by Karleen Koen
She screamed his name. Everyone was staring at her; all mouths a small O.
"Charles!"
She did not care what they thought.
"Charles!"
The veins stood out in each side of her neck.
The door made a thudding sound as it closed behind him. Outside, he leaned over and vomited in the street.
* * *
She had been waiting in Harry's room for an hour. I have failed, she thought over and over. Afternoon was fading; soon it would be the beginning of the summer twilight. She paced up and down in front of Harry's window; already she had sent Harry's man with another note for Jemmy. He was ordered to slip it under the door if no one answered. Wild plans went through her head. If Harry found Jemmy, she would have him knock him unconscious and then kidnap him, taking him somewhere in the country until Charles was calmer. She would learn where they were dueling and leap in front of their pistols or swords at the last minute so that they could not kill each other. She would tell the constable and have them both arrested. The whole thing was a nightmare tinged with melodrama, too poorly acted to garner anything but orange peels and boos from an audience. It could not be happening; yet it was. One act on her part setting into motion a chain of events that was leading to tragedy. If Jemmy died, she would not be able to forgive herself. Or Charles. If Jemmy died, the scandal would be enormous. She would have to withdraw from court. The Frog would read her a righteous lecture. The maids of honor would snicker behind their fans. Roger could divorce her. Easily. How Philippe would love that. She could envision him, a black raven on Roger's shoulder, advising him. Ironic that she had lain in her bath—was it only this morning?—and planned to go to Tamworth to sort out her life. Her life was now unraveling. She had it in her hands, but the threads, tons of them, slipped through her fingers. Do not let Jemmy die, she prayed as she paced back and forth. Please. Please. Please. She thought of all she might have said to Charles and had not. She should have listened to her mother; she should have gone on her knees there in the tavern, pleading. Weeping.
The door opened and Harry stood there looking at her. She had to sit down, knowing what he was going to say even as he said it.
"I could not find him—"
Sweet merciful Jesus, pray for us now in the hour of our need. She held out her hands, and Harry crossed the floor swiftly to take them.
There was a knock on the door. She and Harry stared at each other, one thought on both their minds. She found herself choking, unable to breathe as Harry opened the door. Jemmy….
Diana walked in.
"I could not wait another moment at my house," she said, going at once to her daughter and ignoring Harry. "I must have been to yours at least seven times. What is happening?"
"The duel is set for tomorrow morning," Harry said with a glance at his sister. He still had the door open, as if by wishful thinking his mother would walk back through it.
"Tomorrow morning!" Diana cried. "Did you see Charles? Did you?"
Barbara did not answer,
"I knew it!" Diana said. "I knew that temper of yours would ruin everything. Time and again I have told you how to handle men. And do you listen? No. You think you know everything. You have to cajole them, plead with them, make them think you are weak and frightened when they are angry. There are times to lose your temper, Barbara Alderley, and there are times to keep it, and a wise woman knows—"
"Shut up!" Barbara cried, putting her hands over her ears. "Shut up!"
There was a note in her voice that rose above their heads. Hearing it, Harry went to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. I am hysterical, Barbara thought, as if from a distance.
"It is not true," she heard herself saying to Harry. "Tell me it is not true."
"Bab," he told her gently. "They are placing bets on the duel at White's, which means that Jemmy has accepted Charles's challenge."
"Where will it be?"
"Who knows?"
"If you could find out—"
"You would do what?" Diana cut in sarcastically. "Show up in your carriage, scream, have hysterics while their seconds hold you, and they end up killing each other for certain because you are there! You cannot stop the duel, Barbara. And if you dare to be where it is held, your reputation will never recover. People will think you went there to gloat, to cheer Charles on, to—"
"Damn what people think!"
"No, Bab. She is correct. Listen to her."
Barbara was silent, looking from Harry to her mother and back again. "The Earl of Camden," she said. "I could go to him." The earl was Jemmy's father.
"And do what?" demanded Diana.
"I–I could explain what has happened, and how it is my fault, and beg him to order Jemmy away."
Diana pursed her lips. "It is unlikely he would…and yet…"
"And yet?"
"It might be worth a try. I know the old man, I will write a note so that he will receive you. Yes, it might work. Jemmy could be sent away immediately, confined for a while to his father's estates; Charles would cool off, you could disappear."
"To Tamworth."
"Yes. To Tamworth. And I would explain to the prince that your friendship with Jemmy was distorted, tell him how you worked to save him, and when you came back to court, say, in December, he would be as hot for you as ever."
"Harry." Barbara's voice was barely controlled. "Tell her that I am not going to bed with the Frog. She will not listen to me."
"Mother, she is not going to bed with the Frog."
"And why not? You seem to have bedded everyone else."
Harry flushed. "Out," he told Diana. "Get out."
Diana sat down, deliberately fluffing out her skirts so that the elaborate edging on the hem should not be crushed.
"It is my fault," Harry said to Barbara, "for answering the door without asking who was on the other side. Shall I drag her out forcibly?"
"Get me some paper," Diana ordered, unimpressed with either of them. She waited. "Why are you two staring at me? I thought time was of the essence here."
'"I am going to lie down a moment," Barbara said, her hand over her eyes. "You deal with her." She went out of the room.
Harry motioned his mother to the cluttered table, finding the pen and inkwell for her while she irritably rifled through the crumpled papers littering the top of the table.
"You remind me of your father," she told him, frowning. "All these unpaid bills. I have been bankrupt, Harry, and I tell you it is a terrible state to be in. Once we get this nonsense with Barbara settled, I am going to find you a wealthy wife. And you are going to marry her if I have to order you dragged to the altar. These receipts for South Sea stock—it is rumored Sir John Blunt has been quietly selling his. Since he is the principal director behind the massive selling, I would take note. I myself have already written a note to Roger, telling him I wish him to buy back my stock. What is this, ten guineas for green gloves? That shopkeeper is a highway robber; I would not pay it."
"I have no intention of doing so. The letter, Mother."
Diana concentrated on her task. Harry was silent, watching her. Once she asked him how to spell "favor," and once she asked him about the betting at White's.
"Three to one that Charles will kill him," he told her shortly.
She signed her name with a flourish; it was perhaps the only word which came easily from her pen, other than "money."
"Good odds," she said. "Do you think he will?"
"Yes."
"Fool. Men in love are fools, but then so are women. I told Barbara to watch herself with him. Here. I am finished."
He waved the ink–stained, blotted note to dry the ink.
"What do you think will happen if this fails?" he asked his mother.
"Jemmy will die. The scandal will be enormous until some fresh scandal replaces it, as it will. Barbara will have to retire from court for a few months. The prince will sulk, miss her, allow her return too soon. Roger may petition for a divorce, but I doubt he will. In fa
ct, Harry, our best ploy is to reconcile them—do not scowl. It would be better for Barbara. By spring, most people will barely remember why she left court, though there will be a certain unsavoriness added to her reputation. But she can return, resume her place, and if we are fortunate, she will be more amenable to the prince's overtures after her brief exile."
She eyed Harry knowledgeably. He blushed. She knew how easy it would be for him if Barbara became the Prince of Wales's mistress. There would be money, sinecures, other estates for the asking.
"Barbara!" he called angrily. His mother read him too well. "You never give up, do you?" he said to her.
She smiled at him. "No."
In the carriage, Barbara said to him, "By the way, today I overheard two men talking. One of them said he thought the South Sea Company underfinanced. I thought you might want to know."
He shook his is head. "I have a hunch stock will rise again, Bab. I cannot always be unlucky, can I?"
She counted hedges and ditches and ponds on the wearying hour's journey to Islington, where the earl and his wife were in summer residence. She watched milkmaids herding their cows home, groups of them laughing and singing and swinging their buckets, barefoot in the summer dust. How free they look, she thought. The carriage had to stop for flocks of geese and sheep, ragamuffin boys herding them toward the village common where the animals would graze a while before going to night pastures or barns. In the fields, harvesters were still shucking corn, working as late as possible in the summer's long twilight, to bring it in. Their voices were raised in song, and women and children followed to gather the gleanings, that corn not harvested because of size or odor; and therefore traditionally left to whoever wanted it in other fields; yellow faces of corn peeped through green stalks, waiting their turn to be harvested. She thought of Tamworth, remembering its harvest seasons, the concentrated, sunburned faces of the workers, the harvest suppers as the sun set, the corn piled high and yellow, children playing in the stubble, the rich heaviness to the pears and apples and plums that would be waiting on the tree limbs for their harvest, the scurry and bustle all over Tamworth as her grandmother directed men distributing corn and fruit, some to the kitchens, some for drying, some for her stillroom, some for the poor who would have need of it during the cold winter. I wish I were there now, she thought, closing her eyes, seeing it, seeing the meadows, the corn waving in the breeze, the apple trees heavy with fruit.
"We are here," Harry said, shaking her shoulder. "Wake up."
The interview with the earl was difficult. Harry held her hand while she tried to explain. The earl's face became grayer with each word she spoke. Finally he stood with his back to her, staring out his windows at the darkening gardens, while the clackety song of crickets came clearly through the windows to compete with the sound of Barbara's low, throaty voice.
"Please do something," she finished, and her voice was shaking. "You are the only one who can. It is a misunderstanding from start to finish. Lord—Lord Russel is sometimes hot–tempered and impetuous, but I know he will regret his actions once he has time to think on them. And I will not be the cause of hurt to your son if there is any way I can prevent it. Please, my lord…"
It was some time before the earl turned around to face her. Finally he said, "He fancies himself a man. He is a man. He will consider it an affair of honor—"
"In another year or two it will be an affair of honor. Not now. I beg you to do as I ask. No one will think badly of him or of you for saving him. He is too young to face this!"
The earl took a great while to answer her. Finally he said, "I will write the note. I do not condone what has happened, but I will do what I can. He is still so young, as you say. Wait here for me, Lady Devane."
He went into an adjoining smaller room. When he returned, the sound of a woman's crying came through the door with him. He handed a folded and sealed note to Barbara.
"My wife," the earl said simply. "He is our youngest, you know."
The earl walked them to their carriage.
"Lady Devane," he said, putting his hand on Barbara's arm as she began to climb into the carriage. Harry stepped back to allow them some privacy. "It took a great deal of courage for you to come to me as you have. I thank you for that. And if you will forgive an old man's tactlessness, I think you a better woman than this situation reflects."
* * *
She waited now in her bedchamber in St. James's. Armed with the note, Harry had sworn to her that he would find Jemmy if he had to search all night. Her mother was with her. She did not wish it so, but there was no keeping her away short of ordering Dawdle to throw her out, and her mother outweighed him. Diana lay on the bed, fully dressed, dozing on and off. Barbara sat in a chair near her window, open to catch the night's breezes. For a while she had listened to the sound of carriages, of people walking in the square and hailing one another, but finally even that had stopped. There was now only silence, and the night watchman's hourly cry. She tried not to worry with the passing time, tried to believe that it boded good, not evil. A kind of litany went continually through her mind: Lord have mercy upon us, please make Harry find Jemmy, please make Jemmy read the note, please make Jemmy obey his father, Lord have mercy upon us. That out of her drunken act could have come this was beyond belief. She shivered, and finally she dozed, starting awake every once in a while, then dozing again. Diana snored, sleeping the sound sleep of those with clear consciences.
At dawn, Harry tiptoed into the room, the Duke of Wharton behind him. The faces of both young men were pale and drawn. In her chair, sleeping, Barbara was just beginning to be outlined by the light of a dawn that was growing stronger. A great, long snort of Diana's jolted her awake. She sat up and saw Harry at once, Wart behind him.
"Tell me!" she demanded of them both. "You found him? He read the note? Harry…"
At the expression on his face, her voice dried up. The pupils in her eyes began to dilate.
Harry pulled her up, holding on to both her arms.
"Listen to me. I gave him the note. He would not listen to reason. He said it was your honor as well as his. That he would defend your good name with his life. He would not listen, Bab. It is not your fault. Do you hear me? You have done everything you possibly could."
"He is not…"
"He is dead," Wart said tiredly, "though to be fair to Charles, I do not think he meant to kill him. Jemmy moved at the last second."
Barbara said nothing. She sank to the floor.
Snoring loudly, Diana woke herself up with a start. She saw Harry and Wart staring down at Barbara, who sat on the floor in her nightgown and shawl, slumped over like a limp rag doll.
"He killed him, did he?" she said. "Well, that is that. There goes the prince."
Chapter Twenty–Two
Philippe sat in the pleasant gardens of the house Roger was leasing for the summer from the Countess of Dysart. The gardens reached down to the shining, silver waters of the Thames. From his seat under a shady arbor, he could watch the river swans, their regal necks arching in the sun as they floated in random, languorous formation to London. It was a leisurely day; bees drifted from roses to pinks to sweet Williams, insatiable, slowly swelling with the amount of nectar they contained, until they resembled nothing so much as tiny, striped barrels. Bright butterflies flitted in the air until they were lost to the eye over the river.
There were few large houses in the vicinity, and finding a place to stay was difficult, but Roger, with his usual charm and luck, had managed to lease this small house. Philippe was having to board in a tavern. The house was in Richmond, a sleepy village on the verge of waking because the Prince and Princess of Wales spent the summers here, staying in a lodge in Richmond Old Park. They talked of rebuilding the lodge, and there was further talk of building a row of modern town houses, to house the princess's maids of honor, along one side of Richmond Green, the center of the village, a large, open common that had once fronted a palace of Henry VIII. The palace had long since fallen apart, b
ut the green remained vital, the center of the community. Richmond's only boast to fame, other than the fact that it was favored by the prince, was its hill not far from the green and in a curve of the Thames. The view from Richmond Hill was one of the finest Philippe had ever seen. From the top one drank in the serene beauty of the shining, curving ribbon of the Thames, surrounded by green fields and woods and pastures and, in the distance, under clouds floating like white sheep in a summer blue sky, were the medieval spires of Harrow and Windsor. Wealthy merchants and noblemen, their eyes not on the view but rather on the prospect of the future King of England, were already beginning to buy parcels of land and build spacious summer houses. Roger planned to do so and had borrowed yet more money on his South Sea stock to buy up property in the area.
Philippe said nothing to these plans. There was no dealing with Roger's boundless enthusiasm these days. Everything he owned was invested in the building of Devane House and the square, yet he continued to borrow on his stock to invest in land and in the new companies created over the summer and to buy more paintings, more furnishings, more rare books and folios and manuscripts. Philippe had a typical nobleman's attitude toward money, in that it was simply there and not something one worried about, yet he was alarmed at the amount of money Roger was spending.
