by Karleen Koen
"I have invitations to the opera and the theater and luncheons which are addressed to me only, Roger. Do I go alone?"
"If you wish. I will have many engagements which do not include you, and I would feel better knowing you are occupied with your own friends. It is not fashionable for a husband and wife to do things together." He watched her face as she considered this, thinking suddenly, sharply, of St. Michel's bouquet. "But do not become too fashionable, Barbara. There are limits." For her. Not for him.
She smiled again, happy at his proprietary words, words he knew were unfair, and he was touched. Be careful, Roger, he thought to himself. In his mind, he saw three toothless old hags grinning at him. The Fates.
"You mentioned not taking sides earlier. Tell me why."
For her to be asking him of French politics when most girls her age (and women far older) were interested in nothing but their gowns or gossip or love affairs was another surprise. What lay behind it? The wish to impress him? Or Alice's training? He thought of the quagmire that was French politics, of his own monetary stake in it, of women like the Duchesse du Maine, who schemed and lied and plotted so that her husband might have the power of his cousin, the regent, a power that had been left to du Maine in his father's will, for his father was the great king, Louis XIV. But du Maine was illegitimate, and though he had been given money, titles, and position, he could never have that ultimate power, that of a pure bloodline, like Orléans, nephew to a king. And, more important, legitimate. He thought of John Law, a gambler, a visionary, a rogue, who was in France to put its monetary system back together. He had schemes of a national bank, of public companies that would make millions for their investors and uplift the stagnant economy. Law was going to pull France out of its near–bankruptcy, caused by years of war under the great Louis. He thought of the financiers, the farmers general (a monopoly of men who collected taxes and raised the money for royal loans), the bankers who wanted Law to fail, who had gotten fat and rich off the old systems of money lending. Roger was gambling that Law would not fail. He was going to invest heavily in the new bank, and in the public companies. To build what he envisioned required a great supply of capital. But Law's power rested on Orléans, and if Orléans fell, Law fell. And Orléans was in a shaky position, threatened with war by Spain, whose ruler was one of the great Louis's own grandsons—legitimate and therefore a cousin, but what was family when money and power were involved? And the Duchesse du Maine kept the flames fanned. And it was all over who should control the young heir's household and education. An heir who might die tomorrow of smallpox or the putrid sore throat or poison. And then France would be plunged in civil war again as she had been all those years before Louis had been strong enough and crafty enough to bring the French nobility under his heel. Roger did not want a wife whose lifeblood ran on public policy, whose machinations undid kings (the ink on hundreds of letters—women always wrote letters—letters that lied, that pushed, that prodded, that slandered, that libeled). Barbara might grow as fashionable, as witty, as sophisticated, even as wanton as the cleverest of the French princesses, but he did not want her as devious, involved in what was the realm of men, and a dangerous realm at that.
"It is too complicated to explain," he said abruptly, "and I do not wish you to worry your head about it. Play, visit, gossip, buy whatever you desire, but do not become enamored of politics. It ruins women and I would not like it in you. Ah, here are Francis and Caesar. Good morning, gentlemen. Francis, I have a commission for you. I want you to go through the sketches of Le Vau and Le Notre that are compiled at Versailles. If you leave today, you can be finished by the end of the week. The regent has granted permission for us to see them. I want the earlier sketches—"
"I cannot do that, sir," Montrose said. There was a silence. "Lady Devane has asked me to interview candidates for a lady's maid, and the task will take several days." He did not look at Barbara.
How sneaky of him, thought Barbara, furious. Montrose put her status in the household to the test. Either she was its mistress, to be obeyed as Roger was, or she was forever relegated to a position of inferiority, respected by no one.
Roger put his hand over his mouth so that no one should see his smile. Household maneuvers for power. More lethal than French politics.
"You must certainly finish Lady Devane's business, then. Next time, I assume you will not need to ask." It was gently, charmingly done, but a reproof nonetheless. He looked over to find Barbara's eyes on him, adoring.
He stood up, chucking her under the chin before he left.
Everyone was silent.
"Mr. Montrose," Barbara said. "That was unworthy of you. You may do Lord Devane's commissions before you do mine. You had only to ask." She left the room.
"Her grandmother's child," White said to Montrose, teasing, reminding.
Montrose sniffed.
* * *
That afternoon, at dinner, Barbara listened more closely to the conversation swirling around her. There was talk of the bastards' rank. What bastards? Saint–Simon slammed a fist on the table as he complained that the illegitimate should not be recognized before the princes of the blood, those related legitimately to the royal family. And someone mentioned a rumor that the regent would betray the young king for a chance to rule Spain. And there was talk of finance. Always finance. France was on the verge of bankruptcy, and John Law believed he had a solution. She knew that much because he continually told everyone so. He was at their table this afternoon, interrupting Saint–Simon to say so once more. He had a concept for a national bank. She listened to Roger promise to meet with Law and the regent later this afternoon. He had said he might accompany her to Marie–Victorie's. Finance outweighed her own charms.
Someone said the Duchesse du Maine was spreading more rumors about the regent's practicing witchcraft and incest. Someone else wondered why he did not arrest her. Someone else said he did not dare because the rumors were true.
"Richelieu went into her private apartments, disguised as a dressmaker and stayed the night," the sister of the British ambassador was saying. A babble of talk followed her words. Richelieu topped witchcraft and incest. He made his mistresses wait together in his waiting room while he serviced them one by one in the bedroom; he was sleeping with the regent's daughter, de Berry—no, with the regent's mistress, Madame d'Averbe—no, with them both. Strange, thought Barbara, that the ugly young man she had been introduced to only yesterday could be so notorious and yet so irresistible. When Marie–Victorie had brought him over to meet her, she had thought him arrogant, and his eyes made her shiver. Roger was signaling her. It was time for her to lead the ladies away. He was not going with her this afternoon. She would have to go to Marie–Victorie's by herself. She wished he had not forgotten. The patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit, she could hear her grandmother say, but her grandmother was not young and in love.
* * *
That night, Roger did not return home from his appointment with the regent and John Law. After Marie–Victorie's, she had rushed to his apartments to find only Justin. She ate supper by herself, solitary at the long table. She dressed for the opera in silence. Martha was just fastening a necklace when the note came. He was unavoidably detained. He begged her forgiveness. She was to go on without him. He did not know what time he would be home. She had Martha undress her, again silent as the gown and underpetticoat and jewels and pins and laces and stockings and corset had to be unfastened, untied, put away. She was not going without him. Not to a public ball. She had no set of friends yet to go with.
And where was Roger? Perhaps, after all, in spite of his words this morning, he was at one of the regent's suppers. She knew a little about them, never mind her professed ignorance to Roger. They were said to be sinful, wicked orgies with naked women and wine and every kind of vice. She might not know much about vice, but she knew about naked women, and she did not want Roger seeing one. Jealousy and all its attendant emotions seized her. She knew about jealousy, too, for she
had been jealous when Jane had begun to like Harry better than herself. But that feeling was nothing compared to what she experienced now. If Roger were to love another woman, she would die. She would kill the woman. And him. What if, at this very moment, he was smiling at another woman—touching her—
There was a discreet knock at her door. She was learning her household. It must be Montrose. Only he would knock with such politeness. She pulled a long shawl over her nightgown.
"Come in."
Montrose stood at the doorway. "Lord Devane requested that I present these to you—to keep you company, he said. They were to be a surprise, but Mr. White thought, since you did not go out this evening as planned—"
Barbara bounded up from her chair. "What? What?"
She was not yet used to the lavish way Roger gave her presents. It could be anything—a ball gown, jewels. Montrose pulled something from behind his body—a small, black boy, with huge brown eyes, eyes that stared at Barbara as if she were an ogre. Montrose half pushed the boy, who looked to be four or five, toward Barbara, and the child swallowed and bowed.
"Your servant, madame," he said in a soft, fluid accent.
Barbara stood transfixed. "But what is it?" she asked.
"A page, madame. His name is Hyacinthe, and he is yours to do with as you please."
Barbara bent down to the small boy. Why, he was the same age as Anne. His soft mouth trembled, but he did not cry. Very gently, Barbara held out her hand. After a moment, he put his into it. He was just a baby. Round his neck was a silver collar engraved with the Devane crest. It was the height of current fashion to own a small black slave, that silver collar proclaiming his status.
"I am very pleased to have a page," Barbara said to him. "Particularly such a big boy as you. Are you seven?" Growing up with brothers had taught her much about the male ego. He shook his head.
"You look seven," Barbara said.
"I am five," he blurted out.
"Five!" Barbara rolled her eyes. He half smiled. Montrose coughed.
"Yes, what is it?"
"There is more, madame."
"More?"
What else could there be? What could possibly exceed a small black page? Montrose went into the hall and came back with a basket. Barbara could hear small growls and yelps. Puppies! Roger had bought her puppies! Inside the basket were two fashionable pugs, with little pushed–in faces and bulging brown eyes. They howled when they saw Barbara, who leaned over and took them in each hand. They wiggled and squirmed and tried to lick her hands. They were tiny, hardly bigger than her hands.
"Pugs! Aren't they sweet! Look, Hyacinthe, look at my puppies!"
The puppies worked a change on the boy. He smiled at the wriggling, whining dogs.
"You must be in charge of them," Barbara said, Again, Montrose coughed. Barbara looked at him. What else could there possibly be?
"Where would you like them put, madame?"
"Here," Barbara said at once. She was not banishing her page or her puppies to that cavernous kitchen so far away. They would stay here in her room with her. She need not be alone any longer.
"Have a bed made in front of the fire for Hyacinthe. And leave the basket. Tell a footman to bring up some milk for…for Hyacinthe and the puppies… and me." There, let Montrose look down his nose at that. She knew how new puppies cried for their mother the first night from home. And she could not bear the thought of this little boy by himself in the servants' attic quarters. She knew how to protect what was hers. Someday Roger would learn that, the depth and fierceness of her maternal streak.
Later that night, after the puppies had been fed and played with, and Hyacinthe was snug in a little trundle bed before the fire in her bedchamber, she thought about Roger's gifts. Nothing was so impressive as having a small black page to carry one's train or fan and bring wine to one's guests…and the pugs were dear. They had fallen into the bowl of milk in their puppy greed, and she and Hyacinthe had to clean them. Somewhere today or yesterday or the day before, Roger had taken the time to buy these for her. That meant he did care. And if he cared, she could be patient until he loved her. Grandmama was right.
She heard a sound. Someone was crying…very softly…but she recognized it. Anne or Charlotte, and even Tom and Kit before they decided they were too old, had done the same many times, cried softly in their beds over some hurt. She got out of her big canopied bed and went over by the fire. The little boy was crying in his pillow. She knelt down.
"What is it?" she said softly. "May I help?"
He started and took a deep breath and sat up. "Forgive me, madame, do not beat me, madame."
"Beat you? But why would I do so?"
"They said I must be very good and not cry or I would displease you and you would be angry and beat me, as I would deserve, they said. They said I was lucky to be s–sold, and that I must be a m–man. It is only that I–I miss my friends, m–madame." His voice cracked and tears poured down his face. Barbara rubbed his hair, wondering who "they" were. She knew little about the beggar fraternity of Paris, who made money by buying children from women who did not want them or could not afford them, and then resold them to the nobility and rich bourgeois as pages and maids and companions. Children like Hyacinthe were sold as slaves. But that was a fortunate fate. A child that was not bright or handsome enough was maimed and put on the streets to beg, the fraternity reasoning that deformity in a child would strike pity in the hearts of passersby. Profit had to come from somewhere.
"Shall I send you back?" she asked.
"Oh, no," he cried. His fear made his tears stop. "Then I would surely be beaten! I was born to be a slave. Please, madame, do not send me back. I promise I will not cry anymore. Please, madame! They would be so angry. I am yours now."
"Then of course you shall stay. And I will not mind your crying tonight. I think you will stop when you are used to me and to this place. Now, you lie back down. You have many hazardous duties, beginning early tomorrow when you must bring me hot chocolate to drink. The cook will grumble at you. But you will say proudly, 'It is for Lady Devane.' And now, you must let me put these puppies into bed with you; I think they will wake up in the night and miss their friends also. And how will I sleep with puppies crying? You know they will not worry whether it disturbs me or not. And another thing. Early tomorrow you must take them outside in the garden, so that they do not spoil my rugs. And you must feed them. Now go to sleep, Hyacinthe… go to sleep."
She could see that her words soothed the boy. He had relaxed a little. She pulled the covers up about his small arms, each of which enclosed a sleeping pug. She thought of her brothers and sisters, of her grandmother, of Tamworth, its winter fields now covered with snow. Her eyes closed; she felt lulled by the warmth of the page and the pugs.
When Roger tiptoed into her apartment hours later, he found her asleep next to Hyacinthe's trundle bed, her head pillowed in one arm. One hand was still in Hyacinthe's. Roger stood still for some time, looking at her. It made quite a picture, the sleeping child, the puppies, the sleeping girl, her hair tumbling down her back, a half–smile on her face, the fire behind her glowing red under its embers. He smiled down at her. She looked hardly older than the page boy. So young and innocent.
Her innocence made the women he had been with that night seem jaded and ugly. Their perfume seemed to saturate his clothes, and the smell made him sick. The high, floating feeling of the champagne he had drunk was leaving him. He felt old, tired…unfaithful.
This last was a new feeling, one he had never expected to have. What would she do if she should wake now and find him swaying over her, drunk and smelling of other women? Would she cry? Would she rage? He had no idea. He knew only that she would care, and it was suddenly very important that she should not know. She was such a strange, unexpected child. In the last week, she had more than made her presence known. The whole household was turned upside down by her. Interruption of his breakfast customs. Camellias from St. Michel. Interviews for a maid. If she should l
eave him tomorrow, he would miss her. He had not expected this. To like his wife. To be fond of her.
She must be cold now that the fire was dying and she had no cover. He bent down and scooped her into his arms. It was no easy task—he was drunk, and she was almost as tall as he was. He swayed a moment to catch his balance. She half woke and said sleepily, "Roger, I'm so glad you are home." She was asleep again even before she finished her words. He carried her over to her bed, put her in it, and pulled the covers up.
"So am I, Bab," he said to her softly. "So am I."
Chapter Eleven
The final two candidates for the position of lady's maid to the young Countess Devane sat waiting in the ground floor servants' vestibule until the countess should be ready to interview them separately. Both women were young, no more than twenty. Both were dressed stylishly, in good taste and with flair, as became a competent lady's maid. Both were already lady's maids in noble households, though neither was the chief one. They had experience with dressmaking, hairstyling, needlepoint, washing fine linen, starching tiffanies (a thin silk), lawns, points (needlepoint lace), and mending. In addition, both could read and write, speak English as well as French, play the harpsichord, and dance. One of them, Thérèse Fuseau, was even experienced in going to market for kitchen staples. She had worked in the kitchens of the Condé household before being promoted to the bedchambers. Montrose had done his job well; each was highly qualified for her job, which was an arduous one. They might be called upon to read to a sick mistress or play the harpsichord or sing to amuse her. They must dress her for going out and see that her wardrobe and jewels were kept in good order, which meant supervising a staff of chambermaids, necessary women, starchers, and washerwomen. They might have to nurse her through sickness or failed love affairs.
