by Karleen Koen
The Duchess stared at him.
"Aunt Diana wants to go to Paris to be with Bab," said Tony. "A bad thing, that."
The Duchess patted his hand. "Never you mind. I will handle Diana. I always could, and now that you are here—I always will." Then she burst into tears. She was a stupid old fool, crying like this. What would her grandson think of her?
He pulled her into his arms (even though Dulcinea refused to move from his lap) as easily as if she were a child, which was what she felt like, and patted her back and said, "Do not cry, Grandmama. I am here, and I will take care of you. Promise. Bab told me to watch out for you. Made me promise. And that is what I am going to do. I–I love you, Grandmama. I do. There, there. Do not cry. Hush, Grandmama, hush…."
Chapter Fifteen
Montrose cleared his throat. Roger frowned.
"Ah, you have an appointment this afternoon the with Duc de Guise, sir, and I found these letters, unopened…as you see…and thought perhaps you had overlooked them…" Montrose's voice trailed off because of the expression on Roger's face as he saw the letters.
"I never overlook things, as you well know," Roger snapped, as Barbara picked up a letter and examined it. It was on cream–colored paper, and the seal was red. A vein throbbed in Roger's forehead. It reminded Barbara of that evening he had caught her in the alcove with Henri. Poor Montrose. She knew exactly how he felt.
"Roger," she said, partly to divert his anger away from Montrose, who was staring down at his plate, his round cheeks a crimson color, and partly because she was curious, "these are from the Prince de Soissons. I thought you were old friends—"
Roger stood up abruptly and threw his napkin on top of his uneaten breakfast.
"We were. Once," he said in a cold voice. "Now we are old enemies. I do not want that man's name mentioned in my household again. Is that clear to everyone?" He stared at the three of them in turn, and all dropped their eyes, as children do when they have been bad. He picked up the letters and held out his hand for the one Barbara had. She gave it to him. He walked to the fireplace and threw the letters into the fire, which was burning because the morning was cold. They curled and the edges turned brown, and then the fire devoured them. The three watched him furtively, turning their eyes away quickly each time he looked up from the fire. Once the letters were burned, he strode from the room without another word. The door slammed shut behind him. No one spoke.
Barbara kept her head bent. She could look at neither Montrose nor White. Why did he treat her so? What is wrong with him? she thought, excusing herself, unable to finish her breakfast.
As soon as the door closed behind her, White said to Montrose, "Are you all right?"
Montrose's cheeks were still red, but he nodded. "He has never spoken to me in that way before."
"What about the time Lady Devane came to St. James's Square, before they were married? Do you remember?" White was pushing at the fire with the poker.
"What are you doing?" asked Montrose, watching him.
"As I remember, he had some choice words for us both afterward," said White, poking at the ashes. "And then there was the time you mixed those notes he had written to his mistresses, causing him to break with the wrong one."
"You are not trying to retrieve those letters, are you? Stop at once! Caesar, what if he should return and find you? Come back to the table."
"Not a scrap left," said White, replacing the poker and dusting off his good hand on his breeches leg. Montrose wiped his face with the napkin, for all the world as if he had been the one searching for telltale scraps of paper.
"And then there was the time you allowed Lady Murray into his bedchamber, when the Duchess of Beaufort was already there. As I recall, I was astonished at the scope and grandeur of his cursing."
Montrose refolded the napkin. "It is not the same. He has been this way since returning from Sceaux," Montrose said. "Thérèse said he had some kind of attack there."
"Thérèse?"
Montrose blushed. "Sometimes I have to verify Lady Devane's accounts with her. She is very level-headed," he added defensively.
"Yes, that is what I think whenever I see her. What a level-headed woman, I think."
Montrose sniffed. "She said he became quite ill the night before they returned. I think that must be it; he is feeling unwell."
"Well, I for one will be glad when he feels better."
* * *
What is wrong with Roger? Barbara thought. She had been thinking about it since their return from Sceaux, for he was so unlike himself, short– tempered and moody. It was at the back of her mind as she went through the routine of her day: breakfast with a now-irritable Roger, choosing a gown for the morning, practicing her music and Italian, a walk in the gardens with Hyacinthe and the puppies, reading the latest playbills and scandal sheets, perhaps something of a novel, or her books on architecture and history, changing her clothes for dinner, sitting through it knowing the charm Roger showed was only for his guests—once they left he would once more be moody and silent—on to afternoon visits, shopping or an expedition with White to the historical sites of Paris, or to sitting for her portrait, or to the Bastille to visit Richelieu, home to change to evening clothes, on to the theater, the opera, a ball, a reception, home again late, to sleep alone. Roger had not visited her bed since Sceaux, and she did not seek him out. There were no more intimate talks after lovemaking, of Bentwoodes and Devane House and mirrors and porticoes and marble statues for the gardens. She saved it all inside herself. She could wait for him to be better. If he was ill, or overtired, she could wait. But why did he not tell her what bothered him?
It was so much on her mind that she lost at cards two day in a row to Richelieu, who laughed at her. (You are about to lose Henri. Whatever do you mean? I mean you cannot keep a man like that content with nothing. Tell me, has he ever kissed you on the mouth? No. Not that it is any of your business. Amazing. Well, when he drops you, my dear Bab, as he will do, do not come running to me for comfort. You will miss being the rage, for you will find your admirers following Henri's lead. Then you will kick yourself for not giving him more. Bah! You will. Mark my words. And when you miss it all, come to me, my sweet, and I will make you the belle once more. And what would I have to give you in return? Far more than you have given Henri. Dream on, Armand. Dream on. I assure you that I dream of nothing else—damn it, you have won the hand. You took my mind off the cards. Another game, Barbara. I insist.)
She was beautiful…thanks to Thérèse. She was sought after… thanks to Richelieu and St. Michel. She was studying Italian and French history and architecture. She was doing everything in her power to be fashionable and sophisticated and worldly, to be what Roger wanted. But something had been wrong since Sceaux. He was hiding something from her, and all her growing sophistication and beauty (and sadly, her love) did not seem to make any difference, for he would not talk to her of it. The distance between them was now more and not less, and she had worked so hard for it to be less.
* * *
Barbara finished dressing for a ball at the Hotel Scully. Tonight, she thought. Tonight I will make him tell me what is bothering him. She wore a new gown of dark blue silk; it made her eyes sparkle. She wore diamonds sprinkled in her hair like dust, diamonds and dark blue feathers that trailed down the back of her neck. Both she and Thérèse were satisfied that she looked beautiful. And Roger loved beautiful women. (By now she had learned enough of his past reputation to know that women, beautiful and otherwise, also loved him.) She left Hyacinthe at home so that she could talk while they were in the carriage. Perhaps, if she looked lovely enough, if she were charming enough, she would lift his spirits, and he would tell her his troubles. Share them, as if she were truly his love, his dearest.
But in the carriage he was silent, brooding. He looked tired, older, and she felt frightened by the gap of age, of knowledge, of life between them. Her newly acquired finesse flew out the window.
"Are you ill?" she said abruptly. "Tell me
."
"Do you realize how many times you have asked me that question in the last four days?"
"Share your troubles with me, Roger. Let me help. Is it me? Is it Paris? Are you ill? Where do you hurt if you are? Tell me. How can I help you if I do not know what is wrong? There must be some reason for your rudeness and your—"
"Rudeness? When was I rude?"
"You were rude this morning over those letters, and you embarrassed me before White and Montrose by snapping at me. You have been unlike yourself since Sceaux—"
"Why do you say that?" He grabbed her arm. She was shocked by the sharpness in his voice.
She wrenched her arm away. "I say it because it is true." Her voice trembled. I will not cry, she thought.
They were both silent. The only sound was of the carriage wheels lurching over the uneven cobbles.
"At Sceaux," he said slowly (she found herself straining at the slowness of his words), "do you remember when I felt ill?"
"Yes."
"Well, I am still not entirely well. My head aches all the time, and I am tired."
He lies, she thought. Why does he lie to me? When I love him so, and would do anything for him?
As if he divined her thoughts, he pulled her across the space between them, into his arms, crushing her gown, and she did not care. She felt so afraid, and she did not know why. I wish I were older, she thought, babbling to God in the way she used to babble to her grandmother when she was in trouble. Lord Jesus, make me older now.
"Barbara," he said into the diamonds in her hair, "there is nothing you can do."
"Let us go home. So that you can rest."
He covered her face with kisses, as light as air, and she closed her eyes.
"Dance tonight," he said. "Enjoy yourself. You can help me by being happy. Trust me in that, Barbara."
She pulled out of his arms slightly. "If it is not me—"
He kissed her hands. "No. Not you."
"—then I do. But I love you, Roger. And I want to share all of your life. The bad as well as the good. For richer, for poorer, I vowed. In sickness and in health. I meant those words."
He was silent. How young she was, to believe in someone so. How trusting of him, of life. That between the two of them, he and life would give her what she wanted. Dear God, had he ever been that way? He had never been more conscious of the age difference between them. She was truly still a child, though growing into a woman before his eyes. And he was a man who had seen and done too many things.
He left her in the ballroom, surrounded by admirers, and went into the card room to gamble. But he could not concentrate and lost money. He strolled through the drawing rooms, talking to friends, but found himself eventually back in the ballroom, looking for Barbara without being aware that that was what he was doing. She was dancing with St. Michel. He sat down in the middle of several rows of chairs to watch her, feeling better just at the sight of her. She was like a talisman of all he had once been and felt he was losing. There was comfort in her innocence, her belief in him. He watched her with that wistful smile on his face that made others watch him, and so he did not notice the Prince de Soissons, who had quietly seated himself two chairs away. He was watching Roger as intently as Roger was watching Barbara. Finally, the prince leaned across a chair, his proud, full, scarred face arrogant.
"She is the image of her grandfather," he said softly, so that no one else might hear. "I recognized her the moment I saw her at Sceaux. How fortunate for you, my dear Roger, that when you could not have the real thing, you could acquire such a close substitute. Does she make you happy?"
"Philippe…" Roger began to breathe heavily, as if he had been running.
"Smile to your lovely young wife, Roger. She is looking at you."
Roger bared his teeth in the direction of the dancers. "Go away, Philippe. I have nothing to say to you."
"Nothing to say to…an old friend?"
"We are not friends. I thought of killing you. It kept me sane. No one else in my life ever dared call me a coward. Or dishonest. I should have killed you the first time you said those words to me…just as you killed Montreal. For nothing, I never loved him—" He stopped. In a different tone, he said, "Go away. I have another life now."
"With that child? Tell me what you talk of with her, Roger. What can you share? Old battles, old war stories, memories of a world that existed before she was born and can mean nothing to her? You are running away from yourself just as you always did—"
Roger stood up, his hand on his sword hilt; the flesh around his nostrils was white and pinched, the look in his eyes was suddenly remote, dangerous. Philippe had only to say the wrong thing, and he would find himself facing Roger across an empty field at dawn, their swords whipping and hissing through the still morning air like snakes, until one or the other was dead.
"I apologize, Roger. For what I said…for what I did before. I apologize."
Roger stared at him. "Why did you come to Paris?"
Philippe smiled a slow smile that filled his face and made it handsome.
"To begin again, my friend."
Roger turned away. He saw Barbara standing in a crowd of young people, waiting to go into supper, and he strode over to her, thinking, My God…my God….
"I saw you talking with the prince," she said, her eyes scanning his face, seeing too much; he felt naked before her. "I thought you said—"
"Be quiet!"
Louise–Anne, standing behind her, tittered. Several of the young men surrounding her looked away.
Barbara's face went white, then she began to blush. Red stained her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks.
"I am going home," Roger said. "Stay as late as you like." And he walked away. She stood where she was, rooted to the spot. People moved around her the way water moves around a stone. She put her hands to her cheeks. Across the room, the Prince de Soissons, watching, smiled to himself. Someone took her by the arm and led her into the supper room.
"They sound married now," she heard Louise–Anne say to the Princesse de Condé. The princess laughed.
Barbara joined a table with Henri, Marie–Victorie and the Duc de Melun. She laughed and talked and did not remember one word of what she said. She danced every dance after supper, and drank more than a little champagne. Be quiet, Roger said in her mind. Be quiet, be quiet. She tossed her head and smiled. Her face hurt from smiling. Her head hurt from the champagne. Her heart hurt from Roger's words.
"I will escort you home," St. Michel said, early in the hours of the morning. His eyes were gauging her mood, the amount of champagne she had drunk. She shrugged.
The carriage was dark. It rattled and lurched across the cobbles. She could hear St. Michel's breathing. The champagne had left her feeling tired and heavy, as if stones were attached to the ends of her limbs and were pulling her down, down, down.
"I adore you," St. Michel said in the darkness. With a lurching movement, he sat beside her. In another moment his arms were around her as he tried to kiss her.
"No!" she said, twisting and pushing him. He only held her more tightly. His mouth was on her neck, then on the top part of her breasts where they swelled before they met the edge of her gown.
"No!" she cried, anger beginning to fill her—and fear, the faintest prickles of fear.
He raised his head to kiss her mouth, but she reared back and brought her head forward with all the force of which she was capable. Her head hit him squarely on the nose. He yelped and fell back against the carriage seat.
She was across on the other side, her body tense, ready if he I should try anything again. Her heart was beating like a soldier's drum. There was only silence.
"Henri?" she said tentatively to the shadows that were his body, his cloak, his face.
"My God," he said in the darkness, "I think you have broken my nose." His voice was muffled, and he sounded like a child, like a little boy, like one of her brothers.
"Henri, you should not have grabbed me like that—"
&nb
sp; "My God, you have broken my nose! I am bleeding like a pig! If you were a man, I would kill you—"
"If I were a man this would not have happened. Hold your head back. Here, use my cloak to wipe the blood. Shall I stop the carriage?"
"Yes. You think I want to stay another moment in here with you, you, you…" He was silent, apparently, unable to find a word. She knocked on the roof and the carriage lurched to a stop.
"You are not a lady." His tone was shocked, as if he had made a terrible accusation.
She was silent. If she had let him do as he wanted, if she had cried or pleaded, would she then have been a lady? The footman was holding a flambeau, and she could see that Henri had his head thrown back and part of her cloak bunched to his face. Carefully, he stepped outside. She leaned out the window as the carriage rolled away. He was still standing with his head back. Sweet Jesus, had she broken his nose? She felt a terrible urge to laugh.
