Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (30 page)

   Mary looked disappointed. Anne's verse had had the word "whore" in it, which had shocked and titillated everyone. Charlotte's had mentioned "fire and snakes," which they found fascinating.

   "You now, Bab. You," said Charlotte.

   Barbara closed her eyes and fumbled with the pages and jabbed her finger down.

   "'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity."'

   She could barely finish reading out the words. Her throat closed. She could not help it. She did not want to disappoint them in their New Year's fun, but she lay back on the bed and put her arm over her eyes. The three other girls looked at one another. Roger, Mary mouthed silently. The other two nodded. The three of them were half in love with Roger themselves, simply because their Barbara was. Anne crawled over and pulled Barbara's head into her lap.

   "I love you, Bab," she said softly. She wiped the tears from Barbara's cheeks.

   Mary and Charlotte each took a hand and patted it. Barbara felt the tears trickling down the comers of her eyes into Anne's lap. How could anything hurt the way this did? Just a few months ago, she had watched Jane cry and not understood it. She had been a child then. And now she was not. Oh, Roger, she thought. It is going to take me so long not to love you anymore.

* * *

   The Duchess lay in her bed, Dulcinea, as usual, curled beside her. Every now and then she could hear laughter and shrieks. Abigail's party guests must be into their third bowl of lamb's wool. The New Year, 1716. Memories filled her the way the lamb's wool filled Abigail's guests. Over five years now that Richard was gone. Barbara had been a little girl.

   Now she was a woman. With a woman's heart and a woman's needs. Children, a home—if she were fortunate, a husband she could love. But that happened to so few people. She and Richard had been special. Dear sweet Jesus, how special. Lying here tonight in this bed, she could see the young Richard in her mind's eye the first time she had ever seen him.

   What had she been doing? She was at court, yes, and she was in a walled courtyard. It must have been spring. Blue sky, and birds singing and green trees were there in her memory. She was eighteen. Unmarried. Comforting a child. Yes, that was it. Some boys had been picking on a younger boy, and she had seen it, and with a sudden fierce surge of temper (she had been a fierce girl—prickly, bad-tempered, angry—because her mirror had showed a plain woman when her heart longed to be beautiful, as her mother had been) she had chased away the boys, and was kneeling down, comforting the child, almost crying herself, so in sympathy did she feel, and she sensed someone was staring at her. She looked up, her head jerking, to see a young man looking down at her from one of the buildings around the courtyard. He was smiling, and his smile was beautiful, kind…tender. She had leapt up and walked away, taking a confused impression of a handsome mouth, a wide nose, full cheeks, a man any woman would look twice at.

   It was her first sight of him. And his first of her. Two years later, she would marry him. He was a fortune hunter, relatives warned. She was a fool. They laughed and whispered and talked behind her back. She was marrying beneath her, said others. Her father had been astounded. And angry. And finally agreeable. Her father, who trusted no one, had grown to love Richard as if he were his own son. Her father said that he would rebuild their fortune and power and she…what? She saw ambition and honesty combined, but the truth was she was already wild in love. Her girlfriends had been married for five and six years and were mothers of children. The truth was she longed to bed him. The first time he kissed her, his mouth on hers was fire and honey. She had known from that moment that she must be careful. She must not let him have too much power over her. But he had loved her. That was his power.

   And what did her Barbara want? A man, just as she had wanted Richard. But by the time she married him, she had begun to know what he was: fine, honest, loyal. Barbara knew no such thing of Roger. Yet her heart longed for him. And perhaps the Duchess should trust that heart. Time would tell. She wished that Barbara were older, that Roger were younger, that Richard were here to talk to. But Richard would be old, old now. The man she had buried talked of his roses and his shrubs. He visited his sons' tombs daily, and he cried. How many times had Perryman had to go and find him and gently lead him home? That man could not have helped her. No one could. She would have to trust in herself, and in the Lord. There was nothing else left.

* * *

   She had asked the key members to assemble in the library. It was the afternoon of New Year's Day. She had made her decision. Or at least part of it. The rest depended on Roger. Whose turn was next. She sat waiting for them, one hand stroking Dulcinea, who was content for the moment to lie in her lap. The library was a small room off the huge gallery that crossed the entire north front of the third floor of the house. Row upon row of small, leather–bound books marched in straight lines across the shelves. Richard had taken great pride in assembling his books. In one corner was a built–in set of drawers with a flap that let down, turning it into a writing desk. Now, hardly anyone used this room. Tony was not the reader and collector that his grandfather had been, and Abigail had other interests. The fire burning in the charcoal brazier that had been brought in to warm the room up could not disguise its musty smell. The Duchess sat near the built–in set of drawers. She had unfastened the flap and was running her hand over and over her own name, Alice, that Richard had carved into the desk flap with his penknife. A stupid, foolish, schoolboy thing for a man in his forties to do.

   Someone coughed nervously. Dulcinea jumped from her lap and walked over to Sir Percy Wilcoxen, senior member of a firm that had served the Saylors for years. Sir Percy had a wart on the end of his nose and a dry, pinched face. Dulcinea wound herself around his legs. He coughed again. The Duchess motioned for him to sit down. He did so, and Dulcinea jumped into his lap. He patted her perfunctorily, then pushed her down, but she jumped back. Abigail, Tony, and Diana appeared, all looking heavy–eyed. Too much lamb's wool. The Duchess, however, felt well, fit. She had stayed in bed all day, opening her letters. Everyone wanted to see her: Louisa, Lizzie, Sarah Churchill, Lady Chesterfield, Mrs. Clayton. And there were presents: fans, rouge boxes, packages of pins, bouquets of flowers, perfume, ribbons. She had quite enjoyed herself.

   The Duchess waited until bows and handshakes and greetings were finished. Everyone was seated, watching her. Sensing where all eyes would be focused, Dulcinea went to the Duchess.

   "You have the document, Diana?" the Duchess asked. An air of expectancy filled the room.

   Diana nodded. She made no move to give the paper, a piece of folded, yellowish parchment she was holding in her hand, to her mother. Abigail was watching the Duchess with a paralyzed fascination.

   The Duchess held out her hand. Diana stared at that hand.

   Then she leaned forward slowly and put the paper in it. It was clear to everyone in the room that she had no wish to do so. The Duchess handed the paper to Wilcoxen, who glanced at it, coughed, and then read it aloud.

   "'I, Alice Margaret Constance Verney Saylor, Baroness Verney, Countess of Peshall, and Duchess of Tamworth, do hereby give the land called Bentwoodes to my granddaughter, Barbara Alice Constance Alderley, to be used as dower to her marriage. Signed this seventh day of November, 1715, in the presence of Annie Smith and James Perryman.'" He coughed again and stopped. The Duchess held out her hand, and after a moment, in which Abigail and Diana both held their respective breaths, he handed it to her. Dulcinea turned over on her back and batted at the paper.

   "The land," the Duchess said clearly, "belongs to Barbara. Not to you, Diana, nor to you, Abigail, nor to you, Tony."

   "G-Grandmama," stammered Tony, "I have no interest in—"

   Abigail closed her eyes a moment, as if praying for patience. There was a soft knock on the door, and at the duchess's command, Barbara entered the room. She went at once to stand behind her grandmother. Now everyone's eyes were on her. Interest in the paper faded.

   "Bab," the Duchess said in softer tones, "I have just been saying that this piece of paper"—she waved the piece of parchment—"deeds Bentwoodes to you. Is that not so, Wilcoxen?"

   "Ah, yes. Yes, indeed." Wilcoxen stopped, clearly unable by nature and profession to commit himself further.

   "Do you wish to sell this land…to, say, your aunt, Barbara?" the Duchess asked. Abigail bit her lip. Tony watched his mother with puzzled eyes.

   "No," Barbara said. "I do not."

   "Do you wish to give the land back to me? I am within my legal rights, am I not, Wilcoxen? I deeded the land to Barbara as a dower; it has not been used so."

   Wilcoxen cleared his throat. All four women were staring at him. He had the look of a man set unexpectedly amid a group of lionesses—just as the ones that were at the Tower in the zoo, lean, spare, cruel beasts that could tear out a man's heart with one swift bite—lionesses staring at him with steady eyes, each one ready, willing, capable of devouring him. But of them all, the Duchess herself was the most formidable. He cleared his throat.

   "Ah. Yes. Well, your grace, as to that—"

   "As to that," interrupted Abigail, "Barbara is under age—"

   "No," the Duchess snapped. "She is fifteen. The age of consent is twelve for a girl."

   "For marriage only, Mother Saylor, is she a woman," Abigail said. "She can have no say as to where that land goes. Diana, as her guardian, must decide."

   "Which of us is correct, Wilcoxen?"

   "Ah, yes, well. Both of you have made salient points, your grace. There is precedence on both sides. Mistress Alderley being female…of course, that is…"

   With one swift movement, the Duchess tore the paper in half, then into fourths, then into eighths. Abigail gasped. Wilcoxen coughed. Tony stared. Barbara put her hand to her mouth. Dulcinea batted wildly at the pieces drifting to the floor. Only Diana was cool and motionless, watching her mother without a single movement.

   "I take back my gift," the Duchess said. "If you want it now, you will have to sue me for it."

   "Never do that, Grandmama," Tony said quickly. Abigail bit her lip.

   "What–what does that mean?" Barbara said in an unsteady voice.

   "That Bentwoodes is no longer yours, my sweet, but mine, to do with as I see fit. You come home with me, Bab, and we will decide—"

   Barbara ran from the room. Tony jumped up and ran after her. Abigail stood up. The Duchess pushed Dulcinea from her lap and reached for her cane.

   "Stay here!" she hissed to Abigail, who was already at the door.

   She hobbled out into the gallery. At one end, far down, she could see Barbara leaning over, holding her stomach, as if she were retching. Tony was standing behind her. He was talking to her. The Duchess pursed her lips. She went back into the library, walking slowly, as if her legs were paining her. Abigail was whispering furiously to Wilcoxen. The two of them looked up as the Duchess entered.

   "Go away," said the Duchess. "Now. Except you, Diana. You stay."

   Wilcoxen bowed rapidly, right and left, without looking at any of the three women he was left with. He could not get out of the door fast enough.

   Diana's hands opened and closed methodically against the arms of the chair upon which she was sitting. It was the only movement she had made since the Duchess had torn up the paper.

   "Your theatrics were uncalled for, Mother," Abigail said, her full, fleshy face showing its stubborn jaw. "And I would appreciate it if you would treat me with a little more courtesy! I am not your tirewoman, to be snapped at like a dog. Now, I am going to my rooms. Not because you order it. But because I wish it! I have a headache!"

    The Duchess said nothing. But when the door closed behind Abigail, she sat down and looked at her daughter.

   "I am ruined. You know that?" said Diana. The words were emotionless, but the emotion was there.

   "Why did you not tell me the extent of your debts? I thought Roger's terms more than generous."

   Diana stared down at her gown. "They are. But they are not enough."

   "Enough? What is enough?"

   "An allowance, Mother. Some money of my own so that I can buy a gown now and then. The estate is ruined. It will take Harry years to earn my jointure back out of it. I needed better terms. I thought Roger would offer them. I thought I could play him against Abigail and come up the winner either way. And I would have."

   "And Barbara? What of her?"

   "Abigail promised to find her a husband as part of the bargain."

   "The bargain."

   Diana leaned forward. Her face was cold and white and hard. "I would have had money now, and future money against Bentwoodes development. I would have been secure."

   "Why did you not ask me for an allowance when you were at Tamworth?"

   "I thought you would say no."

   "And so I would have."

   Diana laughed. There was no mirth in the sound.

   "A child's spirit is a special thing, Diana. And to have abused it the way you have…I would not think of casting my pearls before swine, and yet I gave you my granddaughter—"

   "My daughter, Mother—"

   "No, my daughter! I raised her. She is more mine than you ever were."

   "Have you always hated me?"

   The Duchess closed her eyes. That Diana could ask her such a question, and ask in such a level tone, made her heart feel like a stone inside her breast.

   "I do not hate you, Diana." For the first time, her voice trembled.

   "But you do not love me—"

   The Duchess dug her fingers into Dulcinea's fur, felt the warmth of the animal, a warmth that was entirely missing in the voice, in the spirit of her only, her beautiful daughter.

   "You are my child. I do not think any woman hates a child that has grown under her heart. But children leave your body. They grow up and away. You never needed my love, Diana. You never wanted it. And yet I do love you. I know you to the core of your heart; not a pretty thing like your face, Diana, and I still love you. You lack feelings for anyone other than yourself. You were always so beautiful, and I was glad. I thought that you, with your beauty, the delight that others had in simply looking at you, would use it as a good thing, as a blessing. To be loved and admired as you always were—but then, perhaps we cannot be thankful for what we have never missed. You were selfish and cruel, Diana. Always. Since you were small. And I could not forgive you that selfishness. And I cannot to this day."