Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (23 page)

   Why did Harry not write? She knew why. Because he was bold and restless and impatient, and he had found someone else. Oh, she knew it. She knew Harry. He had a mistress at school; she knew that, but when he whispered to her under the apple trees and held her in his arms, it did not matter. He was so handsome. How could women not love him? Sometimes, she thought her heart would shrivel up and die. She really did. Dear Lord in His heaven above, would her aunt never stop talking? She talked all day. And shopped. And visited friends. Or had them over to visit, drink tea, play cards, and talk, talk, talk! Sometimes Jane thought she would scream at the clacking, clacking, clacking sound of her voice—"Jane, dear, do fetch Mrs. Maple some more tea." "Jane, dear, do look at those green gloves. I must have them." "Jane, dear, do not tell your Uncle Edgemont. He would never understand."

   Here in London, her aunt looked for ways to fill the days. At Jane's home, Ladybeth Farm, her days were spent helping her mother. There was the dairy to oversee, and the alehouse. There was cream and cheeses and butter to make. There was game to cure, and beef and pork. There was bread to bake and clothes to sew and mend and clean. Hens and pigs had to be fed, there were younger brothers and sisters to see after. Jane's days had been spent doing tasks that made the household run efficiently. Now, at Ladybeth, they would be in the woods near Tamworth, gathering greenery. The Duchess always allowed neighbors and tenants to gather the bay and holly and ivy from her woods at Christmastime, and Jane's family was the most important after the Duchess's and Squire Dinwitty's. She and her sisters would make wreaths. She would help her mother and the servants in the kitchen, for there was an enormous amount of baking to do—pies, cakes, biscuits, puddings. She and her brothers would go out and find a yule log, the biggest log in the forest, and they would harness the horse to drag it home. Everyone would be laughing, cold cheeks and noses red with cold, fingers and toes burning with cold. Mother would have hot, spiced ale ready, and yule sweets. The log would be placed in the fireplace, waiting for Christmas Eve, when they would light it with the burning remainder of last year's log. It was good luck if it burned through the night. The house would be shining with candles, and Father would lead them in a Christmas prayer, and later some of the villagers would be by to carol. She and Harry and Barbara would meet—except that this year Harry was in Italy and Barbara was in London, like herself, ready to be married. Her aunt would spend the holidays playing cards with her friends. She would lose too much money and Uncle Edgemont would argue with her, compliments of the season.

   The carriage stopped. Jane looked out. They were home. She followed slowly, like an old woman, as her aunt ran up the narrow, steep steps to the front door, talking all the while to the coachman, who doubled as one of their house servants. The other was Betty, the kitchen maid.

   "Now, Thomas, you take those horses right back to the stable. I do not want Mr. Lewis charging me for another hour. And see the carriage is stored properly." (Her aunt rented horses; it was beyond their means to keep a permanent pair. The stable owner allowed them to store their carriage for a fee.) "Thomas, be sure the carriage is pulled inside. I do not want rot and mildew on it."

   It was the same thing she always said. The carriage was a source of enormous pride, her friends did not see how her husband managed it; and Aunt Maude smiled and bridled and never told them that she paid for it out of her settlement money or that she and Uncle Edgemont quarreled about it at least twice a week, he claiming it was too expensive to rent a stable and horses, and she saying it was her money and she would do as she pleased. And she did. Every other day they went out. She took her friends shopping—the carriage crammed with petticoats and ribbons and clacking chatter while Jane sat squashed in a corner.

   Her aunt was stripping off her gloves and going through the letters Betty had left on the table. Jane untied her cloak and hung it up. She sat down.

   "Merciful gods!" her aunt shrieked, waving a piece of paper about. "Jane! Jane, dearest! This is for you—" For a moment, Jane's heart beat so fast she thought she would faint, but then her aunt said, "It's an invitation. Just listen, child. Mistress Barbara Alderley invites Mistress Jane Ashford and Mistress Maude Berkley—I am invited, too, Jane, dear. Now whatever will I wear?— to take tea at four Thursday—I will go out tomorrow and buy a new gown. I have nothing but rags to wear?—Maria will eat her heart out—Jane! Saylor House!" Her aunt clutched the paper to her bosom. "Merciful gods! It is just down the street from the palace! It is one of the most magnificent houses in London. Edgemont went to a function there—the present duke, you know— and talked about it for weeks—actually talked, Jane, about something other than my bills! I was floored, as you can quite imagine. And to think you and I are going to tea there!" She hugged Jane excitedly and danced about the room.

   "Jane, you and Augustus are going to go far. I predict it! I do! I do! Lady Saylor is the daughter of the Earl of Bristil. Her wedding to Lord William was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Of course, I was just a child, but I remember it, I do! Lord Bristil opened his house to hundreds of people, and there were balls and parties for weeks before she married. You could have knocked me over with a feather when Lord William died. I was devastated. And before that his older brother and little son. I cried. I did. Life is cruel, Jane. Taking all the Duke and Duchess's sons like that. And their precious little grandson. I remember your mother wrote me that the duke looked like death himself. He was a great man, a great man! Why, after the battle of Lille, we were dancing in the streets and lighting bonfires and shouting his name. He rode in the queen's carriage. I saw it. I stood in a great throng of people all day to see him—and someone stole my gray shawl, the one with gold thread in it—but then you would not know about that, would you? Well! Tea at Saylor House. I wonder if Lady Diana will be there? She is so beautiful. I was quite upset with her petition for divorce. I feel it is a woman's place to endure whatever God so ordains. I know I have with Edgemont! Ah, well, the great, you know, Jane, they think they can do as they please—now whatever will I wear.…"

   Harry was never going to write, Jane thought, not ever.

* * *

   Barbara and Mary sat in the conservatory. Their drawing master had them doing botanical studies, and they were industriously trying to copy the lines of a white, lush camellia.

   "Something is happening," Mary said softly, glancing back to see if her governess was close enough to hear. The woman, however, was talking to the drawing master.

   "What is it?" Barbara said out of the side of her mouth. By now, she knew the signs. Mary was quivering with news. She had seen or heard something, she was always seeing or hearing something. But only Barbara paid any attention to her.

   "There was a note delivered from Lord Devane—"

   "For me!"

   "Hush! No, it was to Aunt Diana, I think. Anyway, Mother laughed about it and said, 'It is his last-ditch stand, Diana. All his personal charm is going to be arrayed against you.'"

   "What did my mother say?" Barbara asked.

   Mary shrugged. "I did not hear. They sent me away."

   Barbara looked at the fat blooms of the camellia, but all she saw was Roger's face. Today was the tea with Jane. And today Roger must be coming. She was going to grab fate by the horns and speak to Roger herself. She was going to say—

   "Is your attention wandering, Mistress Alderley?" the drawing master asked her.

   She bent her head over the sketchpad. Bah! He could take his camellia and eat it!

   She found her aunt in one of the kitchen pantries, inspecting the silver. It was laid out—plates, platters, forks, knives, spoons, teapots, soup tureens, butter dishes, trays—on soft felt on trestle tables. It was polished every other day (one of the duties of the under footman), but Abigail always inspected it on Thursday and woe to the butler and footman if there was a speck of dark on any of the shining surfaces.

   "What have you planned this afternoon, Aunt?" Barbara said it with all the innocence of which she was capable, which was considerable.

   Abigail, her square, fleshy face suddenly suspicious, swiveled around. "Why?"

   "I wanted to remind you that I have invited Jane Ashford and her aunt for tea, and I very much want you to meet them."

   "Impossible."

   Barbara's heart gave a sudden leap. Surely, her aunt was going to tell her that she must be free this afternoon to sign marriage contracts because Roger was coming.

   "Your mother and I are already engaged at four. I doubt I will have time to meet your friends. Write Fanny to come and be hostess in my place. Now do go away, dear. I am busy."

   "Aunt, I would like very much to see Lord Devane this afternoon when he comes."

   Abigail stared at her with open dislike. How did she know? She was a headstrong, impatient girl who did not know her place. She was not docile or meek or quiet, as she should be. She had shown entirely too much interest in this whole affair. It was none of her business; she was to do as she was told. She needed a firm hand. As soon as this unpleasantness with Montgeoffry was ended, Abigail was going personally to find the sternest man she could to marry Barbara. Someone with a firm hand. Why, the girl had this household stirred up from one end to the other. Look at the fuss she had made about Christmas. (It was irritating beyond endurance to Abigail that the older servants were comparing Barbara with the Duchess.) And her influence was spreading. Mary had dared express an opinion contrary to Abigail's just the other morning, and Tony no longer seemed to feel that he must verify his every move with her. He seemed to feel affection for this red–haired child staring at her with those wide blue eyes, eyes that seemed to be pleading, but really covered a brain as tough and durable as Abigail's own. Oh, her face might look sweet, she might have a voice that would melt butter, but behind those eyes was a will every bit as strong as Abigail's. Yes. It was unthinkable in a child of fifteen.

   "No!" she said more coldly than she meant because all of those thoughts were flying through her head, and because this morning she had overheard Bates say, "She has her grandmother's touch, bless her. Ah, those were the days, not like now—"

   "Please, Aunt. It is so very important to me! Roger—Lord Devane—is very special to me. I have loved him since I was a child! Please let me—"

   "What on earth do you think you know of love, and how dare you speak so to me? No!"

   It was as if red–black gunpowder exploded in Barbara's head. It was more than just this moment; it was all the moments of having to wait, of not knowing. Her face went rigid, anger on it so intense that Abigail felt it, saw it, and involuntarily stepped backward.

   "Leave at once!" she said, pointing to the door. To her surprise, Barbara picked up her skirts and ran like a boy out of the room.

   Barbara sat in her chamber, holding her shaking hands together. The worst of the rage had passed; she could think more clearly again. She had been capable of striking her aunt; she knew it, and it frightened her to know that her temper could be so fierce. Her grandmama would be so ashamed. Thank the dear Lord she would not know of it. Above all things, her grandmother had always stressed a gentlewoman was just that, gentle, kind, courteous. But all the black anger would not go from her. I am going to see him, she told herself. I am. No one can stop me.

   She was waiting under one of the staircases, in the shadows. She was praying that Jane and her aunt would be late, that she would have a moment, only a moment, to speak with him. Her hands were sweating. She heard the door knocker sound, and her heart began to thud. What she was doing was so bold, so unbecoming, so impetuous—yes, she could just hear her grandmother say the word—that she could hardly stand it. But she was going to do it anyway.

   There was Roger! He had followed Bates into the hall and stood waiting while the butler went into the great parlor to announce him. He was staring up at her grandfather's portrait. She crept from her place under the staircase.

   "Roger…" she said.

   He turned, startled, looking tired and older, not quite the handsome prince she kept in her mind.

   "I—I had to see you." The words fell from her mouth every which way as thoughts tumbled over themselves in her mind: if someone should see her; if Jane and her aunt should arrive; if her mother and aunt should come out the door…

   "Barbara," he said. "You look so like your grandfather—"

   "Please, Roger, listen to me. I have to know. No one will tell me. What is happening? Are we—are we to marry? Please tell me—" The words died on her lips at the change that came across his face. A coldness. An anger. She put her hands up to her cheeks.

   "Oh, no," she said.

   "Your mother—" he began, but at that moment the door opened, and Barbara leapt back into the shadows of the staircase near Roger. She watched him walk into the great parlor as if he were walking toward his own execution. Nothing was explained, and she had this sick, sinking, heavy feeling in her stomach. Something bad was happening. It was. Her legs were shaking so that she could barely walk to the small side parlor where they would receive Jane. She looked across to the picture of her grandmother. "Grandmama," she whispered. If only she were here.

   A carriage rolled into the Saylor House courtyard. Inside, Jane's Aunt Maude clutched at her hat, a huge concoction of feathers and lace and pearls dripping across its high brim, and cried, "Magnificent! Did I not tell you it was magnificent? Look at those gardens—they stretch forever. Two footmen are coming down the stairs, two! I should have worn my striped tobine. I know it! I feel it! Jane, tell Thomas to turn us around—"

   "We are here, Aunt Maude, and we are late. We cannot be so rude."

   The carriage lurched to a stop. Maude caught herself from falling into Jane's lap opposite her. She ripped apart the sides of her cloak and straightened her gown, a cherry–colored affair with green striped sleeves. Her thin bosom was covered with a handkerchief of black silk. She resembled nothing so much as a badly dressed maypole.