Through A Glass Darkly

by Karleen Koen

  "You are fifteen," she said. "You know nothing of love! You have seen Roger Montgeoffry a bare handful of times—"

  "Less than that," interrupted Diana. "He has hardly been ardent in his visiting." Barbara bit her lip. But the stubborn set to her chin did not change. Her face was swollen from crying, and everything they were saying made her cry more, but she would not, could not, give up.

  "Heaven help me if my parents had allowed me to marry the boy I thought I loved at fifteen!" said Abigail.

  "My parents did allow me," said Diana. "And you see what a wise choice I made. We are doing this for your own good."

  "You made a promise! You broke your promise to me and to Roger!"

  Diana's face became even colder. "The choice has been made. You have to submit. And you will…sooner or later." Her low voice was soft, chilling. Barbara shuddered, but set her chin even harder. She would not show her mother she was afraid; she would not.

  Abigail took a deep breath. "A girl must marry as her parents decide. We are older and wiser and know more about life—"

  "You are not my parent!" Tears were streaming down Barbara's face. "You want Bentwoodes! You—you do not care what happens to me! You just want Bentwoodes!"

  "You need to be beaten," Abigail said in a shaking voice. "If you were mine, I would beat you until you screamed for mercy! You are rebellious, rude, ill– mannered, thoughtless, and selfish! As far as I am concerned, you may rot in this room! I shall be damned if I will help you!"

  The door slammed behind them. Barbara felt as if any moment her head would burst open, it ached so. Every part of her ached.

  "Bread and water tonight, nothing more," she heard her mother say. "Door locked at all times," she heard her aunt say.

  She turned her head in the pillow and sobbed.

  Outside, Abigail leaned against the wall of the corridor, upset over her outburst to Barbara. It seemed that Barbara had the same effect on her as Diana did; both could make her angry; both could make her say things she regretted.

  "I do not think Barbara will accept another marriage offer now," Diana said, with wonderful perceptiveness.

  "We will send her back to Tamworth in a week or so," Abigail said. She was exhausted from it all, the scene with Roger, Barbara's hysterics, Maude and Jane being there, Barbara's further hysterics and tears. She had not had a moment's peace since Diana had come back to London. "A year or so alone in the country with only an old woman for company will quiet her down. She will be glad by then to take any offer suggested to her."

  "And Bentwoodes?"

  Diana had no subtlety. "It would look odd for us to transfer it right away, Diana. Let all this settle. Roger will be gone in less than a month, we will do it then." And meanwhile, she would have to watch Diana like a hawk, or she would sell the land out from under her. And she would have to be careful with Tony, who had not been himself lately. Nothing was going quite as she had planned, but somehow they all had to get through the next few days, when London would be whispering the gossip. Christmas was around the corner, there were card parties and dinners planned here at Saylor House. There must be no behavior from Barbara that fed the gossip. She must behave herself, or she would literally stay in her room on bread and water until Abigail determined it was time to send her to Tamworth. It was the Duchess's fault as much as anyone's that the girl knew nothing about obedience about familial duty. Let the Duchess deal with her! Meanwhile, she would send Fanny—dear Fanny, upset by all the emotion, so softhearted—to talk some sense into that mule–headed child.

  At a knock on the door, Barbara sat up and rubbed at her eyes. She must have fallen asleep, her head felt as if it were stuffed with flannel; she felt ill. She heard a key being turned—already her door was locked. Fanny walked in.

  "Oh, my dear," said Fanny, running to her and kissing her. Barbara began to cry again. Fanny rocked her back and forth in her arms until she was able to stop. She stroked her hair and began to talk softly of marriage and its responsibilities. Of its not being up to a woman, who was weaker and lesser in the eyes of God, to decide whom she could marry. Of the strength and Christian love there was in accepting whatever God willed and making the best of it. She spoke of the responsibility a parent had to make the best marriage possible, of there being things other than love upon which to base a marriage, things such as background, comfort, compatibility. To all of this, Barbara shook her head while tears streamed down her swollen face.

  "I love him, Fanny."

  Fanny sighed and went to the water basin and wrung out a rag, made Barbara lie down and patted her face. The rag was cool and soothing, like Fanny's carefully chosen words.

  "We were created from man's rib; were we not told to be in subjugation to our husbands? And to our parents? It is our duty to do as our parents so desire. It is God's will. I know you know this, Barbara, in your heart. I cannot believe Grandmama has brought you up in any other way."

  Barbara gulped and turned her head away. It was true. Her grandmother had brought her up to do her duty, to be aware of her weaknesses and her duties as a woman. Yet somehow, her grandmother had always seemed to respect her feelings, had treated them as if they were as important as Harry's. She knew she was being rebellious and awful, but she could not help herself. Finally, Fanny went away. In a little while, the door opened again. She heard the sound of someone setting something down. The door closed. The key turned. She sat up, but it was difficult for her to see. Martha had not lit the candles, and her eyes were hurting. She walked dizzily into the little room that connected to the corridor. There on a table was a silver tray with a jug of water and a plate holding a few slices of white bread. Barbara climbed back into her bed. It did not matter, she felt too sick to eat.

  By the next morning, her stomach ached for food. She had not eaten since luncheon the day before, having been far too upset to eat any of the delicious creamy cakes made for tea. Last night she had been unable to do more than sip at the water and nibble on the bread before she began retching. This morning she felt ravenous, but Martha had come in during the night while she was asleep and removed the tray. Martha was too hard–hearted even to leave her the dry crusts. How long were they going to keep her on bread and water? How long could she last? And what was the point? They were correct; all of them. A girl did as her parents wished; she knew that; she had been raised on it. It was just that she had become so excited at the thought of having Roger, she had allowed herself to build a hazy, light-filled dream in which he was her husband and they lived happily ever after. If her mother had never mentioned Roger, she would not have dreamed the dream, except sometimes. She would have done her duty. She had behaved badly; it shamed her so that she writhed at the thought of it, the words of apology to her aunt, and her mother would choke her. How she hated to be wrong! For now, until she could not stand it any longer, she wanted to be alone. She could take another day or two of bread and water. Then apologize. She sat down in the window seat and stared out at the gardens. Bare and brown and cold, like her heart. Oh, Roger, I will always love you. They cannot take that from me. From somewhere, tears seeped up and filled her eyes and fell with fat plops onto her gown. The key turned. She did not even bother to look. She would never look at that sullen Martha again. She wanted her grandmother to come and make everything better.

  "Bab! You—you look awful!"

  It was Tony, leaning over her and patting one of her hands, but above and beyond Tony was the smell of food, the smell of fried bacon and coffee! She leapt off the window seat and ran to the tray of food be had brought. She pushed crisp bacon and chunks of buttered, soft bread in her mouth. She dipped her finger in the jam and sucked it greedily. Food! Tony was an angel. She gorged herself, wiping greasy fingers on her gown like a peasant. It filled her stomach; it fed her courage. Each mouthful seemed to make the day brighter, her future less bleak. Suddenly, the food stuck in her throat, and her stomach heaved. She was going to be sick—she ran for her chamber pot and leaned over and everything she had eaten c
ame up in chewed, smelly pieces. She retched and retched until she thought she would faint. The final bitter, yellow bile that came up burned her throat.

  When she had finished she made her way, holding on to the wall, to a basin and rinsed out her mouth. Tony, who had been hovering helplessly nearby, took her by the arm and led her to a chair. He knelt in front of her.

  "Bab. You are sick. Let me call Mother!"

  "No!"

  "You look terrible. What can I do?"

  "I am in disgrace, Tony."

  "I know. Everyone does. Heard you all over the house. You—you love him very much, do you not, Bab?"

  The tears were there again, closing her throat. She looked away and nodded her head. He clumsily patted her hand.

  "You are very kind." She wiped at her eyes. The heartache was as fresh as if a day had not already gone by, it hurt even more. How was she ever going to endure it? Her body was vibrating with it, the smell of the food made her sick. Dear sweet Jesus, help me. Oh, Grandmama. She looked at Tony.

  "What, Bab? Anything, short of abducting Roger. Told Mother not to keep you locked up. She is a good girl, I said. Headstrong. But good. Told her it was my house. Brought you food. Did not mean to make you sick."

  She laughed feebly. His big, round, placid, white face was so earnest and serious. He was a big love.

  "How brave of you, Tony."

  "Mother is angry at me. Do not like it."

  "Tony, listen—I want to write a letter to Grandmama, and I want you to post it for me. It must be a secret, Tony, because Aunt Abigail would never let me send it. All I am going to do is ask her to come and take me home. I will let you read it. Will you do it for me, please, Tony?"

  He took a while to think about it. Then nodded his head.

  "Oh, Tony." She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Then she got up walking slowly, like an invalid, into the next room to her little writing desk. Tony touched his fingers to his lips, a delicate, tender gesture.

  Her hands were shaking so that she spilled ink and blotted her letters, but she managed to write, "Come to London, Grandmama. I am in desperate trouble. I have been bad. Please, please come. Your loving granddaughter, Barbara Alice Constance Alderley."

  She scattered sand everywhere drying the ink. She needed her grandmother. She could endure anything if her grandmother were with her. She would make it better. Oh, she needed her. The pain was so bad.

  Tony took the letter, folded it and put it inside his pocket. He took Barbara's hands in his.

  "Told Mother you would behave yourself. Will you, Bab?"

  "I will try, Tony. It just hurts so."

  Somehow, she was in his arms. He was tall, and she only came to his shoulders, but they were nice shoulders, comforting shoulders, and he did not seem to mind that she was crying on his good coat. He was so dear.

  Her door remained unlocked, and Martha brought her trays of food, food she could do little but pick at. She had no interest in it, and too much made her sick. She stayed another day in her room, then straightened her shoulders and went to apologize to her aunt and her mother, both of whom she found in her aunt's withdrawing chamber. Diana sat at a card table playing solitaire. The tables had been designed during the reign of the late Queen Anne, when card playing had become so popular. They seated four people, and each corner of the table featured a sconce in which to hold a candle. Diana barely looked up from the cards that were lying across the parquet squares of the tabletop. The deck she was playing with had drawings on one side of King George landing on the shores of England, saluting the English flag, being met by important members of Parliament. Once there had been a deck of cards that celebrated her grandfather's victory at Lille.

  Seething inside, Abigail listened to Barbara's mumbled apologies. That Tony should have countermanded her orders was beyond belief. She did not know what was happening to the boy; she only knew this girl had something to do with it. Abigail indulged in a long lecture on Barbara's behavior, a lecture Barbara found very hard to bear. It had taken all her will to make herself apologize. Her pride was bruised, throbbing, and her aunt's words were like salt. She gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on home, on Tamworth, on her grandmother and her brothers and sisters. Her aunt was saying something about confining her to the house throughout the Christmas season, about having her stay in her rooms during the festivities as Mary had to, since Barbara had the manners of a nursery child anyway. That was fine. She had no wish to celebrate this season. Diana never said a word; she only continued idly slapping the cards against the table.

  * * *

  It was the day of Christmas Eve. Saylor House was bustling with servants cleaning floors, polishing furniture and silver, with delicious smells of roasting capon and goose and turkey from the kitchen. Various sets of small tables were being moved into the great parlor and the hall and laid with heavy damask trimmed in lace and china plates and silver forks and spoons and knives and cups and saltcellars. It would be a late supper, at eight, and then the adults would stay up toasting the evening and watching the yule log burn. Barbara and Mary were to retire early. Barbara sat now in the conservatory. It comforted her some to be among her aunt's many blooming plants, the small, miniature orange trees, the lemon trees, the lilies and roses. They were kept blooming by many little charcoal braziers the gardeners fueled constantly. It was an example of the abundant wealth of the Tamworths, that they could keep a room at summer's heat in the dead of winter, when outside, people were too poor to afford shelter from death from the cold. Passing days had not diminished her heartache. It was a constant in her life, the one thing she could count on. The pain was there before she finally, after tossing and turning and crying, fell asleep, and in the morning, as soon as she opened her eyes, she could feel it fall on her heart. It was a heavy thing, like a cannonball. It made her heart flutter irregularly, so that she always felt breathless. She wished she could go back to those days—they now seemed so far away—when she had lived happily at Tamworth, Roger no more than a golden dream that had nothing whatsoever to do with her real life. How amazing that a few sentences by her mother had started her on a path to such pain.

  She wandered to the glass doors that overlooked the back gardens. Today, no gardeners were visible. She could see no one raking leaves and debris from the gravel paths, no one filling the flowerbeds, eternally mixing the soil so that it might be moist and open for spring seeding. Suddenly, she wanted to walk in the garden, feel the cold air on her cheeks, breathe something other than the air of Saylor House. She was confined to the house, but surely she could sneak a few moments in the garden.

  Furtively, she glanced around her, but there was no one in this room or in the garden. Everyone was busy preparing for this evening. She fastened one of the cloaks kept hanging on pegs and opened the door and stepped outside and took a breath of crisp, clear, cold air. It hurt her lungs. And it felt good, except it made her a little dizzy. She had no energy, no spirit these last days. She felt empty, listless, tired. She was always crying or sleeping. She still could not eat much. Everything churned inside her. She had managed two cups of tea and toast this morning, but it was not enough; she had already lost several pounds.

  She walked a little more briskly down the gravel paths. Ah, fresh air, like freedom. It gave her a new strength. She felt she could walk all the way to Tamworth. How she longed for it, for her grandmother and those she loved. She was walking along a path that paralleled the garden wall. On the other side, she could hear sounds from the street, a street vendor calling, "Buy my ropes of hard onions," and the wagons and carts going by, the drivers urging their horses on with curses. On her side were evenly spaced holly shrubs, painstakingly clipped and trained to resemble candelabra. Their dark, shiny green leaves were heavy with bright red Christmas berries. She walked by the gate, her thoughts on Roger, on her pain. She stopped. In her mind now was the gate she had just passed. There was no lock on it. Usually all the gates to the gardens were locked, so that passersby on the street co
uld not come in. During spring, when the gardens were glorious with lilac and tulip trees blooming, with apple and pear trees blossoming, with daffodils and tulips and hyacinths, with rows of tender spring roses, the gardens were open to the public on select afternoons. They were allowed to stroll through them until dusk, when the gatekeepers rang a bell to warn that the gates would soon be locked. It had been her grandfather's way of sharing some of his wealth with the people of London, and the tradition had been carried on by Abigail and Tony.

  Barbara found herself standing at the gate. She had an impulse to open it and go out. Before the thought was complete in her head, before she could list the reasons why she had to stay in the garden, she was on the other side, standing on the cobbles of the street, separated from oncoming wagons and carriages by the wooden stiles sticking up out of the pavement. The stiles made a barrier against the street traffic behind which a pedestrian might walk. Ahead of her was a tavern; its sign hung suspended over the street by several branches of iron. There was no wording on the sign, just a painting of a king in a red coat with gold buttons and a golden crown. The name of the tavern was The George. The shops were open, though they would close early. She could see gloves and ribbons mixed with Christmas ivy and holly in a shop window. A young apprentice boy stood near the entrance calling for passing people to come inside and buy his master's superior product.