by Karleen Koen
Barbara's steady, contemptuous stare goaded her into more speech. "Harry must make a proper marriage. The circumstances demand it. And never forget he is the grandson of Richard Saylor, first Duke of Tamworth! The daughters of country knights are not for such as we! We do better!"
Barbara tossed her head. The firelight glittered through it. Like Richard's.
"Do you think I do not love Harry, child?" she continued in softer tones. "Do you think I want him hurt? Bloody hands of Jesus! You children are my heart. But duty comes before love. Harry will heal, as will Jane. First love seldom lasts, seldom endures. Only one thing does—"
"If you parrot 'duty' once more, I shall scream!" Barbara flashed.
"Do so!" her grandmother flashed back "And I will strike you with my cane!"
"Impossible! You do not have it with you!"
The Duchess glanced about her. The child was right. She looked back to Barbara. They glared at each other, both jaws set, both pairs of eyes hard.
"Shall I fetch it for you, Grandmama?"
She meant her words to be contemptuous, but the idea of fetching her grandmother's cane so that she might then be beaten with it made her bite her lip not to smile, which took a little of the edge off her anger. The Duchess saw it at once and pressed her advantage
"Impudent chit! If I could move, Bab, I would beat you."
She sighed. "As I cannot, take your punishment by coming here. Sit by me. Let us try to understand each other." She moved her legs so that Barbara could sit on the edge of the stool they rested upon. Barbara pushed her embroidery stand aside. I will never understand a duty that hurts others, she thought stubbornly. She sat down haughtily on the spot the Duchess had indicated and stared at her grandmother, her face closed and mutinous.
Where on earth does she inherit that stubbornness? the Duchess thought. Yes, Richard had been stubborn, but not with this locked–in setness that could not be moved except perhaps by reasonable argument, and not even then if the girl decided she was right. I have been too easy on her, the Duchess thought. I should have beaten her more often. She is not docile and quiet enough. I would never have dared look at my grandmother so. Ah, the young today do not know what manners and duty are. She leaned her head against the tall back of the chair. The wine had given her a pretense of strength, but underneath its false sweetness crouched her age, her fatigue, always ready to pounce, to drag her down and shake her lifeless. She closed her eyes and spoke softly, to spare herself as much as possible.
"Likely neither Harry nor Jane will remember the intensity, the pain, two years from now, Bab. Two years is such a long time when you are young. Harry will find an amusing mistress. Jane will marry and have a baby. Life goes on…our duties go on…I hardly knew your grandfather until the contracts were signed." What liars we become with age, she thought. Tell the girl how you followed Richard Saylor with your eyes and heart long before he ever spoke to you. Tell her that. "But I knew my duty. I knew what I owed my family. And I did it." She paused, her face soft with memories, and Barbara, staring at her, caught a sudden, unexpected glimpse of how she must have looked years ago. She listened, in spite of herself, intrigued by the idea of her grandmother's youth.
"Ah, Bab…he was the handsomest man in four counties, besides being the best! At first I loved him because it was duty. But then I loved him because I could no more help myself than the sun can help rising in the morning." That is how I feel about Roger, Barbara thought. "And he learned to love me—a sharp–tongued, skinny stick like myself. And we worked together to build our fortune." What a brave, handsome soldier he was, the Duchess thought to herself, picturing him in his scarlet general's uniform, the medals pinned to his coat and glinting in the sun. Second only to Marlborough, and in the Duchess's eyes, not even second. Ah, those were good years. Three strong sons survived all the other dead babes, the estate rebuilt, added to, a daughter coming like a lovely bloom of love—a girl as beautiful as her father was handsome. Life seemed so rich, so easy. Nothing could stop them; they would rival anyone in power and land and wealth. They did. And then, the wheel of fate shifted: one son dead in a battle in that years–old French war, the other two dying unexpectedly of smallpox, a demon from the Devil himself, also finding and killing their oldest and dearest grandson—the heir since his own dear father had died. The dukedom went to Abigail's son. Sweet Jesus. She had always disliked Abigail, wondering how her funny, charming William, who was never jealous of his older brother's inheritance, always with a joke and a smile, dying like a dog in a faraway land—they never found all of his body—could have married her. So, in five years, after twenty years of good fortune and prosperity, all that was left of their children was Diana. It was far too late to bear any more. Three fine sons—strong men to continue the family name, the family honor, to care for them in their old age—gone. And with them, Richard's heart. He, too, dying. Widows and children left, gone. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
"Grandmama? Are you well? Shall I call for Annie?" The look on her face stabbed Barbara's heart. Betrayal or not, this old woman was her rock, her touchstone for life.
The Duchess shook her head wearily, her face once more thin, old, sad.
"I love Roger, Grandmama," Barbara said slowly. "The way you loved Grandfather."
The simple, startling truth of Barbara's statement hit the Duchess between the eyes. Yes…perhaps she did. But Roger was forty–two, and Richard had been two years younger than she when they married. Roger was a man, established in his ways…his faults as well as his graces. Richard and she had grown old together, twining around each other like two young greening vines until you could hardly tell one from the other. And even then, they had had their share of quarrels and troubles. Roger was not the man Richard was. Once more a feeling of foreboding clutched at her. "You are fifteen!" she said more harshly than she meant because she was afraid. "What do you know of love? It comes from being with someone, from facing life together! Life in its awfulness as well as its joy! You love a handsome face. Nothing more!"
Barbara shook her head, her face stubborn and mutinous once more.
"Listen to me, chit! I will tell you of love—the kind of love you feel. Your mother fell in love with Kit Alderley, a handsome, worthless devil, even then—may God forgive me for speaking so of your father—and we let her marry him because he came from a good family, and because we had three boys to inherit. Diana could do as she pleased, your grandfather was always too soft with her! I begged her to wait. I begged him. She was fifteen at the time, mad for Kit. Yes! Stare, chit! You cannot think that your mother was ever fifteen." She moved impatiently. She was expending too much energy on this, but she was beyond stopping herself. "Well, she was! And a wild, willful piece if ever there was one! Worse than you could ever be! So we let her have Kit. And one morning, Diana woke up with seven children to feed, a traitor for a husband, and no more money left. No! And no love, either! It had dribbled away in fits and starts for years! So do not speak of love, missy! Even the greatest love will fly out the window without truth, honor, and duty to anchor it down!"
Barbara was silent. Am I wasting my breath? the Duchess thought, staring at her, trying to fathom what lay behind that smooth, young, untouched skin on her forehead. Does she understand? Can one understand at fifteen? A Bible verse sprang into her mind: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things."
"Make your mother tell you why she wants this marriage," she said harshly. "Make her tell you why Roger Montgeoffry considers you at all. It is for land, for property, and not for your pretty self! Make no mistake about that!"
"Your love came later," Barbara said softly. "His will too."
"And what if it does not?"
Barbara smiled a slow, seductive smile, one the Duchess had never seen on her face before. "I shall make him love me, Grandmama. I can do it."
Sweet Jesus! Had not Richard often said the same thing, smiled the same way, th
inking to charm someone into doing what he wished—and succeeding! Except for death. He could not charm death from his sons or from himself.
"Your love for Roger may change after you marry, Bab," she said, exhausted now by the futility of this talk, by the girl's stubbornness, by her own old woman's fears. "You may not find him to be all you want him to be. That is when you need to remember your duty. It is all that lasts." These last words were faint; the color of her face looked like putty. Barbara rose quickly to ring for her grandmother's tirewoman, thinking as she did so, Grandmama is old, she does not understand, does not remember. Of course she would do her duty; after all, she was a Tamworth as well as an Alderley. But she would also follow her heart.
* * *
There were no more lectures on duty in the days that followed. Trunks had to be dragged down from the attics and aired and then packed. Then, more often than not, they would have to be repacked, according to her grandmother's latest dictate. The Duchess had taken to her bed, cold and emotion having taken their toll on her legs. She ran the household as forcefully as ever and oversaw every detail of Barbara's leaving. A hundred times during the course of a day Barbara would be summoned to her grandmother's chambers. She would find her propped up in bed, pillows behind her back and all around her to support the wooden trays that held her paper and pens and ink pots and empty teacups. She wore at least three Spanish shawls, her huge lace cap and mittens, these in spite of the roaring fire in the fireplace. Dulcinea stayed nearby, dozing, or if she was in a playful mood, slapping at the feather in the Duchess's pen as she checked yet another item off her ink–stained lists. All the clothes must be checked, laces resewn, ribbons cleaned, dried lavender, mint and rose petals sprinkled carefully in their folds.
"Mother! I will have gowns made in London! These are old-fashioned!" Diana cried in exasperation, but the Duchess paid no attention because she was arguing with Annie on how best to clean the stained silk ribbons.
"You pare four or five good–sized potatoes, being careful to slice them very thin. You lay them in a quart of cold water for a few hours. Then you sponge the silk with the water and iron it dry!"
Annie folded her arms stubbornly. "Spirits of wine, powdered French chalk, and pipe clay is what my mother always used—"
"Your mother was an idiot, then! Check my recipe books. It is my grandmother's recipe! Are you missaying my grandmother, God rest her soul, you stubborn old stick?"
Then Annie had to find the milk of roses—made from sweet almonds beaten to a paste with drops of oil of lavender and rose water added—and carefully measure out a portion for Barbara to take with her. It would protect her complexion and keep it smooth and white.
"It is already smooth and white, Mother!"
"This will make it smoother and whiter still! She is after a husband, and a good complexion helps! And you, chit! If you do marry Roger, and I am not saying you will, but if you do, be sure you take care not to wear pearls at your wedding. They are a symbol for tears, you know!"
"She is driving me mad!" cried Diana. But Barbara said nothing. She knew this briskness and bustle covered softer feelings and was her grandmother's way of blessing her venture not with holy water, but with the more intimate, homier ingredients of lavender and milk of roses and clean silk ribbons.
"Will she need candles? There are some freshly made."
"Good God, Mother! Candles may be bought in London!"
"Do not take the Lord's name in vain, Diana. It is a sin—run along, Bab. You will never get to London and that fine husband you covet if you dawdle in my chambers all day!"
She slipped out of the room, away from the beginning of a rousing quarrel between her mother and grandmother. She would be summoned again in a few hours with fierce demands as to why she was never around when she was needed, but for now, while she was free, she would go up to the schoolroom and hear the children at their lessons. Her one grief in all of this was leaving them and her grandmother. But Roger was rich now, they said. And he was kind. She knew that someday soon her brothers and sisters would come to live with her. And Roger. She would provide for them. It was one of the duties of a gentlewoman, to provide for family. She opened the door quietly and sat down at her scarred wooden desk–table, folding her hands to listen. They were reciting their Bible verses and the sound of their clear, high young voices soothed her.
"Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth,
"Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled—"
She closed her eyes. Kit and Charlotte recited smoothly, while Anne stayed just a word behind. She had not learned her verses and was trying to fool Cousin Henley.
Bless me, dearest Lord, she thought, on this, the most important venture of my life. I promise I will be good; I promise, if you will make Roger marry me.
* * *
The day had arrived. She stood in the middle of her chamber, her woolen cloak lined with fur tied securely, her traveling gown laced and hooked in place, her hair combed neatly, her heart beating like a drum. Everything that had made this chamber hers was gone, packed in those trunks tied to the luggage cart that would follow the carriage. She had given her birds' nests to Kit. Her mattress had been rolled up, taken outside to air before servants replaced it on her bed. She touched the edge of one of her bed curtains, her fingers on the raised pattern of the crewelwork. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it would explode from her chest. Her childhood was over. The next time she returned to Tamworth, she would return as a wife, possibly as a mother, God willing, as He must be willing. She felt dizzy with the emotion swirling inside her.
"Your lady mother says to hurry." Her maidservant spoke sullenly. Barbara was not taking her servant to London with her—her retaliation for the betrayal that first evening to Diana. If she could not be loyal here in Tamworth, what would be her worth in London? Besides, she would hire a French maid as her personal attendant. She was going to be fashionable and elegant, as Roger was. He would be proud of her.
"Tell her I will be only a few moments longer." She had to say one last good-bye to her brothers and sisters, a task as heartrending as that of leaving her grandmother. She had spent all morning in her grandmother's chambers. Together they had said prayers, and her grandmother had read to her from the Bible.
"'Keep thy heart with all diligence,'" the Duchess had recited, "'for out of it are the issues of life.'" She had sat holding her grandmother's hand while Annie brushed her hair and tied ribbons in it. She promised that she would remember to say her prayers, to attend church services, to mind her manners, to watch her temper, to be polite and respectful to her elders, to listen to all that was told her, to speak quietly and seldom, as became a modest young woman of good family.
"And take this," her grandmother said gruffly, at the last minute, thrusting a bag of coins into her hands. "I gave your mother money, but I have no doubt it will fall through her hands like water. It always has. It always will. This is a secret between you and me, mind. Now go and say your farewells to those brothers and sisters of yours."
Kit, Charlotte and Anne were lined up like a row of dolls in the nursery. Only the baby was missing, asleep in his cradle, and Tom away at school, and—of course—Harry. She came forward with a smile, holding out her arms to them. They ran to her, even Kit, who usually felt that he was too old to show emotion. She sat down on the floor, heedless of her gown, and pulled Charlotte, who was already crying, into her lap. Anne clutched a fold of her sister's traveling cloak in one tight little fist and said nothing.
"Do not leave me, Bab!" Charlotte sobbed. "Please! You are the only one I can talk to. Grandmama is so old!"
From her corner by the window Cousin Henley frowned, and Barbara saw it. Anne began to cry. Even Kit made a furious wipe at his eyes. Cousin Henley rose, and Barbara shook her head at her.
"Leave it be, Cousin," she said. "They may cry. Listen to me. Listen!" she soothed. "When I am married, I will send for you, all of you
, and if Henley is not kind, I shall hire a new governess to care for you, and we shall live in a big, grand house. And you will be aunts and uncles to my babies."
In her corner, Cousin Henley shook her head.
"Really, Bab?" said Kit.
"R–Really?" hiccoughed Charlotte. Anne kept her head fastened to Barbara's cloak, but she stopped crying. A footman peeped around the doorway. "Mistress Barbara, your mother says come."
Charlotte began to wail again. Barbara crushed the three of them in her arms,
"Hush, my darlings," she said. "I am going to London for a great adventure, and you must wait here until I write for you. But I will send dolls, sweets, soldiers, and even something for Cousin Henley, if she is very nice. Think of those things! Think of what I will be sending!"
"You will not forget, Bab?" said Kit. She took his face in her hands.
"You are the oldest until Tom comes home from school, Kit. You must look after the little ones. In my place. Protect them."
