by Karleen Koen
The carriage began to circle around the grounds of Wren's lovely church—workmen were busy here, too—until it turned into the short road that was Barbara Lane, her lane, before the gates of Devane House, into which Roger had been pouring his money and energy these last few years. Her house, also. She gave her name to the gatekeeper, who allowed himself one glance of startled curiosity before he ran to open the massive wrought–iron gates. The carriage rolled onto a circular drive, on each side of which were planted rows and rows of young lime trees. Barbara had the carriage stop, and she stepped out. She walked through the young trees to the fountain opposite the gates. Gardeners were everywhere, digging, hauling, planting.
The fountain had added to her reputation. Out of its waters rose a naked sea nymph atop a giant scallop shell. It was very Louis XIV, and very Barbara, for the nymph, with her streaming hair and slim body, was said to have more than a close resemblance to her. The fountain was not on. She stood on its stone rim and stared at the face of the sea nymph. Charles was correct. It looked like her. Why would Roger have done that? She turned to stare past the landscape pool and gardens through an alley of larger trees, straight ahead to Devane House, completed only to its first story, but magnificent in its frame of trees and garden and blue August sky. She remembered her primitive sketches of so long ago, of La Malcontenta. She had not seen La Malcontenta with Roger, after all, but with Harry. She had gazed at its beauty, its perfection, with a heart that threatened to burst. The large, serene, temple–front entrance, grand stairs reaching up to it on each side, the house around it simply a magnificent frame. There were willow trees and a lake. La Malcontenta. Roger.
Off to one side, hidden by the trees, was the small pavilion of arts, resembling a Roman summer villa, connected to the main house by a loggia—an arcaded roofed gallery. This she had seen, though she had no memory of it. She remembered only Roger…and Philippe. The pavilion, too, was the talk of London, for no one else had ever built a separate building to house his art, though Lord Burlington was now said to be doing so. Roger was in the forefront of a new fashion. All people could speak of was its classical shape, the ornate decoration of its rooms, the rare paintings and statues and medals and busts it housed, the great octagonal dome of its center salon. All through the spring, Roger had hosted parties there, and people had strolled through his temple and its adjoining gardens and admired his taste and wealth and hospitality. Barbara had also been invited; a personal messenger had come to St. James's Square before each reception. But she had never gone, not again. Neither she nor Harry. Charles had. And Wart. And both had described the beauty of the house and the temple and the grounds. But now, standing here in the hot sunshine, she could at last see it and feel it, and she was proud, proud that Roger had achieved what he had, proud that she was married to him, no matter the state of their marriage.
She went back to the carriage and had the driver take her around the drive to the front of the house. It rose before her, half–finished, massive, solid, splendid. Workmen, off to one side of the entrance, worked high up on wooden scaffolding, encasing brick by brick the second story of the house. Wagons of brick stood waiting beneath them. She got out and ran up the elaborate double staircase of the portico, the roofed porch resembling the facade of a temple. This staircase and portico matched that of the smaller temple and those of the town houses. It was an example of Roger's style, connecting all the different buildings of his overall design, unobtrusively but solidly. She had to knock on the double door a long time before someone answered, and then the housekeeper could only stare at her with her mouth open. The housekeeper was round, round everywhere, round mouth, round face, round body. She reminded Barbara of the apple dolls she and Jane used to make after apple harvest.
"I am Lady Devane," she said coldly. "I need someone to pay the driver. I want something to eat and a cup of tea, and a carriage to take me to St. James's Square." And then, at the expression on the woman's face: "I am Lady Devane," this time slowly, "Lord Devane's wife."
"Oh…yes. Yes! If you will follow me, my lady," said the woman, recovering herself and beginning to smile. Her smile was round, too. "This way, my lady."
She led Barbara through the huge, cool hall into another huge, cool room to a long gallery that ran along one side of the house. Barbara could feel the woman's surreptitious glances, and she cursed herself for following her impulse and wished she were more like her mother, whom nothing bothered. And then, with the realization of the enormity of her last thought, her legs felt weak and she had to sit down in the window seat of one of the long windows that lined the outer wall of the gallery. She felt sick. The housekeeper followed,
"Please," she said to her, struggling with nausea again. "Pay the driver waiting outside. And see if you have anything I can eat. Anything at all. I–I was in the neighborhood and I wished to stop and rest for a moment."
The woman smiled at her. "You just never mind me, my lady, it is the surprise of it that has got me acting like a chicken with its head cut off. You just sit right there and rest yourself. I will take care of everything. That I will. Now, what eat I feed you? I have nothing fancy, what with Lord Devane gone and me not expecting you. Oh, Lord Devane will be angry with me when he finds out—"
"We will keep it a secret," Barbara said hastily, trying to stop the woman's flow of words, wanting her only to go away and leave her alone. "Between you and me. So he will not know and therefore not be angry—"
"He told us time and again we were to be ready for you whenever you might call. But what with time passing and all, well, we let ourselves slide into sloth. Sloth. I could just shake myself. Me with nothing prepared. But I have bread," she said, brightening. "Freshly baked bread. And some roasted chicken—"
"Chicken would be wonderful," Barbara said quickly. "And do not blame yourself. I gave you no warning. I promise I will say nothing to Lord Devane." She smiled at the irony of those words.
The woman dropped a curtsy. "And I have not even introduced myself. Well, you see, I am surprised. Head over heels. Elmo, my lady. Mrs. Lettice Elmo at your service. Now will you sit here, or do you want to rest in your apartment? I could make down the bed and—"
"My—my apartment?"
"Oh, yes. And a grand one it is. Lord Devane had it decorated last year when the house was far enough along to live in. It is the only set of rooms that is finished. Not even his own are."
"I will sit here, Mrs. Elmo. Perhaps—perhaps later I will see it. Now, if you do not mind, I am so very hungry—"
And to her relief, Lettice Elmo rustled off, in a bustle now to do her duty.
Barbara leaned her head against the window frame and stared out into the gardens, but she did not really see them. She was thinking of what the housekeeper had said, and of the fact that she had so casually thought of wanting to be like her mother. It is time to stop when you can think such a thing without shuddering, Barbara Devane, she told herself. And Jemmy was in her mind again. And Charles. She pressed her hand to her mouth. He must not know what had happened. She would write a note to Jemmy and beg him to be discreet. If I survive this without being killed by Charles, she thought—and only part of her thought was in jest—I am going to have to make some changes in my life. I cannot go on this way. Jemmy. Sweet Jesus. He is a boy. A boy. Nothing to me. Charles will be so angry. She shook her head rebelliously. He always wanted her to bend to his will. She would not. He said he loved her. You did not select me, he told her, his mouth pulled up to one side ironically, I selected you. You had no choice, Barbara. No choice at all. She had been wrong (another mistake in her summer's seemingly endless series of mistakes) to think she could handle him, but her anger, that bright, blinding anger that often led her to do things she had no real wish to, had her by the throat. She remembered the white, even gleam of Philippe's teeth as he smiled at her under the great candlelit chandelier in the domed salon. She shuddered. Today, her life was a shambles. How glad Philippe must be.
The chicken and freshly baked br
ead made her feel better, stronger. She tore white chunks from the bread's warm heart as if she were a starving beggar. She picked every last morsel of meat from the chicken bones, sitting cross–legged in the window seat like a gypsy. At last she dipped greasy hands in the delicate porcelain bowl of lemon water (two tiny rosebuds floated in it) Mrs. Elmo had brought in with the food. She could see Roger's taste in everything, from the china dishes she ate from and the lace–trimmed linen napkin she wiped her hands on to the ornate wall and ceiling carvings, and the symmetry of the graceful, tall windows in the room in which she was sitting. Roger had always had an eye for what was beautiful. She remembered those months in Paris, when every aspect of her life had seemed full and rich and beautiful. When she had been so in love.
I must go, she thought, standing, but then Mrs. Elmo was back, and she let herself be persuaded to view the rest of the house. She walked through the rooms behind Mrs. Elmo, seeing everywhere grace and beauty, light and spaciousness, the finest of craftsmanship in whatever was built. She felt Roger's touch everywhere, felt surrounded by it, as if he had taken her in his arms. None of the rooms she saw were finished. Some lacked paintings on their ceilings or chimneypieces or draperies for their windows or furniture or carpets. But it did not matter. What was done was splendid. Perfect. She could feel and see the time and care that had gone into the house as she walked through its silent rooms. In one large salon, her portrait hung, the one that had been painted in Paris, suspended by a long, dark velvet ribbon. She stared up at it, its presence shocking her. She and Mrs. Elmo stared up into the face of that girl (painted before her brothers and sisters died), at the laughter, zest, and innocence that radiated from it.
"I should have recognized you at once," Mrs. Elmo said. "Not a day goes by that I do not look at that portrait."
"Time changes us," Barbara said softly.
"You are more beautiful," Mrs. Elmo said.
Barbara was silent.
Mrs. Elmo led her to a door. "This is your apartment," she said, beaming. "I saved the best for last."
Hesitantly, Barbara stepped over the threshold of the first room of the apartment. It was an antechamber, a sitting room. Beyond would be a bedchamber. This room was lovely: a thick Turkish carpet atop the par quetry floor, festoons of carved flowers across the walls and surrounding the mirror above the fireplace, small, delicate pieces of furniture: tables, armchairs, stools, a tiny writing desk. The window draperies and the furniture upholstery were a fresh, light color, the shade of sea foam. The paintings mounted on the walls were all her favorite ones—long ago, she had told Roger what she liked. She walked into the bedchamber. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of her grandfather. The draperies surrounding the bed frame were embroidered with hundreds of roses. Fresh flowers sat in a vase by a table near the window. A climbing rose bloomed outside the windows. She could smell its fragrance, heady and sweet from where she stood.
"I put flowers in here every day," Mrs. Elmo said. "Those are Lord Devane's orders."
Barbara felt something in her throat catch. Mrs. Elmo opened another door. Here was a smaller chamber, and stepping into it, Barbara felt an affinity, a perfectness that shook her soul. It was small, intimate, made for reading or writing or checking household receipts or embroidering. The walls were damasked, and they sloped upward to a low ceiling painted with children and lolling cherubs. It was unfurnished, except for a long, low bench and a cradle in a corner, swathed in gauze. Barbara's heels tapped on the uncovered parquetry of the floor as she went to it. She touched its edge carefully with one finger. The cradle rocked gently. Dear God, she thought, closing her eyes, feeling tears, hot and burning, years old, behind her eyes. Dear, dear God.
"I did not know where to put that," Mrs. Elmo said quickly behind her. "It ought to go in the nursery, but those rooms are not finished. So I said to myself, Lettice Elmo, you just put that pretty thing in here. Not expecting you. Shall I take it away?'
"No."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
Both of them stared at the cradle. Mrs. Elmo sighed. "There is nothing like children to let you know what life is all about. I had seventeen myself, and ten of them lived to make me proud. I see my daughters every Sunday. Every Sunday. They are good girls. Well, now, Lady Devane, if you will come this way. This door leads up back to the main salon—"
In the carriage, once it was on its way and she no longer had to smile and listen to Mrs. Elmo, she lay back against the seat, drained. Thoughts, images, memories circled in her head like blackbirds against a clear sky. Charles. Jemmy. Roger. The cradle. She felt sick again, but this was not the sickness brought on by too much drink. This was a sickness of heart. Of spirit. For what might have been.
At St. James's Square, Dawdle, her majordomo, opened the door for her, almost as if he were expecting her.
"Your mother has been here," he called after her as she ran up the stairs. "Twice. And Lord Charles Russel."
That stopped her midstep. She turned on the stairway. "When?"
"This morning. Very early, Lady Devane. He woke me up pounding on the door."
She ran on up the stairs to her bedchamber (not Roger's…never Roger's, but another room she had chosen for herself). She ordered the hip bath and pulled a dust sheet off a chair so she could sit while she waited for Dawdle and the one chambermaid on duty to carry up buckets of water to fill it. Dawdle was full of questions: how long would she be staying? should he hire another temporary chambermaid and a cook? what did she desire for dinner? but she just shook her head at him, holding on to herself inside, the wound, the hurt, reopened and pulsing larger and larger. I should have stayed away, she thought. What a fool I am. Later, she told him. I will decide everything later. He ripped dust covers from the furniture and opened windows and apologized for not being more prepared, but she waved him away. She wanted only to be alone.
She ripped off her clothing and sank down as far as she could into the water. It felt good, cool. Not a breath of air from the open windows stirred the draperies. She washed her body, scooped water up to her breasts and neck and face, concentrated on slowing her breathing. Everything was pushing up inside. Push it back down, down. This was it…wash it away….So Charles had been here, had he? Striding past Dawdle to check her bedchamber himself. She knew that from what Dawdle did not say; servants had a way of communicating unpleasantness to their betters. And her mother. What on earth could she have wanted? Well, none of it mattered. None of it. Because she was going to lie here in the cool water for a few more moments until she was calm and collected inside, until those bad thoughts just on the other side of her mind went away. And then she was going to rise and dress and write Jemmy a note (going by his lodging on her way out of town or giving it to Harry to handle) to tell him that he must deny everything, for her sake. That it was all a drunken mistake. That she was fond of him, but no more than that. That she humbly begged his pardon; it did not matter if he hated her; indeed, that might be best. And then she was going to Richmond (before Charles could find her) to pick up Thérèse and Hyacinthe and the dogs. And then she was going to her grandmother's. And if Charles wanted to follow her, he could damn well come face to face with her grandmother. Because she was leaving London and Charles and this mess of a spring and summer to see if she could make sense of it in Tamworth with her grandmother.
She put her hands to her face. The cradle. The pain. The pain of seeing that empty cradle….shake it, fight it, think of something else….Oh, she should have stayed with her grandmother to sort out emotions that had come with her from Paris, along with her trunks, instead of rushing headlong to London like that fifteen–year–old girl she had once been who believed her dreams would come true if she only dreamed them long enough. And they had not. She gasped. The pain was agony. Her heart was being squeezed with it. She could not breathe…retreat. Yes, retreat. From Charles, from the Frog, from the cradle, from the agony, from everything. A masterly retreat is part of fighting the battle, her grandfather used to
say, waving his pruning shears above the bowed, blossom–heavy heads of his beloved roses. He had no more armies, no more sons, only his roses. He expounded military theory to them and to any of his grandchildren who would stop long enough to listen to him. Her dear, sweet grandfather…. yes, retreat would defuse Charles. By the time he discovered where she was, his anger would have diminished. Irritation would have taken its place.
