Dark Angels (63 page)

In another chamber now, she watched Prince Rupert rummage in a drawer in an ornate Chinese cabinet. This was the Duke of York’s set of apartments, yet Prince Rupert knew exactly where the tobacco was kept. In a moment a pipe was filled for her, he was striking flint to tinder, then holding up a slim burning stick to the pipe’s bowl, and she puffed to get it burning. Oh, she did love the rich aroma arising, the pale smoke like a benevolent spirit. He was stuffing the bowl of his own pipe, and soon the pair of them contentedly inhaled and exhaled sweet, soothing clouds of tobacco. At some point, they both sighed in unison.

Alice smiled. Prince Rupert sat beside her, patted her hand.

“It’s sad times, it is. We’re all awhirl. Two days ago she was sitting at my table, eating like the trencherman she was, not a thing wrong with her. Not a sign. Jemmy is beside himself. He sat with the body all night, holding her hand and weeping, remembering back when she was young and slender and had a sweeter temper.”

“Poor York.”

“He’ll be over it in three fortnights. She was a harridan, not like the queen, God bless her. You’re looking drawn lately, Verney. What’s troubling you?”

“I look troubled?”

“Those bright eyes of yours are dimmed a bit. Is your father giving you fits? He has the Commons in a snarl over the House of Lords changing the amount of tax on imports. We were glad just to be allowed the tax, and the next thing we know, each side is wrangling over whether changes may be made at all, is there precedence, that sort of thing. The Committee on Foreign Affairs has been summoned to find a ruling. I hope they do. We need the tax. The treasury needs coins. His Majesty is impatient. Me, I just tire of the everlasting quarreling. Every single bill in Parliament is a quarrel, and I tell you, I wash my hands of the Commons. If I were His Majesty, I’d hang them all, every man of the Commons, even your father. As for the Lords, Arlington can’t agree with Buckingham. Buckingham distrusts Balmoral. I listen to them snipe at one another, and I’m taken back to the war, when our generals couldn’t agree which way was south, and so Cromwell cut us to pieces. Sometimes I have half a mind to go privateering again, just commandeer one of the king’s ships and sail off and take what prizes I can. I think I’ll go to the Colonies, to a place called Hudson’s Bay, and live the life of a trader, trapping animals for their pelts. By the by, Alice, you ought to invest in my little trading company, put some pin money in it.”

“Have you seen His Grace Balmoral this day?”

“He called upon Jemmy last night, sat with him at the body. They talked for a long time. What’s this between you and Balmoral? You walk him around like a pet lion. He’s too old for you—and lest you forget, even an old lion has claws. But you’ll make a fine duchess if he doesn’t die before you wheedle a proposal from him.”

“What are you laughing at?”

“Monmouth’s duchess won’t like it that you’ll be her equal. Princess Monmouth, I call her behind her back.”

“I’m her equal now.”

“Ha!” She made him laugh again. Tobacco smoke was like a fine haze around them, but neither cared. They puffed away on their pipes like two old sailors.

“Your Highness, will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Will you have a regard for Captain Saylor?”

“I already do. Too bad he’s gotten crossways with His Majesty.”

“He should have been rewarded for the capture of Henri Ange.”

“Who is this Henri Ange? I have heard the most preposterous rumors, and he isn’t discussed openly. Buckingham and Balmoral go behind closed doors with His Majesty to speak of him, and His Majesty won’t answer a question of mine. This can go no further than this chamber, and by that I mean your father is not to hear a word of this, but I hear Buckingham and Balmoral are in separate camps over what to do with him.”

“Hang him.”

“Ha.”

C
HAPTER 36

C
aro and Barbara sat together in the Duke of York’s apartments, among the gathering of courtiers who’d come to pay condolences.

“She didn’t even l-look our way,” said Caro.

“Perhaps she didn’t see us.”

“I’ve given up c-courting her regard. She’ll n-never forgive me, and you know, Ra, I don’t think I care anymore. One can beg for only so long. If she were to c-crawl to me on bended knee, I don’t think I’d blink. I think I’d turn my b-back.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Don’t you think it s-sometime?”

Barbara didn’t answer.

“She has Colefax in a twist, I’ll g-give her that.”

“Because of Balmoral?”

“He’s gotten it into his head that she’s going to m-marry His Grace.”

“What if she does? Colefax is still his heir.”

“He’s convinced she’ll have a b-baby some way, that he’ll be knocked f-from the dukedom.”

“Oh, Caro, I don’t think Alice would be unfaithful, and one can’t just conjure up a baby….”

Caro shuddered. “I don’t envy her the wedding n-night, or any of her n-nights, for that matter.”

Barbara sighed.

Caro reached out and took her hand. “Are you feeling well? You look s-splendid.”

“I feel like a small beer barrel.”

“M-mothers together. When you’re a girl, such s-seems so far away. Do you remember how we’d go to my m-mama on Mothering Sunday? I thought about that this morning, you and m-me and Alice, in our best gowns, eating s-simnel cakes with M-Mother. You always brought her some t-trinket. She loved that.”

Barbara had a sudden, clear memory of them at thirteen, at fourteen, and each year after, trooping off to Caro’s mother, Alice so excited because she’d never had a mother and Barbara usually sad because she could remember hers too well. “You were lovely to share her with us.”

“She adored it. She liked you better as d-d-daughters than m-me. I could never p-please her. How many more months left?”

“Two.” A shadow passed over Barbara’s face, but Caro didn’t notice. Barbara looked around the withdrawing chamber, her eyes lingering over every item, the color of the walls, the sun shining in on dancing dust motes, the expressions on people’s faces, the sound of conversation, smiles, frowns, everything in between, the familiar comfort and ease between her and Caro, the way John would glance over at her and smile his love. Every day, now, she thought, this will be the last time I see this, taste this, smell this. The knowledge was a pain so deep, it sharpened every sense. Even ugliness had been transformed. There was nothing ugly. She was aware of the smallest things, of the extraordinary beauty of all, magnificent, not to be wasted, not to be complained of. How she wished to tell John, but she would not mar a moment of their days and nights with sorrow. He’d have his full plate of sorrow soon enough. And how she wished to tell Alice, to lean her face into her shoulder and weep like a child all her fear, all her pain, and hear Alice’s protests, Alice’s solutions for how to trick death. She’d have them. The truth was life had never been more exquisite. She would have liked to tell Alice that, too.

A
LICE LEFT
P
RINCE
Rupert and walked through the privy garden to Balmoral’s, Poll a few paces behind her. It was cold, no hint of the long summer dusks ahead, that magic time of talk and dance and laughter with friends in Spring Garden or Mulberry Garden or here in the privy garden, of rowing in the long twilights to Windsor, to Hampton Court, to Richmond or Chelsea. In France, Madame had summoned her musicians for dancing in the gardens, fountains nearby at which to sit, from which to bring handfuls of cool water to faces flushed from dancing, the scent of roses, jasmine, and orange everywhere, the servants gathering to watch, joining in as dusk turned to dark and the night was so alive with possibility, more exciting than the day.

At Balmoral’s, no one made any attempt to fob her off. A servant rushed off to find the majordomo. She waited in the antechamber, and then there was Riggs, bowing.

“Is His Grace here?”

“He is not.”

She came straight to the point. “Is he here but keeping from company?”

He knew precisely what she meant. “No, I swear it.”

She opened her hand, held out the coin for him, which he took. “I must warn you, Riggs, that I have most serious designs on your master.”

“Yes.” He smiled, one side pulling up by the scar so that it was almost a grimace.

“Is Captain Saylor here?”

“If I may, let me lead the way.”

She followed him up the stairs and down the hallway to the chamber allotted Richard. The door was open. Richard sat scribbling, a slight smear of ink on one cheek. Poll sat in a chair just outside the opened door. Alice walked in, went at once to the door leading to Balmoral’s closet, put her ear to it.

Richard watched, amused that she would do that even before greeting him—she was nothing if not single-minded. “He isn’t in there. I haven’t heard a sound all day.”

“Everyone is at the Duke of York’s. You must go and pay your condolences.”

“Must I?”

“Absolutely. Don’t hide away. Go and pay your respects and let the world see you undefeated.”

“I’m not defeated, Alice, just heartsore. Not in the mood for the eyes of the crowd.”

“You must endure it anyway. You must call upon York. Every official from the navy is there. How will the army ever maintain its place if you and Balmoral ignore the courtesies? How does Walter, and the Daniells?”

“Well. My mother wants them to come to Tamworth to serve her after the baby is born. I think they may do it.”

“I did not know your mother had met them.”

“She was curious about Walter.”

“He was most loyal, Richard, slept on the floor at the foot of your bed like a dog.” She moved closer, pretending to be reading what he’d written. “You have ink on your face.”

He rubbed at the wrong cheek. She put out her hand, touching at the smear with a fingertip, lightly, the way a butterfly might. Surprising himself, surprising her, he took her hand and kissed the palm. She could feel his inner lip, the moisture of his mouth, the hint of his tongue. Her knees went weak. She snatched her hand away, walked to the door, calling out over her shoulder, “Call upon York. Today.”

Striding as if thieves were after her, she was back at the privy garden, Poll fussing behind her, before she had any mastery over herself. One of the king’s gardeners was tying the long, tender arms of climbing roses to a wall. She walked over to him.

“Mistress Verney. And what can I do for you today?”

“Mothering Sunday is almost here, and I need a nosegay of violets for my aunt.”

“Easily done. I’ll mix in a bit of juniper and moss. And what about a colonial daffodil for your aunt? There’re some just in from a ship from the Americas. His Majesty is quite taken with them.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Back in York’s chambers, she tossed off her cloak, found the queen to curtsy to her, then joined the other maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting, half listening to their talk, her mind playing over and over the suddenness of Richard’s movement, the way his mouth felt on her hand, the way her heart was beating still…If he’d taken her in his arms, she would not have been able to pull free. If he’d kissed her, she didn’t know what she would have done.