Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (15 page)

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   Roger leaned his head back against the soft leather of his carriage seat, thinking of Diana. She had seemed subdued. Did this mean she would be reasonable or was it a new trick? He knocked on his carriage roof. A small door opened above him.

   "Drive down Oxford Street," he told the coachman. Even though he would not be able to see the fields of Bentwoodes, he wanted to know he was driving past them, wanted to envision his dream, feel it enfold him before he returned home and began an evening surrounded by people who had no idea what his dream meant to him. He never once thought of Barbara, sitting alone in Diana's Covent Garden lodgings, plodding through Lord Halifax's advice to his daughter because he had mentioned it in jest, at the mercy of her mother's whim and his, like a bird in a cage that must wait for others to open the door.

Chapter Four

The same morning of the day that Roger was taking Barbara and Diana out, Abigail, Lady Saylor sat in the great parlor of Saylor House. It was a large room, with windows overlooking the gardens, famous for the twisted, wooden chains of fruit, foliage, and birds, carved by the master Grinling Gibbons, around the ceiling and the chimneypiece. An extravagant mural of the first duke's victories in the Netherlands hung in panels on the walls. The furniture was French and Dutch, made with precision and care, the fruitwood and beech blending together as delicate patterns of birds and flowers on the tops of tables or the front pieces of cabinet and desk drawers. In each corner was a huge Dutch cabinet that held the duke's collection of Chinese porcelain. All the rooms in Saylor House were on the scale of this one, their intricate moldings and paneling done by the finest craftsmen, the furniture in the best and most expensive of tastes, the rooms filled with collections of furniture that were now priceless, medals, coins, porcelain, plates, paintings. It was a public house built to represent what the first duke had become; it had been finished in the 1690s when he was at the peak of his life.

   The house sprawled along one side of Pall Mall Street, near St. James's Palace, one of the busiest and most fashionable streets in London. There were several acres of gardens on each side and to the rear of the house, and they balanced its massive rectangular bulk. A brick wall separated the entrance courtyard from the street, with a gate tower on each side of wrought–iron entrance gates, decorated with the Tamworth crest picked out in gold paint. The house was cushioned from the urban sprawl around it by the blooming trees and flowers and well–kept lawns that formed its gardens. Though adjoining landowners were selling their lots to be profitably divided into smaller ones so that two- and three–story buildings crowded against the garden walls, the Tamworths refused to part with one inch of ground. Let the others bawl greedily over money. The Tamworths bawled quietly.

   Abigail, sitting in the parlor of this house that was a symbol of all she had ever desired, had a full, square face, fresh and pretty when she was younger, but now settling into the placid, fleshy lines of middle age. She carried herself regally, always dressed expensively, never appeared without her makeup, and comforted herself that what she was losing in youth she was making up for in character. She sat with her eldest daughter, Fanny, and with her aunt by marriage, Louisa Shrewsborough. It was a family meeting, summoned to discuss family policy. Abigail considered herself a fair woman; she considered herself an outstanding woman. She was the daughter of an earl; not the only daughter, nor the prettiest, nor the sweetest. It had been upsetting to her to see her sisters, older and younger, being married all around her while she stayed at home. She could not understand it. She was competent, attractive, wellmannered, amply dowered, and intelligent. She knew exactly what was the right thing for everyone to do, and she gladly shared her knowledge. She had always known that she was the most suited of all her sisters to marry an oldest son, the one that would inherit the estates and titles. Therefore, it was a shock when her younger and older sisters had done so, while she was left still sitting at her mother's side, doing yards and yards of exquisite, useless needlepoint to pass the time.

   She would never know what had possessed her to accept the offer of Lord William, second son of the Duke of Tamworth, and a soldier to boot. The truth was, she was a little in love with him, though she considered passion an unnecessary ingredient to a good marriage. She was also feeling more than a little desperate. Some people said William was in love with her younger sister, Kitty, who married William's older brother. Abigail did not believe that. She had never allowed herself to believe that. And whatever she had felt for William had soon faded against the irritations of his personality. Everything was humorous to him, particularly her own ambition and drive. She wanted him to earn his own title, to step out from under the shadow of his father, his indomitable mother, and his older brother. She wanted him to use his family's influence to feather his own nest, their nest. But not William. He was satisfied with the second–best house, the smallest estate, with simply being a soldier. Abigail fretted and fumed, planned and plotted, and watched her sisters live on a scale she deserved far more than they. To her credit, however, she never envisioned what the Lord above had seen fit to grant her. She had been as grieved as anyone when her sister Kitty had died in childbirth. But she had thought nothing of it. Kitty's husband would marry again; the churchyards were littered with the second and third and fourth wives of men. Childbirth was the great reaper.

   Therefore she had been truly unprepared for the death of her brother–in– law and, more importantly, for the death of his young son and heir. Suddenly, without warning, William, her William, feckless, irritating William, was heir to the dukedom of Tamworth. For once in her life, she had been speechless, paralyzed for days with the shock of it all. Her life, so bounded and still, had openedup to unlimited horizons. And all her ambition, all her intelligence, characteristics she had had to keep trammeled down, were now suddenly necessary. For Tony, her only son, was also an heir, the most important heir after his father. If Abigail prided herself on one thing
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and she prided herself on several, she was proud of her maternal instincts. She knew exactly what was right for each of her three children (born with bone–grinding, gasping, raw, naked pain; she could not think of it even now without shuddering). And she insisted that they do what was right for themselves, whether it suited their personalities or not. Then again, as if the Lord above were testing her, the unthinkable had happened. William had died, died in a ridiculous battle he did not have to fight in. She had known then that finally destiny had caught up with her. Trailing her yards of widow's veils, she had paced up and down, thinking, planning, listening to lawyers as the estates of the Duke of Tamworth were explained to her. She hoped, of course, that the present duke, her kind father–in–law, would live for many, many more years. But she believed in being prepared. And she was. She knew every acre, every plow, every township the great duke owned, and at his death, she stepped naturally into the vacuum of power (to her surprise, the Duchess did not oppose her. I am finished with all that, she told Abigail, it is dead and buried with Richard). Her son, Tony, the second Duke of Tamworth, was only twelve years old. She was there, ready, able, willing to guide the boy's every decision, every footstep.

   She felt her sense of duty and conduct set an example for the entire family. She kept track of different family members and spent hours composing letters to them which suggested conduct that was more becoming to the family in general. She considered herself the spiritual guide of the entire family. Which was why she now sat in the parlor with Fanny and with her Aunt Shrewsborough. She gazed fondly at Fanny, who was recovering from childbirth a month ago. Fanny looked much as she had when she was young, the same blonde hair, same fresh, smooth face. Fanny did not have her character, but that was just as well because Fanny always did as she was told, and this pleased Abigail immensely. Aunt Shrewsborough was another matter. She had not been asked; she had simply shown up, and Abigail had had to receive her because she knew her tiny but indomitable aunt would have simply swept by the butler's excuses and come into the parlor anyway. Aunt Shrewsborough represented another age, another set of manners, those of Charles II. She said exactly what she pleased and did exactly what she wanted. She and her sister, Lady Cranbourne, were a great trial to Abigail. But she did her duty; she prayed for them; she made suggestions as to how they should act. If they ignored her, it was not her fault.

   At any, rate, Aunt Shrewsborough, who always knew everything that was going on, had called about the same thing that Abigail had summoned Fanny for—Diana. The only time Abigail ever lost her temper was when it concerned Diana. Somehow, Diana always managed to penetrate through her painstaking facade of intelligent reason. She had quarreled with Diana from the moment she had met her years ago when she was considering William's marriage proposal. In fact, Diana's name led the negatives on the list she had carefully written out when she was deciding whether or not to accept William's offer. Diana was quite simply bad. She was immoral, ruthless, and selfish. Her conduct had embarrassed Abigail for years. She was surprised she could have any feelings of shame left when it came to Diana. But she did. Both Aunt Shrewsborough and Fanny were now confirming what she herself had just heard—from Tony, no less. Merciful heavens, if Tony was reporting it to her, the rumors must be far worse. Abigail sighed secretly at the thought of Tony, her only, her dearest son. He was a disappointment. He was not bright. There was no other way to put it. Abigail schemed and planned and did as much thinking as possible for him, but when she looked at him, she always had a secret desire to take him apart and reassemble him along better lines. She cosseted him, she petted him, she planned his every move. But he was still not bright. Only to herself would Abigail admit that fact. She hid her feelings even from Fanny. But that was neither here nor there. What was here and there was Diana. People were saying that Diana and her young daughter were starving and that Tony, pushed by Abigail, refused to help them. People were saying that Abigail had always hated Diana, and that this was her way of paying back old scores. People were saying that it was disgraceful that anyone as rich as the Duke of Tamworth would not support a relative in a time of need. People were once more bringing up the dreadful scandal of the past summer, Kit's flight, those pamphlets about him and Diana, her divorce action. People were saying that Abigail hoped Diana would starve to death; that she wanted to upset marriage negotiations between Diana and the Earl Devane; that she wanted Bentwoodes for Tony. It was infuriating, especially since so much of it was true.

   Aunt Shrewsborough had heard the gossip from her lady's maid, who had heard it from the butler. Fanny's husband, Harold, had told her the news. He had been at a meeting of the Royal Society, and Roger's plans for Bentwoodes (both Roger and Sir Christopher Wren were members) had come up. Everyone was curious; some people were even driving out to Bentwoodes in their carriages to see it. Roger's plans were said to be grandiose. Gossip about Bentwoodes had naturally led to Diana, and then to the way she was currently living. No one said anything directly. How could they with Harold right there? It was more by silences, and bits of sentences and significant lifts of eyebrows, that he had pieced together his information. Fanny had been impressed. If Harold went to the trouble of telling her, it meant he took the rumor seriously. Usually one could explode a firecracker in front of his face and he would not notice.

   "There is more," Aunt Shrewsborough told Abigail. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter. She handed it to Abigail, who read it quickly. A spasm of irritation crossed her face. The letter was from the Duchess. She asked her sister–in–law to send her news of Diana and Barbara. She had not heard a word from either of them since they had left Tamworth Hall a month ago.

   Abigail smoothed the front of her loose gray morning gown that contrived somehow to display an inordinate amount of full bosom. Aunt Shrewsborough, who was tiny and frail and wrinkled, wore a brown curling wig and a jaunty hat that would have suited a woman far younger and far, far less wrinkled. Two huge spots of rouge were centered on what used to be full cheeks, but was now sagging flesh. Dark red edged over the border of each thin lip. A black, star– shaped patch winked in and out of the wrinkles by her left eye. She waited for Abigail to say something. Fanny, caught between the two of them, bit her lip nervously.

   "Well?" said Aunt Shrewsborough. "Well? Do I write Alice that her daughter is the talk of the town? Do I write that her own relatives are accused of letting a family member starve in the streets? Do I write her that no one in the family knows what the devil is going on?"

   Abigail's handsome bosom heaved.

   "You should have offered your home immediately! I cannot understand what possessed you to behave otherwise. In my day, we knew how to treat our own, even when they had disgraced us. I will not have my great–niece living like a beggar in a garret. The child is not even sixteen! What must she think of us?"

   "I had every intention of opening my home—" Abigail began, but Aunt Shrewsborough swept past her, her wig and hat trembling with temper.

   "Hah! You let Diana make you angry! She always has! She always will! She has managed to drag Tony's name down in the mud with hers. To think that I should live to see my brother's heir spoken of in such a way! Richard was the kindest, the fairest man on earth, and he would be appalled to see the way this town is talking about his family. It is shameful! Shameful!" The feather in her hat quivered with outrage.

   Abigail took a deep breath. "If you feel so strongly, why did you not offer your own home?"

   "I am not the head of the family! Tony is. And as Tony's hostess, you should have done what was necessary. I do not care if Diana dances in the street in her chemise, she is still the only daughter of the first Duke of Tamworth. She is my niece! And that child with her should not be punished for her mother's sins! What on earth am I to write to Alice? She will come up here herself if she does not hear something soon. Then we will all be in a fine fix!"

   Abigail shuddered at the thought of her mother–in–law descending on Saylor House.

   Fanny said, "I am afraid I must agree with Aunt, Mama. I know you do not like to hear it. I know you and Aunt Diana have quarreled, and I know— we all know—what Aunt Diana is. But there is no reason Barbara should suffer. Particularly when Aunt Diana is trying provide for her. It will look very odd when her engagement to Lord Devane is announced and the address for the bride–to–be is a hovel somewhere in Covent Garden…"