Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (78 page)

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   She sat with her grandmother in the afternoon shade of some ancient oaks. The oaks were not far from the house, atop a small hillock from which could be seen both the house and the fields of wheat, colored with the moving shapes of workers, busy at harvest. Letters had arrived; there were always letters; the Duchess maintained a network of correspondence; people throughout the county rode over to hear the news from her letters. Her system was to read them in the afternoons and reply to them in the mornings, and all through each day, as she oversaw her household, going from stilllroom to kitchen to parlor to garden, she could be heard calling impatiently for Annie to write down some thought or comment she meant to include in a letter.

   "From Tony," said the Duchess, picking up and ripping past the seal of a letter with pleasure. A smaller note inside fluttered into her lap. She tossed it to Barbara and spread open her own letter and began to read it with relish.

   "London is hot….of course it is! It is the end of August….He says South Sea closed their stock transfer books after a day, the crowds to transfer were so thick, and that the terms for this new subscription are far stricter….He says he does not like it and to sell out any stock I might have, no matter the loss….Bah! I sold out in May! Bunch of greedy goldsmiths and stockjobbers! That John Blunt is a scrivener and nothing more, and all the knighthoods in the world will not rub the ink from his fingers nor the figures from his heart! What else does my boy say….Alexander Pope and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu continue to flirt with each other at their poetry readings….Hmm…I do not like Pope. His spirit is mean and small. Caesar White is the better poet. He was a fool to leave your household, you know. A writer needs a patron. What is he doing these days?"

   Barbara looked up from her letter. "I have no idea. I have only seen him once—to thank him for the Aurora poem. I–I had other things on my mind."

   "Exactly why a writer needs a patron," the Duchess repeated stubbornly, but Barbara was not listening. Her grandmother opened another letter.

   "Abigail says all the gossip is of the writs the South Sea will bring against the…what is this word? Her handwriting looks like a hen's scratching. Is it English Copper Company? Yes. That must be it. And the Welsh Copper Company and the Yorks Buildings Company. She says the Prince of Wales has been advised, and he has resigned as governor of the Welsh Company. Roger sent a personal note to Tony to inform him so that he might sell any stock invested. A handsome gesture. Abigail says the prince was furious, but the directors were determined. Stock for the Royal Assurance Company and the London Exchange Company are both dropping. Everyone is watching with bated breath, she says…."

   "Breath," murmured Barbara. "Yes." In her letter, Tony said not one word about stock or Alexander Pope but instead wrote how much he missed her. The Countess of Camden—Jemmy's mother—had taken ill, he wrote. Barbara looked up and out over the cornfields a moment before continuing to read. Charles had left Richmond to go to one of his father's estates. The Prince of Wales would not allow her name mentioned in his presence, but her mother was in and out of his private apartments continually. Tony had seen Roger, who looked well, and told him when he wrote her to tell her to expect a letter soon. A letter, thought Barbara, and she reread Tony's.

   "Yes," said the Duchess. "Any fool can see it is not possible to carry that much paper credit with so little specie behind it. It is a bubble and will burst."

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   Harvest Home…the Tamworth harvest was finished, and reapers prepared to celebrate before they moved to the next farm and its fields. The brightest of reapers' handkerchiefs and flowers and ripe sheaves of grain decorated the cart containing the last of the harvest. The corn baby, a rough image fashioned from wheat sheaves, sat atop the cart. It was wrapped in white linen, had a scythe tied to one outstretched arm, and wore one of the Duchess's old straw hats, into which convolvulus— the flowering vine that loved to wrap itself around stalks—and tassels of wheat were twined. The cart rumbled down the road to Tamworth, and neighboring farmers left their fields to cheer its progress and join its parade. The reapers, flowers and tassels of wheat in their hats or behind their ears, played pipes and tabors, or small drums, while their women and children danced with them and all around the harvest cart.

   Tamworth servants scurried to be ready before the cart and reapers and neighbors arrived. The Duchess and Dulcinea sat watching the activity in the duke's massive oak chair, brought outside for the festivities. She would give up her place to the corn baby when it arrived and would make the first toast to the hard work and successful harvest with a tankard of her best ale, ale that would flow freely all evening and late into the night. Servants staggered by her, toward the rough tables set up on the lawn and covered with her best linen tablecloths, carrying plates piled high with boiled potatoes and cabbage and turnips and carrots. Perryman and the footmen were bringing out roasted and boiled beef, mutton, veal, and pork. For days Cook had been making custards and apple pies, both now being carried to the tables hot and smoking from the ovens. There was ale and tea and cider. The village fiddler sawed on his fiddle, warming up for the night of leaping country dances ahead. The Duchess smiled at the bustle around her, proof of her good management of Tamworth's bounty against a cold winter or late spring. There would be enough for Tamworth and for any neighbors or tenants not as fortunate.

   Sir John Ashford from Ladybeth strolled over to her. The next harvest suppers would be his and Squire Dinwiitty's. He had arrived early to read her latest letter from Abigail (and to sample her ale).

   "The ale is bitter this year, Alice."

   She glared up at him. Her ale was always excellent. He had some fool notion that Ladybeth's was sweeter.

   "Abigail and Maude seem to agree on the situation. Maude wrote us that the city was on pins and needles about the price of stock, too. Royal Assurance is down. And South Sea," he said.

   "I sold out in May," the Duchess replied. "I do not hold with so much loose paper scrip. Give me a solid bag of gold coins every time." Scrip entitled its owner to shares in a joint–stock undertaking and was exchanged for a formal certificate when payment for the stock was made. It was now functioning as money, but scrip from goldsmiths, banks, South Sea, and other joint stock companies were all competing chaotically against one another.

   Sir John frowned at her and moved on. They did not agree on economics, but then what did they agree on? she thought. It was the arguing that mattered. Doubtless after he had drunk more of her bitter ale, he would return to expound upon his own theories. Well, she had spent the morning resting, and she would be ready for him.

   She noticed the footman Tim ride up from the village. Bringing her letters, but today she would forgo the pleasure of reading them, for she would have to listen to the head reaper's speech in her honor and admire the corn baby and welcome everyone with a speech of her own. She saw Vicar Latchrod, newly arrived, sneak a glass of ale and smiled grimly as he noticed her notice him. Drink up, Vicar, she thought. Perhaps the ale will shorten your long–winded prayers. Barbara and Thérèse went by carrying a huge tray of freshly baked bread. Barbara was laughing, and the Duchess smiled to see her. She is fatter, she thought. Though she has been with me less than two weeks, she is fattening up, growing sleek again under my and Tamworth's good care. Hyacinthe and a stableboy and the two dogs went shrieking past. Dulcinea did not even jump away to hide. She and the dogs had come to an understanding. Already she was nearly their size, and they could not match her for simple, cold cruelty. You leave me alone, she had told them, and I shall not slice your stupid pugs' noses into warm, bleeding ribbons each time I see you. Harry, nursing a torn nose, agreed, and Charlotte followed his lead. To salve their pride, they pretended Dulcinea did not exist. But she did, and now she sat up to watch them, her eyes slitted with interest.

   Tim gave Barbara a letter. The Duchess saw her face as she glanced at it, and her heart gave an odd leap. Without a word to anyone, Barbara turned and walked away, away from the tables and merry, bustling servants—many of whom had been sampling the ale—toward the oaks on the small hillock. The pipes and tabor could be heard clearly now; the harvesters were in the avenue of limes. The Duchess glanced toward the oaks. Barbara, a small figure, was sitting on one of the benches built around a tree, her head bent as if she were reading.

   The letter was from Roger. He had written…as he said he would. She could put it away…she did not have to read it…she could always say she had never received it. She ripped past the wax sealing it together.

My dearest Barbara,

I meant to write you long before now, but my salon is crowded from morning until night with South Sea and Bank of England and East India directors and members of the ministry and friends who want favors because the exchange is so erratic. You see how I begin….I have forgotten how to write a love letter. I bore you with news about stocks when all I want is to open my heart to you. And so I shall. Over the last four years, there have been many times I thought of you and wanted you with me, but I remembered your last words to me, and I felt any message on my part might only further estrange us.

   She raised her head. The high, clear sounds of the pipes and tabor caught her attention, and she looked down to the lawn, filled now with women and men and children and a cart dressed as if it took a bride to her wedding. There was a sudden clapping on everyone's part, and the lead reaper stood before her grandmother and spoke. She could not hear the exact words, but they changed little from year to year. Her throat closed. I will not cry, she thought. He does not deserve my tears. She looked back down at her letter.

I thought we would go our separate ways, or at least always live apart. And then, when I saw you this spring, so close and yet so far from me, I knew that I loved you and wanted you. I knew that I had always loved you, even in Paris. I looked at you, grown up, no longer the dear child of my memory, and you were lovely, and I felt that I had built everything thus far for this one moment, for you, and my life, which had been empty, filled again. I have watched you this summer, Barbara, and if I thought you were happy, I would leave you be. But you are not. I know it. And I feel there is still something left for me in your heart. I pray to a God I have not believed in years that there is. I find myself dreaming the dreams of a young man—that I may hold the woman I love in my arms and make love to her and see her bear my children. I want you. And I
need you. I believe this time we could be happy. Come to live with me again at Devane House. It is a big house, and we could live as far apart, or as close, as you so desired. Take your place of honor by my side. I will woo you as no woman has ever been wooed, and if it is my honor to win you back as my wife, I will cherish your dearest love for the rest of our life together.

I am not a fool. I know there is much to be explained between us, and I will answer whatever you ask of me, no matter how painful. But not in a letter. Face to face, so that you can see my heart in my eyes and know what I feel for you. Know this now: that each hour of the day, I have some thought of you, and at night, before I sleep, I envision you once more in my arms. Remember what was between us and know that while it can never be as it was, for you, dear heart, are a woman now and not a child—it could be something just as fine.

I remain, always and forever, your husband,

Roger Montgeoffry, Earl Devane

   "Barbara," said her grandmother. "Are you ill?"

   The sound of a fiddle, laughter, clapping, reached her dimly, as if she were far, far away.

   How dare he, she thought. How dare he write me such a beautiful letter. She put her face into her hands and the letter fluttered to the ground. A blue butterfly, the color of the woods' harebells, perched on its upended corner before the Duchess leaned down and snatched it up. Her eyes ran over the words, and she looked at her granddaughter, whose face was still hidden. She sat down on the bench and folded the letter. Down on the lawn, Perryman was dancing with Annie. It was amazing what four quick tankards of Tamworth ale accomplished. She waited. What happened in Paris, she thought, that even now, after this, she cannot forgive him?

   Barbara raised her face from her hands, a face that was white and sick, with blazing eyes. "Keep thy heart…do you remember how you said those words to me? And I did. I knew my heart. And I went after what I wanted. But it was not as I expected it to be, and now there has been so much anger, so much hurt, and I can no longer reach out—like that girl of fifteen—for what I want. I cannot forgive. He wants me. I have seen it in his eyes. I have felt it in his touch. But I cannot forgive—"

   "And why not?"

   The urge to confess was so strong. But she could not. She would not betray Roger. She had never been able to make that final betrayal of the truth.

   "You would never understand. Your life has been so different from mine. You had my grandfather, and children, and dreams that did not turn to dust in your hands. I have nothing but regrets."

   "And whose fault is that? What happened in Paris, missy, that you cannot forgive him? What happened that he writes you as fine a letter as any I have ever seen; a letter that would melt most women's hearts, and yours is not melted? You with your own lovers! Your own scandals! What happened?"

   Barbara's eyes dilated as she stared at her grandmother.

   He was unfaithful, thought the Duchess. Only that could cause this. I knew he would be, but I imagined he had more finesse than to allow her ever to learn. And enough experience to handle her if she did. I never thought Roger would be clumsy. Well, she wanted him, and she got him. Let us get this thing in the open once and for all. I have lost patience with her.