by Karleen Koen
She managed to smile through the red mists of pain at the thought of Charles damning her to hell, but searching for her anyway. As she knew he would. As she would wish him to do. Oh, Charles, she thought, you will not be angry with me anymore. You will want to kiss me and make up, but, my dear Charles, my dear love, I think it is too late for that. Too late for us. She could not run away any longer. The pain took her and shook her. She gasped like a fish in her bath. She was a rat caught by a cat, and the cat was shaking her, shaking her to death in its mouth. The ghosts of her brothers and sisters danced around her; the ghosts of the children she had not borne, the dreams that had not come true. She was on a brink, an edge. Now. And she must step back. She must gather the courage to step back. Before it was too late. As it had become in Paris. Before she so changed that the girl who lived inside her, who stared at her some mornings from behind her eyes as she looked into her mirror, would never again be free. Boo. The pain, ah, the pain. Face the truths, whatever they were. Face them. However ugly, they were better than lies. Lies slowly strangled the soul with their gossamer tendrils. She knew. She had felt her soul this afternoon.
She gripped the sides of the bath to control the trembling of her body. To hold inside tears that pushed up like hard, jagged chunks of ice. Hold on. Hold on. Run. Hide. Hide away. To Tamworth. To Grandmama. Grandmama will make it better….She was able to smile, beads of sweat on her upper lip with the effort she was making at that thought. She was no longer a child, her grandmother could no longer kiss the hurt and have her convinced it would go away. But Tamworth, the peace, the haven it seemed this moment. No one quarreling over her. Jemmy. Charles. The Frog. No one yammering at her about what she must do. No Philippe with his cruel, white smile reminding her of what was gone….Tamworth…the wine arbor, the great octagonal bay windows where one could sit hidden all morning, the twisted chimney stacks, the ancient ivy, her grandmother's bedchamber, her grandfather's rose garden, the path to Jane's, the apple orchard, the green cool of the woods in summer…yes, Tamworth. There she would rest. There she could be free. Her breathing was slowing. Carefully, not quite trusting herself, she loosened her hands on the sides of the tub. The trembling was over. She wiped the perspiration from her lip, from her brow. She felt as weak as if she had been sick with a fever. Weak and trembling like an invalid, which was what she was. And what would heal her? Would truth? Would anything? The pain was less now. She could bear it. She sank back into the water, her head held by the bath's high edge, her eyes closed, her body exhausted. She was glad she was alone, so glad for the quiet here, the silence. There was time to pull herself back together, nothing but silent moments of time….The bedchamber door slammed open.
Diana stood framed in the doorway. Her famous violet eyes, like Harry's eyes, narrowed at the sight of her daughter naked in the hip bath, staring at her.
"Well," she said, and her low, throaty voice made the hair rise on the back of Barbara's neck, "you make a pretty sight, but I am the wrong one to waste it on. Charles Russel was at my door this morning before dawn, and I have never seen an angrier man in my life. You had better get out of that bath and find him at once, or there is going to be more trouble than either of us can handle."
Chapter Twenty–One
Mother," Barbara said flatly, "how did you get in here? I thought you were in Norfolk with Walpole."
Diana was already inspecting the gown Barbara had pulled off; she considered her daughter's wardrobe and jewel case extensions of her own, and much more interesting.
"Norfolk is boring," she said. "Robert is boring. All he can think of is building his house and buying more property. I swear I would break with him if he had not just been reappointed to the ministry. Is this new?" She held the gown up. "Where is the waist in front?" The gown was shapeless, falling from neck to hem almost like a tent.
Barbara took a deep breath, trying to hold her temper. How like her mother to barge in, say something outrageous, then talk about fashion. She was not to be trusted. She was selfish and greedy. She had never once asked what happened in Paris. Never once questioned the rumors that had swirled about Roger, about Philippe, about Harry, about Barbara. Not so much as one question, which Barbara could not forgive. But she was not going to deal with her mother today or for many days to come. She was going to Tamworth. Hang Charles. And hang her mother.
"It is the latest style from France, called a sack gown. I am told it was devised by a French duchess to disguise pregnancy, and that Madame will not receive any woman who dares to wear one in her presence. She says they are indecent and look as if the wearer had got straight out of bed. Go away, Mother, I am bathing."
"How comfortable it looks. I ought to have one made myself."
"So you should. Do so immediately. Take my gown—as you will doubtless do anyway—so that you have a pattern. I should warn you, I left my jewel case in Richmond, but there may be a few jewels in the drawers of the dressing table. Take those also. Take anything of mine you want. Then go away."
Diana looked at her daughter. Barbara had learned much in Paris, among her accomplishments the rude, arrogant manners of the French princesses, and she had been known to use them effectively (especially to the Prince of Wales, who was a glutton for punishment). Even so, she was no match for her mother.
"Certainly," Diana said coldly. "The fact that Lord Charles nearly tore my door off at its hinges this morning would be of no interest to you. The fact that he frightened me, and I am, you may be assured, not easily frightened by raging men, would be of no interest to you. The fact that I think he intends to kill whomever you spent the night with would, of course, also be of no interest to you. Good day, Barbara."
"Kill? Kill!" Barbara floundered in the shallow hip bath. "I do not believe you!"
"As you wish. Now I will go home as you have all but thrown me out—"
"Mother! You stay where you are and tell me what makes you say such a wicked, wicked thing!" She felt the fear prickling through her, blossoming hydra–headed in her breast. Charles had dueled before; he was capable of killing someone if he was angry enough. "I am a jealous man," he had said, his hands playing in her hair. "Leave if you must, if you do not care for me. But do not be unfaithful. Not while you are with me. I can forgive all things but that." She gripped the sides of the tub. "What did you tell him?"
"What could I tell him! I had no idea where you were. Where were you, by the way?"
Barbara did not answer.
Diana sat down abruptly, her face changing. It was as if she had momentarily lost strength in her legs. "It is true," she whispered, staring at Barbara. "You were with another man. I cannot believe you would be such a fool! Charles will kill him! And the scandal will ruin all our plans—"
"Your plans, Mother, never mine! If you choose this moment to say one word to me about the Frog, I will—"
"Do not call him the Frog!" Diana said sharply, rallying. "He is your prince and deserves respect—"
"He looks like a frog, he acts like a frog, he is a frog, and that is what I will go to bed with before I bed him. There is nothing, nothing you can say or do that will change my mind—"
"How dare you speak to me so!" Diana's tone was arrogant, scornful, annihilating. "I am your mother, and I have only the welfare of the family left me at heart. You selfish creature! Harry can go to hell in a basket for all you care! You think only of yourself. And I am sick to death of it!"
"Get out!"
Diana stared at her daughter.
"Get out of my room! Get out of my house! Get out of my life! You cannot tell me what to do! And you, above all people, cannot judge me! Get out! Get out! Get out!"
By the last words, Barbara was screaming, out of control, standing up in the bath, water dripping from her, the veins jutting out in her forehead and throat. It was too much, it was all too much, and for her mother to begin nagging about Harry when there was a possibility of a duel between Jemmy and Charles was the last thing she could bear at this moment. A duel. Not again. And n
ot over her. The thought of it was impossible to stand. Charles would set in motion something that would forever affect her, just as the other duel had. The scandal. The lies, the gossip swirling around her, the distortion, the filth clinging to her, making her into something she was not. The aftermath of a duel never ended. People were forever changed, and she could not go through it again. She would not. She did not deserve it. Just as Jemmy did not deserve to die. He was a boy. A child still. What had happened between them was not planned! Was there anyone who would help her? Was there anyone who realized the seriousness of the situation? A man might die—unjustly— because of her. Duels were not glamorous affairs of honor, not when there was anger and revenge behind them. They were blood and possible death and the smell of fear. They were women left alone, crying. As I am alone, she thought. And she began to tremble with the emotion of her fears and the anger at her mother and all that had been uncovered at Devane House today. Her weaknesses were naked and exposed, like shells upon a beach, as she stood there shaking.
Something like compassion moved across Diana's face, though in a saner moment Barbara would have sworn it was not possible for her mother to feel such a thing. At any rate, she picked up the drying cloth and threw it over Barbara's shoulders and helped her from the tub and into a chair. Barbara sat, pulling the cloth about herself like a second skin, while her mother gave her a glass of brandy. She stared at it as if she did not know what to do with it, brandy spilling over her fingers with the violence of her trembling.
"Drink it," Diana said. Her voice had an odd, harsh sound to it. "Drink it all. You will be better in a—"
There was a rapping at the door. Diana's words died in her mouth. She and Barbara stared at each other.
"Charles," Barbara whispered.
She could not face him. She was not afraid of him, but his anger would require such strength to withstand, and she was, at this moment, without anything left inside herself to make her strong.
Diana's face became hard and arrogant. She had enough inside herself to face a regiment of angry men. She strode across the room and whipped open the door. Dawdle, standing there, took a stop backward at the expression on her face.
"A–a note, m–madame," he faltered, "for Lady Devane—"
Diana snatched it from his hands.
"Idiot! You frightened your mistress! Give it to me. Then get out of my sight." Each word was like the lash of a whip. Dawdle stood dumbstruck before her.
"Fool servants," she said, turning away, though Dawdle could still hear her. "They never know how to do anything properly!" She ripped open the note.
"It is from Harry. He says to come to his lodgings as soon as you can—"
Harry. He would help. He would want the duel no more than she; he would remember Paris and its effect….Tony's image rose suddenly in her mind, fair and large. If only Tony were in London. His cool head, his unexpected practicality, would stop everything. He could handle Charles. Stay, Bab, he had said to her the other afternoon, taking her by the arm and staring at her with his wide, pale blue eyes, eyes that were almost gray. He had known what she did not; but she would not listen….
"Harry!" snapped her mother, seeing her expression. "Harry will be about as much help as your cousin Mary. You just listen to me. I know all about duels. You have two options, and two options only: find the man and spirit him out of town, or find Charles and change his mind. Because if the two of them meet first, you are finished. Their sense of honor will be all that is important. I know! If a challenge has been issued, you will not be able to change their minds, though you plead or cry or tell them your husband will beat you. God, Barbara, I could beat you myself! I told you from the beginning that Charles Russel was not a man to be unfaithful to—"
"I did not plan to be unfaithful—"
"Just tell him that!"
"I will!"
"A fat lot of good it will do you."
Barbara picked up the sack gown tiredly. She and her mother always quarreled on the level of children. "Mother, go home. I do not need—"
Diana took the gown from her. "You need me more than you know. Have you no mind at all? You must wear a gown that will accentuate your bosom, your waist, not this new style. A look at a little breast will do more to influence a man's mood than a dozen words. You must look seductive, contrite, tearful."
She was already in the adjoining room searching through gowns. Barbara could hear bits and pieces of her sentences: "…never listen to me…stir up their desire…a man is like a…."
Sitting down to pull on stockings, it was all she could do to make her hands move. There were visions in her head. Paris. Dark early morning hours when she and Thérèse were waiting for word of the duel, both of them crying in turns. The horror of those hours, the certainty that Harry would be killed, the desperate sense of futility, the knowledge that there was nothing that could be done. And then true horror…Harry being carried in, blood covering his face. She could not move. It was Thérèse who had the strength to go forward, to look at his bleeding head, to say in a shaking voice, "He is alive, Holy Mary, Mother of God, he is alive. His ear…it is gone. But he is alive…." Not this way, Charles, she said in her mind. We deserve better than this.
"But then you never can predict exactly what they will do," Diana was saying in front of her. She held up a gown, cut low across the front, with a tight, narrow waist. "This one is out of style, but who will notice. No stays, just you underneath. Lean forward often enough to give him a good look at what is inside this gown, Barbara. It will readjust his goals."
Barbara stood up while her mother tugged the gown over her head, onto the contours of her body.
"Sit down," Diana said. "I will put your rouge and powder on. You are still shaking. You must get hold of yourself. Cry. Not now, then. Can you cry? There is nothing to soften a man like tears." Diana was unscrewing jars that held rouge. "Tears make some men think of bed. Let us hope Charles and the other one—are you going to tell me his name? No? Oh, well, I will know soon enough—be still! Is this rouge new? What shade is this? I like it."
"You may have it." In her mind, she was very far from her mother.
Diana began to feather on the rouge that would make Barbara sophisticated and beautiful. She darkened her brows and lashes, twisted and pinned her thick hair, perfumed her arms and neck and the tops of her breasts. On her face she placed the tiny black silk shapes of hearts and stars and half–moons. She was as fast, as expert as Thérèse. Barbara sat looking at herself in the mirror, at the rouged, fashionable woman who stared back bleakly at her. She did not recognize herself.
Diana admired her work. "All I can say is if either man can resist you, they do not make men the way they used to."
She held up a pearl bracelet that Thérèse must have overlooked in her packing. "Where did you get this? I like it."
"Richelieu gave it to me," Barbara said, jerking it on. Years ago. When I was young. For my sixteenth birthday. When I learned my husband's lover was another man. That was another time, and I was another person.
"Richelieu, heh? I always heard he was good in bed—"
Barbara stood up. "Good–bye, Mother."
She touched Diana's cheek with her own. In her head were visions tinged with red: blood, deep and red, thick, spilling everywhere, on Harry's face, on his hands, across his velvet coat and linen shirt, pulsing, pulsing from the side of his head while she and Thérèse worked like silent, crazed women to stanch the flow. Blood all over them. On their hands. On their gowns. On their faces. In their hair. Its smell. Its slipperiness. It must not happen again. She could not bear it.
"If you find Charles," Diana called after her, "get him into bed. It is your only prayer—" But her daughter was gone.
Diana sat down abruptly on the dressing stool, and then, from the force of long habit, stared at herself in the mirror. The woman who looked back was no longer a flawless beauty; time was there in deeper facial lines, in the myriad wrinkles around the eyes, in sags along the jawline, i
n the extra flesh that padded her body. But the woman who looked back was also still extraordinary looking; the bones underneath the flesh were good; time would never erase them. She frowned at herself and patted the extra softness under her chin. She lifted her chin and looked at it from each side. Suddenly she smiled.
"Not bad for a woman of thirty–four," she said out loud. (She was a month away from forty.) She stood up. At the door, she paused. Back to the dressing table she went. She picked up the jar of rouge in the shade she had liked. And on her way out, she picked up the sack gown and folded it across her arm.
* * *
Harry's servant opened the door. Barbara whirled in, past the parlor and into the bedchamber where Harry, wigless, in his stockings and breeches, was searching through the drawers of a cupboard.
"Charles was here not half an hour ago," he said, his back to her. "He woke me up banging on the door—damn it, have I no clean shirts! Marchpane! Where are my shirts? He wanted to know where Jemmy's lodgings were. I would not tell him."
