by Karleen Koen
"Stay," he said, putting himself between her and the door. "Please. I apologize."
He dealt the cards. She was silent, her face that of a bad-tempered child.
"You ought to control that temper," he said casually, ignoring the look she gave him. "I can see now why Henri emerged from his encounter so scarred. He will never forgive you, you know. Your days of popularity are ended."
She ground her teeth.
"If I ever try to rape you, I will succeed, temper or no."
She laid her cards on the table. "My trick,"' she snapped.
"Only in cards, my pet."
* * *
Her flux began. So there was no baby growing. She had thought after Roger's violent lovemaking that surely, this time, there would be a child. But there was only blood. And now he stayed away from her, from their home; she fell asleep waiting to hear the sound of his boots in the hall. She felt like breaking something. Hyacinthe and the puppies were instinctively staying out of her way. Bah, her grandmama would have said, you need a good caning. Grandmama would have put her to work outside, beating the floor rugs with a stick, or inside, polishing silver until her shoulders ached. She did not have enough to do; and she was alone too much. Other women had cousins, nieces, children around them. She should send for Anne and Charlotte and Baby. Just write the letter and post it. Only Roger was so distant, he might grow more distant over it. Or then again, he might not even care. What was wrong? Why was he avoiding her?
Thérèse walked into the bedchamber, carrying letters. Barbara's spirits lifted. She snatched them from Thérèse who said, unnecessarily, "They are from England, madame."
"This one is from Grandmama," Barbara said, ripping past the seal. "I hope the boys are—"
Her voice broke off as she scanned the page. Then she looked at Thérèse and tried to speak, but no words came out of her mouth. She sank, like a stone, to the floor, not fainting, but just on her knees, her skirts belling around her.
"What, madame? Is there bad news?" cried Thérèse, staring at Barbara's white face.
"R–Roger," Barbara gasped. "Find Roger."
Thérèse ran from the room.
It cannot be true, Barbara thought. I will not allow it to be true. She rocked back and forth where she sat, her arms around herself, her body seeking ancient, comforting rhythms. The words in the letter were exploding like fireworks in her mind, and with each explosion she trembled. By the time Thérèse came back, with the housekeeper, Montrose, and LeBlanc in her wake, Barbara lay on the floor wailing, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of the men. They tried to lift her from the floor, but she began to fight them, crying and screaming.
The house was in an uproar by the time Roger arrived late that afternoon. On impulse, he had gone riding, ignoring his engagements, his responsibilities, as he had done since Sceaux. He had meant to be gone for an hour or so, until the fresh air, the feel of the horse straining between his legs, had cleared his mind. But he had ridden on and on, almost to Versailles. And everywhere, in the city, in the dark forest, newly verdant on each side of him, Philippe had seemed to be riding too, perched like a hunting hawk on Roger's shoulder, in his thoughts. Philippe had apologized. Proud, cold, arrogant Philippe, a prince of France. Roger laughed out loud, startling his horse. What power he had felt in that moment. And how Philippe knew him to tempt him so. Was it possible? Could he begin again? For this time, he would be the one in control, the one who ended it when it no longer pleased him. This time it would be his terms. He felt his heart beat with the exhilaration of possibility, unfolding before him the way a woman unfolds her legs.
He had always wanted it all, wanted to taste and do everything. He had lost himself in so many women, so many beds. But Richard had been the only person he had ever really loved. The terrifying fact of that had made him cry out in the darkness like a child. And he had always found a woman to comfort him, to make him forget. Until Philippe. The only other man he had ever desired…ever loved. Philippe had cauterized the bleeding wound that had been Richard. Their desire had been flame, consuming them both. They had been like the Greeks of ancient times, equal in all respects—the ultimate lovers.
And now Philippe was offering that again. The risk made it all the more exciting. What a fool he was, just as he used to be about fighting. Trembling, praying; then the drums sounded, the trumpets, and he lost himself in the lust, all fear forgotten, in the physical act of staying alive, of killing before one is killed. Life stripped to the simple equation of survival. Nothing was more exhilarating than that. The brave soldier, Philippe used to say, mocking him, but admiring him too—his courage, his joy, his skill in war. Philippe, who had left his heart like a desolate battlefield, dead men and horses littered everywhere, smoke swirling into the sky from the burning gunpowder and cannons. There could never again be between them what had once been. But even a shadow of what had been was a compelling enough reason to begin again.
Barbara. His thoughts stopped, skittering into the darkness like rats' feet against a bare floor. He did not want to think of Barbara, of what he might owe her, of how she would feel if she knew what he was considering. She would never have to know. And he himself did not know what he was going to do. But suddenly he felt young again, as powerful, as virile, as full of possibility as he had at twenty. But it was even better, because he was no longer twenty. The greens in the leaves were full of tints, browns, yellows he hadn't noticed before. The air was crisp, fresh, burning his lungs; the sun surprising in the way it dappled through the trees.
When he finally rode into his own courtyard, the first shadows of evening were gathering. He was planning his evening. He had an impulse to go to Madame Ramponeau's on the Rue Rouge, to try the girls. Philippe had made his blood boil with a violence that even Barbara could not quench. He wanted to lose himself in sensation—wanted to lose himself in this new virility he felt. He wanted the softness of women, their salty taste, their yielding breasts. A young woman, like Barbara. Several young women.
He did not know what he was going to do about Philippe, but he knew he wished to savor this moment, this moment of youth with experience behind it; this feeling of renewal, of power, of possibility, of temptation; he wanted to savor it as long as it lasted.
He ran up the stairs to the bedchamber floors, not noticing how quiet the house was. LeBlanc and two footmen were hanging bolts of black material across one of the salon entrances as he ran by, but the significance of this did not register. He ignored LeBlanc's call. It was only when he walked into the connecting chamber between his and Barbara's apart ments, and saw Montrose and White huddled together with Justin and Thérèse, that he realized something was wrong. His heart froze. LeBlanc and the footmen, the black cloth.
"Barbara!" he said. "Where is she? What is wrong? Is she ill? Answer me!"
"She is resting now," Montrose said, his face white and still, his eyes large in his face. "The physician gave her a sleeping draft."
"It is her family, sir," White said. He had seen the shock passing over Roger's face, as had Justin, who was already pouring Roger a brandy. "A letter came from the Duchess of Tamworth this morning. Lady Devane's family, her brothers and her sisters, have died. From the smallpox."
Montrose handed Roger the crumpled letter. They had had to tear it from Barbara's hand. She had been shrieking. Montrose had thought he would faint.
Roger read quickly; the handwriting was shaky, the ink blotted.
My darling granddaughter, my most dear child,
It is with a heavy heart that I write you. I know no other way than to tell you simply—they are dead, my dear. All of them— your brothers and sisters. Of the smallpox. Tony will write you the details, which you will want to know, but which I have not the strength to include. I cannot even write their names, my hand trembles so. My tears fall on this page as I write, as I know yours are now doing. I would give my own soul to be with you at this time, Barbara, and I can only tell you to trust in the Lord God Almighty, His power, His wisd
om, His mercy. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore." Remember these words, my dear. Think of them in the coming days of sorrow. I know our dear ones are in heaven with Our Lord. They are lambs He has gathered to His bosom. Only that thought sustains me in these, my hours of grief. I pray that you are well, that you find the strength to overcome this news. I am very tired. I can write no more. Tony is with me. I pray for you, dearest Barbara.
Your loving Grandmother
"There is another letter," said Montrose. Roger ripped past the seal to read,
Dear Bab,
I will take care of Grandmama. You are not to worry. Now take care of yourself. You are in my thoughts, Bab, and my prayers. Grandmama has asked me to write you how they died. She said that later you would want to know, that you would have to know. The baby was first, Bab. He never regained consciousness—
Roger folded the letter, trying to think what this news must mean to his wife. She had loved her brothers and sisters; she had wanted them to live with her. He had avoided this plan, not wanting his life cluttered with children, when his bride was child enough. But this….
He raised his head. Everyone was staring at him, their faces strained.
"How did she take the news?" he asked.
For a moment, all of them were silent, which told him more than any words could. Finally, Justin said, "She was most distraught. That was when we sent for the physician. He–he bled her and gave her something to sleep. She is quiet now."
Montrose said tersely, in shock himself, "We had to hold her down."
"She was very upset," White said, his voice trembling slightly. "Very, very upset."
Thérèse said nothing at all.
Roger walked into the bedchamber. Someone had pulled the draperies, and it was dark, but he could see that the mirror on her dressing table was cracked. Bottles and jars and broken glass lay everywhere and a chair was overturned. He took a deep breath and went to the bed. She looked as if she were sleeping. Her face and eyelids were swollen. My poor dear, he thought. My poor, poor baby. He reached down to touch her face; her eyes opened and she clutched his hand. He sat down on the bed.
"Bab," he said softly. "Bab. I'm sorry."
"Do not leave me," she said.
He sat by her, stroking her hair, until she slept.
* * *
A week later, Roger stared at the gardens from his room. Around him, scattered on the floor, lay a wig and a coat of gray watered silk, a black armband still attached to the sleeve. This morning a memorial service for Barbara's family had been held. He had been surprised at the number of people who had come. He had wandered among them, listening to them chatter about the national bank, that miracle that was going to make everything wonderful, about the possibility that the Duc de Richelieu would stand trial for his duel, about the news from abroad that the Prince of Wales was said to be furious that his father was not going to make him regent for the summer when the king journeyed to Hanover, of how wan and thin Lady Devane looked, and of how exasperating it must be to Lord Devane that he had to cancel so many planned entertainments due to his young wife's mourning. He shook his head; they were here to observe him, to observe Barbara, to observe each other. He knew them well.
Among the many flowers that had come was a huge bouquet of purple irises, interspersed with sprigs of rosemary. Iris, or fleur–de–lis, as the French called it; they were on the coat of arms of the Bourbons, Philippe's family. The flowers came from Philippe. Iris, fleur–de–lis, whose meaning was flame; I burn. Philippe had been at the back of the church. Flame. I burn. Barbara had fainted during the service. She wanted him with her day and night. He escaped each night, once she finally slept, into the arms of other women, any woman he could find, a compliant duchess, an opera dancer, a whore. He was drawn to them; he reeked of them, coming home at all hours, Justin putting him to bed like a child, most nights he was incoherent from drink.
Philippe standing there. Flame. I burn—and nothing quenches the flame. Philippe was forcing a decision; he had given an ultimatum. Clever, clever Philippe. Among the fleur–de-lis lay a small note card anyone might have seen: I leave soon, it read. See me one time. Only that. Nothing more.
You have a young wife, Roger said to himself, staring out into the gardens, and seeing none of their fresh greenness, their blossoms, their design and beauty. She loves you. She needs you. You will have children together. It is not enough. (Who may know the heart of another? How can any man judge another? Only the Lord God Almighty, and He does not exist.) She will be devastated….She does not have to know….Sooner or later, they always know….Sooner or later, they do not always care….Temptation opened her silky white arms and beckoned….My poor, poor Barbara.
* * *
Roger stood on the steps of the doorway to Philippe's Paris home; it had once been the stables of the palatial Hotel de Nevers behind it. Philippe had leased it and had every interior wall torn out to rebuild a small, furnished house that exactly suited his city needs. Roger remembered it as being filled with the finest furniture, old paintings, chairs and tables that were built by the great Louis's own craftsmen, with different woods, oak and walnut, pearwood and limewood, repeated in the paneling of the walls and the room molding. The Duc de Nevers included the use of his gardens in the lease. There had been moonlight strolls, recitals, picnics. The most beautiful women in Paris found their way there, as did poets, playwrights, the cream of the nobility. In Louis's dying years, the best and wittiest of the court were not at Versailles, but at Philippe's.
Roger knocked on the door. One of Philippe's servants opened it. In the dark hallway were crowded trunks and boxes. Philippe was leaving, it was no bluff, as Roger had half-expected. The servant pointed the way to the upstairs green–and–gold salon, but Roger knew the way. It had always been his favorite room. He found himself running up the stairs and checked himself. He rapped on the salon door with his cane.
"Come in."
Across the room, at the windows, Philippe rose awkwardly from a chair. His face was as somber, as troubled as Roger's was smooth. Roger felt strangely calm as they stared at each other. This man had once been his love, the love of his life. The whoring of the past week had cleared his mind. He would say good-bye. It was better not to begin what he might not finish. The danger was too great. For his sake, and for Barbara's. She stayed in his mind, her face pale, like that of a ghost.
It took Philippe a few moments to speak, a fact that moved Roger. Philippe was never without words, never ruffled.
"I did not think you would come."
Roger was silent.
"Your wife…is she better?"
"I came to say good-bye," Roger said easily. Philippe's having mentioned Barbara made it easy. "I wish you well."
"And you, Roger."
Roger crossed the room to shake Philippe's hand, so that Philippe, with his limp, should not have to move, and when their hands clasped, something electric leapt between them. What a fool I am, Roger thought, as Philippe moved closer.
What an incredible fool. And then, this is all there is. This is reality. The other is a dream.
* * *
They lay quietly in the bedchamber, listening to someone, Philippe's valet, begin to lay out places for supper in the adjoining room. They could hear the clink of glasses and silverware. Their first lovemaking had been violent, passionate, angry, as their bodies and tongues and hands expressed mutual hurt and desire and need. Now the anger was gone, but not the passion or the need. Philippe ran his fingers over Roger's face, tracin
g his profile, his cheekbones.
"You are as handsome as ever. Do you never age?"
Roger stared at Philippe's dueling scar. He had been present when Philippe had received that; Roger had been his second in a ridiculous duel over a wanton countess. Women had always wound themselves in and out of their lives. He had cradled Philippe's bloody head in his lap and known how much he loved him. Loved him more than he had ever loved anyone except Richard, and Richard was dead, and had never loved him back. (Would he have been a different man today if Richard had returned his love? Yet Richard's granddaughter loved him, the way he had loved Richard. The Fates, how they must be laughing at the coil of his life.) Yes, Richard was dead and Philippe was alive, never the man Richard Saylor had been and yet Philippe had stared up at him with eyes that understood, this man that was all Richard was not. Proud. Arrogant. Jealous. It had been an unforgettable moment, that moment of knowing. The physician had bandaged Philippe, and Roger had helped him to his house, and there had been the countess, weeping and wailing for Philippe. And Philippe had made love to her, bandage, pain, and all, there in front of Roger. Roger had joined in, and then, suddenly, over her body, they were making love to each other. It was the beginning. Odd that so many times before they had shared women and never touched each other. But it had all been a prelude to that final conclusion, to each other.
