by Karleen Koen
In the old days, he and Roger would have discussed the news Philippe had received in his letters from France: Law's carriage had been overturned and attacked by a mob; Law had barely escaped being killed; he had taken refuge in the Palais Royal; he was said to be talking like a man who had lost his mind. There were riots in Paris, new edicts every day from the regent. Could it be possible, Philippe would have asked Roger, that Law's revolutionary theory was a failure? Had he caused a further collapse in the economy? Could England fall the way France seemed to be doing? Sir John Blunt, the force behind the South Sea takeover of the national debt, based his theories on Law's success in France. Should we sell stock? Philippe would have asked. Should we liquidate? But Roger would not hear even the slightest doubt he had, and Philippe had done something that he had never expected. Since July he had been selling South Sea stock, and he had not told Roger…but then Roger would not care if he did tell him. Philippe stared out at the lovely view before him. In four years, he had aged; his face and body were much heavier, and his mouth was bitter, and the bitterness had nothing to do with the old scar that drew it up to one side.
Yesterday at Richmond Lodge he had heard the news of the duel as he strolled with the lovely young Mistresses Bellenden and Lepell, two of Princess Caroline's maids of honor and the brightest, prettiest young adornments of the court…until the Countess Devane had made her entrance last spring. Clusters of people on the terraces were whispering, their faces secretive and grave and underlit with glee, as people's faces always are when they are delivering particularly malicious gossip. Jemmy Landsdowne…dead…Hyde Park…Charles Russel…the Earl and Countess of Camden retiring to their estate to mourn…possible arrest, never, he is the son of a duke…and over and over again… Barbara Devane…Barbara Devane…Barbara Devane. She was in every one's mind, on everyone's tongue, the laughing, flippant, poised young woman whose gowns were always more fashionable than anyone else's, who led the prince around by the nose, who inspired foolish poetry and verses from young men, who was the lover of one of the most eligible men at court, who was rumored to be the next mistress of the Prince of Wales, who did not live with her husband, who wore the slightly rakish air of one who had seen and done her share of living, but who had such lovely, clear blue eyes. Eyes that the young men wrote insipid verse to, never reaching the heights Caesar White had achieved in his last epic poem, "The Dying of Young Aurora."
Barbara added a certain dash to what Philippe had considered a fairly dull court, though courts could be interesting places, particularly courts of the heir to the throne. The fight for power had to be so much more subtle. After all, one must not offend the still–living king with too much solicitude about his heir, the corporeal reminder that even kings are mortal. All summer, Philippe had watched that viper who was Roger's mother–in–law weave her web about the Prince of Wales. And he had smiled ironically to think that he and Diana might share a common goal, for he, too, wanted Barbara to become the prince's mistress, perhaps even more than Diana did. Roger's pride would never allow him to reconcile with the public mistress of a royal prince, particularly such a dull and stupid prince. Therefore, the news of the duel made him ill. He had to stop and rest a moment, the lovely Mistresses Bellenden and Lepell fluttering around him like soft butterflies in their pastel gowns. For he had faith in Diana, in the sheer, dogged determination with which she pursued her goals. And now, a moment's anger between two jealous men, and it was gone. And Philippe, with the expression on Roger's face when he had seen Barbara this spring engraved in his mind, felt poisoned with the final, harsh dregs of his cup of bitterness. For Roger wanted her again….
A lone bee, clearly dazzled by the fragrance and color of nearby snapdragons and pinks and sweet Williams, busied himself in flower after flower, so fat with nectar that he could barely fly from one blossom to the next. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, / Old Time is still a–flying, / And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying." Roger had gathered his rosebuds in Hanover, going from flower to flower, crazed with grief, no joy in his random couplings. Old Time was still a–flying. English poets sometimes put things aptly, though never with the splendor of the French, thought Philippe, gazing at the bee. He had suffered Hanover, knowing the fit must work itself out, that what he had set in motion must be played to its conclusion. But he had never expected that conclusion to be the loss of the physical closeness between them. Yet, when Roger was finally finished that summer in Hanover, he was finished with everything. He was empty, and Philippe had seen for the first time that Roger was no longer immune to time, that this grief, whose depth he had so miscalculated, had changed him. The bee droned close to Philippe's head, too fat with nectar and therefore unable to fly, drifting lower and lower toward the ground, settling near the toe of Philippe's shoe, his wings fluttering in helplessness.
"You were too greedy," Philippe said to him in flawless English, learned all those years ago when he had loved the handsome young aide to the Duke of Tamworth. Now ashes in his mouth. For nothing. He was a stranger alone in a foreign land. The bee droned in agreement. Philippe reached down and carefully set him on a nearby carpet of fallen blossoms. Die in peace, he thought, surrounded by what you love. Death will be welcome to you. When you can no longer taste the divine nectar of life, when love no longer exists, then life is death. You have had your glorious moment in the sun. Die in peace. So I will, droned the bee.
Roger came out of the house and stood in the sunshine. He, too, knew of the duel, but it had not been Philippe who had told him. Philippe knew better than to mention Barbara's name, for with the mention of her name all that they both held so closely inside might burst out, and then Roger would be forced to sever the tie he allowed to remain between them out of kindness. Though, as Philippe had learned, sometimes kindness can be very cruel. Shading his eyes against the sun, Roger saw him and smiled and began to walk toward him. Philippe watched him. The building of Devane House had helped Roger. Philippe had watched it erase the ravages of grief that had shown so clearly after Hanover. But this summer, as Devane House was in its final stages, and London talked of nothing else, and indeed, nothing else was more beautiful, Roger had miraculously shed all signs of aging. He was leaner, fitter, more tanned, and smiling, possessing new energy and drive. There was light and laughter once more in his handsome face. The years disappeared. Once more, people were dazzled by his charm, his smile, that perennial youth so lightly frosted with time. He had taken a mistress, something he had not done since the excesses of Hanover. At every fête, every ball, every concert or opera, all women's eyes followed him and men were drawn to him again once more. Philippe had thought, as he had watched Roger grow quieter and grayer, that perhaps, at last, his sun was setting, and that if he were patient, Roger would turn to him for warmth in his waning years. But suddenly Roger was shining brighter, more dazzling than ever. And the cause—it was far more than Devane House—was probably at this moment on her way back from London, a fresh scandal to her name, and her husband smiling because of it. What cause did he have to smile? Philippe could see the expression on Roger's face. He was happy. Why? Almighty God, why? And once more he tasted the dregs of his pride, bitter, corrosive, copperlike in his mouth. He was a prince of France; his lineage was linked to kings, stretching back hundreds of years; he was learned, sophisticated, a product of the best of his civilization. His pride was immense, and it lay humbled in the dust, a monstrous ruin whose shadow he faced daily. Once there had been no secrets between them. Had they ever been young, laughing over women, sharing them? Had they ever been lovers? There were times now when he thought his memory played him falsely, when he knew its truth only through the pain, which was a daily reminder of what had once been. We pay for our sins in this lifetime, he thought, watching Roger—no longer his lover, yet still his love—stride toward him with the slim vigor of a twenty–year–old, while he sat full and heavy on his bench like a stone. With each breath I take, he thought, I pay for my sins of pride and love. Ah, R
oger…
"I must be getting old," Roger said. The neck of his shirt was open, his sleeves were rolled up, he wore no wig, and he looked like a young man whom nature had grayed too soon. "I have a pain here," he said and touched his chest.
"You ought to rest more," Philippe said irritably. All summer, Roger had been acting as if he were twenty again. He had taken and discarded a new mistress in a four–month span. No wonder he had a pain.
"I have decided to put off my return to London for several days."
Philippe stared at him. "The note said the meeting was urgent—"
"The South Sea directors are old ladies, merchants and bankers trembling in the wind at the idea they might lose a penny."
"But the stock is falling."
"And it will rise again. I told them when they insisted on this Bubble Act that in prosecuting other companies they might make their own stock fall. It is a tremor, no more. It will rise again."
"Roger, take time to read my letters from France. I have an ominous feeling—"
He stopped. The look of impatience that crossed Roger's face at his words made him ill with pain. Once he had been the leader, the strong one, and Roger the follower. Now all was changed. He would not be the harbinger of doom, the complaining, dreary one. He would not play that role. He did have some shred of pride left. He managed to smile and shrug. "As you wish."
"Good!" Roger said at once. And Philippe saw that he never meant to discuss it seriously at all. "Let us take a boat to Spring Gardens this evening. Monty will be there with his new mistress, and Tommy says the birds are singing as if they know summer is at an end. We can bowl, drink some good English ale, and watch Monty make an ass of himself with this new woman. What do you say?"
Philippe smiled easily in agreement, but he thought, Scraps from your table, Roger, thrown to the faithful dog.
Francis Montrose came bustling out of the house.
"Francis is upset by my decision," Roger murmured. "You might console with him in private on my unpredictability. It will do him good to vent his spleen."
"Lady Alderley is here, sir," Montrose called as he neared them.
"What?"
"'Your mother–in–law," Philippe said dryly, as if Diana needed an explanation. "She must want money again."
"Well, well. Order tea in the gardens for our guest. And Francis, send out some brandy and claret with that tea. Lady Alderley prefers stronger refreshment toward afternoon. And I had thought this afternoon would be spent dully, Philippe, just you and I."
Under the shadow of the arbor, a muscle worked in Philippe's cheek.
Montrose did not move. He cleared his throat. "One does not like to… you, ah, are in your shirtsleeves, sir."
"Am I? Shocking. Lady Alderley would be scandalized, not to mention Justin, who would go into a decline. Have your way. Send out my coat." He smiled, and Montrose grinned back. The charm was in full effect.
Philippe watched him with narrowed eyes as he inspected a flower bed, plucked a fat, luscious pink, and when his coat was on, tucked it into his buttonhole. Why was he so happy?
Diana strolled out of the house toward them, a huge hat shading her face and softening the fact that she wore too much makeup for the harsh sunlight. She also wore a gown cut in the style that Barbara had introduced; Barbara looked like a sylph in hers; Diana resembled several, but she possessed that supreme confidence some beautiful women retain in spite of extra lines and wrinkles and sags. In her own mind, she was always beautiful.
"Diana," Roger said, meeting her halfway and bowing over her hand, "your visit is unexpected and pleasant. Come and sit with us. You know Philippe, of course."
Philippe and Diana nodded coolly, each having long ago recognized the other as a worthy opponent. Diana had never once mentioned Philippe's duel with her son. But Philippe felt her knowledge in many cunning, cold ways.
"I had thought to speak privately with you," she said to Roger.
Philippe raised one eyebrow. "If you will excuse me, Lady Alderley, I have an urge to stroll along the river."
"Prince," Diana said, purring, giving him her hand and smiling at him, "how understanding, how kind you are. And do take your time."
She sat down in Philippe's vacated place. Nearby, footmen were setting up a table for tea under the shade of some oaks. A breeze lifted the edges of the white linen tablecloth as they attempted to lay it across the table. Swans, their long, slender, curving necks rising out of the cool, green weeds, clustered at the edge of the river. Diana saw Philippe clap his hands to them.
"That is a lovely necklace."
Roger's words startled her. Instinctively, she put her hand to it. "Barbara let me borrow it," she said defensively, before she thought. Then she collected herself to gaze sadly up at him. She spread her arms wide, a gesture Roger recognized a popular actress using in the last tragedy presented at the Haymarket Theatre.
"Roger, you see before you a crushed woman."
He saw before him a plump, still beautiful one, as ruthless and amoral as a tigress. He said nothing, but watched her gravely, his eyes narrowed slightly.
She sighed dramatically. "My mother's heart is broken. You have heard the news, I know it. I am consumed with forebodings. Are you going to divorce her?"
The question had the grace of a cannon shot. She was alert for his reaction. He caught his breath.
"Understand my concern," she said quickly. "I must know."
"Why? What possible business is it of yours?"
Then he saw some emotion she was unable to control under the false ones she used so well.
"Diana." He was staring at her, his face amazed, and then he smiled slowly, and for that moment, with his high cheekbones and blue eyes, he was completely beautiful, like an artist's dream of an archangel. "You love her.…Yes, she has that effect on people."
Diana was suddenly restless, agitated, unsure of herself, as if he had caught her in a compromising position.
"She is headstrong, stubborn, and will not listen to a word I say!" she said in aggrieved tones.
"I know."
She stared at him. Her mouth fell open. He was looking toward the river, and the expression on his handsome profile was somehow vulnerable, yearning, passionate.
"No," he said softly, as if he were speaking to himself, "I am not going to divorce her…ever." He turned to her. "Amusing, is it not? But then life is, if one only has the perception to see it."
"I will be damned…" she said slowly.
"You probably will be. And I with you. But until then, have the grace to close your lovely mouth and say nothing more on this subject. I will not discuss it. Come, take some tea. I have brandy or claret for you, and you may tell me the latest gossip from Norfolk. How is Robert?"
They made idle talk under the shade of the trees, almost as if her visit had been a social one, as if no nerves—from them both—had been touched. There was tea and cream and brandy and claret and hot scones and a mound of small iced cakes on a silver tray. Roger threw crumbs to a trio of greedy squirrels while Diana told him the gossip she knew and drank several glasses of claret and made the mound of iced cakes grow steadily smaller. Finally, there was a silence between them. Roger tossed a final crumb.
"When is she returning?" he asked, unable to stop himself.
And quite naturally, Barbara was once more the topic of their conversation.
"Tonight."
"And her plans?"
"I do not know. To retire to Tamworth, I think. She would discuss nothing with me, though I did my best to help her. I told her she has only to lie low for a few months, but she does not listen. She is taking it harder than I realized she would. She is . . ." She had to stop, unable to find a word to describe her daughter.
"Too sensitive?" suggested Roger. "Ashamed? Mortified?"
"Whatever. I do not understand her. She did not kill the boy. You know, Roger, I am so relieved you are not going to do anything hasty. It is time she settled down and had some children. Surely you tw
o could get along together for enough time to make a child or two. I have a feeling she might be happier with children. She always liked them…God only knows why. You lose your figure, your breasts leak, it hurts to have them, they are ugly and red–faced for years. Still, when they grow, sometimes they change. Barbara had so much spirit. She is hard underneath, like a rock. My arm would ache when I whipped her before I could make her cry even when she was a little girl. I wish Harry had her spirit. But he is all flash. No spirit. He is in debt, you know."
"What young man is not?"
"It is more than I had realized. Much more. I worry, Roger." She looked at him. He did not rise to the bait. He never did, but she never tired of trying. Usually she managed to hide whatever irritation she might feel about Roger's ability to ignore the fact that Harry existed. Today, however, the journey or the duel or Roger's perception of her true feelings or perhaps just the claret must have made her irritable because she said, abruptly, "I sent you a note over a month ago asking you to buy back my shares. Did you receive it?"
