by Karleen Koen
They watched the remainder of The Comical Rivals in silence.
Montagu moved his head next to Diana's ear. He was so close that his breath warmed her shoulder.
"Think," he whispered softly. "About four years ago, a hot July, the summer house at Windmere's, you were thirsty, you said. I brought you more wine, even though you had had more than enough. We were alone. We became intimate. Think."
Diana opened her fan and held it in front of her mouth. "Was that you? I had no idea."
She turned her wide, violet eyes to Montagu's and slowly licked her lips with the tip of her pointed, red tongue. He stared at her, fascinated.
"Do you think such conduct could be repeated?" he whispered. She had turned her head back to the play.
"Doubtless I was drunk," she said.
"It might be better sober."
"It might at that." And she suddenly laughed deep in her throat, and he laughed with her. On the stage, nothing amusing was happening. The laughter rose into the silence. It was clearly the laughter of two people who have shared something intimate. The Duchess of Montagu looked over at her husband, whose head was almost resting on one of Diana's bare shoulders. Without any change in her expression, she turned away. Barbara turned pink. In the pit, Robert Walpole heard the laughter and stood up. He could see Diana and Montagu sitting close together. His heavy black brows drew together, and he sat back down heavily. Carlyle, sitting on a bench closer to the stage, also heard. He too stood up to look.
"Diana and Monty," he said to his companions. "Well, well, well. I must, I positively must investigate. They are having far too good a time for it to be this tired old play." He made his way out of the pit.
The workers were clearing the stage because the Devonshire Girl was going to dance. Diana and Montagu were whispering. Everyone else in the box with them was silent, an awkward, strained silence. There was a sharp rap on the door; it opened, and Carlyle sauntered in, saying, "My precious, you must save me. I am far too close to the stage in the pit, and, therefore, hear every word. Let me stay here and visit with you—oh, but you have company. I interrupt. I positively do." He positively did, but he made no move to go. The men stood up. For the first time that evening, Mary smiled. Her teeth were rotting; there were brown spots at their top edges where the teeth met gum.
"But, of course, you must stay, Tommy, if only to keep me company. You know everyone, I believe, Tamworth, Lady Alderley."
Carlyle bowed over Diana's hand, She stared up at him coldly. "I do, I do. Lady Alderley, you look ravishing tonight. Does she not, Monty? But then the beautiful Lady Alderley is always ravishing. You are enjoying your new lodgings, I hope, Lady Alderley. So much more comfortable than Covent Garden, and so much more convenient—but who is this child? Surely not the mysterious Barbara! Introduce me. Introduce me at once! I bow before you, my dear."
Barbara found herself looking up into eyes that did not smile as the rouged red mouth did. She had never seen a man before who wore that much powder and rouge and patches. A huge diamond winked in his left ear. The curls on his black, frizzy wig brushed her hand as he held it. She did not know what to think.
"Where have you been hiding this treasure?" he was saying. "Lovely, lovely. Has it a tongue? Say something to Carlyle, child."
"How—how do you do?" stammered Barbara.
Carlyle let go of her hand and pretended to stagger back, one huge hand over his heart. He had the attention of everyone in the box and quite a few people in the surrounding boxes as well. The pit, too, was fascinated.
"What a voice!" he cried. "It is wonderful. Wonderful! I lay myself before your feet as your first conquest!"
"Some conquest," Diana said. Her eyes on Carlyle were cold.
"But I interrupt. I do!" Carlyle was saying. "You must watch the Devonshire Girl, child. She is amazing. The grace of a goddess. Oh, but her dance is finished. I have made you miss it. Ah, well, the tightrope walkers are something to see. Mary, my pet, shall I leave? Am I interrupting?"
"Yes," said Diana.
"You sit right here beside me," said Mary Montagu, patting the empty chair by her side, the chair in which her husband had been sitting at one time. "I am confoundedly bored."
"But where is Roger?" Carlyle said as he sat down. "I thought he was engaged to come here with you."
"He was, but he sent a note round at the last minute canceling."
"That woman," Carlyle said, crossing his long legs and sighing. "I hear he is involved with—" and he leaned forward and whispered into Mary Montagu's ear.
"No," she said. She threw back her head and laughed.
"Barbara," said Tony. "Going to walk in the corridor for a while. Keep me company?"
Barbara, who had been sitting as still as a statue, leapt up. "Yes," she stammered. The two of them left the box.
"That was bad of you, Tommy," Mary Montagu said. "The child heard you!"
"Oh, no! How thoughtless of me!"
"What a delicious liar you are, Tommy. Do you intend to gossip over the way my husband is making an ass of himself over that titled whore behind us?"
"Of course I do."
"Good. Be sure to bring up every dirty thing about her that you can remember."
"Mary, my pet, do I detect jealousy in that voice of yours?"
"You detect boredom, Tommy, excruciating boredom. She is welcome to him. God only knows I tired of him years ago."
Carlyle pursed his lips. "Tsk! Tsk! It is a good thing the bride has left and cannot hear you talk. You would disillusion her."
"The bride? Oh, you mean the Alderley chit. I did not know the contracts were signed."
Carlyle leaned forward and whispered, "They are not." He jerked his head toward Diana, who was allowing Montagu to fan her while she languidly surveyed the tightrope act. "Diana is holding out for more money. I think she is a fool. She is going to push Roger too far."
"She always was a greedy bitch."
"What did you think of the girl?"
Mary Montagu shrugged. "Young, thin, pretty in a pale way. Not the woman her mother is. Boring. All young girls are boring. What did you think of her?"
"The voice is heaven. But I was disappointed. Our Roger deserves something better, something more dramatic. She is, after all, only a child."
"Poor thing," Mary Montagu said to herself.
"Do not turn around, dear. Your husband is practically slobbering over Diana."
"Ass."
* * *
Outside in the corridor, Tony was rubbing one of Barbara's hands between his own. She was leaning against a wall, as if she felt faint. Her eyes were closed.
"Bab. Are you all right?"
Barbara struggled not to cry.
"Sorry you heard that, Bab. But pay no attention to it. Men like Lord Devane always have—that is—it means nothing. Please, Bab, say you are all right."
She swallowed and opened her eyes. Tony's plump, pasty-looking face stared at her with worried, kind, pale blue eyes. He had nice eyes, almost gray. He was a dear to take her from the box, from those dreadful people.
"Take me home, Tony," she whispered. "I feel sick."
"But supper? Surely you will feel better if you eat."
The thought of having to go through two hours at Pontac's pretending nothing was wrong made her feel ill enough to vomit. And what if the duke and duchess came with them? The duchess with her cold, proud face and the duke—and her mother. And that Carlyle man, what if he came? No, no, she had to go home, to her bed.
"Please," she whispered.
"Whatever you say, Bab. You know I would do anything for you."
He left her leaning against the wall and went back for her cloak, whispering to Diana that Barbara was ill, and that he was going to take her home. Montagu assured him that he would see Diana home safely. Carlyle snickered, watching Tony blunder into chairs and drop cloaks and finally leave.
"The bride is ill," Carlyle whispered to Mary Montagu. "Could it have been something I said?"
&n
bsp; "Bitch!" she whispered back. "Roger would kill you."
"Roger does not know."
In his haste to return to Barbara, Tony ran into Robert Walpole, who was just outside the door to the Montagu box. The cloaks fell to the ground. Walpole bent over at the same time as Tony. They bumped heads, but were saved from really hurting each other by their wigs.
"Stay put, Tamworth!" Walpole said. He leaned over again and picked up the cloaks and gave them to Tony.
"My cousin," Tony said, already starting toward Barbara, who was still slumped against the wall. "Ill, you know. Must leave."
Walpole walked in the box, rubbing his head. On the stage, Mr. Evans's wonder horse, Hercules, was jumping through a hoop of fire. There were boos and catcalls from the footmen's gallery. The Duchess of Montagu and Carlyle, sitting at the front of the box, waved Walpole forward. Diana and Montagu, sitting over to one side, farther to the back, hardly even glanced his way. He blew a kiss to the duchess, but went to where Montagu and Diana were sitting.
"Introduce me, Monty," he said.
"Lady Diana Alderley, Robert Walpole, first lord of the treasury."
At the word "treasury," Diana looked up and smiled, giving Walpole the benefit of her white, even teeth. "Mr. Walton, I am delighted to meet you."
"Walpole," Montagu said. "And do not waste your time on him. He has no money."
"Oh," said Diana.
"I thought I saw him waffling in the pit like a beached whale," Carlyle whispered to Mary. "I had no idea it was for Diana's benefit. Yet another conquest for our fair, soiled one. The plot thickens."
"If one more man walks in here and goes straight over to her, I shall scream. I have a headache, Tommy, and you are going to take me home. Monty, I have a headache, and Tommy is taking me home."
Montagu nodded absently in the direction of his wife. On the stage, Mr. Evans was trying to lead the wonder horse from the stage, but first the wonder horse insisted on depositing a pile of dark manure stage left. There were claps and whistles from the footmen's gallery.
"Best thing we have seen all night!" someone yelled.
"Apropos," said Carlyle.
Montagu did not notice. His eye was on Walpole, obviously moving in on territory he had already staked out. His wife slammed the door of the box shut behind her.
''You should remember Mr. Walpole, Diana," he said. "He led the investigation against your husband in Parliament last summer."
Diana's beautiful white bosom heaved.
"It was my duty, nothing more," Walpole began to stammer, to Montagu's intense amusement. For once, the great man seemed short of words. "Nothing personal, Lady Alderley, I do assure you."
"Tell that to my fatherless children. Go away, Mr. Walton."
"Walpole," Walpole said, to nobody in particular. The duchess and Carlyle had already left, and Montagu was helping Diana fasten her cloak.
* * *
The approach of Christmas kept Barbara busy, as it did Tony. He took her to St. James's Park so that she could feed the deer who trotted up, their hooves touching the wet, brown ground delicately and ate out of her hand as tamely as any household pet. Mary, who accompanied them, excitedly explained that in the spring, the milkmaids with their cows gathered near Rosamond's Pond and you could buy a cup of fresh milk to drink as you wandered in the park. Barbara had convinced her aunt to release Mary from her rigid schedule of lessons for the holidays. Abigail considered it a small sacrifice if it kept Barbara from asking too many questions.
Barbara had told Mary every detail she could remember about the theater, from the orange girls to the tightrope walkers, but not what Carlyle had said about Roger. She had cried for hours that night, and she thought about it all the time. She had too much pride to go to her mother or her aunt or even Fanny and ask about it. All she could do was wait and suffer silently. Meanwhile she saw the horse guards parade, the king in his carriage, London's fine spacious squares of Soho, Leicester Fields, and St. James's (where Roger lived). She saw the city mansions of the Duke of Ancaster, the Duke of Newcastle, the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Buckingham. She and Mary spent a delightful afternoon with their great–aunt Shrewsborough, who served them tea in a grand style, with ornate silver teapots and two footmen to wait on them. Afterward, she took the two girls upstairs and let them play in her jewelry and fuss with her pots of face paint. She allowed them to powder, rouge, and patch to their hearts' content, and even if her maid had to scrub their faces until their cheeks burned, to the girls it was worth it. Barbara put feathers in her hair and strutted up and down in front of her aunt's mirror and pretended she was Roger's countess, while Mary had so many black silk patches on her face it looked as if she had the smallpox. It was quite their favorite afternoon in a series of good afternoons.
Barbara even saw Roger once. Fanny had taken her and Mary shopping at the New Exchange, a long, sleek building with small shops lining its corridors. Barbara had some money, and she wished to buy New Year's presents for her brothers and sisters. Mary was enchanted with the idea that she could help choose toys for Tom and Kit and Anne and Charlotte and Baby, whom by now, through Barbara, she felt she knew as well as if she had grown up with them. They had agreed at once on lead soldiers—bright with red and white paint—for Kit. They argued over Tom, Mary wanting a hoop and stick, but Barbara thinking Tom's dignity too old now. They compromised on a history book that had intricate cardboard pages that popped up to make a scene. Barbara allowed Mary to choose the dolls for Anne and Charlotte, and they finished up with a tiny wagon for the baby. Barbara was giving the man her grandmother's address—for a few extra shillings, he would wrap them and have them delivered—when she saw Roger across the corridor in front of a bookshop. He stood outside, sifting through loose sheets that lay on a table so the prospective purchaser might read the book if he were not sure he wished to buy it. Once sure, the buyer then selected the color and style of the leather binding. That man, the strange, odious Tommy Carlyle, was with him.
She ran across to them. Roger smiled at her and she forgave him everything. He bowed over her hand with the grace of a young god. How could he be so beautiful? Fanny and Mary joined them. "Ah, a nursery party," Carlyle said. They talked of shopping, of Christmas plans, of his trip to France.
Nothing was said of Diana. Nothing was said of the negotiations. Fanny spoke in a high, strained voice that Barbara knew meant she was nervous. Afterward, in the carriage, Barbara said, "Fanny, what is happening? You must tell me!" But Fanny would only look away and say, "Hush, hush." Barbara felt a foreboding building inside her. She made a plan. She would be good and meek and patient for Christmas. Surely, sooner or later, it was inevitable that she would see Roger again. And this time, no matter who was with him or her, she was going to ask him straightforwardly about their marriage.
Something was happening. Mary, her ally now, had told her that several invitations had come to her and her mother from Roger, and that her aunt had put them away. She knew better than to bother asking her mother or her aunt about it. They were up to some game of their own, some game that had her heart involved in it, no more important to them than a beggar's off the street. But they had bargained wrongly if they thought her docility covered docility, which was fine for a girl who did not know what she wanted. Barbara did know. And she was going to have it.
With her plan to sustain her, she took over the decorating of the house. She could not believe that Aunt Saylor left it to the servants, that Tony and Mary had never made Christmas wreaths or looped staircases with greenery. She ordered Tony about as if he were Bates or one of the servants. He straddled the hall's balustrades, painstakingly looping holly garlands around the railings, while Mary sat in the middle of the black and white squares of the floor, making laurel wreaths. When they were finished, Tony declared the hall had never looked so beautiful, and it never had. Loop after loop of dark green holly, christened with shining bunches of bright red berries, cascaded down each balustrade of the double staircase and met on the sec
ond–floor landing's balustrade to form a huge wreath. Each of the busts in the wall ovals wore a necklace of box and holly. Candles were set on the tables, and holly and rosemary crowned their bases. Every picture, every door frame in the hall and the public rooms had its garland of green. Ivy and rosemary and holly peeked from the cupboards, the mantels, around china bowls. Barbara had the maids pierce oranges and lemons with cloves, and she filled those bowls with these, mixing in crushed cinnamon and rosemary. She imperiously directed Bates to set white Christmas candles on every surface that could hold them. She wanted the house to glow for Jane, who was coming to tea with her aunt, and for Roger, if he should happen to visit. ("She reminds me of her grandmother," Bates told the housekeeper. "The house looks as it used to.")
