Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (42 page)

   That night, in her room, she said her rosary and thanked God again for His kindness. She felt calm. Not all her problems were solved, but she had food, warmth, a roof over her head. She was not afraid. She was in God's hands. In spite of the cold, she opened her window and leaned out into the dark night. It was good to have a window. It was good to be alive.

* * *

   "Tell me what you know about her, Francis."

   White and Montrose were in the sitting room they shared, a room that connected their bedchambers. Montrose was trying to read Alexander Pope's translation of the
Iliad,
but White kept interrupting. He was burning with curiosity about Lady Devane's new maid. The footman who had escorted her from the Condé mansion could talk of nothing else in the servants' hall. His description of her charms left White panting for more. The addition of a young, pretty, unknown female servant had the male household staff buzzing.

   "There is nothing to tell. She is twenty; she has excellent experience; she speaks English."

   "Why did you not tell me of her when she was hired?" White demanded.

   Montrose sighed and closed his book. "I did. If you will remember, I told you that Lady Devane had made her choice, and I was finally free to deal with more important matters."

   "Yes, but you did not tell me her choice was both charming and pretty. After Martha, it comes as a shock."

   "Of course I did not. Who would say such a thing?"

   "Jacques, who has better eyes than you in his head. He was almost drooling as he described her."

   "One ought not to mix with maidservants," sniffed Montrose. "It is not conducive to good morale."

   "Read your book, Francis. Read your book."

* * *

   Thérèse sifted through Barbara's gowns and arranged them according to color and use. She sorted through stained clothes. She began an inventory of Barbara's growing collection of jewels. She added an expert starcher to the washerwoman who came on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She knew the best lacemakers and dressmakers in Paris.

   "Thérèse," Barbara told her (she already loved the way Thérèse called her "madame"), "I want to look older, more sophisticated."

   Thérèse understood at once and looked at her young mistress with more interest. So madame had a lover she wished to please. She was more French than she realized. Together, she and Barbara analyzed Barbara's assets: good complexion, glorious hair, prettily shaped face; and her liabilities: pale brows and lashes, small bosom. Thérèse knew a solution for everything.

   Barbara was twisted, turned, powdered, corseted, rouged, patched. Within a week, she stood before the mirror staring at herself. She looked wonderful; even she could see it. Her gown was a pale shade of blue, cut long and deep at the waist as Thérèse had suggested. Heavy lace fell from her shoulders and breasts, and Thérèse had tied a matching piece of lace about her neck and fastened the diamond–and–sapphire brooch Roger had given her for Valentine's Day to it. The trimming on the gown was primrose and white. She wore rouge on her lips and cheeks, and her brows and lashes had been darkened with lead combs. The only other solution to her paleness was a set of false eyebrows made of mouse hair, but she could not stand them and would not wear them. To her great satisfaction, she wore three patches.

   "Not too many," Thérèse had warned "or you will look like a comedienne on the stage."

   I shall be very aloof and grand tonight, Barbara thought as she turned around so that Thérèse could give her a final inspection. She touched the brooch Roger had given her and turned slowly, enjoying the way her skirts belled around her legs. The puppies barked from their basket. I look at least twenty years old, she thought to herself. Thérèse circled her slowly, her brow furrowed, to make certain everything was perfect.

   Barbara was going to a birthday ball for the young king; yesterday she had gone to a Valentine's Day fête at Marie-Victorie's. Today her room was filled with flowers, camellias, from St. Michel, who had drawn her name as his Valentine at the fête. He said he came only to see her. She had flirted with him, once more trying her wings, unfurling them. There was such a gap she must close between Roger and herself… his worldliness, his sophistication, his elegance. She was hurrying as fast as she could; it was the height of fashion to have admirers. Surely Roger must notice and approve.

   The Valentine's fête was a more adult party than those at Tamworth, where the unmarried young people had gathered and drawn lots as to who would be their Valentine. She had always thought it silly. One year Harry had drawn her name and been furious. You were supposed to give small presents to whoever was your Valentine for several days afterward, but at Tamworth they had simply held one dance. No one took it seriously, or believed, as some did, that the Valentine chosen was destined to be your future marriage partner. Annie said the birds chose mates on that day, and therefore it was special, while the villagers believed the first person seen was your destined mate. One year, Barbara and Jane, following Annie's advice, had taken five bay leaves and pinned them to their pillows that night, four to each corner and one in the middle. It was supposed to assure dreams of one's sweetheart, but Barbara dreamed of no one, and Jane never said.

   At Marie-Victorie's there had been much laughing and smiling and significant looks between the men and women. It made her uncomfortable. She could feel a heightened sexual tension in the air. But perhaps it had also to do with Carnival, already in progress. Carnival was the celebration before Lent, the penitential season preceding Easter. And the Parisians celebrated with abandon. Someone had told her that Carnival was a time for sinning; to make up for time lost when the repenting, fasting season of Lent began, and she saw what he meant.

   Already Richelieu had fought a duel with the Comte de Gacé and been wounded. It seemed that the young Comtesse de Gacé had gone to a party at the Prince de Soubice's, gotten drunk (as had most of the other guests), had been passed around naked from man to man, and then passed on to the servants. Richelieu had been laughing about it to friends, Barbara among them, at an opera ball, and the Comte had overheard him and challenged him to a duel, which they fought the next morning, not over whether the story was true or not, but over Richelieu's ungentlemanly conduct in repeating it.

   Barbara was fascinated and shocked by it all. The Comtesse was only a few years older than she. In fact, the Comtesse had been at the ball, dancing and laughing and looking young and ethereal in a white gown and diamonds. Now rumors were flying that Richelieu and de Gacé were going to be imprisoned in the Bastille for dueling. Richelieu shrugged, but the Comtesse de Gacé cried; she did not want Richelieu imprisoned, even if he had talked about her. She really did not care where they put her husband. Everyone thought it was one of the best carnivals ever, and Barbara was intrigued by the sybaritic sophistication around her. There was an underside to it that she could only guess at, and its mysteriousness both attracted her and repelled her. Louise–Anne de Charolais, Richelieu, St. Michel, and so many others understood it, belonged to it, and she felt like a child, standing on the outside looking in. Here, she thought, lies another world, a world Roger knows and is at ease with, but its dark underside made her wary.

   "Madame," Thérèse said, "you will be late."

   Barbara opened her fan. Hyacinthe, dressed in suit of matching blue satin, and holding her cloak, was waiting. She stooped down and gave the puppies a last pat.

   "Wish me good fortune," she said to them. They obligingly licked her hands.

   Once the door closed behind them, the smile on Thérèse's face faded. She put a hand to her mouth, walked to the canopied bed, and pulled the china chamber pot from under it. She retched into it. The puppies, curious, came to the side of the bed, yapping at her. Finally, moving like an old woman, she rinsed out the chamber pot and then lay back down. The nausea was bad tonight, worse than it had ever been. She must act soon. People were not stupid. Today she had fainted in the washing room, and when she came to, the washerwoman and the majordomo, one Pierre LeBlanc, were staring at her with eyes that held the dawning of suspicion. The puppies barked until she leaned over and pulled them up beside her, but the effort made her sick again. She lay for a long time without moving, except for her hand fingering her beads as she whispered the rosary over and over again for strength.

   There was a knock on the door. With a hand to her head, she sat up. White opened the door and came in, several books in his good hand. Thérèse stared at his deformed arm, at the tiny hand dangling from his elbow. She made a sound. White jumped. Then he saw her. The puppies never moved from the warm nest they had made in the bed covers.

   "I beg your pardon," he said. "I thought no one was here. Have I frightened you? I am Caesar White, Lord Devane's clerk of the library. I was bringing Lady Devane some books about Paris I thought she might find interesting."

   Thérèse nodded her head. She felt that if she said one word she would be sick again all over the bed, and him, even though there was nothing to spit up. He came closer.

   "You are Thérèse Fuseau, are you not?" He smiled. He had a nice smile. "I have been wanting to meet you. My room is over in the other wing. I have a small sitting room with a good–sized fireplace. Perhaps sometime you will join me there for tea."

   Thérèse shook her head. He stared at her, puzzled. "On your day off, then, you might care to go for a walk or supper?" His voice trailed off at her lack of response. He blushed and set the books on a table.

   "I am glad to have met you," he said, more formally now. She was aware that she had hurt his feelings, but she felt too sick to care. He shut the door behind him without looking back. Thérèse lay back down. He seemed nice, but just now she had no use for any man, nice or otherwise.

* * *

   Barbara waited at the top of the stairs, as excited as if she were going to a fête in her honor. She was waiting for Hyacinthe to announce her name, at which time she would slowly, elegantly, maturely walk down the stairs and dazzle Roger with her new sophistication. She heard her name. Slowly, she said to herself, walk down very slowly. Smile just so. Yes. Roger was at the bottom of the staircase with Hyacinthe.

   "You kept me waiting—" he began, but stopped. She stood still midway down the stairs so that he should have a good took at her. Let him like me, she prayed. Please.

   "Barbara," he said, letting her name out on a long breath. His eyes were a sky blue, lighter, more beautiful than her gown. "You look beautiful."

   She flew down the remaining stairs. "Oh, Roger, do you like it? Are you pleased? Tell me the truth. Look, I have on three patches. They are called the gallant, the rogue, and the—"

   Roger kissed her on the lips. "I know, Barbara, and the kissing." To her delight, he kissed her hands also. His eyes glowed at her. She wanted him to kiss her again.

   In the Tuileries ballroom, she stood for a moment under the chandeliers, languidly waving her fan. She knew she looked beautiful. But what was more important by far, according to Thérèse, was that she felt beautiful. The Prince de Dombes, the Comte de Coigny, and the Duc de Melun were immediately around her, asking for dances. She sighed and fanned herself. She would check her dance card, of course. At her side, Roger smiled to himself at her coolness.

   "Save the first dance after supper for me," he said, chucking her under the chin, walking away without bothering to see if she wrote down his name. She frowned after him, but then the men around her moved closer, all talking, all wanting her attention. The Chevalier de Bavi`ere joined them, as did the Duc de Richelieu. Obligingly, she wrote down their requests on her dance card. She fanned herself. Bavi`ere offered to bring her punch. She sighed. Richelieu, watching her, grinned. St. Michel shouldered his way through the crowd around her. Marie–Victorie was on his arm.

   "You look superb," she cried.

   "Bab," said St. Michel. "Tonight you are beyond compare—a goddess among mortals. Grant me the favor of the first dance, or I shall perish."

   She smiled. The music was starting. Richelieu gave her his arm. "Henri, my card seems to be filled for now," she said, enjoying her triumph and his frown. "Perhaps after the supper interval…"

Enormously pleased with herself, she smiled at Richelieu, who escorted her into one of the circles of couples forming to dance.

   "You do look better," Richelieu said as they began the opening movements to the dance. "At long last you match the promise in your voice. The woman in you is emerging. I await her arrival with bated breath."

   Louise–Anne, standing behind in an adjoining circle, with St. Michel as her sulking partner, heard him.

   "Does Henri know he is wasting his time?" asked Richelieu. He winked at St. Michel, who could not hear now that the music was beginning.

   "No," said Barbara. "And I wish you would not tell him. I am having too good a time." Sometimes Richelieu made her angry. She never knew what to expect from him. His compliments were always double–edged. She did not like him at all. She could not understand where he got his reputation as a great lover. She wished she had not given him a dance.

   "How was your duel?" she asked, hoping to embarrass him.

   He grinned. "It only hurts me when I laugh. I think I will go to the Bastille."

   She was silent. He watched her.

   "Would you be sad?" he asked. She shivered. His voice was as caressing as a hand against her naked spine. She tossed her head.

   "Sell me that black horse you ride. You will not need her if you go to the Bastille."

   Richelieu forgot his attitude of the bored young duke. "You cannot possibly ride her!"

   "Of course I can."

   "You cannot!"

   "Let me try."

   "You will be hurt—"

   "I will not!"

   "All right," he said slowly, his strange yellow–brown eyes glinting. "For a bet then."