by Karleen Koen
"No!" she said more coldly than she meant because all of those thoughts were flying through her head, and because this morning she had overheard Bates say, "She has her grandmother's touch, bless her. Ah, those were the days, not like now—"
"Please, Aunt. It is so very important to me! Roger—Lord Devane—is very special to me. I have loved him since I was a child! Please let me—"
"What on earth do you think you know of love, and how dare you speak so to me? No!"
It was as if red–black gunpowder exploded in Barbara's head. It was more than just this moment; it was all the moments of having to wait, of not knowing. Her face went rigid, anger on it so intense that Abigail felt it, saw it, and involuntarily stepped backward.
"Leave at once!" she said, pointing to the door. To her surprise, Barbara picked up her skirts and ran like a boy out of the room.
Barbara sat in her chamber, holding her shaking hands together. The worst of the rage had passed; she could think more clearly again. She had been capable of striking her aunt; she knew it, and it frightened her to know that her temper could be so fierce. Her grandmama would be so ashamed. Thank the dear Lord she would not know of it. Above all things, her grandmother had always stressed a gentlewoman was just that, gentle, kind, courteous. But all the black anger would not go from her. I am going to see him, she told herself. I am. No one can stop me.
She was waiting under one of the staircases, in the shadows. She was praying that Jane and her aunt would be late, that she would have a moment, only a moment, to speak with him. Her hands were sweating. She heard the door knocker sound, and her heart began to thud. What she was doing was so bold, so unbecoming, so impetuous—yes, she could just hear her grandmother say the word—that she could hardly stand it. But she was going to do it anyway.
There was Roger! He had followed Bates into the hall and stood waiting while the butler went into the great parlor to announce him. He was staring up at her grandfather's portrait. She crept from her place under the staircase.
"Roger…" she said.
He turned, startled, looking tired and older, not quite the handsome prince she kept in her mind.
"I—I had to see you." The words fell from her mouth every which way as thoughts tumbled over themselves in her mind: if someone should see her; if Jane and her aunt should arrive; if her mother and aunt should come out the door…
"Barbara," he said. "You look so like your grandfather—"
"Please, Roger, listen to me. I have to know. No one will tell me. What is happening? Are we—are we to marry? Please tell me—" The words died on her lips at the change that came across his face. A coldness. An anger. She put her hands up to her cheeks.
"Oh, no," she said.
"Your mother—" he began, but at that moment the door opened, and Barbara leapt back into the shadows of the staircase near Roger. She watched him walk into the great parlor as if he were walking toward his own execution. Nothing was explained, and she had this sick, sinking, heavy feeling in her stomach. Something bad was happening. It was. Her legs were shaking so that she could barely walk to the small side parlor where they would receive Jane. She looked across to the picture of her grandmother. "Grandmama," she whispered. If only she were here.
A carriage rolled into the Saylor House courtyard. Inside, Jane's Aunt Maude clutched at her hat, a huge concoction of feathers and lace and pearls dripping across its high brim, and cried, "Magnificent! Did I not tell you it was magnificent? Look at those gardens—they stretch forever. Two footmen are coming down the stairs, two! I should have worn my striped tobine. I know it! I feel it! Jane, tell Thomas to turn us around—"
"We are here, Aunt Maude, and we are late. We cannot be so rude."
The carriage lurched to a stop. Maude caught herself from falling into Jane's lap opposite her. She ripped apart the sides of her cloak and straightened her gown, a cherry–colored affair with green striped sleeves. Her thin bosom was covered with a handkerchief of black silk. She resembled nothing so much as a badly dressed maypole.
"It is fashionable to be late," she assured Jane. "I am certain Lady Alderley is never on time." Maude was excited almost beyond bearing that she was to meet the notorious Lady Alderley. She had followed Diana's exploits for years in the veiled references, the cheap–news sheets printed: "Lady D-A seen in Lord F-R's carriage late Thursday night after the Queen's assembly." Diana was a disgrace to her name, to her dead father, to her noble mother, and Maude was dying to meet her.
Inside, she was made almost speechless by the grandeur and symmetry of the hall, but she pulled herself together and shook out her gown and patted at her curls and grandly handed her cloak to the waiting footman. Her eyes fell on the matching side tables against the walls.
"One hundred guineas if they are a penny!" she hissed to Jane.
She frowned at Jane and her long arms came out like those of a crab and pinched Jane's pale cheeks. "Honestly," she had told her husband just the other night, "I do not know what we are going to do with that girl! It is a good thing she is already engaged. I should never be able to interest a young man in her. She has no life, no spirit, and no dash. You can say what you want, Edgemont, but I had dash!" Craning her neck upward to the spacious landing, with its loop after loop of holly, she and Jane passed by the portraits of the Duke and Duchess. "Ancestors," Maude whispered to Jane. Jane hardly even looked.
They followed Bates to a side door in the hall. Maude immediately searched for the breathtakingly beautiful, bad Lady A, but saw only a pretty, blonde young woman and a girl about Jane's age. The girl had an odd look on her face, as if she were about to be sick.
Barbara ran forward to hug Jane. Jane seemed a piece of home, a piece of Tamworth. Holding her hand, she introduced her to Fanny, smiling, but her mind kept going to Roger's face, and she had no idea what she was saying. Her face began to feel stiff. She felt sick.
Jane blinked back unexpected tears. Barbara and Harry had the same smile, overwhelming, lighting up their faces and the recipient's heart. Oh, Harry. She was so glad to see Barbara, but in the corner of her heart, like a worm, was envy. Jane tried to ignore it, but Barbara looked so fashionable in her gown and new hairstyle. She seemed so at home in this huge, magnificent house. At Tamworth, the Saylors' great wealth and influence was forgotten. Here it was evident in every fold of the draperies, in every gesture Fanny made as she welcomed them. And Barbara was to marry an earl, while Jane had Gussy. Of course, their stations in life were different, always had been. Jane's father was a prosperous farmer and knight, while Barbara's was a viscount and her grandfather was a duke. But it had been forgotten at Tamworth, not emphasized. She was a fool to have ever thought of Harry! A fool! Her heart hurt worse than ever. She should not have come.
Fanny, her eyes fastened to Maude's hat, gestured toward a small, oval table surrounded by four armchairs. Maude swept toward the table.
"Is this not quaint? It is so tiny! Designed specifically for tea!"
With difficulty, she restrained herself from turning over a teacup and looking at the signature of the manufacturer. She would do it later, when no one was looking. She asked about Lady Alderley and was disappointed to hear she was busy. She contented herself with noting every detail of Fanny's hairstyle and gown and with memorizing the room. The velvet draperies were held back with tassels of thick silver thread; they had a patterned paper on the walls; there was a piece of furniture she had never seen that looked like a series of armchairs linked together with a common cushion; two people could easily sit on it. She determined to buy herself a tea table.
Jane and Barbara were whispering as Fanny began to pour tea. Maude had warned Jane that Barbara might be changed, might be less friendly, but to Jane, Barbara only seemed nervous and unusually pale. She kept glancing toward the door, as if she expected someone else to enter.
'"Have you heard from Harry?" Jane whispered.
Barbara shook her head no, and Jane felt better. Will this never end? Barbara was thinking. I cannot endu
re it.
"—Lord Devane, you naughty puss," Maude was saying to Barbara. She had missed the first part. "You are a lucky girl! He is the handsomest man I have ever seen. He is! When is the wedding?"
Fanny choked on her tea. Maude leaned over and slapped her several times on the back. When she could speak, she quickly asked Maude where she had bought her hat.
"Oh, you like it?" cried Maude, touching its drooping brim. "I knew you would! I have an eye for things, for fashion especially. It is a gift, you know. Jane has not an ounce of taste but I help her—"
Barbara stood up. She could not stand it. The three women stared at her. "Excuse me," she choked. "I—I must leave."
"Barbara!" cried Fanny, but she ran out the door. Maude stared after her, her astonishment obvious.
"Is she ill? How very odd!"
Fanny put down her tea. "Do excuse me. I shall be right back."
In the hallway, Bates was handing Roger his hat and cane. Barbara called his name. He turned to her. His eyes were like sapphires. His face was pinched about the nostrils.
"Roger, what is it?"
She was used to people who raged when they were angry; this quiet anger was something that frightened her. He reached out and touched her cheek. Like a kitten, she nuzzled her cheek against his hand, but he shook his head, dropped his hand, and walked away toward the door, which Bates was holding open. Bates was carefully not looking at either of them.
"What is it?" she repeated.
But he never turned around. She followed him all the way to the door, and he never turned around. Bates closed the door and he was gone. Her mother and aunt stood in the doorway of the great parlor, watching. She could feel the tension radiating from them as she ran over to them. Fanny stood in the side door, her mouth a round O. Behind her shoulder was Maude.
"What happened?" Barbara shrieked the words at her mother. She was past caring what anyone thought. "What did you do? I hate you!"
"Go to your room at once!" said her aunt.
"It is over," said her mother.
Barbara felt something crashing inside her.
"Oh no, oh no, oh no!" she cried. Fanny was at her side, holding her. Be quiet, her aunt was saying. Hush now, hush, darling, Fanny was saying. But she could not be quiet. She could not hush. Her heart was breaking. Could they not hear it? She had lost Roger, her beautiful Roger, before she had ever really had him. It was not fair. It was not fair to have offered him and then taken him away. It was better to have never had the chance than this.
Without a word, Fanny led her up the stairs. Below, Abigail, Maude, Jane, Diana, Bates, and the two hall footmen watched until Barbara and Fanny finally disappeared down a corridor off the landing. Barbara's sobs were the only sound.
"Who is that woman?" Diana suddenly said.
Maude, who was staring at her with avid eyes now that the scene with Barbara was over, blinked.
Abigail stared. She had completely forgotten about Maude and Jane, and there they were, in the middle of the hallway, witnesses to the appalling thing that had just occurred. She closed her eyes for a moment, then straightened her shoulders and swept forward.
"I am Lady Saylor," she said in her grandest mother–of–a–duke voice. "You must be Mrs. Berkley. And you dear must be Jane. Barbara has told us so much about you. Diana, come here. Surely you know Jane—"
Jane shuddered as Diana came forward, her mouth smiling in that cruel way she had. Beside her, her aunt was practically quivering with her effort to take in as much detail about Diana as she could.
"Know her," said Diana. "I know her intimately. She tried to marry my Harry."
Maude gasped. Jane turned white and then flushed a dark red that stained her neck as well as her face. Her embarrassment was painful to see. Abigail sighed. How like Diana to do this. Now, when she needed help. When these two women were gone, she was going to tell Diana exactly what she thought of her—except that that might risk Bentwoodes. Well, she was going to tell her what she thought of Barbara. Acting in such a way! In front of everyone! Shocking! Appalling! Oh, dear, the girl Jane looked as if she were going to cry at any minute.
"Forgive me, Mrs. Berkley, but this is a bad time for all of us. May I suggest that you take Jane home? She does not look well."
"What?" Maude started and tore her gaze from the unscrupulous Diana. "Jane, are you ill? Come, pet, come right now and Aunt Maudie will make you one of her special headache cordials. Good day to you, Lady Saylor, Lady Alderley." Maude and Diana exchanged stiff nods like two men do before they fall on each other, fighting.
"Thank goodness they have left," Maude heard Diana say just as the door was closing behind her. Her thin bosom heaved. In their carriage, Jane burst into tears.
"Well!" said Maude. "Can you imagine! Such rudeness! She is all they said she was! How dare she speak to you so—beautiful, though. And older than I. I wonder how—Jane, do not snivel! Did you see Lord Devane? I caught just a glimpse of him! A handsome man! Barbara is a lucky girl—here; take my handkerchief—was a lucky girl. Poor thing! What manners! I would never have dared speak to my mother so! But he is too old for her. A man such as he needs a mature woman—a woman my age, to hold his interest—"
Jane leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She gave her aunt her handkerchief. The way Diana had looked at her. What she had said. She shuddered. She had a terrible headache. But at least she had never acted like Barbara. She remembered the way she had cried and begged her parents' forgiveness. Her one act of rebellion had been to try to meet Harry. She was a good girl, an obedient girl. Now Barbara was the same as she was. It did no good to be headstrong. She should feel sorry, but deep down she was glad, glad that Barbara would experience some of the pain she felt. Barbara sitting in that beautiful room in that beautiful house in her beautiful gown with her cousin so well-mannered and polite. Now Barbara would know how it felt to cry every day, until it seemed there were no more tears left—only there were and they would be back again. Her face would feel dry and stretched and empty from them. And the person she loved would wear a groove into her mind until she thought she would drop from the exhaustion of thinking about him. Yes, Barbara, strong Barbara, lovely Barbara, would now see how everyone else felt. Unexpectedly, she began to cry again. Without a pause in her monologue against the manners of the children of this generation, interspersed with various comments about the house and the gowns Fanny and Abigail and Diana had worn, her aunt handed her back the handkerchief.
Chapter Five
Barbara lay on her bed, exhausted. Abigail and Diana stood looking down at her, furious with her, with her stubbornness. They had been talking to her for a long time, and she was so tired. She knew she was rebelling against everything she had been taught; she knew that she had made a public scene, yet the will inside her would not allow her to bend. The more they pleaded, argued and threatened, the more set she became, even though she knew she could not win.
"Be reasonable. He is too old. I will find you someone younger. I know any number of young men," her aunt said.
"I want Roger," Barbara flung at her.
"I will beat you until you cannot walk," Diana said.
Although Abigail stood by Barbara's bed, Diana kept farther back. She spoke to Barbara from a distance, as she always had.
"And I will still want Roger!" Barbara screamed the words at Diana.
"He is too dissolute," said her aunt. "His friends are among the most notorious in London. He would never make a good husband."
"I love him."
"Love!" snorted Abigail, who secretly wished Diana would beat her, beat her until she finally closed her mouth, could no longer set that chin and argue like a female devil. Where was the obedience, the docility a young woman her age should have, if not naturally, then through rigorous training? It was obvious that Diana had neglected her duties as a mother, and just as obvious that the Duchess was going soft in her old age. If any daughter of Abigail's had ever dared talk to her so, she would have l
ocked her away until she came to her senses, which is exactly what needed to be done to Barbara. Her impudence was unbearable.
