Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel (8 page)

   "What painting?" Robert asked Montagu.

   "A Rubens," answered Carlyle before Montagu could open his mouth. He pointed with his cane. "That wall. Fourth from the right." Roger was already shrugging out of the tight coat.

   "My lord—" began the tailor.

"Not now!" Roger said impatiently. "Attend to me next Thursday morning. Francis, write it down." The wig maker, packing away his samples with much rustling of tissue paper, smiled complacently from his corner. The tailor looked as if someone had just hit him in the stomach.

   "The volumes of Plutarch you had rebound have arrived, sir," said White, who had been standing behind Montrose patiently waiting his turn. "As has the new book on architecture by Giacomo Leoni. I put them both on the table in the library so that you might view them before I shelve them. And I have finished a third canto you might want to read—"

   "Sir, you are scheduled to sit for your portrait this afternoon," interrupted Montrose, with an impatient look for White. "Sir Godfrey Kneller sent a note around this morning to remind you. And you are to have supper tonight with Sir Josiah Child after the Princess of Wales's reception. And there is another note arrived from Lady Alderley—" Roger held out his hand, and Montrose shuffled among his packet of papers and handed him a folded and sealed note on dark red paper. For a moment, the scent of musky, strong perfume invaded the room. Every man's nostrils quivered, and Carlyle suddenly looked very satisfied with something. Roger whisked the note into a pocket of his waistcoat and then let his valet finish pulling the tailor's coat from his shoulders and help him into one of pale blue satin trimmed with lace along its front opening. Everyone watched, feeling free to make various comments,

   "I like the coat."

   "Blue is not my color."

   "What is your color?"

   "Is that wig new?"

   "I see you are wearing covered buttons now—"

   "Go home," repeated Roger. He walked over to the three by the fireplace. "Monty, you look terrible. You must rest, and I am sure it is safe to return home now. Mary will be out shopping. Robert, will I see you at the Princess of Wales's drawing room tonight—what have you spilled on your coat? It looks like jam. Horatio, remind me that there are some books I wish you to send me when you return to Amsterdam."

   A footman entered bringing tri-corner hats, cloaks, and gloves and began to distribute them. Robert wiped at the stain on his coat. Montagu handed him a linen napkin. He blew his nose in it. Carlyle, standing some distance away, shuddered. Roger laughed and walked to White, who had gone to stand by the windows, the sheaf of papers containing his poetry bundled in his good hand.

   "Caesar," he said, "I promise I will find time to look at your verses today. Leave them on the table by my bed. 'Many brave men lived before Agamemnon,'" he quoted softly, "'but all unwept and unknown they sleep in endless night, for they had no poets to sound their praises.'" He turned immediately to say good-bye to Carlyle, and White watched him, a combination of fond respect and admiration in his eyes.

   "Is it true, then, Roger—what I have heard? That there is a bridal in the air?" Carlyle spoke loudly, suddenly, and his voice startled everyone.

   For a moment, motion in the room stopped. Montrose coughed and kept his eyes carefully lowered. Montagu and the Walpoles hung suspended in and out of their cloaks. White glanced at Roger's face, and then out the window. Roger flushed, looking stunned. It was a coup for Carlyle, for Roger was almost never caught off guard.

   "I have no idea, Tommy," he said. "Unlike you, I never indulge in malicious gossip. That is why I keep my friends." He turned on his heel and left the room, Montrose following like a shadow. Two spots of natural color appeared under the rouge on Carlyle's cheeks. Immediately, the others, the Walpoles and Montagu, surrounded Carlyle.

   "What bridal?" asked Robert.

   "The Alderley chit," snapped Carlyle.

   "Nonsense!" said Montagu.

   "Roger was devoted to the duke," ventured Horatio.

   "Has she some fortune no one else knows of?" asked Robert. "Why else would he do it?"

   Carlyle took a small muff of silver fox from the footman. "Use your eyes and ears," he told them wearily, while the three of them stared at him with the concentration of fascinated schoolboys. "Giacomo Leoni's new book on architecture. Sir Christopher Wren—our premier architect—waiting. I daresay if we searched the library we would find Colin Campbell's new book on architecture as well as a copy of Palladio's." He waited for their response.

   "Roger wants to build something," Horatio said hesitantly.

   "Excellent!" spat Carlyle sarcastically. "How well you must serve us abroad, Horatio, with your keen mind. Of course Roger wants to build something! And who owns a prime piece of property called Bentwoodes?"

   The three stared at him.

   "Exactly," he said, and sauntered from the room, pleased with himself. The other three remained huddled.

   "I know Diana—" said Montagu.

   "Who is Diana?" interrupted Robert.

   "—and she will want everything but the moon in return. Damn! I refuse to help Roger sponsor her divorce. You can be sure that will be one of her conditions. Of course,"—he smiled slowly—"no one can perform fellatio like Diana. It might be worth the price of a divorce."

   At that moment, the Duke of Bedford strolled into the room. The three nodded to him, and he returned their nod, but walked over to a painting on the wall and stood staring at it.

   "The Rubens," said Robert. "Roger is spending money like Midas. I wish I knew where he finds it."

   "If it is a misalliance, Roger will never do it," said Horatio.

   "If you think Diana Alderley will let him slip through her fingers once she has him entangled, you are a bigger fool than I am!" said Montagu irritably. "I may as well face the fact of Roger's marriage and see what I can gain from it!" He crushed his hat under his arm and headed for the door. The other two followed him.

   "What I want to know," said Robert, "is why I have never met Diana."

   "But you have," argued his brother. "Last summer when you were conducting that investigation she was in and out of Westminster bothering everyone. Think. Dark hair, beautiful eyes, huge, white tits. 'I would like to jump her,' you told me. Your exact words—" The door closed behind them.

   The Duke of Bedford was still examining the Rubens.

   "I do not know how Roger managed to outbid me," he said. "I was assured I made the highest offer. Just look at those flesh tones."

   "Lord Devane has excellent taste," ventured White, not quite sure whether he was included in this conversation or not.

   "Yes," snapped the Duke. "So we all know."

* * *

   Barbara sat staring at the fog, terrible impatience filling her as surely as the fog filled the square of Covent Garden below her with its thick, gray, rolling mists. I want something to happen, anything, she was thinking, as the flower and vegetable and herb vendors packed away their goods, putting a child or two in among their baskets of walnuts or onions, to carry them both under the vaulted arcades of the stuccoed houses on the other side. They would gather there in groups to gossip, smoke their pipes, and nurse their babies until the fog lifted. Then great carriages, pulled by four or six horses, would lumber up again, their occupants spilling like melons from a box to shop the market. Housekeepers, cooks, maidservants and merchants' wives would wander among the heaped baskets, pinching the produce, haggling with the vendors. Noise and confusion would begin anew just beneath her window.

   She was unbelievably homesick for Tamworth, its gardens and woods and familiar comfort, for her grandmother's gruffness and for her brothers and sisters. From the moment the carriage had squeezed across London Bridge, nothing had gone the way she expected. The carriage had lurched to a stop just off the bridge, and her mother pushed the French maid she had brought with her from Tamworth out the door, tossed a handful of coins after her and told the coachman to drive on. The woman ran after them, screaming French obscenities.

   "I cannot afford her!" Diana snapped to her wide–eyed look, and Barbara had known from that moment that nothing would be as she had been led to believe. She was correct. Instead of pulling up before the house she knew her parents owned in Westminster, the carriage had rattled through narrow, twisted streets filled with shops until it had pulled into the piazza of Covent Garden. They stepped out in front of one of the four–story brick buildings with curving Dutch roofs. She followed Diana up the flights of stairs—Clemmie, her mother's serving woman, stood smiling gap–toothed at the top—to dark, small, smelly rooms consisting of a parlor and hall, two bedchambers, and a tiny adjoining room. The rooms smelled of other tenants and dirt and had only the barest essentials for furniture. Meres reappeared like a stray dog to sleep under a table in the parlor, during the day lounging on the stairs until Diana should have an errand for him to run. Barbara had thought to go shopping for gloves and fans and ribbons. She had thought to visit her cousins at Saylor House, the mansion her grandfather had built in London. She had thought to see Westminster Abbey and St. James's Palace and the Tower of London. She had thought to see Roger, not to be cooped up in these rooms as day led into day, while her mother sat by the hour in the parlor, at the same table, slowly emptying a bottle or two of wine as she dashed off note after note in sprawling, blotted handwriting. Why? she asked her mother, daring her slaps—which she received. Because, her mother answered, swaying a little with the wine she had drunk, I have debts. Many debts. And no one can find me here; once the marriage is announced, it will change. She stared at Barbara, who was rubbing her cheek, and who had not cried, but stood looking at her mother with blue eyes Diana read too clearly. Never mind thinking you can write to your grandmother, Diana said coldly, because Clemmie is watching you every second I am not.

   Clemmie. Her jailer and savior, for when her mother left on some errand, Barbara would cajole Clemmie into taking her along as she shopped. It was the only way she could leave the lodgings. She had been no farther than a few surrounding streets, though Clemmie had once taken her across the busy, wide thoroughfare of the Strand so that she might see the Thames River, where she could have stayed for hours watching the river craft: the slender, quick ferries, the barges painted all the colors of the rainbow, the sailing ships with their great, billowing white sails and their many little colored signal flags. But Clemmie was old and wished to rest her feet.

   "You cannot trust this river. Sometimes dead rats and babies float by," she told Barbara, her face as shapeless under its layers of fat as her body was. "It is the time of floods. Come away." And so back they had walked, Barbara soaking in everything she could: shops with brightly colored signs hanging above the doors, gloves, books, jewels, old clothing, soft, glowing fabrics, cheeses, fat, dressed geese displayed in the windows while the owners' wives followed her halfway down the street entreating her to come inside. Women, their rich, heavy skirts held up out of the street mud, walking on elaborate leather clogs to protect their cloth shoes. Gangs of apprentice boys, their hair cut short, running through the streets snatching at pretty girls' cloaks and old men's wigs. Street vendors, their wares strapped to them, calling out to the passing carriages and up to the closed windows and doors of the houses around them. "Pancakes! Piping hot!" Or, "Rare Holland socks, four pairs a shilling!" Or, "Knives and scissors to grind!" "Death to rats!" "Hot baked warden pears and pippins!" "Brooms! Buy my brooms!"

   The bells in the church of St. Paul's of Covent Garden began to ring. Barbara listened to their clear sound, pressing her cheek against the window. How long? How long must she wait?

   The window vibrated beneath her cheek. That was not church bells. That was a rapping at the front door. It was so unexpected that she sat up, startled, then thought of Roger and nearly tripped over her skirts rushing to the hall. Her mother stood framed in the parlor opening, staring at the door. If Barbara could have believed her mother capable of fear, she would have believed it at that moment. Clemmie was frozen in the hall, lumplike, staring at Diana. A long look passed between them.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
went the door again.

   "Meres," said Clemmie. "Meres would have warned us."

   After a moment, Diana nodded her head, and cautiously Clemmie opened the door, her mouth a fat O of surprise at who stood there. Barbara's aunt, Abigail, Lady Saylor, sailed in like a ship of state, flags flying in the size of her pearl earrings and brooch, the rich look of her brown striped gown, the soft fur lining her yellow cloak and muff, the gray lace on her widow's cap, topped by a stylish velvet hat. Abigail was in her late thirties, still attractive in a harsh, pug–nosed, fading blond manner. ("Women like Abigail," her grandmother had sniffed, "are pretty in a pert way when they are young, but as they age, they resemble nothing so much as the pigs in my pens!") It had been several years since Barbara had seen her aunt, but from her aunt's first words, she knew there had been no changes.

"It took you long enough," Abigail said to Clemmie. "Did you think I was a bill collector?"

   She saw Barbara, smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes, offered her a powdered cheek to kiss and said, "My, you have grown. You are prettier than I expected. Go away to play, like a good girl. Diana, you are looking thin. And I must say it becomes you. You were getting as fat as a pig. Come, we must talk." Abigail never asked; she always commanded.

   Dismissed as if she were a small child, Barbara did as she was told. She sat back down in her chair by the window, but the fog was complete now. She could see nothing. Her glance went to the Advent wreath lying on the table by the bed. She had fashioned it herself from sweet evergreen bought at the market below. It was the season of Advent. If she had been at Tamworth, she would be walking in woods and gardens gathering mistletoe and holly and evergreen and rosemary, which she and her sisters would weave into garlands and wreaths to decorate the village church, her grandfather's private chapel, and the great hall at Tamworth. She would be supervising the packing of baskets of food for the tenants and the poor, her task since she was ten: "Time enough to learn one of a gentlewoman's duties, the succor of those less privileged," her grandmother had said then.