Through A Glass Darkly

by Karleen Koen

  The Duchess said nothing. But when the door closed behind Abigail, she sat down and looked at her daughter.

  "I am ruined. You know that?" said Diana. The words were emotionless, but the emotion was there.

  "Why did you not tell me the extent of your debts? I thought Roger's terms more than generous."

  Diana stared down at her gown. "They are. But they are not enough."

  "Enough? What is enough?"

  "An allowance, Mother. Some money of my own so that I can buy a gown now and then. The estate is ruined. It will take Harry years to earn my jointure back out of it. I needed better terms. I thought Roger would offer them. I thought I could play him against Abigail and come up the winner either way. And I would have."

  "And Barbara? What of her?"

  "Abigail promised to find her a husband as part of the bargain."

  "The bargain."

  Diana leaned forward. Her face was cold and white and hard. "I would have had money now, and future money against Bentwoodes development. I would have been secure."

  "Why did you not ask me for an allowance when you were at Tamworth?"

  "I thought you would say no."

  "And so I would have."

  Diana laughed. There was no mirth in the sound.

  "A child's spirit is a special thing, Diana. And to have abused it the way you have…I would not think of casting my pearls before swine, and yet I gave you my granddaughter—"

  "My daughter, Mother—"

  "No, my daughter! I raised her. She is more mine than you ever were."

  "Have you always hated me?"

  The Duchess closed her eyes. That Diana could ask her such a question, and ask in such a level tone, made her heart feel like a stone inside her breast.

  "I do not hate you, Diana." For the first time, her voice trembled.

  "But you do not love me—"

  The Duchess dug her fingers into Dulcinea's fur, felt the warmth of the animal, a warmth that was entirely missing in the voice, in the spirit of her only, her beautiful daughter.

  "You are my child. I do not think any woman hates a child that has grown under her heart. But children leave your body. They grow up and away. You never needed my love, Diana. You never wanted it. And yet I do love you. I know you to the core of your heart; not a pretty thing like your face, Diana, and I still love you. You lack feelings for anyone other than yourself. You were always so beautiful, and I was glad. I thought that you, with your beauty, the delight that others had in simply looking at you, would use it as a good thing, as a blessing. To be loved and admired as you always were—but then, perhaps we cannot be thankful for what we have never missed. You were selfish and cruel, Diana. Always. Since you were small. And I could not forgive you that selfishness. And I cannot to this day."

  "What a long speech, Mother. But it will not keep me warm in winter. Or put food on my table."

  "I will give you an allowance, Diana. For the rest of your life."

  Diana stared at her mother. It was clearly the last thing she expected to hear. The Duchess kept her eyes closed, one hand on Dulcinea, who had more kindness in her cruel cat's heart than Diana had in her human one. But like Diana, she was a beautiful creature, and so could get away with cruelty. For a while. Until the beauty faded. It was a small satisfaction, but a satisfaction nonetheless.

  "Why? Mother, why?"

  The Duchess stood up, dropping Dulcinea to the floor. She felt very old, and very tired. And her legs hurt. It was a long way to her rooms, to her bed. And she still had Roger to deal with.

  "If you do not know, Diana, I can never explain it to you. Good night. Sleep well, my child."

  * * *

  Her ancient, rattling carriage pulled up in front of Roger's town house. She had sent the note over last night asking if she might call in the morning, and Roger had written back that he would be pleased and charmed to receive her. Charmed. His charm. She remembered that. And his thin, handsome, tanned face laughing as he ate at their table many a night in London, when he had no money and was days from being paid. Though he had visited Richard several times in the last years, she had been busy managing their affairs, busy grieving over Richard's change and her sons' deaths. Was he different?

  She was immediately ushered into the Neptune Room and offered refreshment, which she declined. She inspected the carvings of fish and shells while she waited. The door opened. She turned, but it was not Roger at all, but a plain young man with a withered left arm. He came forward smiling. His smile made him much more attractive. She recognized him at once.

  "White! Caesar White! Come here at once and kiss me!"

  "With pleasure, your grace." He kissed each of her wrinkled cheeks. She put her hand in his good one, and he helped her to a chair.

  "I thought you had starved to death," she told him.

  "I almost did. But as you can see, I landed on my feet." He waved his good hand to indicate the beautiful room around them. "I am serving Lord Devane as a clerk of the library now."

  "And you're writing?"

  "I have not given it up. This feeds me. And well, too, I might add. When I heard you were coming today, I wanted to see you. I never thanked you properly for the money you sent me. It saved me from starving in the street, and I mean that literally."

  "It was a lovely poem," the Duchess said softly. "You captured Richard's true spirit. I used some of the lines you wrote on his tomb."

  "I am honored and humbled."

  "Nonsense. A true poet is never humble. How did you come to be with Roger?"

  "It seems he, too, read the poem, and he contacted me when he was next in England purchasing the library from the old Arundel estate and asked me to catalog it. As I was between poems, and had spent your money, I accepted. One thing led to another, and I am still here. But I must leave you. Lord Devane will be here at any moment. He is late because he could not decide which coat he should wear this morning. Your visit means a great deal to him."

  "I see he is still vain."

  White laughed. He bowed over her hand. She held his and made him look into her eyes.

  "Did you see my granddaughter the other day?" She spoke the words fiercely. "Do not look at me so! I know big households. Nothing happens in them that everyone does not know. Did she disgrace herself beyond repair? Was Roger furious?"

  White squeezed her hand before he released it.

  "I do not think he was angry," he said kindly. "More dismayed for her sake than anything else. I think, and I am presuming greatly, that he has some feeling for her and does not wish her hurt further."

  "Well put!" the Duchess snorted. "I can see I will obtain no gossip from you. The girl is an impudent, impulsive baggage, and Roger is well rid of her!"

  White smiled. "I think you must love her very much. And from what I saw, I do not blame you." Bowing again, he left the room.

  So White had met her, she thought, sagging in her chair with dismay. Sweet bloody Jesus, what had Barbara done—assembled the entire staff while she made a scene? The makings of a scandal were here. How would Roger feel about still marrying a girl who had the brashness to visit him on her own?

  The door opened again, and this time, Roger came in. His face broke into a smile the moment his eyes met hers, and she could not help smiling back, thinking, Dear Lord, he is as handsome as ever. No, Diana was correct. More handsome! He has not aged a day. She had forgotten that trait of Roger's—his ability to come into a room and mesmerize it, his ability to make whomever he concentrated on feel he or she was the most important, exciting, beautiful person in the world. No wonder my granddaughter is crazy for him, she thought.

  "Alice…Alice," he said, coming forward and pulling her up into his arms. "You look beautiful," he whispered into her ear, and she could hear the emotion in his voice, and she was touched almost to tears. Memories flooded her mind, memories of all the times she and Richard had shared with him: watching him manipulate his latest mistresses, fend off the women who were always trying to bed him; watch
ing him shake his handsome head and declare he was in love at last, only to change his mind yet once again; watching him try to make his pay stretch and never being able to. He had been eternally in debt but would never let Richard lend him money. "I care about you too much to lie and say I will pay you back," he always said. "Do not worry over me. There is some woman out there, her pockets full, her husband dull, just waiting for me."

  He stepped back, and they stood staring at each other, tears in their eyes. She whipped a handkerchief from inside her skirt pocket and blew her nose.

  "Sentimental old fool!" she snapped.

  "Me or you, Alice?"

  "Both of us!"

  He laughed.

  "I have come to apologize, Roger, for my entire family. From my unscrupulous daughter to my greedy daughter–in–law to my willful little granddaughter." The words came easily to her lips. Seeing him made her feel younger, full of spirit. If he had that effect on her, at her age, with her aches and pains, his effect upon Barbara was understandable. Any other man paled beside him. Well, if this is what Barbara wanted, this is what she would get. That snippet of gossip, lying quiescent at the back of her mind, was discarded once and for all. To see Roger in person made it ridiculous.

  He was at the bell pull saying, "Since they have all behaved scandalously, your apology will take some time. I propose we ease it with some wine, or do you prefer sherry?"

  "Port," she said, enjoying herself.

  "Port. Ah, Alice, you always were a woman after my own heart. Port it is."

  * * *

  "Lord Carlyle is downstairs, desiring to see Lord Devane, and he insists on waiting until his lordship is free." Cradock smiled sourly at the expression on the faces of White and Montrose. "He is in the library."

  "No," said Montrose, as Cradock quickly closed the door behind himself.

  "We have to," said White, standing up. "Come on."

  "I refuse to tell him whom Lord Devane is entertaining." Montrose said, following him out.

  "You will not have to," White answered.

  Carlyle, immense, hulking, wearing a suit of bilious green and stockings with clocks on them, sat in a chair sipping wine.

  "Who is with Roger?" he asked at once.

  Montrose closed his, eyes for a brief second, then looked at White with an "I told you so" expression.

  "Some old friend, I believe," White said airily.

  "Which old friend?

  "Lord Devane does not inform us as to the identity of his visitors," Montrose said stiffly.

  "You would be adorable if you would just let go," Carlyle told him, batting his eyes. Montrose puffed up like an outraged pigeon.

  "I have heard," Carlyle said, tapping his wineglass with a long fingernail (he was letting his fingernails grow in imitation of the Chinese mandarins depicted on the porcelain everyone collected), "that Roger had an unexpected visitor last week. And that Lady Saylor had one this week. Come, boys, you may as well tell me. Is that or is that not the Duchess of Tamworth's dilapidated carriage waiting out front? Only a duchess would dare ride in such a ruin. Is she downstairs with Roger? And why?"

  "Really, Lord Carlyle," snapped Montrose, "I have no idea to what you are referring. And if I did, I certainly would not betray the confidence of Lord Devane. When Lord Devane is finished with his present company, you may ask him all of these questions yourself."

  "Is he always this stuffy?" Carlyle asked White.

  "Yes," said White.

  "How boring for you. You have my sympathies. You, Montrose. Pour me another glass of wine." Carlyle settled back more comfortably in his chair, and crossed his legs.

  "What do you think of my stockings, heh? Clocks, I ask you! Is it a fad? Oh, well, I must be current. More wine than that, boy. If I am to be incarcerated with you two while I wait on Roger, I may as well enjoy myself. You are to be congratulated, you know. My staff tells everything. I have no secrets. It is shocking. How long do you think Roger will be—never mind. I can see your lips are sealed. You, White, give me a copy of that last canto you have written. Roger told me the other day that it is the best thing you have done."

  * * *

  Roger and the Duchess finished their second glasses of port. They were on excellent terms with each other. They had damned Abigail's interference and drunk to that, and they had damned Diana's greed and drunk to that. Neither of them had mentioned Barbara. The Duchess fanned herself with her hand. Roger was talking. He had been telling her the whole story, He stood in front of the marble chimneypiece, calm, urbane, self-mocking.

  "She made a complete fool of me, Alice," he finished. "I lent her money; I made sure that she was not harassed by the investigation. In short, I trusted her." He clicked his heels and bowed sardonically at the idea of trust.

  The Duchess set down her empty glass. She pulled a piece of folded paper from her pocket and put it on top of the small, inlaid table beside the glass. Roger watched her, a small, curious smile on his face. She tapped the paper with her finger.

  "Bentwoodes," she said. "Yours if you still want it."

  The smile on Roger's face faded.

  "I tore up the previous deed to Barbara last night. You should have seen Abigail's face. But there was nothing she could do. It is mine. Yours if you want it. But understand this: it is my granddaughter's dower. She comes with it. There are no other circumstances under which I will let the land go. Tony has asked permission to court her. I have told him no for now. The girl fancies herself in love with you, Roger. And I fancy to give her her heart's desire. Bentwoodes is hers. I have half a mind to develop it for her myself if you refuse it."

  Roger's breathing quickened. He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears, his blue eyes suddenly as blue and clear as the summer sky. He strode over to her, to the table, and picked up the paper and opened it. His eyes flashed over the few words written.

  "How badly do you want Bentwoodes, my lord?"

  He took a deep breath. "More than I have ever wanted anything in my life."

  "Well, there it is."

  "As simple as that?"

  "As simple as that."

  He looked down at the paper in his hand. An exultant smile was spreading across his face.

  "Richard always said you were a woman to have on one's side."

  He laughed and waved the paper jubilantly. He picked up one of her hands and kissed it, smiling at her. It was a pleasure simply to sit and watch him. His beauty made every gesture seem more significant than it was.

  "There is one thing, Roger."

  The laughter on his face, so near hers, completely faded. She said sharply, "I am not Diana! You will get no tricks from me. It is about Barbara." She watched his face as she said the name, but there was nothing she could read.

  "Would you marry her before you go to France?"

  He was clearly astonished at her request, she could see that. She wished she had another glass of port.

  "She thinks if you go to France, you will change your mind. And she does not trust her mother."

  "And the marriage terms themselves?" He spoke rapidly. She could see he was weighing the issue in his mind.

  "The same as those you settled with Diana, before Abigail's interference."

  Roger looked at the paper, a paper he had accidentally crumpled, first in his exuberance, then in his distrust.

  "Why not?" he said to himself softly. "Why not settle it all in one fell swoop?" He looked at the Duchess. "I will marry your impulsive, willful little granddaughter, Alice. And I will take her with me. And when we return, may she be carrying a son of mine and a great-grandson of yours!"

  "Well said, Roger. May she indeed!"

  He sat down in a chair opposite her, his legs sprawled out, staring at her. She stared back.

  "I am exhausted," he said. The two of them burst out laughing.

  "Bentwoodes!" he crowed.

  The Duchess sighed. Now that it was over, she felt down. She looked at the handsome man she had just given her granddaughter
to. His face was alive with zest and ambition.

  "She is very young," she said to him. "She expects much out of life, out of you. I worry about her, Roger. She is my heart."

  He was out of his chair and kneeling before hers, like a lover. Once more she felt the charm that he possessed in such magnitude bathing over her, subduing fear. He took her chin in his hand.

  "I will take good care of her, Alice. I promise that." He laughed at the expression on her face. "I love you, Alice. Marry me instead."