by Karleen Koen
She and Roger and Philippe and Marie–Victorie and the Comte de Toulouse rode in an open carriage to the chapel in the Bois de Bologne to hear Passion Week psalms sung. Marie–Victorie had said they were lovely, uplifting, and that everybody in Paris came. And she was right. Everyone was there: carriages jostling one another as coachmen tried to squeeze in; people in and out of them, strolling among the trees in their new Easter gowns and coats, the women with tiny, dainty parasols and pastel gowns. Barbara felt like a crow in her gown of black. But it was good to be out. She said a silent prayer for her brothers and sisters. She cried a little when the psalms were sung, but no one seemed to mind. Roger put his arm around her; Philippe patted her hand. She and Philippe managed a truce of sorts. For Roger's sake. They looked into each other's eyes and knew what the other thought, but said nothing. She could live with Philippe, as long as she had Roger. And perhaps his child. She prayed with all her might that a child was growing within her at last.
She saw Thérèse and White strolling together, hand in hand like two lovers, with Montrose trailing some distance behind. She pointed them out to Roger.
"Why will you not let me come to your rooms?" White asked Thérèse, his plain face strained, whispering so that the crowds around them would not hear him. They saw the Devanes with friends in an open carriage and smiled and bowed. Thérèse snuggled against his good arm, smiling at him, her dark eyes glinting.
"Caesar," she teased. "For everything there is a time, and it is not our time."
"I–I think I am in love with you."
She looked away. Sunlight glinted on her dark curls. White was silent, afraid he had gone too far, afraid of frightening her away.
Barbara ordered Easter flowers sent to Lord Stair's mansion. A vicar was attached to his permanent staff, and Easter services for the English in Paris would be held in the chapel near his mansion. And she ordered a Pascal taper, a huge, white candle made of finest wax, to light for the vigil of Christ's death and coming to life again. It would burn on the gospel side of the altar from the Saturday before Easter until some forty days later on Ascension Day.
She sat on a bench in the garden Easter Sunday afternoon. The lilac trees, the tulip trees were in full flower. The chestnuts and limes showed tender, green leaves. Pinks, daffodils, roses, sweet William and pansies bloomed. Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us, thought Barbara, repeating the Easter service in her mind, therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. At Tamworth there would have been many Easter festivities, rolling down Tamworth Hill, games of handball, foot races in which the winners were given tansy cakes, made with the tansy herb, which cleansed the humors left in the stomach and guts from eating fish for Lent. How was Grandmama this Easter? Was Tony with her still? Did she miss her grandchildren? Did she miss Barbara? Barbara wiped tears from her face. Would there ever be a time when thinking of them did not bring pain? Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
* * *
Thérèse stood in her thin nightgown and gazed out her open window at the rooftops of Paris. The night breeze was pleasantly cool. She smelled the Easter lilac, now fading, its first riotous bloom going. LeBlanc would not visit her tonight. She was free. He was tired from Lady Devane's Easter activities and had one of his stomach humors and was suffering in his own room. She had seen that he wanted her to come to him, to hold his hand, to fuss over him, but she ignored his sulks. A man was a man was a man. Nothing more. Nothing less. She laughed at herself, sounding the experienced woman when LeBlanc was only the second man she had ever had. But he was the same as her young prince, minus the youth and slim stomach and her adoration. Full of himself. Of his problems. He was afraid of displeasing Lady Devane, who was too demanding. He was afraid he would lose his position to the younger, abler butler of the wine cellar, whom Lady Devane liked. He was afraid he was going to die of stomach pains.
At night, after he was through, she lay like a dead woman under him, but he never seemed to notice. He settled himself and talked of his troubles, like anyone. He was becoming fond of her. She could see it. He worried about her bleeding and wanted her to go to another physician. He scolded her for going up and down so many stairs. It could not be good for her female parts, he said. He talked, and she listened, telling him nothing of herself. It was hers to keep, hers to give as she wished, and she wished to give nothing to LeBlanc.
And yet, his bedding her had given her a kind of security. The footmen were not so free with their compliments. The chambermaids might eye her with disdain, but there was an amount of envy mixed in. No one bothered her. She was treated with a certain amount of respect.
She thought of Caesar and his nervous, half–declaration of love. Why could she not love him? He was a nice man, a good man. He read his poems to her, trembling like a boy at her praise. And yet when she had allowed him to kiss her, she felt nothing, just as she felt nothing with LeBlanc. And she could not give herself. Not again. Would there ever be anyone who stirred her heart as the young prince had? Whom she could love the way madame loved her husband? I would like to feel again, she thought. I would like to love someone, something.
She rubbed her arms against the chill of the breeze. Hyacinthe was snoring. She needed to turn him over on his back. Dear little boy. She loved him. Already, he was acquiring a smattering of English and he knew the first answers in the catechism. Someday, she thought, leaning out and looking at the dark rooftops, darker shadows in the night, I shall save up enough money and open my own shop. I shall live by myself with Hyacinthe and a cat or two. Madame shall be my most honored patron. My dresses will become famous. I will have several girls working under me. And no one shall have me whom I do not want to have me. I shall be free, free as a bird. She thought contemptuously of LeBlanc, his boasting, his temper. Already she was stronger than he. He needed her soft body; her fingers around his manhood so that he could spend himself and die like a beached fish, needed her soft arms around him as he whispered his fears. And she had no such need of him. But she was not free of him either. He was like a hair shirt she wore, reminding her of her sin. Her punishment. Her hell. But at least hell grunted and groaned and took only five or ten minutes. The Blessed Mother was kind. Most nights of the week.
* * *
It was May. Paris in May. The chestnut trees were full and green, the limes and oaks. The baskets of the flower sellers overflowed with daisies, lilies, peonies, periwinkles, lavender, mint, lads love. The Seine sparkled in the warm sun as boats bobbed on its shining surface, its banks crowded with fishermen, beggars, and naked, laughing children. The breezes were as soft, as warm, as a woman's hand. The first bridge over the Seine, the Pont Neuf, was crowded with its melange of vagabonds, street musicians, dentists and quack doctors, who stood on wooden boxes or rackety wagons and called out their skills to the passing crowds of duchesses, merchants, pickpockets, princes. Everyone who could be outside was. It was May.
The talk was all of John Law's newly created national bank—a miracle of instant credit that was going to extinguish France's crushing national debt. Everyone was rushing to invest in it, wishing they had been as wise as the Englishman Lord Devane, who was said to hold many shares. Law's bank was a wonder of financial genius, everyone exclaimed. He had a twenty–five–year monopoly, authorized capital was fixed by edict and could not be increased without government sanction. The bank issued its own notes, and these notes had to be converted into cash on sight at the bank. Its stock was offered for public subscription, and the sums in payment for bank stock had to be in bank notes. It was under legal obligation to buy all the Louis XIV paper (notes the late king had issued to cover his wars, now worth little of their original value) at eighty percent discount, payment to be made—once more—in the bank's own notes.
"Debt has disappeared by magic!" everyone cried, not real
izing that paper was eliminating debts contracted in gold. Everyone was ecstatic, except other financiers. Prices were already falling; trade was increasing; money was cheap.
Geraniums were blooming in the huge bronze vases on the terrace. Barbara sat at one of the tiny wrought–iron tables, painted deep green, in a matching wrought–iron chair. She and Roger were having company. Part of it was to celebrate Law's bank, part of it was to celebrate May. John Law, Marie–Victorie, the Comte de Toulouse, Philippe de Soissons, Montrose, White, Thérèse, and Hyacinthe strolled about, eating her grandmother's famed lemon tarts and drinking tea or fruit cordials or rose brandies. She had stayed busy. She had resumed her Italian lessons and asked White to begin teaching her Greek, which pleased him very much (or was it being close to Thérèse that pleased him?). Her painting was nearly finished, and she had ordered a duplicate painting to be sent to her grandmother. There were no paintings of her at Tamworth, as there had been no paintings of her brothers and sisters. She wanted her grandmama to have her there in spirit, if not in flesh. She wrote regularly to her grandmother and to Tony and to little Mary. It was now two months since the news of the deaths. She still wore black. She still avoided evening balls and receptions. But she visited and played cards with Richelieu, and she and Roger held quiet dinners. She was working on a floor plan for Devane House, based in part on La Malcontenta. White helped her. He found the original plans and corrected her sketches. She felt full of purpose, almost content when she worked on it. It was a combination of Palladio and Tamworth and Saylor House. It was good. Even White said so. The pain was better. Her brothers and sisters were often in her thoughts, but not always with tears. There was no child. That was a new grief in her life. Roger was attentive and adoring, but something was happening. She had changed. She wanted more from him. He was always buying her presents, extravagant things, diamonds, a new coach, Richelieu's horse. (Richelieu had had to sell; he was so in debt. It had taken the zest out of their gambling for a while, until Richelieu suggested they gamble for Roger's nightcap. She had loved that.) But she wanted more than trinkets and Roger's occasional regard. She felt so alone. She read her Bible often, trying to be patient, to be long–suffering. Charity (which her grandmother said meant love) suffereth long, and is kind. Charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil.
From her chair, she watched Hyacinthe throw sticks for the dogs. (Bad Harry. He still growled at Philippe every time he saw him, and Barbara could never find it in her heart to discipline him.) Thérèse and White stood on the terrace steps watching also.
"Something has to change," White was saying. "I cannot stand this much longer. I want you, Thérèse. I love you."
Thérèse did not answer. She never answered. White turned away and walked up the steps. Even in his own misery, he noticed that Lady Devane seemed forlorn today for all the company about her house. She had changed since the deaths of her brothers and sisters. She was quieter, more mature. And Lord Devane had not changed with her, White thought with sudden insight, looking toward Roger and the Prince de Soissons, who were strolling across the gravel path toward the terrace steps. As usual, they were talking animatedly, and Roger must have said something amusing because the prince threw back his head and laughed. And he put his hand on Roger's shoulder just for a moment. For some reason, the gesture bothered White. He stared at them and then at Lady Devane. She was watching them also.
Philippe's gesture imprinted itself on her mind, repeating itself over and over in a sudden, stopped moment of time. She felt faint and did not know why. She stood up to call to Roger.
LeBlanc appeared at the terrace doors, the ones that led from the blue– and–gold salon.
"You have a visitor, madame."
She turned. Two young men were framed in the doorway, both dressed in the height of fashion with all its excess: the laces, the red heels, the large buckles on the shoes, the heavy, curling wigs, the patches, the walking canes. One of the young men was unusually handsome, with dark skin and oddly colored violet eyes and a straight nose over a firm, full mouth. He was smiling, and his smile was like Barbara's. The other young man beside him was eclipsed, ugly by comparison, young, thin, with staring dark eyes and thick lips.
"Harry!"
She screamed the words. One of the dogs bounded to her obediently, but she was already running.
Everyone's attention was caught. They watched her fly across the terrace, two dogs yapping at her heels, to throw herself into the arms of the handsome young man, who caught her, laughing, and swung her around and around. She covered his face with kisses. Then she held it in her two hands, and he smiled at her. Like her, when he smiled, he was beautiful.
"Harry," she said. She turned to her guests, who were more or less assembled up and down the terrace steps, their eyes riveted.
"This is my brother," she said to them all. "Henry John Christopher Alderley—Harry!"
On cue, one of the dogs leapt suddenly in the air, almost to her waist, flipped and landed on its feet before her. Everyone applauded.
Chapter Seventeen
Arm in arm, Barbara and Harry strolled through the gardens. She had introduced him to everyone, along with his friend Philip, Lord Wharton, or Wart, as Harry called him. Wart sat in one of wrought–iron chairs describing Rome to White and Montrose, who hung on his every word.
Reactions to Harry had been varied. Thérèse stood still, staring at him in a way that made White nervous and then half angry. But Harry was concentrating on a glass of rose brandy and keeping his big–buckled, red–heeled shoes clean, and he did not really notice Thérèse or, at least, White did not see him notice. Roger had been glad to see him, while Philippe said coolly, "Yes, I know of your father." Harry had flushed red and looked irritated. Later, Philippe had taken Roger aside and warned him about young Lord Wharton, who openly flirted with Jacobite politics. Both the English and French governments were keeping an eye on him. "Not the best friend for your brother–in–law to have," Philippe said. And Roger had watched Harry stroll off with Barbara with an eye that was now not quite so fond.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," Barbara said, squeezing his arm, "I cannot tell you how I feel." She smiled at him. (Taking stock: he was heavier than he had been when he left Tamworth, but it made him more manly looking, less the boy. He was dressed in the height of fashion, expensively, and she wondered where he got the money—forgetting Roger's generosity. He seemed calmer, less angry inside. Perhaps he was over Jane. He had already had two glasses of rose brandy, but she could not see the old symptoms of quarrelsomeness and melancholy yet. Italy had done something for him. In November, she had said good-bye to a boy, and now she walked with a man.)
The two dogs gamboled and frisked at their feet as they walked down the path to the large landscape pool.
"How are you going to keep us apart?" Harry asked her, indicating one of the dogs. Barbara laughed. "I could change his name to Ralph."
"But would he answer?"
"No. I guess we shall have to call him Harry–dog."
"Flattering. He is Harry–dog. Who am I? Harry–man?"
She leaned down in the path, her skirts in the dirt, and grabbed Harry's front paws.
"Listen to me," she told the dog, shaking a finger at him. "You are Harry–dog. Understand? Harry–dog!" He whined and tried to lick her face. Charlotte nudged Barbara. Barbara scratched both their heads while Harry watched her, taking stock, as she had done just a few moments before.
Finally, she stood up and linked her arm in his and they continued their walk. At the pool, she sat on its edge, tearing apart a leaf and tossing bits of it into the water.
"You are thin, Bab," Harry said.
She tossed her head. "I know."
He sat down beside her and took her face in one hand. "It was terrible news, was it not? Out of the blue like that. I got drunk. And I stayed drunk for two days."
A solitary tea
r plopped onto the bodice of her gown. Gently, Harry traced its path on her cheek with one finger. He quoted softly:
"Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whil'st I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this Mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee."
"Why Harry," she said, surprised. "I did not know you liked poetry."
"It was useful in Italy. Lady Rising liked poetry. Poetry…and other things."
She recognized this note in his voice—that old ironic melancholy of his, let loose by drinking. She touched his face briefly, her touch as light as a butterfly's wings. She knew him; he had done things in Italy he was ashamed of. He was still torn between his boyish ideals and the reality of growing up. Poor Harry.
The afternoon sun glinted softly in the depths of the pool.
"Tell me about you," he said. "About your marriage. Are you happy?"
