by Karleen Koen
There had been a time—long ago—when Roger had fancied himself in love with Diana. But then almost every man who met her, at one time or another, fancied himself in love.
To have seen Diana at sixteen was to have seen glory. But Kit had married her, thank God. And he had wasted Diana and all she brought to him in their marriage. Lured on and on by the same things that attracted Roger—wine, women, gambling. Why had Kit sunk deeper and deeper into a mire, while he, who had started with so much less, had prospered?
Ahead he could see a lantern shining. It was like a beacon, a symbol of hope after despair, light after dark. He began to walk toward the lantern. He heard footsteps, stealthy, careful footsteps. He put his hand on his sword and turned quickly. The footsteps ceased. He walked the rest of the way with his back to the walls of the buildings, his head moving from side to side as he listened. The footsteps followed him. They knew he had money. A human life meant nothing to them. When he got to his coachman, who stood holding the lantern, a cocked pistol in one hand, he felt as if he had run a hundred miles. He was sweating. Seeing Kit was like seeing a dark side of himself. How easy it was for a man to lose himself in the bottle, in the futility of his life and sink into degradation. Welcome it. He could have ended like Kit; it was luck and the Hanovers that had changed his life And Richard. Dear God, seeing Kit was like seeing what might have been. It was enough to make him want to go home and drink, drink until the stink of that place, those people, Kit, was obliterated. But first he had to face Kit's daughter, had to tell her father was not interested in seeing her. Had to tell her now.
"Tell me," Barbara repeated.
"He…was in no condition to come here, Bab. I am sorry. I did what I could. I gave him your letter." Perhaps she would not ask. But then women always did. They had to know the little details, no matter how painful.
She was crouched on the floor, patting the puppies, her face tucked down so that he could not see its expression.
"Did he read the letter?"
"No."
"Did he ask about me?"
"Bab, he was drunk and—"
"I understand." She stood up.
Roger felt he should take her in his arms, but he was tired. He did not want to deal with a hysterical child.
"Do not look so, Roger," she said. "I will not weep all over your coat this time. In all the years I was growing up, I barely saw him. He used to come into our lives and fill us with promises and then leave. He always left. You were more a father than he ever was. Your kindness never hurt as his did. You never made promises you did not keep. I was a fool. I see that now. Do not worry over me. I will be fine. Did you give him the money?" Her face was turned from him now, so that he could not see it. He began an explanation, but she stopped him.
"Be sure he receives it," she said. "He will need it. Now go to bed. You are exhausted. I can see it." She gave him a quick, fierce hug and then stepped back. "Thank you. I should not have asked you to do what you did, but thank you, Roger."
Of all the reactions he had imagined, dreaded, this was not one. She sounded calm, self–possessed. He shuddered. He thought her a child, someone to cosset and protect, but at this moment he felt the child, glad of the escape she had offered him. He did not want to cope with what might be behind the facade. He had his own tears to deal with, tears he would not shed, tears for what life dealt people, tears for how close the edge was.
As soon as he was gone, she walked slowly over to her bed. She held on to one of the bedposts.
"I hate him," she said.
The puppies' necks pulled back into their bodies at the sound of her voice.
She picked up one of the soft goosedown pillows and hugged it to herself. He had not come.
"I hate him," she cried, her voice passionate, breaking a little. Then she slammed the pillow against the bed, imagining her father's face…what she could remember of it. She hit the pillow against the bedpost again, and again, and again, saying through clenched teeth, "I hate him!"
The pillow exploded in a rain of feathers. She beat the limp pillow sack against the post rhythmically until it was empty. She threw it to the floor and stamped on it. The puppies ran under the bed.
"I hate him!"
Thérèse ran into the room. Feathers were slowly settling all about the bedroom, about Barbara and onto her, like snow.
Barbara glared at Thérèse, jaw jutting, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, fists clenched, feathers sticking to her hair and her gown.
"I hate him," she said. Then her face crumpled. "I will not cry," she said breathlessly. "He is not worth tears. He was never worth tears. I will not cry."
She pushed her fists into her eyes, then sank to the floor.
Thérèse knelt beside her, in a swirling of skirts and feathers, and put her arms around her.
"The children?" she asked. "Your brothers—"
"No. No," Barbara said. She shut her eyes tight. She would not cry. Not for her father, who had never been a father just as her mother had never been a mother. She had been father and mother to her family, she and her grandmother. What a fool she was. She, with her worries for him, for her supper, for her planned talk of family. Have you heard about Tom and Kit and Baby? she had been going to ask. They are ill. I sent them toys. As if he cared. As if he had ever cared. It is all right, she said to herself. I will be father and mother. I will be. As I have always been. And I will bring you all here soon, and we will be happy together. We will need no one. We will have ourselves. She rocked back and forth, tears streaming silently down her face.
Thérèse rocked back and forth with her. Whom did madame love so? Only those we love deeply could cause such anguish. Madame, whom Thérèse thought so secure, so happy, with her handsome, older husband, her jewels, her life of ease, of receptions, of ball gowns, of admiring young men. There was sadness, there was pain, even for her. And why had Lord Devane not stayed to comfort his young wife who adored him so? Was he frightened of tears, of emotion? A tear was water from the heart, from the soul. It was the way the heart expressed its pain. The young madame had lost something she loved; someone she loved had hurt her. There was nothing in that to be afraid of. God gave life—with its happiness and its pain—to all. Thérèse rocked Barbara in her arms as she would have rocked Hyacinthe. She knew what it was to feel pain, to feel disappointment in the ones you loved. Ah, she did.
Cry, madame, cry, she thought. It will make the healing easier. The Holy Mother knew she had done enough crying herself. And in a few days' time, she would lose her little baby, growing like a bud inside her. This baby she could not, must not have. And no one could know. No one could hold her in comforting arms and rock her back and forth. Holding Barbara, she began to cry for herself, for the little lost one, for this life that gave us all, every man and every woman, some sorrow to bear.
* * *
Thérèse paid the driver, who stared down at her from his seat atop the rented carriage. He had a rugged, weather-beaten face crowned with a moth–eaten fur hat to protect him against the cold.
"Are you certain, mademoiselle, that you wish me to leave you here? It is a bad neighborhood. I can wait."
The streets were dark and narrow, and the houses sagged against one another. It was too cold for anyone to be outside. Thérèse shook her head, and the driver shrugged and clicked his tongue for his horses to start up. She stood shivering a moment in the street. In an hour it would be dark. Already heavy clouds lay inert and low in the sky and threatened snow. She picked her way through the mud and garbage on the street cobbles and tried not to mind the way the eyes inside the ragged bundles followed her. Ahead she saw the sign of the tavern of the Red Boar, but her courage failed her, and she crossed the street and stood in the cold looking at it. This morning she had awakened before daylight, dressed quickly, and slipped out to the church around the corner. She had knelt, staring at the statue of Christ, at his bleeding wounds and heart, and prayed to the Holy Mother and the saints for courage and for forgiveness.
Above her a wind
ow opened, and a chamber pot of urine and feces splashed down into the street in front of her. She leapt back, but not before some of it touched her skirts. The bile rose in her throat, and she put a gloved hand against her mouth. These last days, she had begun fasting early for Lent, and the nausea had been easier. Now it was back in full force. She crossed the street with stumbling steps and pushed open the door to the tavern. The only light came from a feeble fire and it highlighted empty chairs and rickety tables. The only person in sight was the tavern owner who sat in a chair near the fire whittling. He looked up.
"I have come to see Mother Marie," she said, her hand against her throat.
He snorted and jerked his head to a flight of stairs on her right.
"Third floor. And try not to scream. It is bad for business."
She would have laughed if she had not been sick. As it was, she had to hold on to the sides of the wall to keep from falling. Sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip as she concentrated on each step, trying to keep down the bile at the back of her throat. On the third floor, she leaned her head against the doorjamb as she knocked on the door.
It opened at once. Warmth hit her in the face, made even more marked by the cold and dark of the stairwell.
"Come in, dearie."
She did as she was ordered. The small room was crammed with furniture, a canopied bed with bed curtains, two arm chairs, four tables and an armoire. There was a rug on the floor and a canary in a birdcage on top of one of the tables. The other three tabletops were covered with books and papers and dirty cups and little china dogs. Thérèse put her hands to the fire—there was a pot of soup boiling—and turned to face Mother Marie, fat and dressed in layers of dirty shawls. She might have been any age; it was impossible to tell. She wore a turban, once white, now stained here and there a red-brown, and her face under it was melon–shaped.
"You have the money?" she asked Thérèse.
Thérèse pulled a small bag of coins out of a pocket in her cloak. The coins represented a quarter of what she had saved toward her dream. The woman held out her hand, and Thérèse emptied the bag into it. She counted the money—dirt was crusted under her fingernails—nodded as if satisfied, and then said, "Cat got your tongue, dearie?"
"I–I feel sick."
The woman went at once to the armoire and poured a glass of brandy. She gave it to Thérèse, who shook her head.
"Drink it, dearie," the woman said. "It helps the sickness. I do not know why it catches some women so hard. Some go the whole nine months without a flutter; others cannot hold their heads up for weeks. Drink it, dearie. It will help the other, too. Now then, are you ready?"
In spite of the roaring fire, in spite of the brandy, Thérèse felt ice–cold inside and out. She nodded her head, staring with eyes in which the pupils were dilating.
"Drink another glass of brandy, dearie, for Mother Marie's sake. That's a good girl. Now sit down on that chair."
The chair was covered with red–brown stains.
"Lift your skirts." Mother Marie said, her melon face expressionless. "Put your feet up on that stool. No, keep your knees up. Open them. Come along, dearie, this is no place for modesty. Mother Marie has seen this sight a thousand times. Shift yourself forward a little. Good, dearie, very good. I won't be a second."
She rummaged in a bag near the chair. "There it is, now."
She turned and smiled, her lips like a half–moon, and held up a long, pointed knitting needle.
Thérèse's mouth went dry. She closed her eyes and gripped the arms of the chair with all her might. Holy Mary, Mother of God, she whispered, Help me.
* * *
Barbara reread the letter she had been writing to her grandmother when Roger had interrupted her with the news of her father three days ago.
"Dear Grandmama," she read by the light of her candle, "I am so happy." She smiled to herself, smiled at the girl who had written those words. Well, they were true. Her father was not going to destroy what she was building with Roger. When she had been small, her father had held her in his arms and told her he would come for her and she would live with him forever. And she had believed him. But he had never done what he promised. Each time there were excuses, and after a while she stopped believing him. She loved him, but she hated him too. Hated him for his false promises and the pain they brought. She had been like a silly, wide–eyed child the other day, at once forgetting the past, expecting, hoping, wanting to see him. But no more. She did not care if she ever saw him again. She did not need him. She had Roger, who would be all her father could not be. She would write nothing of it to her grandmother. She would not change one line of her letter for him. She had Roger and her grandmother and her brothers and sisters. She needed no one else.
She lifted her head, thinking she heard a noise, like a groan. She listened, but there was nothing more. She bent back over the letter.
"It is Carnival here," she read "and Roger and I stay busy every night going to balls and receptions." Except that tonight she wished to stay home, and Roger had gone without her. He seemed to need to get away. The meeting with her father had upset him. She could understand that. She had not even seen her father, and she had been upset. She did not write to her grandmother of how people behaved during Carnival. That it was unsafe for a woman to go by herself into a darkened alcove or room at the opera house. That drunkenness and lechery were everywhere. She was shocked, but not as shocked as she would have been a month ago. She was learning to shrug her shoulders and look the other way, as Roger did, or to laugh. And she also would not write that she had gotten drunk for the first time in her life. Roger had found it amusing.
"All the talk here is of the Duc d'Orléans. He is sporting a black eye, and he says he hit himself with a tennis racket, but others say Madame La Rochefoucauld stabbed him in the eye with her knitting needle for taking liberties. And the Duc de Richelieu is going to be imprisoned in the Bastille for dueling. I am riding his horse, a lovely black mare, spirited and lively. You would like her very much."
She had not written her grandmother that she had won the horse as a wager; that Richelieu had been angry, but would not take her money for the horse. That Roger's only comments were that the price was right and that she looked dashing atop the horse. She could see he was amused by it all, but she had a feeling her grandmother would disapprove. But then her grandmother was not young and in love and in Paris where everyone was frivolous. She was going to visit Richelieu in the Bastille. She had promised him another chance to win back his horse, and they had decided to do it by playing cards. He was as cavalier about his coming imprisonment as if he were going on a journey. No one took his imprisonment seriously, least of all himself.
I stay very busy. I am taking Italian and drawing lessons, and I am going to have my portrait painted. I have a new maid. She is very fashionable and has made me stylish. You would not know me with my patches and rouge. I also have a little page and two puppies, which I have named after Harry and Charlotte. I think Anne and Charlotte (the Tamworth one) would love them. I have sent toys and gowns and shirts and books for everyone. Tell the boys I am sorry they are ill, and that each night when I say my prayers I include a special blessing for them. Kiss Baby for me. I have had a letter from Harry, who is still in Italy, but says he will visit. I cannot wait to see him. Roger says we shall visit Italy and Hanover this summer. I shall be an experienced traveler by the time I return to England. We are giving a pancake supper for Shrove Tuesday and two receptions the following week. You would be proud of how I am running the household. You and my brothers and sisters are often in my thoughts, dearest Grandmama. I send you all my love.
Your granddaughter,
Barbara, Countess Devane
She had signed the last two words with a flourish. There was such satisfaction in writing them. She was folding the letter to seal it when she heard the noise again. She stood up. It was a groan. Someone was in pain.
Hyacinthe ran into her room. His eyes were huge. She had lef
t him in her bedchamber, asleep on the floor near the puppies. Thérèse, who had been strangely silent all evening, had said she would put him to bed. But he was still in his little satin page's suit. Thérèse must have forgotten. That was not like her.
"Thérèse," Hyacinthe said, his words falling over each other. "I hear her crying. I go to the door and knock, and she tells me to go away. She says it in a very mean voice, madame, so I do as she says. Only I hear her crying again. I think she is hurt, madame."
Barbara went to Thérèse's door and put her ear to it, but she could not hear anything. She knocked softly.
"Thérèse," she called. "It is madame. Is everything well?"
She opened the door and put her head in. Thérèse lay on her narrow bed, bundled up to her neck in bed covers. Barbara stepped into the shadows of the room, lit only by a candle on the table.
"Hyacinthe said he heard you crying. I heard something, too. Are you ill? Shall I send for a doctor?"
