

   "I do not believe you!" White strode over and snatched the letter from him, as Montrose sat down on the bed, the expression on his face dazed.

   "I heard it in White's," he said. "Someone was speaking of it, and I said, repeat yourself, sir, and then when he did, I threw a cup of coffee in his face, Caesar. I did. And I ran all the way I here, and I said to myself over and over as I ran, it is not true, it is not true.…oh, God." He looked up at White. "I may have to fight a duel."

   In spite of his shock, White laughed, which made Montrose laugh also.

   "Lord Devane will be so amused—" Montrose broke off. Suddenly, without warning, he began to sob. White stared past him, past the letter with its words which must be true since they were written by Lady Devane herself, to the windows misted with cold, misted the way a memory is around the edges. Many brave men lived before Agamemnon, but all unwept and unknown they sleep in endless night, for they had no poets to sound their praises, Lord Devane had said. Clerk away in my library, such as it is. Knowing he had no funds, knowing his pride. Write your poems. And I will be your patron. I have an urge to be someone's patron, and it may as well be you, and he had laughed, throwing back his head. The handsomest man White had ever seen, charmed by the sight of him, his laughter, his warmth, his compliments. And his kindness. Kindness to a stiff–necked young poet with a crippled arm and a soul burning to write. I never once told him how much he meant to me, thought White, staring once more at the words of the letter. And now it is too late. He is dead.

* * *

   Carefully, black brows pulled together in heavy concentration, Walpole poured more brandy into the three glasses on the table. Across from him sat the Duke of Montagu, glassy–eyed. And to his left was Carlyle, without his wig; it hung from the tip of a drapery rod. The four brandy bottles they had finished were arranged in the center of the table, candles burning in their narrow necks. A memorial, Carlyle had said, when he fixed in the first candle, to an absent friend. The waiters at White's were under strict orders to look in on Robert Walpole and his party of two every fifteen minutes so that they did not burn down the house in their drunken grief.

   "To–to the finest…friend a man ever had," Walpole said, slurring only a few of the words, his mind on the difficult act of holding his glass and raising it to his lips. "I owed him five thousand…and he…never asked for–for a penny. Not that I could have paid it."

   Montagu made a sound, and the other two turned to him.

   "Speak, great duke," bellowed Walpole in his best House of Commons voice.

   Montagu opened his mouth. He belched. A long, loud, rumbling belch. Then, without warning, he fell over, his head dropping to the table before him like a cannonball, knocking over the empty brandy bottles with their burning candles, knocking over the half–full brandy bottle from which they had been drinking, knocking over their glasses. Immediately, two waiters entered and stamped out those candles that had not burned out upon impact with the floor. In seconds, they were extinguished, spilled brandy mopped, broken glass swept, a fresh bottle and glasses upon the table. They glanced at the Duke of Montagu lying across the table, his wig tipped over his nose, but Carlyle waved them out.

   "Be gone," he said grandly. He stood up, and to the background of Montagu, who had begun to snore, he recited, one hand over his heart, as he swayed dangerously:

   "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?

   And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

   Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.

   Her lips suck forth my soul; see, where it flies!

   Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air

   Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars."

   He waited.

   Walpole stopped humming the popular ballad he had begun to hum in time to Carlyle's recitation and said, irritably, "Helen who?"

   "Helen of Troy."

   "Helen of…what has that to do with Roger? Good God, man, my dearest friend has just died, and you stand around reciting some nonsense about Helen of Troy!" He blew his nose on the lace of his sleeve and glared up at Carlyle.

   "'Fairer than the evening air,'" repeated Carlyle. "That was the point." He began to weep, his tears making little paths through the rouge and powder of his face.

   "Helen, Helen, Helen," sang Walpole softly, rocking back in his chair. "Helen, Helen, Helen…"

* * *

   Outside, sleet beat against the windowpanes. Abigail listened to it. Sleet tapping against her window, beating down the branches of the trees, covering the flower beds with another layer of frost. Tony was out in it, riding to Tamworth, to Barbara. She stared down at her hands, puffy around her diamond rings. Roger Montgeoffry, so ageless, so impervious to time, dead. Even though she had seen him at Devane House, seen the seriousness of the attack, she read the words of the letter from Tamworth with a sense of unbelief. Dead. The poisonous tendrils of the South Sea Company had fastened about him and killed him. Walpole had burst into tears upon hearing the news, it was said. The king, in a council meeting, had walked away from his ministers to spend an hour alone in his chapel. Well, Roger was free from South Sea now. He would never stand before the House of Lords and answer their angry questions. He would never be fined or imprisoned, as some in the Commons had demanded. Forbid the directors to leave the kingdom. Inventory their estates. Appoint a committee of secrecy to investigate. Others would bear the burdens he left behind him. Barbara…and Tony…and others. What shall I do? Mary had sobbed to her yesterday. She will take him back now. One death, and all plans, her children, lay vulnerable. She closed her eyes. The crackling of one of the logs in the fireplace made her open them again. She must write to Philippe. He would want to know. She put her hand to her breast, well exposed in the deep black velvet gown she wore. There was an ache there. He would want to know.

* * *

   "Jane," said Gussy, coming into her darkened bedchamber. "I have some sad news."

   Sad news, thought Jane. Her mind felt dull, wrapped in flannel, like a shroud, like the white flannel shroud one wrapped a dead child in. Jeremy lay outside under the white snow. She had dressed him in his warmest clothes, tenderly wrapping a muffler about his neck and down his chest, so that he should not be cold in his coffin. It was foolish, but it gave her a small comfort to know he would be warm. His body had been so thin, so frail under her hands as she washed him that final time. Her mother had helped her. And her Aunt Maude. And her sisters. Her friends. All soft and murmuring. Quietly talking as they washed and dressed Jeremy and watched her comb his wayward hair. Sharing her grief. Knowing. Many of them having done the same as she now did, having bathed and dressed a beloved child for burial. "Where is Jeremy?" Amelia had demanded, her tiny hands on her hips. "When will he come back?" Never, never, never, never. "I want Bab," Amelia had screamed, and her father had picked the child up and hushed her. Bab was nursing her husband at Tamworth. He lay dying, said her father. Dying, Jane had thought dully. This is the winter of death.

   "Barbara's husband has died," Gussy said.

   He held her hand and began to say prayers. She did not even know if Barbara loved her husband anymore. Once she had. She knew she should feel sad for her, but she felt nothing. The hurt for Jeremy took all. Green pastures, thought Jane. Still waters. Surely the Lord had green pastures and still waters for her Jeremy. It was the only way she could bear his death. To believe so.

* * *

   Barbara lay back against one of the walls encasing a window seat, the beginnings of a list of those she would invite to a memorial service thrown to one side, the dogs huddled in her lap as she scratched their necks and backs over and over. They said New Year's Day had come and gone, but she had no memory of it. Twelfth Night was around the corner. Cook would bake the special plum cakes, two of them holding hard black beans, and those who found them in their cakes would be king and queen for a night. She closed her eyes. She could not sleep. She could not eat. She could not think for any length of time. A feeling of loss came upon her and took her in its jaws and shook her, leaving her stunned and bewildered. She had begun the list for the memorial service. Yet she found each name more difficult than the last to write because each name reminded her that he was dead. Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell silently into the fabric of her gown.