by Karleen Koen
"I hold you to nothing." Diana's voice continued, calm, but with a note in it that Barbara knew well. She will beat me tonight, she thought. And I do not care. "Someone will marry Barbara for Bentwoodes—though Father would have been so pleased—but that is neither here nor there. If you are no longer interested, I am free to pursue other offers. I am sure you will understand—"
"Do not play games with me, Diana. There are no other offers. No one yet realizes what Bentwoodes can be. The stink of your scandal clouds their foresight—for God's sake, why are you crying?"
"If you only knew what I have been through, Roger," her mother said in low, throbbing tones, her voice raw with emotion. "I had such hopes for this marriage. It would help us both, I thought. I could begin anew; put the past behind me; lift my children out of the mire their father has thrown them into. And you, a young wife, children, land…. Oh, well, I shall manage yet. I cannot pay back the money you have lent me, but I shall. I am hiding here from bill collectors and creditors, but you will be the first I pay!"
"Diana, I did not mean—"
"No! You have been more than kind! Here, take your handkerchief. What a weak, silly woman I am. You have been a good friend to me, always. I will not forget it. When I make other arrangements for Barbara, I will pay you back, I swear it."
"Other arrangements?"
"Abigail has been here. Yes, just the other day. She is displeased beyond words at our proposed alliance. She said she would arrange for a cash settlement in exchange for Bentwoodes and—oh, I really do not know what else. I will go to Abigail and beg her pardon. Yes, I see that is what I must do."
"Abigail was here?"
"Out of a sense of duty, she said. She felt you were not—forgive me, Roger, for being so frank, but then, we are such old friends—not good enough to marry into the family. Of course, I told her it was no such thing—"
"My family is as old as hers! I would match pedigrees any day!"
"Now, Roger. Do not be angry. I did not mean to upset you. I should never have said anything; I can see that now. Come. Stop pacing like a tiger. Sit down and we will share a glass of wine for old time's sake. Let me have your handkerchief back. Perhaps you might suggest some suitors for Barbara's hand—"
"I will suggest no such thing! I came here to give you a deserved tongue– lashing for allowing gossip to spread, and end by losing Bentwoodes to Abigail! Abigail! She would turn it into a rabbit warren of narrow streets, shops, and taverns. In five years, it would be a slum."
"Then you are still considering my offer—"
"Go and fetch your miserable girl while I still have the wits about me to think!"
"Of course. Have some wine while I am gone. Remember, for my sake, that Barbara is young and has grown up in the country—"
"Enough, Diana!"
"Yes, I will say no more She has been dying to see you. You were always a favorite of hers—"
Barbara backed away from the door and rushed into her bedchamber. She was sitting on the bed when her mother came in, shut the door carefully, then whirled around.
"Bloody hands of Jesus, but I need a glass of brandy! Carlyle has done his work well! Roger is as skittish as an old woman!" She clenched her hand into a fist and shook it at the heavens. "If I survive this…."
Barbara looked at her mother's face. There was nothing there to show that moments before she had been weeping. Everything she had overheard whirled around in her head. "Someday you are going to overhear something that will singe your pretty little ears!" Harry's words were haunting her now. She needed more time, just a few moments more to compose herself. But she found she could not ask her mother for them. She could only sit there staring at her, looking at the Lord above only knew what kind of fool. She lifted her chin.
"What is the matter with you!" hissed Diana, "He is waiting!" For the first time, she noticed the expression on Barbara's face. Instantly she was at her side, one white hand digging fiercely into her arm. Barbara had to struggle not to cry out.
"He is waiting." Diana spoke slowly, deliberately, through clenched teeth, her red nails digging deeper into her arm with each word, so that Barbara could almost not hear her over the pain. "And he is uncertain. If you spoil this now with your foolishness, I swear I will beat you until I drop and you die from it!" She gave a final twist to Barbara's arm. Barbara did not cry out, but her face whitened. Satisfied, Diana let go.
"Bite your lips to redden them," she said contemptuously, walking out the door and not bothering to see if Barbara followed. Barbara rose slowly off the bed and took a ragged breath. Her arm was throbbing. I will not cry, she told herself as she walked out the door. She will not make me cry.
She concentrated on that thought as she entered the parlor and saw Roger Montgeoffry for the first time in five years. He was sipping a glass of wine, but he set it on the windowsill at once and came toward her, smiling.
She had an immediate impression of overwhelming richness, from the great ruffles of heavy lace cascading down the front of his shirt to the diamonds on his hands, to the soft, cut velvet of his coat. He exuded an aura of wealth, power, and fashion as distinct as the jasmine scent he wore, the black patch at the corner of his smiling mouth, the dark curls of the wig framing his thin, dear, beloved face. Her last memory of him had been his terrible weeping at her grandfather's funeral. He had not seemed so distant, so grand then, only frailly human—like everyone else. She struggled to impose his real features atop the blurred, remembered ones. How was it possible that he was handsomer than she remembered? How could she have forgotten how sweet his smile was? She caught her breath. A rush of love shook her. It was too much emotion, too sudden. Her eyes filled with tears that had been building for days, since they had crossed London Bridge and she had realized her mother's lies. She slowly sank into a curtsy.
"God save me, Barbara," he said in a voice that was trembling slightly, "but you are the image of your grandfather!"
His words warmed her, but they also weakened the command she had left, and her mouth, which had begun to answer his smile, went awry. I am going to disgrace myself and cry, she thought wildly. As if he divined what she felt, he turned from her and said to Diana, "She has grown into a lovely young woman. I make you my compliments."
Barbara still struggled not to cry. She could barely see where Diana was indicating that she should sit, but she sat down anyway. Roger ignored her, talking all the while to Diana, his voice filling the room with a steady, comforting stream of words that allowed her to find her way back to calmness. She concentrated on making her breathing even, on swallowing back tears. Diana coughed. Startled, Barbara stared at her. She nodded toward the tea table beside Barbara, while Roger talked of Hanover, of her grandmother's health, of some act before Parliament. There was a pause in the conversation. Barbara took a deep breath. She was ready to try once more.
"My lord," she said in her low, husky, throaty voice, not daring to look at him, "may I offer you a cup of tea?"
Roger stared at her. She allowed herself to look up. She did not yet know it, but her voice made her immediately sensual. Roger looked stunned, and Diana saw it. As inexperienced as she was, so did Barbara. The sudden admiration in his eyes was different from that of a few moments ago, when it had been man to child. His look now was man to woman, acknowledging a part of herself she did not yet know she possessed. And she smiled tenderly at him, her love on her face, because he was the first man to look at her so, and because he had been kind to her when she came in, and because she loved him, as she always had. And this time it was he who caught his breath, for when Barbara smiled, eyes were dazzled. It was part of her legacy from her grandfather.
"You have grown up," he said to her slowly. "A monstrous thing to do in my absence. You make me feel ancient."
"You could never be ancient," Barbara said softly. She had to lower her eyes before the glow in his. There was an awkward pause.
"I will have some tea, Barbara."
Her mother's words reminded her of
her duty, and she busied herself pouring tea and arranging ginger cakes and sweet scones and clotted cream on plates. She was able to hand Roger his tea without her hands trembling, though she did not dare look at him again. She smiled to herself at the thought of the way he had stared at her. Self–confidence returned. She tossed her head. Roger said nothing, sipping his tea, his eyes on her. Diana said nothing, sipping her tea, her eyes on him.
"When did I last see you, Barbara?" he asked her.
She lifted her eyes, no more the shy violet, but rather a sunflower unfurling itself in the warmth of the beloved sun.
"At Grandfather's funeral. You gave me a gilt ribbon box you had brought with you from France and held me in your arms, and said that I must not cry too long, for my grandfather would not like it."
"I am amazed that you remember!"
"I remember everything that you have ever told me," she said.
He smiled. The warmth of it burned her. How can I love him more than I already do? she thought. He is all I remember and more. She searched her mind for anything that would keep him talking to her, staring at her with those eyes that made her feel so beautiful.
"Do you know the king? I mean, my mother tells me you are friends with his majesty."
"I am as friendly as one can be with a king," he told her. "They are dangerous to know. People envy you when you have their friendship and scorn you when you do not. When I went to Hanover, I served his mother as a secretary and messenger and sometimes spy, and through her, he and I became friends. People say he is stupid. They are wrong; he is merely deliberate."
"I have not yet taken Barbara to court," Diana said. "As you can see, we are living in reduced circumstances just now. Perhaps, one day soon, she will meet his majesty."
"He will be charmed," Roger told Diana. "He was a great admirer of your father."
"How did he know my grandfather?" Barbara asked.
"When Marlborough was leading the allies against Louis XIV, your grandfather and the king worked together on several campaigns."
"Do you still have William the Conquerer?"
"What an amazing memory you have! No, I sold him with my commission. He was a magnificent horse, wasn't he? I tried to find him later and never could. Do you remember how I used to let you and Harry ride atop him?"
"Yes, and do you remember how you and Grandfather used to play at bowls for hours? And how angry he would be because you always beat him? When you were gone, he made Harry and me play with him so that he could practice. Grandmama always told him she was ashamed he could not take defeat any better than he did. He was sad when you resigned from the army. He said England lost a fine soldier. You never came to see us after he died. Why was that?"
"I could not, Barbara. Your grandfather was very dear to me, and I could not bear to be around places or people that reminded me too much of him. He was the most honorable man I ever knew, and you should be proud that you are his granddaughter."
She lifted her chin. "I am."
"We all are," Diana said. "I cherish my father's memory. I am hoping that one of my sons, Tom or Kit perhaps, will find a career in the army."
"It will have to be Kit," Barbara interrupted, in her element now that Roger had mentioned her brothers and sisters. "He is mad for soldiers and horses and military campaigns. Last year, he wanted to study Caesar's Commentaries, but Vicar Latchrod felt he was too young. I think it was because the vicar's Latin is weak."
Roger looked amused. "Which one is Kit?"
"There is Harry, me, Tom, then Kit. He was just a little boy last time you saw him. After Kit comes Charlotte, Anne and William. Except that we never call him William. We always call him Baby. He is a darling and so bright for his age—"
Diana interrupted. "Roger will be bored with all this talk of family. Serve him more tea. Forgive her, Roger. She is not used to city ways and does not realize people are not interested in every detail of domestic life."
As Barbara held out her hand for his cup, the lace on her sleeve fell back and exposed the place where Diana's nails had dug into her arm. A piece of lace was sticking to the blood that had dried.
"You have hurt yourself!" Roger exclaimed, taking her arm and examining it. "How did it happen?"
She did not answer, nor did she look at her mother. She was very conscious of his hand on her arm. He watched her face carefully, and when she raised her eyes to his, a long look passed between them.
Gently, he let go of her arm. "Put something on that," he said, "or it may leave a scar."
"She is young," Diana said. "She heals quickly."
Roger pressed his lips together and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded under his chin. Barbara could not look at him.
"You should take better care of her, Diana," he said, gravely. "I would hate for that arm to become infected."
There was a short silence.
"Tell me what you have seen of London." He spoke to Barbara. The incident about her arm was ended, but she had a sudden sense of having been drawn under the cloak of Roger's protection. She gave her mother a quick glance and told Roger of seeing the Thames.
"You have not seen the lions at the Tower or the tombs at Westminster?"
She shook her head.
"You must. They are among the sights of London and the mad folk at Bedlam."
"I do not think I wish to see that—"
"It is quite amusing," Diana interrupted. "They dribble and slobber on themselves and howl and scream. Some of them are tied by a rope at the neck like dogs." Diana laughed, a delicious, tingling sound.
There was another silence. Roger stood up. He smiled down at Barbara. "Thank you for the tea. And for the memories. If I may, I will send my carriage round so that you may see the sights."
Barbara held out her hand, and he bent over it, and to everyone's surprise, he lightly kissed it. It was a breach of etiquette, but Diana said nothing, and Barbara would not. She felt she would never wash that hand again. With a glance at Barbara that told her to stay where she was, Diana followed him from the room. In the hall, Clemmie was handing him his cane and gloves and cloak.
"Have you been flirting with my coachman?" Roger was saying. Clemmie giggled. Roger poked her in the side with his cane. Clemmie winked at him. Diana took a deep breath. She had to hold herself back not to grab his arm.
"What did you think of Barbara?"
"I am most pleasantly surprised, Diana. She is a charming girl."
"Then—"
"Then our lawyers may meet and begin on the contract. We seem to agree on all points. I leave for France at the end of January, and I would like the matter settled one way or another before then. I will be away for months."
"Of course," Diana said graciously. "Whatever you say. Have a pleasant evening. Good day, Roger."
As the door closed behind him, she lifted her skirts and ran into the parlor, Clemmie behind her. Barbara was at the window, trying to obtain a last glance of Roger. Clemmie, grinning, poured Diana a glass of wine. Then she poured herself one. The two of them clinked glasses and drained them in one gulp, as adroit in their neatness as any tavern regular. Barbara looked away from the window.
"What is it?'
"He has indicated interest. We are going to begin to negotiate the contracts—"
Barbara clapped her hands together. She danced around the room, twirling her long skirts and clicking her heels together. Clemmie watched her fondly and sneaked another glass of wine. Before I know it, Barbara sang to herself, I shall be married…married…married.
"I wonder if he will notice if I add a settlement for myself," Diana said.
* * *
Roger sat in a half–hidden alcove just off the crowded public room of Pontac's tavern. It was after midnight. Respectable citizens were snug in bed with their wives, doors bolted against the real or imagined terrors of the night. For more than twenty years, rumors had come and gone of gangs of drunken, abusive young men (belonging to the best families), who called themselves names like Scourers a
nd Mohocks and terrorized London at night. They began by brawling in the taverns, breaking the furniture, windows, and heads of waiters unlucky enough to be in their path; they progressed to the streets, throwing rocks at windows and street lamps, erasing the chalk marks left for the milkmaids. But it was the violence to people met randomly on the dark, night streets that had established their reputation—there was always some talk of noses being split, backs of legs being slashed like so much meat hanging in the butcher's window; talk of maiming, blinding, beating, robbing, rape. The last outbreak had been in 1712, when Queen Anne had issued a proclamation against the barbarities committed in the nighttime in the open streets. Since then, although the streets were quieter, and some people believed the mischief was made up or exaggerated, others still crept through the dark streets certain at any moment they would be seized and slashed.
