by Karleen Koen
She stood up and clapped her hands at the puppies. She would go downstairs. She would order tea served in the salon that fronted the terrace, surprising Roger. It would do her good. Clear away these useless feelings. Frowning at her image in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks. With the weight she had lost, she looked a scarecrow in her black gown. The bloom was gone from her cheeks. Well, the prince would just have to see what an ugly, thin wife his friend was saddled with. She tossed her head.
The majordomo was surprised to see her and even more surprised at the vigor of her orders. There were no scones or Tamworth tea cakes baked, he stammered to explain. She frowned; already the household was becoming lax. He hastened to assure her he would provide adequate substitutes. It would be nothing to set up tea in the blue–and–gold salon, madame.
Once there, she watched Roger and the prince from the window. They were at the bottom of the terrace steps, still talking animatedly. With the puppies following her, she wandered around the room as the footmen arranged a table and chairs in a sunny spot for tea. On a long, low table were spread plans and sketches…Bentwoodes. His dream. Her dream. Their future. The home for the children she ached to bear. Footmen entered with the silver teapot, the urn of boiling water, trays of food, biscuits, and crumbling cakes. Roger would be surprised and pleased. She opened the terrace doors a fraction.
"My dear Roger," she could hear the prince saying, "that is an absurd idea. You of all people should know better. The essence of good design is more ornamental, more baroque, not this nonsense of ancient Rome and Palladio. I am surprised at you—"
His tone was patronizing, superior. She felt angry. Bentwoodes— Palladio—was hers. And Roger's. No one else's. A sudden, mischievous impulse, such as the ones that used to embroil her in such trouble with Harry and Jane, came upon her. She hissed to the puppies, who were chewing the edge of the priceless, handwoven carpet. Holding each of them up, she whispered, "After him. Get the bad man. Go on!"
They whined and yelped in her hands. She opened the terrace doors wider.
"Get him."
The puppies shot out, and there was an immediate confusion of noise, shrill growls and yelps, along with Roger's "Damn it! Heel! Heel, I say! I do not know what is the matter with—Hyacinthe! Hyacinthe! Come and get these damned dogs!"
Barbara grinned to herself and ran to sit in the central armchair before the tea table. Spreading her skirts, she tried to look innocent. She began to pour boiling water into the teapot (from the terrace came continued growling and Roger's cursing). She pictured herself the essence of domesticity; she could see the etching in the shop windows—it would be enormously popular, "Faithful Young Wife Awaits Her Lord (After Having Set the Dogs on His Best Friend)."
Roger strode into the room, a puppy held by the scruff of the neck in each hand, as if they were lumps of offensive, smelly cheese. He stopped short at the sight of Barbara, sitting before a full tea table. Behind him was the Prince de Soissons, his proud, heavy, scarred face angry. Barbara bit her lip not to smile. (She was terrible! Her grandmother always told her so. What on earth had possessed her? Ah, it felt good to be so bad.)
"I have had tea prepared for you," she said, trying to look innocent. "Good afternoon, sir."
"These dogs are incorrigible. They went after Philippe like hellhounds. Look, Bab, one of them—Harry, I think—has torn Philippe's stocking. They ought to be beaten!" Roger jerked his hands up and down, and the puppies, hanging like sausages, whined. Barbara ran to take them from him.
"I am so sorry," she said. "I cannot imagine what happened. Here, I will put them outside. Bad, bad dogs," she scolded.
In the hall, she handed them to a footman, patting each small head and saying, "Good dog." She covered her mouth with her hands, choking with laughter.
Once her face was smooth, she reentered the room. Both men rose as she seated herself. She found she could not help glancing at the prince's torn stocking. Bubbles of laughter rose inside her again. The prince was watching. He knows, she thought, and for some reason she shivered. Her jest was no longer quite so funny. She was conscious of that feeling she had had the first time she met him, of something strange behind his eyes under those heavy brows. Or was it simply his dueling scar that made his gaze so ironic, so oddly curious? Grief had left her fragile and more sensitive to the moods and feelings of others. She had a sense, sudden and sure, that he disliked her (well, she could hardly blame him; on second thought her trick was childish and petty) and that Roger was nervous. About what?
"'I am sorry about the dogs," she said, not looking at either of them, but hiding behind the details of pouring tea.
"Bad manners can always be forgiven," said the prince, leaning back in his chair, secure now, relaxed. "They are due to a lack of discipline, and I will not blame an animal for its training. May I have an extra biscuit? I love an English tea."
He knows, she thought, and he is angry with me. It is my manners he is commenting on. She tossed her head.
"I thought I smelled scones—" said Montrose, walking in through the open terrace doors, though he tried to back out again when he saw the prince. Roger waved him in and introduced him.
"Your name is a familiar one to me, sir," said Montrose, bowing to the prince, "as Lord Devane has had an appointment with you nearly every day," he laughed. (Such talk was Montrose's idea of wit.)
"Sit down," Roger said irritably.
"No raspberry scones?" Montrose eyed the tea trays. "Lady Devane, it is good to see you downstairs."
"No scones. The kitchen was not expecting me yet."
"Nor was I," said Roger, smiling at her, as she handed him his tea. "But I, too, am glad to see you out of your apartments at last. Are you certain it is not too soon?"
"Yes," said the prince, "You are not in the blooming looks I saw at Sceaux. Which is completely understandable. May I offer my condolences in person on your tragic loss, Lady Devane, but then we agreed before that I should call you Barbara. May I still do so?"
"Yes," she said breathlessly, feeling the same way she had felt the day she pulled Charity Dinwitty's pigtails, and her two older sisters had turned on her. It was six years ago, but she remembered the sinking feeling in her stomach as she faced them. They had beaten her bloody. As the prince intended to do.
"I think Lady Devane looks very well," said Montrose. She offered him another biscuit.
"I thought I smelled raspberry scones," said White, popping his head into the room from the hallway. "Oh, excuse me. I did not realize you had company."
"There are none," Montrose called to him.
"Come inside anyway," Roger said, "and let me introduce the Prince de Soissons."
White bowed. He smiled at Barbara. "It is so good to see you, Lady Devane. We have not had a decent tea since—well, since."
The prince said, "May I have that piece of cake? I enjoy my food, as you can see. It has always been a source of aggravation to me that Roger remains as slim as a boy. Look at him, you would never guess he was some twenty–odd years older than you, my dear. Old enough to be your father. When were you married, child?"
"In January, sir."
"You have torn your stocking," said Montrose.
"Yes," said the prince. "So I have." He remained focused on Barbara. "You must call me Philippe, I insist. There can be no formality between us. As the wife of a man I consider a friend it would break my heart…January. You are still a new bride then. What a sadness that tragedy has marred your marriage so soon. Roger tells me that your brothers and sisters died of the smalIpox. A terrible thing, a terrible way to die."
"Absolutely," agreed Montrose. "My uncle lay like a stone for three days, then suffered for ten more days before he finally died. Every festering sore on his body bled."
"I will have a piece of cake," broke in White, loudly.
"Terrible, terrible," agreed Philippe. "My youngest brother swelled up like a sausage and bled from the mouth and nose. He never got a single spot. We knew then it was fatal. What
were their names, Barbara?"
She swallowed past the rising lump in her throat. "Tom…Kit and Charlotte…and Anne and…the baby, William," she ended on a whisper. Sweet Jesus, she was going to cry. She was going to disgrace herself before this cold, thoughtless man and cry. She stood up, knocking over a teacup.
"Lady Devane!" cried White.
The eyes of all the men focused on her.
"Barbara," said Philippe, setting down his cup, a concerned expression on his face. "I have distressed you! I am a clumsy fool! You must forgive my bad manners!"
She nodded blindly in his direction. Liar, she thought. She must get out of the room before she began crying. He must not see her tears. He must not. Outside, she slumped against the wall, tears coursing down her cheeks.
"Darling," Roger said, directly behind her, taking her in his arms. "Are you ill? What can I do?"
"Help—help me to my rooms. Then go back to your guest. I am so sorry, Roger," she sobbed through her hands.
He picked her up and she buried her face in his shoulder, thinking, I cried on his good coat before, at St. James's Square, when I could not have him. Oh, it hurts. It hurts. I wish they were not dead. I wish they had not died in such a way. I wish I had brought them to France even if Roger disliked it. Why did that man want me to cry? Why?
"You are too thin," Roger was saying, his mouth a straight, grim line. "You are not eating enough."
She smiled into his shoulder, through her tears, at his tone. It reminded her of her grandmother. Even though she was thin and tearful and weak, surely he loved her, just a little. Inside the blue–and–gold salon, White turned on Montrose, who was standing up, staring at the doorway Barbara had run through, with a bewildered expression on his face. His round face had flushed red.
"Idiot! You should have known such a topic would distress her!"
"It is entirely my fault," said Philippe. He, too, was standing. He, too, was staring at the doorway through which Barbara—and Roger—had run, though there was no bewildered expression on his face.
"I did not mean to make her cry," said Montrose, looking as if he might cry himself at any moment. "I–I was excited over having tea again, and she seemed so well."
"She is well, you bloody idiot, but it has not been a full month yet!"
"Lord Devane's devotion is admirable," said Philippe.
The two other men stared at him, then at each other.
White bowed coldly and strode from the room.
Montrose pressed his trembling lips with a linen napkin. "I did not mean to make her cry," he said again in a whisper. Then he too excused himself and left.
Philippe was alone. He spoke aloud and softly. "I, however, did. And it may have been one of the more stupid things I have ever done."
He sat back down to finish his tea, eating the extra biscuits Montrose had left on his plate and another serving of cake, but all of it in a mechanical way, without the relish with which he had eaten before. When Roger returned half an hour later, he said to him, an expression of genuine concern in his voice, "How is she?"
Roger did not answer.
"Roger, I am a fool. I was upset at seeing her unexpectedly, and those dogs made me angry. I said what I did deliberately, and now I regret it. You must believe me."
Roger walked past him, straight to a tray set with brandies and wines, and poured himself a glass.
"She will be fine," he said tiredly. Barbara had cried for a long time, and she kept saying she was sorry about the dogs. He had had to pretend he did not know what she meant. Damn Philippe. Damn that cruel streak of his. Christ, he was worried about her. She was too thin. Her grief seemed excessive, her emotions too volatile. She needed him to be more than he could be. He had felt it the night of the ball after Philippe had tempted him. But not with the depth he felt now. Guilt… love…desire…was passion worth the pain he might cause? He had done so many things in his life…not all of them good…but none made him feel this sadness with himself.
Philippe watched his face, the expressions playing so openly over it.
"It must be fatiguing," he said, "to have a wife that young. Rather like a child one must raise."
Roger glanced at him, frowning, but Philippe's face was empty of malice.
"It is at times," he said abruptly, draining the glass of wine.
Philippe stroked the dueling sear that had ruined his profile but had brought him Roger.
"Will you believe me when I say I am sorry?" His tone was sincere, grave.
"You had better be."
"I have been thinking while you were gone. You mentioned a brother once—older—"
"Harry."
"Yes, Harry—such a common name. He is in Italy, is he not?"
"As far as I know. Italy is where I have money sent."
"Why not write him and have him come here? She might do better with the added company of someone in her family nearby. And it would relieve some of the burden you must feel."
Roger set down his glass, obviously surprised at Philippe's thoughtfulness. "It might be just what she needs; she is so very family–minded…and still such a child, as you say. This has all been a terrible shock for her."
He poured himself more wine. Philippe, watching his face, waited.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"My dear Roger, I know your every mood. What else is on your mind? Come, tell me. What did she say upstairs? Does she dislike me so much?"
"On the contrary, Philippe. She said you do not like her."
It was out, the thing that had been between them since he had reentered the room, dividing them, dividing his loyalties. He had hated the feelings her words produced—the knowledge, deep inside himself, that she was correct, the knowledge of Philippe's cruelties, his jealousies that she was no match for, and yet which he inadvertently exposed her to; the sud den, wearying guilt, the sense of being trapped, trapped by her innocence and faith in him, trapped by his own vanity and needs.
He needed Philippe. God help him, he loved him; knowing what he was, what he was capable of, he still loved him. But the main feeling, the one whose taste he now drank brandy to cover, was one of unworthiness. He was not worthy of what she felt for him. And that perhaps hurt most of all.
"Not like her?" said Philippe, who had come close to guessing Roger's every emotion. "Who says I do not like her? My manners this afternoon were boorish, appalling. Sometimes I am an old fool. Tomorrow I will send her three dozen red tulips—"
"Good. She likes flowers."
"—begging her forgiveness. It is her grief, Roger. It distorts perceptions. She mistook my nervousness—and my irritation, I admit it—for anger. For dislike. I found her a delightful child. Subdued, now, not in her best looks; but that is understandable! Her voice is extraordinary. It sent shivers down my spine. I did not notice it at Sceaux, being too intent on other things. And when she smiled at you this afternoon, she was lovely. Truly lovely. You are a fortunate man, Roger."
Philippe's generosity surprised Roger. "Yes," he said. "The first time I saw her smile was like seeing Richard again, in his youth. She has her faults, but all in all she has been a pleasant surprise. She knows her duty. Her grandmother's—a veritable tigress—has raised her well. You should have seen her take over my household. It was like watching Richard maneuver crack troops into position. One attack, and we all surrendered. And she loves me. In a year or two from now, when there are children, and life has matured her more, she will be a superb countess. I envision her running my estates, my children, myself, as I dodder around Bentwoodes with a cane, gardening, the pastime of an old man—" He stopped, aware he had said more than he meant to. Philippe hoisted himself out of the armchair and limped over to where Roger was standing.
"Pour me a brandy," he said. "I find that making a fifteen–year–old cry has upset me more than I realized."
They both laughed. And when Roger had poured it, Philippe clinked their glasses together and said, "To gardening, my friend. To gardening."
