Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (72 page)

   "Cat," she called sharply. "I see you!"

   Cat, who had been looking at a passing farmer, his wagon loaded with corn, gave Jane a look of dislike and pumped her arm up and down a fraction faster than she had before. Jane closed her eyes and counted to ten. Gussy had brought Cat to them. Her parents had thrown her out of their cottage and Jane now knew why! Gussy was certain their Christian influence would give Cat the necessary example to mend her ways, for Cat liked to walk out with young men and lie in the bushes with them, and Jane did not know why Cat never conceived when she herself seemed to become pregnant every time Gussy hung his breeches on the bedside peg. Perhaps, as Betty said, Cat was practicing witchcraft or saying a spell.

   She sighed. A mood was coming over her. She would have to ask Gussy to pray with her tonight. It was a despair she had begun to feel since Thomas was born. Hers was not to question God's will, and she loved her children with all her heart, and yet her life stretched ahead of her, and childbirth seemed its yearly mark, and she was so afraid. She had talked to her mother, who had squeezed her hand and cried a little and said that she must accept life as it was. She could do that, but she was so afraid of the pain.

   They would read the Lord's Prayer tonight. The words soothed her, as did David's Psalms. Gussy would pamper her, knowing her fear, which would increase as the months and the child within her did. They would walk together; it was beautiful here, so near the Thames, and Richmond only a short distance away, a walk along the edge of Richmond Park, a royal park created long ago by Henry VIII. Before she became too large, he would take her on excursions: to Kew to look at Princess Caroline's developing botanical garden, to Chelsea to see the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries' Physic Garden, and to Fulham, where Gussy worked for three days every two weeks in the library of the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury. They would go to Kingston, where Lent and winter assizes were held; these were sessions to administer civil and criminal justice, and Gussy had been appointed one of the chaplains to the prisoners who would go before the magistrates.

   Gussy worked so hard. He was curate of St. Peter's here, and even though St. Peter's was a chapel of ease, which meant it had been built for the use of those parishioners who lived too far from parish churches, Gussy still had to conduct services and perform the duties of churching, visiting women after childbirth and the sick, and what with his clerking at the archbishop's library in Fulham and his work on his book, he had little time for himself, let alone her and the children, but he made time. And he thanked the Lord each night for His bounty. There were starving curates all over the country, eking out a living, while he had three positions— due to the generosity of the young Duke of Tamworth, which paid for everything they needed and allowed them a little left over to save. And parishioners were always giving them baskets of eggs and fresh milk and fat pullets because they said Gussy was a good man, a man who was a shining example of God's word at work. And he was. Oh, he was.

   He had bought her a gold–and–glass clock to put on their table in the parlor. And when she had first realized she was going to have Winifred, he had bought her a gown of black silk with a red–and–white petticoat and cherry–colored stays and daring stockings of black silk. How she loved that gown. She saved it for only the most special of occasions. She had been wearing it the day she first saw Harry again, and though she tried very hard not to succumb to the sin of vanity, she was so glad that she had had it on. So glad.

   At that thought, she frowned at herself, and Cat, who happened to look up and see her, put some more energy into her butter churning. Jane sat down on the bench around the oak tree to hold Thomas, who had fallen asleep. She really ought to help Betty, but she was tired. She would rest just a moment. She untied Amelia, who began to bring her blades of grass to admire, which she did, over and over, even though her thoughts drifted from Amelia. She and Gussy had gone to Ham House, the great house of the Earl of Dysart which he opened to visitors, and she was happy because she was not pregnant. Usually, within two or three months of childbirth, she was increasing again, but she was going into a sixth month of freedom. It was heady stuff. They had walked to Ham House to stroll in its gardens, which were lovely—the front lawns sloped down to the Thames and everyone went there. Jane had even seen the Prince and Princess of Wales. And there was Harry, so unexpected, standing with Barbara and a tall, bold–looking man who was staring down at Barbara as if he did not know whether to strangle her or kiss her. Barbara had cried out her name and come running over, and she was so very glad she had her black–and–cherry gown because Barbara looked so lovely and fashionable. And Harry had walked to her. She knew he was surprised and touched, as she was. He kissed her on the cheek and shook Gussy's hand and told him she was his old sweetheart. And then the young Duke of Tamworth strolled up, and they walked through the gardens together, but all she could think of was the way her heart was beating and how Harry's eyes were more beautiful than she remembered.

   "Move, Thomas," Amelia demanded petulantly, pushing at her brother's sleeping form. "Now." Amelia was tired also, and she wanted to be in her mother's lap. Harry said Amelia showed disturbing signs of becoming like his Aunt Abigail. Jane blushed. Harry came to visit her. Not often. Just every once in a while. She would look out her window, and there he would be, leaning on her fence, grinning, his horse tied to a picket. Gussy knew. She told him every time. And it was very innocent. A friendship. He sat with her in the garden, talking, while the children played around them, of Italy and France and mountains and cities and rivers and palaces that she would never see. And she talked of her chickens, of the barley meal and milk she fed them to make them fat, of how she wanted to try growing marigolds and garlic among her lettuces next season to keep away bugs, of Thomas's teething and Jeremy's earaches. And he did not laugh at her. His handsome face became softer as he listened to her and smiled, and she forgot that he was said to be a notorious womanizer and in debt and remembered only that he was the boy she had once loved. They captured something of their childhood closeness again, without the pain, and with the love strangely changed. And then one of the children would cry, or Gussy might appear to talk of politics with Harry, of how wise it was of the Prince of Wales finally to reconcile with his father, of the way the South Sea Company was becoming too powerful, of how Robert Walpole and Stanhope ought to stop quarreling and work together for the good of the nation. And she would listen, smiling, happy to see her Gussy and Harry together, until her children claimed her, and she had to put them to bed, or clean them or feed them or do one of the hundred–and–one endless tasks one did with small children. You are good for him, Jane, Gussy would say afterward. He needs to settle down, and you are a good example of the kind of wife every man needs. Dear Gussy.

   A good example. There was one thing she had not told Gussy. In a box under the loose floorboard in the parlor lay a pair of soft dark green leather gloves smelling of cinnabar. From Harry. He had not given her anything else, nor would she accept anything else, but she could not resist those gloves, presented out of the blue, without a word, in the middle of summer. Sometimes, when she was certain there was no one around to see, she took them out, and she touched them and put them on and rubbed the soft leather against her face and smelled the cinnabar and thought of all the places she would never go, where things happened that she would never do. And she did not tell Gussy. And she did not know why, because she did not love Harry, at least in any way Gussy need fear. These four children tied her to Gussy in a way Harry could never share, and Gussy's life was her life now, and she loved him, perhaps not in the wild, romantic way she loved Harry, but in a practical, comfortable way of knowing his back was warm at night and that he liked his afternoon tea lukewarm and that an evening of working on his book made him happy. Perhaps the gloves were simply a symbol of her vanity, a reminder that once there had been a wild, handsome boy who had held her close under the apple trees and whispered that he loved her. And she did not know if she could explain that to Gussy.

   "Mama! Mama! Mama!" cried Jeremy.

   The screeching of his voice made her jump, waking Thomas, who began to cry. Betty dropped her oaken stick and ran to the fence. Cat stopped churning. He has fallen and broken his arm, Jane thought, stumbling over her long skirts and Amelia, who was determined to come with her. At least Winifred was sitting placidly in her coop, but Winifred was never anything but placid. It probably came from being fourth in line. She managed to reach the fence without dropping Thomas or stepping on Amelia. Betty pointed and smiled. Jeremy was climbing up into the coachman's seat of an elaborate black carriage with a green and gold crest on the side. Barbara! Amelia began to clap her small, fat hands together.

   "Bab! Bab!" she said.

   Barbara put her head out the window; she was wearing a straw hat with long green ribbons of silk and pink roses of silk, and Jane was instantly aware that her dress was old and that Thomas had spit up on it. Barbara smiled at her, waving, and it was difficult for Jane to believe that this was the same woman who was said to have just caused a duel between Jemmy Landsdowne and Lord Charles Russel. Who was said to be in disgrace, whom it was rumored the Prince of Wales would dismiss from his court tomorrow (even though he was in love with her himself). Gussy had brought the news back with him yesterday from Fulham, shaking his head. He read his Bible aloud to Jane, "'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies….'" Jane had sighed, trying not to doze off, for she had been up the night before with Thomas's teeth…the attributes of a virtuous woman, yes, Jane knew. She rose early and worked late; her household was not lazy (doubtless no one burned the bread and the children teethed without problem); she clothed it in scarlet she had woven herself; she spun wool, advised her husband wisely, and succored the needy. No wonder she was virtuous, Jane's last conscious thought had been before she fell asleep in the middle of Gussy's Bible reading. There was no time to be anything else.

   The coachman, Jeremy on his shoulders, helped Barbara down from the carriage. She had a large basket on one arm, and at the sight of it Jane became almost as excited as her children. Forgetting Gussy's admonitions to be cool to Barbara, she opened the gate, and with Thomas in her arms and Amelia dragging determinedly on her skirts, welcomed her friend.

   Barbara kissed her cheek and at once set down the basket to pick up Amelia.

   "Pretty girl," she said, kissing Amelia's fat cheek (there was nothing about Amelia that was not fat). "Carry in the basket, Jeremy. Betty, how are you? I have brought tarts. Will you make Mrs. Cromwell and me some of your tea? Jane, you are washing. I have come at an awful time, but I was so close, and I had an impulse to see you all that I could not deny. Come, here, Jeremy, and give me a kiss or I will not give you one single tart, and there are lemon ones, your favorite."

   With Jeremy and Amelia hanging on her and Jane following with Thomas and the basket Jeremy had dropped, Barbara went to sit on the bench built around the oak tree near Winifred's coop.

   "Winifred, you are precious," Barbara said, lifting the child up in her arms. Winifred was startled out of placidity into a gurgle. Barbara kissed her neck and set her down in her lap. Amelia grudgingly moved over. Winifred got one hand on Barbara's necklace.

   "Take care," Jane said. "She will break it."

   "I have many necklaces and no babies. Let her do what she pleases. No, Amelia, do not cry. You may wear my bracelet. There. Look how pretty it looks on your arm. What a big girl you are, Amelia." Jane smiled to see her difficult Amelia so neatly cajoled into good nature again. It would be interesting to see how Barbara would wrest the bracelet from her when she left. And then Betty was coming out with a steaming pot of tea, and the basket had to be opened and there were naturally toys for the children, lead soldiers for Jeremy, who whooped and yelped and gave Barbara another kiss, and a china doll for Amelia, who was wide–eyed with pleasure, and a set of wooden beads strung together for Thomas and another for Winifred, and then for Jane there were three gowns Barbara no longer wanted, two of them almost new, velvet and silk that Jane could recut to fit herself and use for the children. She sighed with pleasure as she ran her hand over a gown of blue velvet. And then there were lemon tarts to eat and tea to drink, and before Jane knew it, she and Barbara were sitting on the ground, Barbara in her beautiful gown, her hat off (Amelia had it on), with children all about them, some eating, some asleep, some, thank goodness, just sitting quietly in whatever lap happened to be free. And Jane, gazing at her friend, could not believe that two men had just fought a duel over her, and one had died.

   "Your garden looks pretty," Barbara said, leaning her head against the back of the bench. Winifred was asleep in her arms, the necklace clutched firmly in one hand, the wooden beads in the other.

   "My hollyhock and snapdragons took well this year. Your grandmother sent me some of her seed. No, Amelia, leave Winifred's beads alone. You have your doll. I need to harvest the herbs."

   "Grandmama always says the dew must be dry on them before they are picked."

   "I know. She sent me two pages of instructions along with the seeds and told me to order Five Hundreth Pointes of Good Husbandry, which I did."

   "What is Jeremy doing? Jane, he has a ladybug. Jeremy, bring it here. You must be very careful with ladybugs. If you harm them, bad luck will come. Jane, do you remember, 'Fly, ladybird, north, south, east or west—'"

   "'Fly where the man is found that I love best,'" Jane finished with her. They laughed. Jeremy ran off, the ladybug cradled carefully in his hand.