Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (45 page)

   "Sir, you have an appointment—"

   "Cancel the appointment. I have an urge to accompany my wife to the Palais Royal and see what drivel Caesar is telling her. You had better have your facts correct, Caesar, I warn you. And I am certain I know far better than Caesar here what toys will please sick boys."

   White grinned.

   Montrose looked down at his plate.

   "Come with us," Barbara said impulsively. His comment about Baby had not gotten past her. She spoke to White often about her family; he must have spoken to Montrose. There were no secrets in this household.

   Montrose nodded. There was more talk of appointments; Roger mentioned that he wished to celebrate Shrove Tuesday by inviting some of their friends for pancakes; Barbara thought it a wonderful idea; they discussed whom they should invite and asked Montrose to begin a list. White watched them with a smile on his face, and after they left the table, he said to Montrose, "I feel love in the air. 'Oh thou delicious, damned, dear, destructive Woman,'" he quoted, to Montrose's annoyance, who hated it when White spoke lines he could not recognize.

   "Congreve," White said, before Montrose could ask.

   Pleased, he began to buff his nails with the linen breakfast napkin.

"Womankind more joy discovers/Making fools, than keeping lovers," Montrose quoted back. He smiled at White's expression of surprise and finished his breakfast in a good humor.

Chapter Twelve

Two days later, Roger walked into Barbara's small, blue-damasked room as she was finishing a letter to her grandmother. His appearing was so unusual—he was always busy in the afternoons—that she stared at him, her quill pen suspended above the paper. She knew from his face that something was wrong.

   "Your father is in Paris," he said abruptly. "He wishes to see me."

   "My father." She said the words on a long, wondering breath. She had not seen her father in years. There were times when she even forgot he existed. "But where is he? When can I see him?"

   "Barbara," he said gently, "he is in hiding—"

   She stared up at him.

   "France is an ally of England's now. An England ruled by a king your father has betrayed. There are spies everywhere. This morning I was told the regent has refused to meet with the Pretender, who is in Paris. It is a delicate situation."

   "When does he want to see me? He may be ill or need money. He always needs money, as Mother does." She stood up. "Are we leaving now?"

   "Barbara." Roger took a deep breath. "You are not going."

   She looked at him.

   "It is dangerous," he said. "The regent has heard a rumor there is a plot to assassinate the Pretender. That may include his followers. We must be careful. I do not care to become entangled in your father's politics."

   She looked down at the papers on her desk, at the letter to her grandmother she was writing. "I want to see him." She looked at Roger and raised her chin. "I will see him. He is my father."

   They locked eyes.

   "It cannot be treason for a daughter to help her father. Tell me where he is, and I shall go to him. You do not have to become involved!"

   "Damn it, Barbara! Do you think this is a game? Some masquerade in which you dress in a cloak and elude your pursuers? I could lose my head for helping your father. Ask the Scot noblemen whose heads are now hanging off Tower gate. They are dead, while the man they died for is here in Paris very much alive."

   "He is my father. He may need me."

   "Need you! He does not even mention you in his note."

   She took his hand. Her face was set, older than he had realized it could ever look.

   "He is my father, Roger, and I must see him and help him, even if it is only to give him money from my allowance. I have not spent it all. Simply tell me where he is, and I will go to him. You do not have to be involved. It is not your responsibility. It is mine."

   "Are you always so loyal?" The question was sarcastic.

   "To those I love." The answer was not.

   She shamed him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. She could see the struggle going on inside him. At last he opened his eyes and took both her hands in his. "Listen to me. We must be very careful. I will have to go to him. No, Barbara! Listen! He is in a part of Paris that you could not go to, even with me."

   "I want to see him."

   "If there is any way, I will bring him here. It may be only an hour you have with him. Do you understand? You are to take what I can arrange and not ask for more. It is too dangerous, and I will not risk my head—or yours—for his sake."

   "He will need money."

   "I will give him money. Justin will know what is happening. Do what he says. Nothing more. Nothing less. You ask a lot of me, Barbara."

   He pulled her to him and stroked her hair. He was thinking that he could not believe he was going to risk this to please her. The words in Harry's letter were coming back to haunt him. What had he taken on by being related to the Alderleys? His life had been settled, secure. He had little family to bother him. His brothers were dead; his nephews were happy to farm their land, their incomes augmented by the money he sent to ensure they left him alone. There was an old, long–buried Roger who would have done it without a second thought. But that Roger had nothing to lose: no money, no title, no wife, no responsibilities, and no reputation. I must be insane, he thought.

   Now, the cause for his insanity sat trying to play chess, to act normally, but she could not concentrate on the game; everything was arranged. Roger would soon be bringing her father to his apartments by the back stairs, letting him in through Justin's room. Justin would come for her, saying simply that his master wished to see her. She did not know how long she would have with her father, but she had planned with Justin to have a supper ready for him. Justin had sneaked a bottle of wine from the cellars and bread from the kitchens. In his own room, he had two small chickens routing on a small spit. He had napkins and plate and silver ready and would make her up a table in moments. He promised. She could have hugged him. As she wished to hug her father. There were no paintings of her father at Tamworth; she had to depend on her memory, which was hazy. But he was her father; he was family, and she was going to see him, and that was all that was important. She was frightened. Your father is a damned fool, her grandmother had raged last summer when Sir John Ashford had brought the news of his flight. In her anger, Grandmama had smashed a soft–paste porcelain vase that Grandfather had brought from Lille. Barbara hardly knew her father; he had come to Tamworth even less often than their mother did. But when he came, he was always kind. Always. She loved him. Maybe this time, he could stay. If he was sick, she would nurse him. She might intercede with the king for him.

   One of the logs burning on the fire snapped in two. The puppies, who were lying near Thérèse, who was mending lace, yawned and changed positions. Hyacinthe moved his knight. He and Barbara were learning chess at the same time. He giggled at her expression.

   "I was thinking of something else," she told him. "Which is the only reason I overlooked that move."

   Thérèse smiled to herself. Sometimes the young madame sounded the same age as Hyacinthe. The door opened. Lord Devane stood in the doorway, his hat in his hands, his cloak still on. He looked tired and so old that for the first time Thérèse fully realized the age gap between him and Barbara. Barbara stood up, knocking over the chessboard. What was Roger doing here? That was not in the plans she and Justin had so carefully arranged.

   "I would like to speak with Lady Devane alone," Roger said. Thérèse picked up her mending, and she and Hyacinthe went into her room.

   Barbara had an abrupt, sinking feeling in her stomach. He was not coming.

   "Harry! Charlotte!" Barbara called, for the puppies were following Hyacinthe. She sank to the floor and cuddled them, running her hands over their small, warm bodies. It was suddenly important to feel warmth. They licked her hands and pawed at her.

   "They will ruin your gown," Roger said. Something in his voice made her heart squeeze. She looked up at him.

   "Tell me," she said in a level tone. She already knew what he was going to say.

   He looked away from her. Jesus Christ, how could he tell her what he had seen tonight? The streets so dark, so narrow that he almost turned away. The coachman sweating in spite of the cold, keeping one hand on his pistol. The walk down the dark, cobbled lane. Rats scurrying across, rooting in the sewage floating down the middle. The stink of dirt, of rot, of filth, of poverty. His flesh crawling along his neck, his steps seeming to echo in the dark silence. The tavern, a hole in the wall, filled with men who watched as he entered and looked around, his hand on his sword, expecting at any moment, to be struck from behind and robbed and killed. He had not even recognized Kit, aged, unshaven, days drunk, his once handsome face swollen and flushed, until he rose and called his name. Kit sat with two whores, their hair greasy, dirt making rings in the creases on their necks and arms. Roger's flesh crawled. Wine for everyone, Kit cried. Good of you to come, Kit said. It was bad luck, bad planning in Scotland. The time had been ripe, England could have been ours. He blamed Bolingbroke and Mar. A toast to the Pretender. The wine burned Roger's throat. Silently he gave Kit the letter Barbara had written to him. Kit put it in a pocket without glancing at it, asking for news of Harry. Roger told him what he knew. Barbara wishes to see you, he said. Yes, Kit replied. And I her. Soon, I will see her soon. Not tonight. Now and then, Barbara peeked out from behind Kit's swollen face, in the lift of an eyebrow, in the swiftness of a smile. It was grotesque.

   Will you be in Paris long? Roger had asked. Kit laughed. They were going to Lorraine. Lorraine welcomed them. From there they would plan another invasion. This time it would succeed. You will be glad you married my daughter, Kit said into his glass. I will see you are not beheaded. I will find a place for you in the new court. Come with me now, Roger said. Barbara wants to see you. She is waiting. Kit shook his head. Another time. Soon. Very soon. Tell me about Diana, he said. Is it true she is petitioning for a divorce? Roger nodded. You should meet my wife, Kit said to one of the drunken, disheveled women beside him. She is a bigger whore than you could ever be. Kit's eyes rolled into the back of his head. Roger felt the bag of money in a secret pocket of his cloak burning like fire against his leg. He could not risk giving it to Kit here. Someone would kill them both for it. He stood up. Where are you going? Kit had asked him, staring at him with unfocused eyes. Stay. We will share the women. It will be amusing. Like old times. All Roger could think of was how he would get the money to Kit. He could leave it with Mar or Bolingbroke, but he had a feeling they were not much better than the men here. A Pretender's court was a desperate court. There was never enough money. He could see the words being scribbled in the messages to King George from his spies, how Lord Devane gave the Pretender money for his cause. Well, he would have to risk it. And he would tell Lord Stair and King George the truth, that it was money for his fatherin-law, who needed it. They understood the bonds of family. They would have to. Stay, Kit mumbled. Stay awhile. We need a man like you, Roger. Stay, stay, stay. Roger stood up, the money still in place.

   Out in the dark street, Roger leapt against a sagging building and vomited the sour wine he had drunk. But he could not vomit up the taste of failure, futility and waste that Kit had given him. The memories. He and Kit in London, after the same woman. He and Kit in a marshy field in the Netherlands, both praying a cannonball would not scream across the sky and lob off one of their heads. Kit, younger, born with advantages Roger's family could never give him. He had had only his face and an ancient, respected name. Everything that had once been great in his family had been lost in the civil wars. Roger was what was called a poor relation. He had distant cousins who were barons and earls, but his father was a country knight, always trying to bring his estate to what it had been in his father's time, before the wars and Cromwell's plunder. Kit had everything. The face, the name, the family, the beautiful wife with an even more powerful family behind her.

   There had been a time—long ago—when Roger had fancied himself in love with Diana. But then almost every man who met her, at one time or another, fancied himself in love.

   To have seen Diana at sixteen was to have seen glory. But Kit had married her, thank God. And he had wasted Diana and all she brought to him in their marriage. Lured on and on by the same things that attracted Roger—wine, women, gambling. Why had Kit sunk deeper and deeper into a mire, while he, who had started with so much less, had prospered?

   Ahead he could see a lantern shining. It was like a beacon, a symbol of hope after despair, light after dark. He began to walk toward the lantern. He heard footsteps, stealthy, careful footsteps. He put his hand on his sword and turned quickly. The footsteps ceased. He walked the rest of the way with his back to the walls of the buildings, his head moving from side to side as he listened. The footsteps followed him. They knew he had money. A human life meant nothing to them. When he got to his coachman, who stood holding the lantern, a cocked pistol in one hand, he felt as if he had run a hundred miles. He was sweating. Seeing Kit was like seeing a dark side of himself. How easy it was for a man to lose himself in the bottle, in the futility of his life and sink into degradation. Welcome it. He could have ended like Kit; it was luck and the Hanovers that had changed his life And Richard. Dear God, seeing Kit was like seeing what might have been. It was enough to make him want to go home and drink, drink until the stink of that place, those people, Kit, was obliterated. But first he had to face Kit's daughter, had to tell her father was not interested in seeing her. Had to tell her now.

   "Tell me," Barbara repeated.

   "He…was in no condition to come here, Bab. I am sorry. I did what I could. I gave him your letter." Perhaps she would not ask. But then women always did. They had to know the little details, no matter how painful.

   She was crouched on the floor, patting the puppies, her face tucked down so that he could not see its expression.

   "Did he read the letter?"

   "No."

   "Did he ask about me?"

   "Bab, he was drunk and—"

   "I understand." She stood up.

   Roger felt he should take her in his arms, but he was tired. He did not want to deal with a hysterical child.

   "Do not look so, Roger," she said. "I will not weep all over your coat this time. In all the years I was growing up, I barely saw him. He used to come into our lives and fill us with promises and then leave. He always left. You were more a father than he ever was. Your kindness never hurt as his did. You never made promises you did not keep. I was a fool. I see that now. Do not worry over me. I will be fine. Did you give him the money?" Her face was turned from him now, so that he could not see it. He began an explanation, but she stopped him.

   "Be sure he receives it," she said. "He will need it. Now go to bed. You are exhausted. I can see it." She gave him a quick, fierce hug and then stepped back. "Thank you. I should not have asked you to do what you did, but thank you, Roger."

   Of all the reactions he had imagined, dreaded, this was not one. She sounded calm, self–possessed. He shuddered. He thought her a child, someone to cosset and protect, but at this moment he felt the child, glad of the escape she had offered him. He did not want to cope with what might be behind the facade. He had his own tears to deal with, tears he would not shed, tears for what life dealt people, tears for how close the edge was.