Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (75 page)

   Diana scowled and turned to answer, but then her mouth dropped open. Everyone saw it, saw her expression of complete amazement combined with chagrin, and turned as if they were one body to see what she was looking at. There was an audible gasp.

   Barbara stood framed in the doorway, one hand resting on her husband's arm, the other hand on the shoulder of her page. All three of them wore mourning.

   "Wonderful," murmured Carlyle. "Simply wonderful." He sighed and put a huge hand over his heart.

   Charles, his eyes fastened to Barbara's profile as she passed him, stood like someone turned to stone. As did Philippe.

   "Mama!" Mary said, too excited to be quiet. "Roger is with her!"

   "We all have eyes in our heads," Abigail said acidly, irritated at feeling slightly overwhelmed herself by the impression their entrance was making. But then she happened to glance at Charles's face, and the anger and despair on it shook her to her soul. She felt the blood rush to her head from the shock of it. It was not some infatuation, then. He was head over heels in love. She shook out her gown and swept forward grandly. What Roger had started, she could finish. And would finish, for Mary's sake. She met them halfway in the room, kissing Barbara's cheek and smiling determinedly at Roger.

   "I am delighted to see the pair of you," she said loudly. (Everyone was listening anyway. It was simpler to speak clearly so that nothing would be repeated incorrectly when it was repeated, as it would be.) "Barbara, my angel, you have all my sympathy and support."

   "Abigail," said Roger, leading his wife past her smoothly, "your sympathy and support are taken for granted."

   The sight of Philippe, standing there, staring at her, with a white, grim face, his eyes like stones, made Barbara stop in her tracks. I will not speak to him, she thought. I will not. She began to tremble. Roger pushed her forward, and she found herself among her family.

   "Barbara," Diana said, her violet eyes on Roger. She tried to pull her daughter off to one side unobtrusively. "It would be much better if you saw the prince alone. I have spoken with him and—"

   "Diana," Roger said, "I could not help overhearing. I will not allow my wife to see the prince alone. Hyacinthe, you may go and inform the prince's secretary that Lord and Lady Devane both await his pleasure." He raised Diana's limp hand and kissed it. "I am sure you understand," he said. Diana was silent.

   No one in the room was making any pretense of watching anything other than every move Roger and Barbara made. All eyes focused on Hyacinthe as he ran to do as he was told, then swung back immediately to Roger, who seemed to be the principal actor in a drama no one quite understood, but all felt a part of.

   "Do you ever miss anything?" Roger said to Carlyle.

   Carlyle forgot his affectation long enough to grin, but then Roger looked at Philippe, and the smile that had been on his face since he entered the room thinned at the edges.

   "I did not expect you here today," he said.

   "Nor I you."

   Abigail caught her breath at the expression on Roger's face.

   "You know me," Carlyle said quickly, stepping in between Roger and Philippe and waving his fan outrageously so that all attention centered on him. "I follow the drama, on stage and off. Your entrance was magnificent! There has been nothing like it for years. The armbands are an exquisite touch. My compliments. I would give my back teeth, yes, my back teeth, to be in that room for his expression when you walk in beside her. It will outdo anything seen in here. And I must say, my dear one, that it is very well done. Do you not agree, Philippe? It is certainly well done of Roger."

   "Very well done."

   Hyacinthe came scurrying out of the private apartments. Roger, glancing around the room, gave his arm to Barbara.

   "If you will excuse us," he said to the room in general, "we have an appointment."

   There was complete silence as they walked to the door, and a kind of collective sigh as the door closed behind them.

   "Magnificent," said Carlyle, snapping shut his fan.

   Diana frowned at the closed door.

   "Philippe," said Abigail, who like everyone else had found herself watching the Devanes until the door literally closed in her face, "do reconsider and have luncheon with—why, Philippe! What is wrong? You look ill."

   He bowed blindly in her direction. The dueling scar showed red–pink against the extreme whiteness of his face. "If you will excuse me this time, Abigail. I find I have a sudden headache. I will walk a while in the gardens…" And his heels made a clicking sound as he limped away from them all, straight through the terrace doors and down the steps out onto the lawns.

   Other people were leaving also. Diana's glance swept the room and returned to Colonel Campbell, a close friend of the prince's. Her eyes narrowed. She swayed toward him, smiling beautifully, and they left the room together. Mrs. Howard, leaning on Philip Stanhope's arm, laughed at something he was saying as they walked away.

   "There, at least," said Carlyle, "goes one person who is happy to see the Devanes reconciled." He waved his fan pensively.

   Abigail took her daughter's arm, ignoring Carlyle. He might have been invisible.

   "Come along, dear. I never meant for us to stay so long. I must say Barbara was fortunate Roger has such a strong sense of duty. I want to speak with your brother and Lord Charles before we leave—"

   "Oh, no," Mary said, pulling back.

   "I cannot abide unnecessary shyness. Pull yourself together, Mary," Abigail snapped. "Do move out of the way, Lord Carlyle! Charles will be delighted to see you."

   "Not today," Mary said. But her mother was sweeping her along…just as she always did.

   "A wise woman," Abigail was saying in a low voice, while she smiled in the direction of Tony and Charles, "ignores a man's infatuation with a woman he cannot possibly marry. And even Charles Russel cannot compete with Roger Montgeoffry if Roger has decided to reconcile. Not that she will make him a good wife, but that is neither here nor there. What is here and there is your future—Tony, my dear boy. Give your mother a kiss. Lord Charles…so good to see you. I had a letter from your mother just the other day. Before all this nonsense, of course. You remember my daughter, Mary, do you not? I was just telling her that it seems an age since you have visited us. Your mother and I are such dear friends."

   Carlyle smiled behind his fan at Abigail's maneuvers. Superb. Charles Russel could barely wrench his eyes from the door to the private chambers, but Abigail Saylor was forcing him to, forcing him to smile and act as if everything around him were normal. How fortunate that I decided to come today, thought Carlyle. So many pieces of a puzzle lying about, no rhyme or reason to them, and in ten minutes the overall design becomes plain, if one only has the sense to see it. Ah, life, how wearying it all is. And he snapped shut his fan and strolled out of the room. And finally, so did Abigail and Mary.

   Only Charles and Tony were left. The two of them lounged against the wall, both big, one of them angry but self–possessed, the other shy and grave. Both of them stared at the door to the private apartments, and a muscle worked in Charles's cheek.

   In about a quarter of an hour, the door opened. Roger and Barbara, with Hyacinthe, came through, and the moment the door closed behind them, Barbara took her hand from Roger's arm. She wiped at her face quickly, angrily. Tony and Charles straightened up. Both looked at her. Her face, for a second, crumpled. She ran toward Tony, and he opened his arms.

   "I will not cry," she whispered into his chest, crushing his satin lapels in her clenched fists. His hand came up to stroke her hair, but he caught himself. Roger's eyes went to Tony's face at that arrested gesture. Charles stood to one side, his face grim and uncertain at the same time.

   "Lord Charles Russel."

   Charles looked at the footman standing at the door to the private apartments. His hand went out to Barbara, but he, too, caught himself, and then he strode toward the door. He and Roger locked eyes. The resemblance between them was striking. Charles might have been his son. He stopped in front of the older, and yet still more handsome, man.

   "I owe you an apology," he said abruptly. His face was flushed, but he met Roger's eyes squarely.

   "You do," Roger said. "But there has been enough scandal, therefore I will accept on my wife's behalf." The stress he put on the words "my wife" was lost on no one in the room, except, perhaps, Barbara. "I need not remind you a gentleman does not intrude where he is no longer wanted. Need I, Charles?" Roger's voice was soft and deadly.

   Charles's nostrils flared. He looked as if he wanted to kill someone, but he bowed shortly and strode through the door to the private apartments.

   Barbara said into Tony's coat, "I was so ashamed for him to reprimand me! If Roger had not been with me—"

   "Well, it is over now. All over."

   She stepped away from him at those words and looked up into his face. "So it is. Everything is. Tell me the truth, Tony. Are you ashamed of me?"

   Very slowly, a smile spread across his face. It changed the contours and lit his eyes. For a moment, he was almost handsome. He shook his head.

   "Go to Tamworth, Bab. I think you would do better there."

   "Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do." She hugged him. "You will write me? You will visit me?" She hugged him again. "I love you, Tony."

   He stepped back, nodded once to Roger and left the room, his blond head bowed.

   "There is no need to see me home—" Barbara began, but Roger interrupted.

   "Let me decide what I will and will not do. I will escort you to the carriage, if you please. And then, since it is your desire, you may go home alone."

   She was silent, meek almost, as he gestured for her to precede him.

   Outside, at the carriage, he leaned one foot on the carriage step and watched her. Her face was very pale where the rouge did not cover it, and she was holding on to Hyacinthe's hand, as if she were a child and had just been punished. He could not help smiling, and she looked at him, and then quickly away because the passion in his eyes burned her so. And there was Philippe. Always Philippe between them. Even today, he was between them.

   "I was proud of you," Roger said. "You displayed courtesy and far better breeding than the prince. Try to understand his irritation. A man who fancies himself in love at his age is often a fool."

   Her other hand was lying in her lap. Gently, he picked it up and smoothed open the palm against his knee. He looked down at it. "I do love you so," he said. And he lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it. She could feel the pressure of his lips leap through her entire body. Once, so long ago, he had kissed her palm thusly at St. James's Square, when she had been young and foolish and crying. Now she was older and just as foolish, only there were no tears. She cupped his cheek with her palm. I loved you, too, she thought. Sweet Jesus, I loved you.

   "We could deal better together than we have," he said harshly, and his eyes were the color of the summer sky above them. What was in them, what was in her, frightened her. She was not yet ready. She snatched her palm away. Her gesture did not seem to bother him in the least.

   "Go on to Tamworth, Barbara. I must go to London. I will write to you. There is much I have to say, and some things are easier said in a letter. And I am going to say them, one way or another. You cannot run from me forever."

   "Go, John," she said to the coachman, and Roger stepped away and shut the door. She leaned out the window but did not look at him. "Thank you for today." The carriage lurched away.

   He stared after the carriage, growing smaller and smaller as it rattled down the oak–lined lane that led from Richmond Lodge. Finally, he walked away, and as he walked he began to whistle softly, as if he were satisfied.

* * *

   Philippe sat in the shade of some bordering trees that overlooked the fine tender green lawns of Richmond Lodge. Every feeling was numb, as they had all become the moment he had seen Roger beside Barbara this morning. Under the numbness, he was aware of a great pain, yet for now it was blessedly deadened. I understand, he thought slowly. It was as if all his thoughts, everything about him, even the blood flowing through his body, were moving with a stately slowness. Every detail—the green of the lawn, the sun dappling through the trees, the myriad tiny lines upon his hands as they lay quiescent in his lap—was significant. I understand it all now. He wants her, just as he wants all beautiful things. And he will have her. And I am to be the sacrifice. She has won. She does not even know it. But she has won.

* * *

   At the end of the lane, Barbara's carriage lurched to a stop. She leaned out to see her aunt's carriage pulled to one side, Mary jumping down and lifting her long skirts, running toward hers. Not now, thought Barbara. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

   "Bab. I have to speak with you. Open the door."

   She motioned to Hyacinthe, and Mary climbed in. But instead of speaking, she fidgeted with a bow on her gown.

   Barbara watched her through half–closed eyes. "Have you come to run away with me to Tamworth?" How normal her voice sounded. "Do so, and I will have Thérèse show you how to make up your face so that all the young men swoon at your feet. I will show you how to laugh and smile and, flirt. They will be putty in your hands—" Her voice broke. She took a deep breath.

   Mary stared at her.

   "Never mind me. I have had a bad day. Several bad days, in fact." Those words were flippant, curt. Mary flinched. Go away, thought Barbara, Go away before I hurt you.

   "I am a fool,'" Mary said, staring down at the shredded bow in her gown. She looked up at Barbara and said with the same abruptness Tony often displayed. "But I have to know. Do you love Charles Russel?"

   Barbara closed her eyes. She wanted to claw her little cousin's face suddenly. She wanted to scream at her and kick and stamp her heels on the floor like a child.