Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (10 page)

   "Devane House." The words were quiet, but firm. "How well you put things, Sir Christopher. Nothing can so symbolize a man as what he leaves behind—as well you know, having left so many beautiful things to survive after you. I had hoped, had dreamed, really, of having one of your churches. I saw it as a rare jewel, perhaps the last achievement, of your brilliant career. No politics, no business interests, just your own free will and imagination combined with your long years of experience."

   "Free will, you say."

   "I would not consider interfering in any way, except to provide money, of course. It would be sacrilege. But I see that you know best. A man knows when a project is too much for him. I forget your years—you act so much younger."

   The coachman appeared in the doorway, his hat and coat covered with dust and spiderwebs, a smear of dirt across his left cheek, but triumphantly, a chair, its back nearly broken off, in his hands.

   "I had to look everywhere, your lordship. All over this great barn of a place. I nearly broke my leg on those stairs. They are rotten, you know. But I found one—"

   Roger gave Wren his arm. The older man leaned on it as they walked toward the coach. The coachman might never have existed. He sighed and dropped the chair and followed them to the coach.

   "I might do a church," Wren was saying. "Just a small one, mind you. And look over your plans for the rest when they are done. Offer suggestions. Nothing else."

   "You are kindness itself, Sir Christopher. I cannot tell you what an honor you do me. But men will see how I have been honored each time they worship their Lord. Tell me, sir, since you refuse my whole project, what do you think of Colin Campbell or even William Kent as architect?"

   Wren pursed his lips. "What you desire calls for a man of extraordinary talent—"

   "But you said you would not do it!"

   Wren smiled sourly at him. "Extraordinary talent and patience." Roger helped him inside the coach. Wren shook his cane at him. "One church now. No more. And perhaps a few sketches to give you an idea of how it all could look. But no more."

   Roger smiled at him. "It is entirely more than I expected. You are graciousness itself."

      Wren looked around him. From where he sat, he could see a line of great oak trees following the curves of the hidden stream. "I congratulate you. This will be the finest property in London in ten years' time."

   "So I hope, Sir Christopher. So I hope."

* * *

   That evening, after several hours of sleep, Roger made an appearance in the Princess of Wales's drawing room in St. James's Palace. The chamber was crowded with people, rich in their velvet and damask and satin, jewels glinting under the candlelight of the chandeliers. A massive allegorical painting covered every square inch of the ceiling. Gods and goddesses lolled on clouds or posed in chariots; from their hands, ropes of roses trailed through blue sky and legions of cherubs. The faces remained plump and forever serene, unlike those of the humans who strolled beneath them. Except, of course, for Roger, who had rested and therefore looked handsome and unbelievably young and distinguished. He wore a silver-blond wig on his head, a black velvet coat trimmed in silver lace and braid, with matching black velvet breeches, a few tiny black silk patches on his face, and black leather shoes with huge velvet bows and diamonds in the heels. People could not help but look at him as he walked by, bowing and smiling in every direction. It was as if everyone wanted a moment of his attention, for he was golden, blessed, untouched, unlike the rest of them with their liver spots and missing teeth and fat hanging over their breeches. It was as if his age underlined his continued beauty in a way the smooth roundness of youth could not.

   King George stood at one end of the room. Near him was his thin, ugly mistress, Countess Melusine von Schulenburg. A semicircle of courtiers had formed about them, most being content to be seen by the king, make their bows and curtsies, then leave discreetly. King George did not speak English before his courtiers. Nodding to the right and left at friends and acquaintances, Roger went first to the Princess of Wales, Caroline, a plump, blonde woman with a pretty, round face and shrewd blue eyes. He bowed over her hand and kissed it, smiling charmingly at her young maids of honor, who surrounded Caroline's chair like luscious flowers. They fluttered their fans at him.

   "The king seems in good humor tonight," said Roger.

   "George is behaving himself," she said, rolling her eyes at Roger, who laughed. She was referring to her husband, George Augustus, the Prince of Wales, a slightly stupid and very impatient man, busy flirting with his mistress.

   "I let him amuse himself," the princess said. "It keeps him out of trouble."

   "You are very adroit." Roger smiled down at her. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and he looked as if he, too, understood disillusion in love.

   "One learns," she said more softly, his charm having disarmed her. "Dear Roger, you are always so kind. My Aunt Liselotte asks of you in her latest letter." Liselotte was Princess Elisabeth–Charlotte of France and Bavaria, the same Elisabeth–Charlotte whose portrait was in Roger's bedchamber. She was cousin to King George and widow of Monsieur, brother of France's Louis XIV.

   "Write her that I kiss her hand a thousand times, and that I am coming to France very soon, where I shall most certainly visit her for all the latest gossip."

   Caroline smiled. "She will be delighted to hear that. Go. His majesty sees you. We will talk later."

   He made his way, smiling and bowing, toward the King of England, a plain man of fifty–five with a very long, pointed nose. The courtiers moved for him, many noticing King George's smile of genuine pleasure as Roger walked toward him. Few Englishmen brought it to his face. The king was a private man, dining alone, keeping to himself. But Roger walked in the palace gardens with him and hosted him in his own home and was welcome at any time behind those palace doors closed to so many others.

   "Just look at the two of them. He looks like a king. The king looks like his groom," said Robert Walpole, looking like a fat brown bear in his brown velvet suit and striped waistcoat. He stood with his brother and brother–in– law, Viscount Charles Townshend, one of the king's secretaries of state, not far from Roger and the king.

   "Handsome is as handsome does. Is it true he is going to marry Kit Alderley's girl?" asked Townshend, watching Roger bow and smile and begin to talk as naturally with the king as if he had known him all his life. The king laughed at something he was saying, and Countess von Schulenburg smiled too.

   "Where did you hear that?" asked Robert.

"You told me. But everyone is talking of it anyway. It seems the girl is bringing some vast pieces of property to the marriage. For Roger's sake, I am glad, but I hate to see Diana pulling herself out so well."

   "Diana," repeated Walpole. "I keep hearing her name. Where is she? Is she here tonight? Point her out to me."

   Townshend and Horatio exchanged a look.

   "Over there is a faction of the Tamworths, but I doubt Diana will be with them. She is up to her neck in creditors and hiding out."

   Robert looked to where Townshend indicated. Abigail, Lady Saylor sat with her family. She looked worn and irritated tonight as she watched Roger and the king talk, her mouth pinched in, her fan snapping open and shut. She wore a blue velvet gown that squeezed her breasts up like melons. Her breasts were smooth and full; it was a shock to look upward and encounter her aging, determined face. Her son, Anthony Richard, second Duke of Tamworth, sat beside her. He was seventeen, plump and vacant– looking in a pink satin suit and a blond frizzy wig. Her eldest daughter, Fanny, Lady Wentworth, and her husband were sitting with them. Fanny was a prettier, softer version of her mother. And two of the late duke's sisters, Elizabeth, Lady Cranbourne and Louisa, Lady Shrewsborough, both magnificent in the amount of wrinkles, jewels, and haughtiness they displayed, also sat with them. The women were focused on Roger while Tony and Lord Wentworth watched the musicians at the other end of the room.

   Horatio shuddered. "The duke did not inherit his grandfather's looks—"

   "Or his mind," cut in Townshend.

   "I would hate to be caught in a dark alley with that group tonight. Lord, look at Lady Saylor's face. She looks fit to be tied."

   "She is opposed to the marriage. Roger will be lucky if he obtains one acre of property from them," said Townshend.

   "Diana sounds like a spirited woman," said Robert. It was obvious he had been paying no attention to them.

   Horatio and Townshend exchanged another glance.

   "Diana Alderley will have nothing to do with you, Robert. You do not have enough money," said Horatio.

   "And you are too ugly," said Townshend.

   "And too fat," said Horatio.

* * *

   "Those are my plans, your majesty," Roger told the king in flawless French. "I would like to be in France in time for Carnival. There are estates I wish to see, and old friends. I thought to summer in Italy and"—he smiled at the king and bowed—"Hanover."

   "There is a Scotsman in France, a John Law," King George said. "Have you heard of him?"

   Roger winked at Melusine, who smiled back at him. "Certainly, sir. He has some theories about credit which are said to be revolutionary. I thought I might look into them."

   "I thought you might do so also, Roger. And you might take some private messages to the regent, nothing official that anyone need know of, just some personal notes to him from me."

   Roger bowed.

   "You turn his pleasure trip into one of business," said Melusine. "He works too hard and will have you do also, Roger."

   "I owe him too much to refuse him. He would put me in the Tower and cut off my head. Has he been ignoring you, Melusine? You could always leave and run away with me."

   "You mock me, Roger. I hear you are promised to another. Do send him to the Tower, your majesty, for trifling with me. But do not cut off his head. It is far too handsome."

   Roger stared at her, openly annoyed. "Who says I am promised?"

   She pointed with her diamond–studded fan to Tommy Carlyle, obvious in very high, very red heels that made him tower over almost every man in the room. Carlyle looked toward them, and seeing them staring at him, blew Roger a kiss. In spite of his annoyance, Roger had to bite his lip not to smile. The king snorted in disgust.

   "Why do you have anything to do with him, Roger? He is unnatural, an aberration of nature!"

   "He is a friend, your majesty. I am loyal to my friends. And he can be very amusing, as you have just seen."

   "Even when spreading gossip about you?" asked Melusine.

   "A man such as that knows no loyalty," said King George. "He is ruled by his unnatural passions. How it used to sicken me to watch Monsieur mince about! How cruel he was to my cousin Liselotte with his pretty boys and handsome lovers!"

   "Perhaps such people are to be pitied, rather than abhorred, sir—"

   "Do not keep talking of Carlyle," interrupted Melusine impatiently. "Is it true you are to marry that traitor Alderley's daughter?"

   "Melusine!" said the king.

"There was no man more loyal than her grandfather," Roger said. "Her mother has the same blood in her veins. And you know you may count on the Tamworths, sir." He nodded toward the group of them sitting against the wall, the young duke, his mother and sister and aunts. Lady Saylor saw them looking and said something to her daughter. They stood up and shook out their gowns.

   "I can do better for you," said King George. "The branch you choose is on the brink of ruin. Let me find you a German heiress."

   Roger bowed. "No, thank you. It might be amusing to bring them back from the brink. And in any case, it is my own affair. Your majesty… Melusine…" Backing away, he joined the Walpole brothers and Townshend.

   "You offended him," the king said.

   "How romantic," said Melusine. "And how English. And how foolish."

   "Bah!" said the king. "Now I know why Lady Alderley requested an audience with me. She is burning her bridges behind her."

   "What does that mean?" demanded Melusine.

   He smiled at her. "It is a military term, my cabbage. I think the lady has Roger outflanked."

   "Pooh!" she said. "Oh dear, do smile, George. Here comes that haughty Lady Saylor and her daughter."

   "Let us leave at once, Robert," Roger said, glancing at the two bearing down on the king. "Abigail has me in her sights, and I am in no mood to be polite."

* * *

   Clemmie brought the note in, holding it as if it burned her fingers. Diana snatched at it and tore it open. She read it once, then once again. Barbara, watching her, thought, The note is from Roger. I know it. I feel it. Why does Mother stare so? He is dead. Yes, that is it. He has died, and it is all over. Or worse. He has changed his mind. He never wants to see me—

   "He is coming tomorrow," Diana said slowly. Barbara could not move; her limbs were turned to stone. She stared at her mother like an idiot.

   "He is coming tomorrow," Diana repeated, half shouting the words. Clemmie threw her apron over her head and began to dance a jig. Diana laughed and tossed the note up in the air. It fluttered to the ground like a white bird. Barbara's heart was beating so fast she thought she might be dying. She tried to speak, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out. Diana pointed at her and began to laugh harder. Barbara felt bubbles of hysterical laughter floating up inside. Clemmie whirled around the room like a fat brown jug come to life. She whirled into a table and went crashing to the floor. The apron was still on her head. Diana screamed with laughter.

   Clemmie pulled the apron off her head. "I fell," she explained unnecessarily.

   Barbara looked at her mother. "S–She f–fell," she repeated. Then she exploded with laughter. Clemmie's face rearranged itself into folds of disapproving, hurt fat. Diana shrieked with laughter; so did Barbara.