by Karleen Koen
She smiled, at his foolish words, his flattery.
"Nonsense," she said, pushing at him. "It was Richard you always loved."
For a fraction of a second, something flickered behind his eyes, but she did not see it. In a flash, he was up, laughing, pulling at the bell rope.
"More port, Alice!" he was saying. "I intend to send you home drunk as a barrel! We will drink to Bentwoodes, Alice. And to Barbara!"
Chapter Seven
His face flushed with wine and triumph, Roger walked into the private study adjoining his bedchamber and took a key from a tiny, buttoned pocket sewn inside his waistcoat. He fumbled at the lock of his writing cabinet, which sat solidly on a matching wooden stand with twisting legs, and pulled down the front flap. The inside was littered with papers and sketches, all having to do with Bentwoodes, or Devane House, as he thought of it. The evening of his final talk with Diana and Abigail, he had come straight home, walked in here, and locked the writing cabinet, not bothering to straighten or file the papers strewn about. He could not bear to touch them. He had overreached himself, gambled and lost, so be it. He subdued the anger and disappointment threatening to boil over with drink. The persona he had created these last few years did not allow disruptive emotions; the persona he had created was urbane and content, strolling through life with a charming smile. He glossed over the loss of Bentwoodes to those who mentioned it; another day, another property, he said, reaching for more wine. But he had wanted Bentwoodes more than he had wanted anything in a long time.
The idea of it when Diana had first mentioned it had struck him like a lightning bolt inside his mind. It was an idea whose time had come—a dream. And the dream had become more real than his own life of visiting the coffeeshops and smiling his way through the princess's drawing rooms and listening to Walpole and Stanhope argue state policy. He had deliberately not involved himself in the politics swirling about the king: European policy versus English, Whig versus Tory. His policy was an easy friendship with the king in which he did whatever was asked of him and requested nothing in return. The king granted him more for not asking than he would ever have received if he had asked. Yet for Bentwoodes, he had taken sides. He had championed the cause of a Jacobite traitor's wife—when was a man a traitor? When the prince he backed could not summon the money and troops to remount a throne that was morally his? If James III, now in Scotland, watching his invasion fall to pieces, watching six thousand fresh Dutch troops mass against his two thousand, had been able to consolidate the very real support of his followers in England, he would now be marching triumphantly toward London, and Kit Alderley would be a hero, and Diana would be scrambling like a rat to prove she meant nothing by her divorce action and petition to have the land and titles transferred to Harry. The only man he had ever known who had been loyal in his politics had been Richard Saylor.
He ran his finger across a pen–and–ink drawing of the temple of art Wren had sketched. It was an ebullient, baroque design, rising in splendor before a huge, rectangular landscape pool. He wanted something pure, something more classical, but this design was a beginning. There were elements of it that were good: the dome, the front portico and columns. The temple was going to house his art; it would be a gallery in which he could display his books and paintings and sculpture, a place where friends could walk and dine and talk— surrounded by all that was beautiful. He wished it built even before the great house that would adjoin it in the vast gardens he planned. He riffled through more of the drawings Wren had made: a central square surrounded by town houses; a fountain at the entrance to the grounds of his home; follies (small buildings of different architectural styles used for dining or reading) for his personal gardens; the first tentative sketches of the exterior of a small, exquisite church that would flank the square to his gardens. He smiled to himself. Devane House. It was going to be known throughout England.
All that he had thought lost had been restored through an hour with Richard's widow. When she had sent round the note last night, he had not been able to sleep. He drank, but the more he drank, the more sober he felt. His excitement was far greater than that he had ever felt for a woman. And when she asked him to marry Barbara now, instead of waiting, he could have laughed at the irony of those three Fates, weaving their webs. For he desired the very same thing; the idea of going abroad, leaving Diana and Abigail, together or in opposition, with Bentwoodes, made him sick with anxiety. He would have married a monkey to obtain Bentwoodes. To marry sweet little Barbara was the easiest thing imaginable. And he was grateful to her. It was she who had somehow made the Duchess the deus ex machina, as the ancient Greek playwrights had called their god who intervened and saved the hero. He would make her happy. She was the instrument by which he could achieve his last dream. Bentwoodes was doubly precious now because he had thought not to achieve it.
Restless with his news, his rediscovered energy surging through him, he found White and Montrose with Tommy Carlyle in the library. He stood there in the doorway, grinning at them.
Carlyle saw him first. He put down the copy of the poem he was reading.
"What is it? You look positively triumphant!" he said with that wonderful discernment of his that Roger found so amusing and irritating and useful. The two other men stared at him, their young faces questioning. His moods of late had been uncertain, and therefore not like him.
"Congratulate me, gentlemen," he announced, coming into the room. "Once again, I am to be married!"
"Married?" Montrose said incredulously from his desk, holding his pen suspended in midair. "But to whom?"
White strode across the room shook Roger's hand vigorously with his good one. There was a broad smile on his plain face.
"Congratulations indeed, sir! She is a wonderful girl."
"I do not believe it," Carlyle said, exploding the words out. He stared at Roger. "Surely you do not mean—"
"I do." Roger grinned at Carlyle.
Carlyle stood up. "I knew it! I told these creatures it was the Duchess's carriage! This calls for wine! Montrose, where is that decanter? Roger, you have me on my heels! I never thought you would pull it off once Abigail got her hooks into that property. She must be ill with anger! I love it! When is the wedding, dear boy?"
"Not Barbara Alderley?" Montrose whispered to White.
"Yes, Barbara Alderley," White whispered back.
"A calendar, if you please, Francis," said Roger.
Montrose, in his confusion, could not find one. His hands skittered through the neat stacks of letters on his desk. His pen fell on the invitation he was answering and a huge spot of ink slowly spread. White reached down and deftly pulled out the calendar book. He handed it to Roger. Carlyle was looking over Roger's shoulder and trying to pour wine at the same time.
"Here," Roger said. "January twenty–first. That way we can leave for Paris almost immediately."
"This month!" cried Carlyle. "You work quickly! Poor Abigail!"
"So–so soon?" Montrose said breathlessly. "How will we have time to get ready?"
"It will be very small, Francis. Only her family and a few of my friends. By the way, I want the reception held here. Arrange that. Will there be time to finish those rooms Giorgini started on—no? Well, she will have to sleep in my rooms. And I thought we could marry in St. James's Church. It is so close. I leave it to you, Francis. I will invite his majesty to come to the wedding, though not the reception. Start a guest list, now, but keep it small. And I need a special license; there will not be time to cry the banns. Procure it, Francis."
"Roger, you are amazing! Let me buy you dinner, and you may hold me in thrall as you relate every detail of how this came to be! I want to know every syllable the Duchess uttered! Every one! The Alderley chit! Again! I cannot believe it!"
"Did I show you the sketches Wren did for a temple of the arts, Tommy? They were not quite what I want, but he has the central concept. Come with me and give me your opinion." He turned around in the doorway. White and Montrose were both s
taring at him, their mouths open.
"Take care of the ring and the posies and all that," he said to them. "I leave it to your discretion." He walked out the door, saying to Carlyle, "He has given me a baroque design, Tommy, and I wanted something less—"
Montrose sat stunned. "A wedding," he said to himself. "I have not the least idea where to begin."
White pulled up another chair to Montrose's desk. He blotted the ruined invitation and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
"Well, I have. Both my sisters are married. Let me see, we need a ring, and the colors for the ribbon favors, and food and musicians and—"
"Favors?" echoed Montrose. He took the pen White was waving around from him.
"We have to give out favors to Lord Devane's friends." White spoke with great authority. "And the colors are most important. No yellow—that signifies jealousy. How do you like carnation and silver?"
"Food…musicians." Montrose was making a list, a task that would soon soothe and orient him. "Favors…I like blue for constancy and green for youth. The bride–to–be is what? Twelve?" He spoke acidly. Surprise always made him irritable.
"She is fifteen," White said. "And her grandmother is the most wonderful woman in the world. I will compose the inscription for the inside of the ring myself. And perhaps a small poem to be read at the reception. What do you think of 'God decreed our unity' for the ring?"
But Montrose was bent over his list. "Lord Townshend, Lord Stanhope, Lord Devonshire," he was saying to himself as he wrote down each name.
* * *
"In three weeks?" Abigail stared incredulously at the Duchess lying in her nest of pillows, a shawl about her shoulders, one wrinkled, spotted hand caressing her huge white cat. "You cannot be serious."
The Duchess pursed her lips stubbornly. She was tired. Her legs ached. She had already had to deal with Barbara's happy hysterics and Tony's disappointment. If Diana and Abigail had not botched the whole thing from beginning to end, she could be in her bed at Tamworth, abstractly deciding which gown she would wear to a wedding that she would not have to bother with, rather than here in bed at Saylor House after almost having dragged the groom-to-be into marriage.
"Three weeks!" she snapped. "And if you argue with me, I will tell Tony he has my permission to marry Barbara, and I will tell Barbara she must accept him. For that is the only way you will get your hands on Bentwoodes, Abigail. Make up your mind to it."
Abigail sat down. Her legs were weak. How long had the Duchess known about Tony's feelings for Barbara? And not to say one word. Not give one hint. It surpassed even her performance in the library the other day. Dear God, give her the patience to handle this irritable, impossible, interfering old woman. Dear God, give her the patience to endure the loss of all those acres of land, ripe for development. Give her the patience to endure having a dolt for a son who fell in love with the first impossible candidate who crossed his path. Give her the patience to endure being outwitted by a fifteen–year–old child. Who had been abetted by her own son. Dear God, what was this world coming to when you could not trust your own children not to stab you in the back? She clasped her hands together and prayed for calm. The thought of Bentwoodes going to Roger Montgeoffry was almost more than she was able to bear. She had been so close, so close. Diana had been putty in her hands, her greed outstripping even Abigail's. Except it was not greed when it was done for one's children. Well, she had tried her best. Done her duty as she saw it—meddling, nosy old woman! She ought to have been in her grave years ago. No! She was not going to brood about this. She had prayed for guidance. Vengeance is mine, the Lord said. There was nothing she had to blame herself for, except for not watching Tony more sharply. Idiot! Dolt! To think that he had actually told his grandmother about his feelings for Barbara. She felt faint, as she had felt in the library when she watched the Duchess tear up that precious piece of paper. Of course, she would never sue a member of her own family…especially when she knew that for once in her life, Tony would not support her. She must remain calm. The Duchess, God curse her, had closed her eyes, as if she were asleep. Abigail stared at her, imagining her slowly dying of a terrible, lingering disease. After a bit, she felt better.
"There is bound to be talk about why she is married in such a hasty fashion," she said with credible calm.
"People can count. Even if she should conceive the first time Roger unbuttons his breeches, it will still take nine months." The Duchess kept her eyes closed.
"She has no bride's clothes, and there are hundreds of details—"
"Any competent dressmaker can have her outfitted in three weeks. And the wedding will be small, both Roger and I want it that way. And the reception will be at his home."
"But we are the bride's family—"
"He insists, and I agree. There is no sense turning this into a public festival. There will be talk enough as it is. And there is no sense spending more than we have to. I will have to foot most of the bill, though Tony has offered to pay for everything. Most generous of him, I thought." She opened one eye to see what effect her last words had on Abigail. She allowed herself a small smile and closed her eye again.
Abigail sat rigidly, struggling with her better self. Tony pay! Three weeks! Bentwoodes was truly lost. Well, she had done her best. If there was any comfort to be taken in any of this, it was in the fact that in three weeks Diana and the Duchess would both be leaving, and that Barbara would be beyond Tony's reach. She would have to remember those things in the next weeks to be able to act with her usual grace if she was not going to disgrace herself completely and physically attack her mother-in-law or the bridegroom. She at least would lend a note of decorum to the ceremonies. Three weeks indeed! Roger Montgeoffry was wasting no time getting his land, land that ought to have been in Tony's inheritance from the beginning, land that—but that was neither here nor there. She was not one to hold a grudge. In the bed near her, the Duchess began to snore. Abigail looked at her…meddling, interfering, tiresome old woman….
* * *
Barbara sat on a whitewashed bench in the garden. It was now late afternoon, clear and cold, the sky above as blue as Roger's eyes. She was so happy she thought she would die from it. She had had to come outside, sit underneath the barebranched trees, and let the cold soften some of the excitement churning inside her. It was done, finally. In three weeks, she would be his wife. The dream was coming true. She had already told Anne and Mary and Charlotte, who had jumped up and down and screamed with her. And she had told them she wished them to be her bridesmaids, and they had started screaming again. Dear things. Now Kit and Tom and Baby would come for her wedding, and Roger could see all of her brothers and sisters, except Harry. Harry was going to be so surprised. She a countess, with her own home and servants and husband. When Roger was more used to her, she would have her brothers and sisters come to live with her, or rather her sisters, for her brothers would be at school. But she would have her sisters, and they would be her family, until her babies came. It was all going to be so happy.
Someone's shoes crunched on the gravel, and she turned, expecting to see Martha, telling her it was time to come in. But it was Tony, his nose already red with cold, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cloak. He smiled at her hesitantly. She smiled back and patted the empty space beside her. When he sat down, she put her arm through his and leaned her head against him. His big, bulky body was warm. She snuggled against it and rubbed her cheek against the rough material of his cloak.
"Tony, I am so happy. Thank you for sending that note to Grandmama."
He did not say anything. They both watched gardeners down at a far corner mulching flower beds. They worked with smooth precision. One would lift a shovelful of mulch and drop it; one would spread it; one would move the wheelbarrow. As the mulch spread, another shovelful was ready to be dropped. Their movements were as precise and unvaried as the workings of a clock.
"Bab."
She looked up at him. His plump face was unusually serious, and it was
blotchy, almost as if he had been crying. Poor Tony. Whoever married him would have to be content with his title and fortune.
"Happy for you, Bab…If you should ever need me…"
She was touched by his words. His wife would also obtain devotion, if she were lucky. Not that devotion was what Barbara wanted. But then, she had everything she wanted. Devotion was for lesser mortals. She had the stars. They sat together silently, companionably, watching the gardeners until dark came.
She slept late the next morning. And when Martha brought in hot chocolate for her to drink, she sent her back for more food. She was going to have to put some weight on; Roger should not have to spend his wedding night with a skinny stick. Back with the bacon and buttered bread Martha brought came her aunt, carrying in two boxes tied with soft velvet ribbons. She laid them silently on Barbara's blankets. Barbara opened the tiny, scented note half hidden under one of the ribbons.
"Belated New Year's gifts—with fond regards, Roger."
She kissed the note. Her aunt arched her brows and held out her hand. Barbara refolded the note and put it in the neck of her gown. She felt very safe with her grandmother in the house. Her dignity then abandoned, she fell on the largest box, pushing aside the rustling tissue paper to find a tippet, or shoulder cape, of dark green velvet with long trailing ends of black sable. Nestled beside the tippet like a small dark animal was a matching sable muff, dark green velvet ribbons attached on each side. Barbara draped the tippet about her shoulders and put her hands into the soft muff. The sable was the softest, most luxurious thing she had ever felt.
