by Karleen Koen
She rapped impatiently on the door with her cane. One dark half of it opened, and she hobbled in to see Diana, as naked as a Rubens nude, lying sprawled across huge white sheets that protected the damask covers on the bed. The maid Diana had brought down with her from London was kneading glistening oil into her body. For a moment, the Duchess could only stand there, staring, her eyes outraged. She jabbed her cane toward one of the red damask chairs that lined the wall like soldiers on duty, and another maid, one of her own household servants, who was serving as an appendage to the pagan ritual, scurried to pull the chair from the wall to the spot the Duchess indicated with her cane. The servant dropped a quick curtsy to her mistress, her pale eyes blinking rapidly. She reminded the Duchess of a terrified rabbit. The maidservant glanced toward Diana, lolling on the bed, and her eyes began to blink even more rapidly. The Duchess barked out an order to keep from suddenly laughing.
"Leave the room! Both of you!" She sat down in the chair, her back straight. "Cover yourself, Diana. You are going to give my maids apoplexy."
Diana sat up and lazily pulled a sheet about herself. "It is the latest fashion from France," she said, as she knotted the sheet at her breast. "The Duchesse d'Orléans has her body massaged three times daily. It keeps one young and supple."
"Call the maid back, then! You have no time to lose!" She moved irritably in the chair, trying and failing to find a comfortable spot. She glared at her daughter as if her aching bones were her daughter's fault. Damn Diana. Pickling herself in oil like a French whore. She would not be put off by it.
Diana glanced at her mother's face. What she saw made her grit her teeth, but she picked up a nearby hand mirror of pale ivory and began casually to examine her face, as if she had all the time in the world.
"This business with Roger," the Duchess said, not bothering to pretend she had come for anything else. She stamped her cane on the "Roger." "It bothers me."
"What can bother you?" Diana snapped. "You know of his family. It was always good enough; he just never had any inheritance to speak of. But the time in Hanover has served him well. He possesses the gift of Midas these days. Whatever he touches turns to gold. Why, his original investment in the South Sea Company has made him rich twice over, and his earldom is as much a reward for helping King George's skinny mistress make money on the exchange as it is for past services rendered to the House of Hanover. He is a powerful personage in court circles, and I—we—are fortunate to have him."
"Why do you have him, Diana? A rich earl like Roger has no need of the Alderley branch of the Tamworths. Your husband is a traitor, run away to France. You are left with debts and an encumbered estate. Your petition for divorce has scandalized everyone. Why—I repeat—do you have him?" That has her, she thought with a satisfied nod. She could almost enjoy these bouts with Diana, except they tired her so, and she was already weary from the worry of Harry and Jane. And then Diana had dropped the news about Roger, about Barbara, like a cannonball in their midst. She was too old for such bother. She tried to rub her legs so that Diana would not notice. The pain, the tiredness, were making it difficult for her to concentrate.
Diana took a deep breath and spoke lightly. If her mother had not known her so well, she would have been fooled by her apparent casualness.
"We are old friends. You know how fond he was of Father." She put down the mirror and smiled winningly. "He is proud to ally himself with the Tamworth family—any branch of it."
"Surely you can do better than that, Diana."
Diana frowned. The Duchess sat impassively, never taking her eyes off her daughter. Diana retied the knot at her breast. She held the mirror back to her face and smoothed her dark brows. She examined her teeth. Her eyes fell away to her mother and then back to the mirror again. The Duchess knew she was trying to think of a lie that she would believe, and she also knew Diana could not fool her and was slowly, angrily, unwillingly coming to the core of the matter. The truth would emerge sooner or later in the whole business. With Diana, it would be later, and so overset with lies and half-truths that it would be hard to recognize. This way, straightforwardly and at the beginning of whatever was happening, was not the way Diana would have wished to approach her goal. But it was the way the Duchess wished to. And that was all that mattered.
Diana put down the mirror and threw the words at her mother.
"He wants the Bentwoodes lands."
The Duchess was taken aback. "My mother's London properties—"
"Promised to me when I wed, only you thought Kit too reckless and never deeded them! How I hated you at the time. And how I have blessed you since. For Bentwoodes, Roger would see my divorce through Parliament, settle South Sea stock upon me and upon Harry, and marry Barbara in the bargain." She looked at her mother triumphantly.
The Duchess's legs ached abominably. Diana's words faded in and out of the sensation of pain as she tried to think clearly. It was not a bad settlement— ah, God curse these aching bones—it was an excellent one, in fact. Diana drove a shrewd bargain.
Sensing her approval, Diana leaned forward, her lovely violet eyes shining, words spilling out of her lips in exultant self–congratulation.
"He wants Bentwoodes badly now that he fancies himself the great nobleman. Our Roger! He aches to have a fine London mansion and square named after himself. And not only do I hold the key to the property he desires, but I offer him the chance to play savior to me, the disgraced daughter of a national hero, a man he served under and adored." She smiled to herself. "Not that I am so blind that I believe he would save me for Father's sake alone, Mother, but my divorce petition has become quite a cause for those Whigs trying to crush all the breath out of the Tories. Roger sees political gain in helping me, in establishing himself as my champion. And our new earl, determined to become a duke before all is said and done, has begun to think of an heir. I hold another trump. I possess the granddaughter of that same adored man—a girl of fine family, tarred now by her father's action, but one he may rescue by marrying, thus raising her back to the level she was born to. And that girl is young enough to be molded as he chooses. Roger would be a fool to refuse, when all is said and done!"
Trust Diana to know her prey, thought the Duchess, trying to concentrate over the pain in her legs. Mold as he chose…Roger could charm the birds from the trees…The molding would not be difficult…he always had women about him. Following him. Sending him love notes. Lending him money. Barbara would have her work cut out for her. Barbara.
"I will sell him Bentwoodes for your divorce," she said, leaning down to rub her legs, damn what Diana thought. "But leave Barbara out of it. I had a bad feeling last night—"
"You are senile!" Diana cried, her heavy breasts almost spilling out of the knotted sheet in her agitation. "How else will I marry her! You know as well as I what happens to girls who have no inheritance! And Kit has spent it all! Every last penny! Hers and all the children's. There is nothing left! Nothing!"
The Duchess had a vision of Henley's tired, bitter mouth. "I will take care of her. I will—"
"When? Next year? The year after that? I have a chance to marry her now! A chance to obtain something for Harry to inherit other than his father's debts. A chance to see my own way clear."
Their eyes locked. The Duchess no longer paid Diana and Kit's debts. She had stopped five years ago. Go to hell in a basket, she had told them one night, not long after Richard's death, when her grief for him was as raw as bleeding meat, and they had come to Tamworth not to see her, nor to visit Richard's tomb, but to ask for money. Always money. And without her, they had dug themselves deeper and deeper into debt.
"I need this marriage," Diana said, her strength, her will at this moment as powerful as her mother's. "I will have it. Do not oppose me in this, Mother. I will do it despite you."
The pain in her legs consumed her. It was such that she almost did not care what Diana did. It was time for Barbara to marry. And it was Diana's duty to find a husband. Not hers. Roger was an old frien
d. He had loved Richard as much as any man could. She would not always be here to protect her granddaughter, and the girl must never, never go the way of the Henleys of this world. A countess. It was as much as—or more than—the Duchess could do for her. Between the two of them, she and Barbara could provide for the other children, if Harry and Diana did not, as likely they would not.
"I will not oppose you," she said slowly, the pain making her clench her teeth, "since Barbara wishes it. But he is too old. And there is his reputation."
"Better an old man's fancy than a young man's slave," Diana said flippantly, rising to ring for a servant. "He has settled down, Mother. You would scarcely know him, and no one reaches forty without past mistakes. Not you. Not I. Not even Father."
"Is he still as handsome as the Devil?" She just managed to rasp the words out, her curiosity for the moment overwhelming even her great pain.
"Handsomer. I have rung for your woman, Mother. Go and rest now. I am glad we had this discussion."
* * *
"Where were you all afternoon, Barbara?" Diana asked idly. They sat in the small winter parlor. Not only was it near the kitchen, but it had two corner fireplaces which Richard had added to the room. They joined the older, Jacobean paneling on each of their side walls snugly, but showed their modernity by their simple marble surrounds. The area above each surround rose smooth and straight for perhaps two feet, then ended to form a shelf with the adjoining right–angled walls. A bronze bust of the duke sat on one of the shelves. A yellow and blue Chinese jar stood atop the other. A handsome cabinet of burled walnut with glass doors held more of the Chinese jars and bowls. Several small tables, a harpsichord, and armchairs jostled for space. Window seats were recessed into the large windows that had a fine view of the formal gardens, but it was too cold for them to be of use now; their yellow velvet draperies were closed and tied against the chill. This room joined a larger parlor, and instead of a door, more yellow draperies hung across what would have been the door's opening. These, too, were pulled closed to protect against the winter drafts that penetrated through every crack and joint of the older part of the house.
A footman was removing the remains of their supper, while Perryman, the Duchess's butler, directed another to move the gateleg table they used for dining back to its place against the wall. Barbara sat on a fringed stool near one of the fireplaces, furiously poking her needle into the embroidery attached to her embroidery frame, while Cousin Henley sat on another, mending napkins. The fire crackled and spit behind the firescreen pulled in front of it so that no sparks should burn their gowns or set the room burning. Harry's leaving and Jane's heartbreak and other things raged inside Barbara.
The Duchess sat in a chair with arms, her legs across a stool that had been put against the chair to support them. Dulcinea lay in her lap, and she stroked the cat's fur slowly. The candles in the wall sconces highlighted the strong bones of her thin face and the pain that pinched her mouth and shadowed her eyes. Her legs were wrapped with linen strips covered with liniment, and she had taken dandelion wine laced with poppies—not enough to sleep, but enough to dull the pain, enough to let her rest. Her mind floated above her body, free from it for a bit, and she watched Diana and Barbara with dispassionate interest. Barbara had not answered her mother, and Diana looked annoyed. As much as the Duchess's sentiments were with her granddaughter, it was no way for the girl to treat her mother. She waited until Perryman and the footmen left the room.
"Mind your manners, Barbara!" she said sharply. "Your mother spoke to you."
Barbara's chin lifted a fraction, but she said politely, "I was about, seeing people, saying good-bye."
"Well, enjoy your freedom while you may," Diana said. "In London, a young lady never goes out unescorted by family or servants."
Dulcinea yawned and then with a quick, unexpected, graceful leap jumped into Diana's lap. Diana hated cats, and Dulcinea knew it, purring and stretching out her claws so that they caught in the fabric of Diana's gown. Diana picked her up to throw her off her lap, and one small, hard, ivory claw caught in the lace on her sleeves and tore it.
"Damn it!" Diana pushed the cat to the floor with a shove and inspected her sleeve. "She has torn my lace, and it is expensive!"
"When do you leave?" the Duchess asked, as Dulcinea leapt up and back under her mistress's hand, to purr once more and regard Diana with slitted, steady green eyes. The Duchess had begun to reconcile herself to the marriage. What better could she do for Barbara? And if Barbara found that, after all, she did not care for Roger, why, she could stop the negotiations. In spite of Diana. She could. And she would. The wine she had drunk gave her a feeling of well-being and made her fears and forebodings seem the crotchets of an apprehensive old woman. Roger was an experienced man, and he would be kind. Kindness went a long way.
"I would like to leave as soon as possible," Diana was saying. Barbara did not speak, but her chest rose and fell a little faster. The Duchess gazed at her fondly. Dear pet. She would be married soon and have children of her own. I would like to live to see Barbara's children, the Duchess thought. She listened to Diana talk about what Barbara would need for London, and they discussed the cost of a court gown, and whether it should be made in London or here by Annie and the village seamstresses. Barbara never said a word. They might not have been discussing her at all, but the Duchess did not notice; she was too amused by Diana's sharp reactions to the new Hanover court. The king had a very long, pointed nose, clear blue eyes and the social grace of a turnip. His mistress Melusine von Schulenberg looked like a maypole because she was so tall and thin, unlike his other mistress, Charlotte Kielmansegge, who was fat. She spoke English, but the king communicated with his courtiers through French and Latin. And he kept to himself. Why, his bedchamber was guarded from unwanted visitors by two Turkish soldiers he had captured. The Prince of Wales was handsomer than his father, but that was not saying much. His wife, Princess Caroline, was plump and fair—all the Hanoverian women wore their hair in the most ridiculous style, built up on pads from temple to temple, looking like a row of hot–cross buns covered with hair! And on this concoction, they put gauze and ribbon and huge hairpins covered with jewels. The ugliest things ever seen! Oh, and she had seen the Hanover pearls. Magnificent! The Princess of Wales had worn them outlining the bodice of her coronation gown and set in hoops at the shoulders. They were everything rumor had said, but she had not yet seen the incredible necklace and drop earrings said to be part of the set. The coronation itself had been a disappointment; the Hanovers had no style, unlike the Stuarts.
"It will be a dull court, that I prophesy," Diana sighed.
"But then Queen Anne's was hardly lively."
The fires in the two fireplaces snapped and crackled and filled the room with drowsy warmth. Cousin Henley rose and excused herself, taking her basket of mending with her. Diana yawned, raised her full, white arms overhead in a graceful stretch and rose from the stool she had been sitting on.
"If you will forgive me, I am going off to bed. The country air tires me so. Good night, Mother…Barbara."
The draperies lifted and drifted closed behind her. The log on the fire fell apart with flying, sizzling red–orange sparks. Barbara's needle jerked in and out. The Duchess lay almost dozing in the warmth…the peace.
"You wrote to Mother of Harry and Jane!" Barbara accused, her voice low and furious. The Duchess sat up abruptly, startled, to focus her eyes on her granddaughter, hand poised above the embroidery frame, the firelight highlighting her red-gold hair, a seeming tableau of domestic contentment, now seething with anger.
"I never believed you would betray them, Grandmama! What did it matter if they married? The Ashfords are a fine family! I have heard you say a hundred times that their kind makes up the backbone of England. They love each other!" Her needle had been flying in and out of the linen faster and faster with each word she spoke. Now it knotted, and she threw it down in disgust, staring coldly at her grandmother.
"Do not
take that tone with me, missy!" the Duchess snapped automatically, stalling to gain time, so surprised was she by Barbara's attack. How like the chit to burst out in such a way. Impetuous. She was never one to hide emotion. Dulcinea leapt down and stalked from the room, her fluffy white tail up in the air, a signal flag that said, I am bored with your petty human concerns.
"I betrayed no one!" the Duchess said. "I did my duty! Do not clench that jaw at me, Bab Alderley! I will slap it off! I did my duty, pure and simple, and I care little whether you like it, or Harry, or Jane! I did what I had to!"
