by Karleen Koen
"Bab! Bab!" she said.
Barbara put her head out the window; she was wearing a straw hat with long green ribbons of silk and pink roses of silk, and Jane was instantly aware that her dress was old and that Thomas had spit up on it. Barbara smiled at her, waving, and it was difficult for Jane to believe that this was the same woman who was said to have just caused a duel between Jemmy Landsdowne and Lord Charles Russel. Who was said to be in disgrace, whom it was rumored the Prince of Wales would dismiss from his court tomorrow (even though he was in love with her himself). Gussy had brought the news back with him yesterday from Fulham, shaking his head. He read his Bible aloud to Jane, "'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies….'" Jane had sighed, trying not to doze off, for she had been up the night before with Thomas's teeth…the attributes of a virtuous woman, yes, Jane knew. She rose early and worked late; her household was not lazy (doubtless no one burned the bread and the children teethed without problem); she clothed it in scarlet she had woven herself; she spun wool, advised her husband wisely, and succored the needy. No wonder she was virtuous, Jane's last conscious thought had been before she fell asleep in the middle of Gussy's Bible reading. There was no time to be anything else.
The coachman, Jeremy on his shoulders, helped Barbara down from the carriage. She had a large basket on one arm, and at the sight of it Jane became almost as excited as her children. Forgetting Gussy's admonitions to be cool to Barbara, she opened the gate, and with Thomas in her arms and Amelia dragging determinedly on her skirts, welcomed her friend.
Barbara kissed her cheek and at once set down the basket to pick up Amelia.
"Pretty girl," she said, kissing Amelia's fat cheek (there was nothing about Amelia that was not fat). "Carry in the basket, Jeremy. Betty, how are you? I have brought tarts. Will you make Mrs. Cromwell and me some of your tea? Jane, you are washing. I have come at an awful time, but I was so close, and I had an impulse to see you all that I could not deny. Come, here, Jeremy, and give me a kiss or I will not give you one single tart, and there are lemon ones, your favorite."
With Jeremy and Amelia hanging on her and Jane following with Thomas and the basket Jeremy had dropped, Barbara went to sit on the bench built around the oak tree near Winifred's coop.
"Winifred, you are precious," Barbara said, lifting the child up in her arms. Winifred was startled out of placidity into a gurgle. Barbara kissed her neck and set her down in her lap. Amelia grudgingly moved over. Winifred got one hand on Barbara's necklace.
"Take care," Jane said. "She will break it."
"I have many necklaces and no babies. Let her do what she pleases. No, Amelia, do not cry. You may wear my bracelet. There. Look how pretty it looks on your arm. What a big girl you are, Amelia." Jane smiled to see her difficult Amelia so neatly cajoled into good nature again. It would be interesting to see how Barbara would wrest the bracelet from her when she left. And then Betty was coming out with a steaming pot of tea, and the basket had to be opened and there were naturally toys for the children, lead soldiers for Jeremy, who whooped and yelped and gave Barbara another kiss, and a china doll for Amelia, who was wide–eyed with pleasure, and a set of wooden beads strung together for Thomas and another for Winifred, and then for Jane there were three gowns Barbara no longer wanted, two of them almost new, velvet and silk that Jane could recut to fit herself and use for the children. She sighed with pleasure as she ran her hand over a gown of blue velvet. And then there were lemon tarts to eat and tea to drink, and before Jane knew it, she and Barbara were sitting on the ground, Barbara in her beautiful gown, her hat off (Amelia had it on), with children all about them, some eating, some asleep, some, thank goodness, just sitting quietly in whatever lap happened to be free. And Jane, gazing at her friend, could not believe that two men had just fought a duel over her, and one had died.
"Your garden looks pretty," Barbara said, leaning her head against the back of the bench. Winifred was asleep in her arms, the necklace clutched firmly in one hand, the wooden beads in the other.
"My hollyhock and snapdragons took well this year. Your grandmother sent me some of her seed. No, Amelia, leave Winifred's beads alone. You have your doll. I need to harvest the herbs."
"Grandmama always says the dew must be dry on them before they are picked."
"I know. She sent me two pages of instructions along with the seeds and told me to order Five Hundreth Pointes of Good Husbandry, which I did."
"What is Jeremy doing? Jane, he has a ladybug. Jeremy, bring it here. You must be very careful with ladybugs. If you harm them, bad luck will come. Jane, do you remember, 'Fly, ladybird, north, south, east or west—'"
"'Fly where the man is found that I love best,'" Jane finished with her. They laughed. Jeremy ran off, the ladybug cradled carefully in his hand.
"How are his ears?" asked Barbara.
"Well all summer."
"I have heard the putrid sore throat is in London. Keep him warm, Jane, once autumn begins."
"I will."
They fell silent, watching Amelia toddle over to Jeremy to see if she could have any of his soldiers. It was late afternoon, and a bird was singing. Jane's garden was full of late summer blooms. There were fat pinks and red sweet Williams, and the regal blue hollyhocks and bold purple asters and pretty white daisies and nodding purple–blue delphiniums. Butterflies and bees droned over them. Thomas lay asleep in Jane's arms. Jeremy and Amelia quarreled amicably over which soldiers Amelia might play with. Cat was straining butter from the cool sides of the churn; Betty hung a load of wet wash on bushes in the chapel garden; ants carried away the lemon tart crumbs the children had left everywhere; a breeze lifted the leaves in the trees and made them rustle the way a woman's long gown will.
"I really should help Betty," Jane said drowsily. She felt like lying down on the ground to sleep. It was the new child taking her strength. They always did at the beginning.
"I should not have interrupted you, not on washing day. I love it here, with you and the children," Barbara said quietly. Something in her voice made Jane look at her. She was staring down at Winifred, and the expression on her face caught Jane's heart.
"You are welcome anytime," Jane said defiantly. If Gussy could have his Mary Magdalene, she could have hers.
Barbara smiled at her. "You should be so proud of Jeremy. He is a little gentleman. He reminds me of Kit. Kit had that same kind of sweetness."
"He is his father's pride and joy. And mine. Gussy is already teaching him Latin."
"Will Gussy be angry with you because I have come?"
Jane blushed.
"He has heard, has he not?" Barbara, said, stroking Winifred's hair with her hand. "As have you."
Jane felt as if her tongue were bigger than her mouth; she could think of nothing to say.
Barbara put Winifred down beside Jane gently. She kissed her friend's cheek and stood up, brushing crumbs from her gown. The ease between them was gone. Jane pried loose the necklace from Winifred's hand. Barbara clasped it around her neck and strode over to Amelia. Somehow, without making her cry, she repossessed her hat (the roses would never be the same) and her bracelet. She leaned down, and both Jeremy and Amelia hugged and kissed her. Jane felt tears start in her eyes. Thank you, merciful Lord for all Your bounty, she found herself thinking. She put down Thomas next to Winifred and hurried to Barbara.
"Come again," she said. "Whenever you wish."
Barbara kissed her cheek. For a moment, they clung together.
"How fortunate you are," Barbara whispered to her, "that you never do anything of which you must be ashamed later."
And then she was climbing into her carriage and the coachman was turning it around in the lane and she was leaning out the window and waving to Jeremy, who was running behind it. Thomas had wakened and was sitting up, staring down solemnly at the sleeping Winifred. Amelia had wrenched the beads from Winifred's hand and was playing with them. Cat was patting the sides of a cool white mound of butter. Betty stirred
a load of wash and sang a little tune. Jane thought about the green gloves under the parlor board. It was such a little sin.
* * *
How clean and simple Jane's life is, Barbara thought, leaning against the back of the carriage seat. She wished she could stay in her carriage, stay in it until she reached Tamworth and crawled into her old bed and pulled the covers up over her head. But she could not. She must oversee the packing of her household and tomorrow take her leave of the Frog and his princess with the court looking on, ripe for any glance, any word that might show the Frog's displeasure. She dreaded his lecture. The court waiting for her disgrace. If Philippe was there, she did not know how she would bear it.
The carriage pulled up before the house she was leasing. She ran up the stairs.
"Madame!" Hyacinthe came running to her in the hall, all legs and arms and growing boy. Charlotte and Harry were yapping shrilly behind him. She knelt to pet them, the comfort of being here making the humiliation of her disgrace fade slightly. Harry and Charlotte whined and fussed and contorted themselves into ridiculous positions as she found their favorite places to be scratched. Hyacinthe stood waiting, staring at her with dark, bright eyes.
"I was worried, madame," he said, frowning. Hyacinthe had long ago assumed the responsibility of worrying about her. "As was Thérèse. Many notes have come for you. The prince's equerry called this morning. There is a note from Lord Russel and also, madame, a note from Lord Devane."
From Roger. Her heart stood still. It was a moment before she could make her legs strong enough to hold her when she stood. She went into the bedchamber, pulling off her hat, the dogs and Hyacinthe following her. Thérèse was folding gowns into neat stacks. She looked at Barbara, an expression of relief on her pretty pert face.
"I am so glad you are back, madame. Hyacinthe and I, we were worried. Sit down," she said, coming over to Barbara and taking the hat from her. "You look tired. Hyacinthe! Fetch madame a small glass of wine."
"Am I already disgraced?" Barbara asked, pointing to the stack of gowns. "Have I a note of dismissal?"
"I–I thought only that we might be leaving—"
"Is it common news, Thérèse? Tell me."
Thérèse nodded her head, her mouth grim. She pointed to the small pile of notes on a table by the window. Barbara went to sift through them. She crumpled Charles's without reading it. There were no apologies on his part that she would accept. She put her aunt's aside. She would not read a lecture from her Aunt Abigail. She opened the note from the Frog. She was to call on him tomorrow morning at eleven. It was signed with his Christian name, and underneath were scrawled the words, "You have broken my heart." She sighed. He had no heart, only vanity. He would be impossible tomorrow. How could she bear to listen to his words of reproach? She touched the note from Roger, thoughts tumbling in her head. Was it over between them at last? Were the ties between them finally to be severed? Funny how in Paris she had wanted nothing else… and now…it was a moment before she could steel herself to open it. Thérèse, eyeing her as she folded gowns with deft motions, sniffed. Slowly, Barbara unfolded the note.
My dearest Barbara,
I will escort you to court tomorrow morning, as it is both my duty and my wish. I believe I remember you well enough to know you are thinking harshly of yourself. Do not. No one who truly loves you does. I will call on you at ten. Until then, I remain, whether you wish it or not, always yours. Roger
She stared at the note.
Watching her, Thérèse felt her heart give a little skip.
"He is coming to escort me tomorrow," Barbara said slowly to Thérèse. Just as slowly, a smile spread across her face, lighting it from within. Her grandfather's smile. She held the note a moment to her bosom, then carefully folded it, as if it were made of glass and might break.
"Monsieur Harry? Does he come with you?" Thérèse asked.
"I left him in London. He tried so hard to help me, Thérèse—"
Hyacinthe came into the room with the wine. Barbara smiled at him.
"She is better," he said to Thérèse. "Look."
Thérèse glared at him. Barbara laughed. Charlotte and Harry barked at the sound of her laughter and stood up on their back paws.
"Bad dogs!" said Thérèse. They barked louder.
Later, after Barbara had eaten, she sat in her oldest nightgown and shawl by an open window while Thérèse stood behind her, brushing her hair. Charlotte was in her lap, and Harry was lying on top of her feet. Hyacinthe, on a nearby stool, was reading, slowly, from Robinson Crusoe, the literary rage of last year. They had started the book some weeks ago, and all three of them lived for its adventures. They had made a pact that no one would read ahead of the others.
"'I walked about on the Shore, lifting up my Hands, and my whole Being, as I may say, wrapt up in the Contemplation of my Deliverance, making a Thousand Gestures and Motions which I cannot describe, reflecting upon all my Comrades that were drowned, and that there should not be one Soul sav'd but my self…"' read Hyacinthe, pausing now and again over a word he did not know, until Thérèse prompted him.
Soothed by the familiar sound of his clear voice, Barbara felt herself relaxing. Outside, she could hear the night crickets, the sighing of branches against one another, a gate yawning and creaking in the wind. Her hair crackled as Thérèse ran the brush through it with familiar strokes, soothing strokes. Roger was coming for her tomorrow. He would be with her when she faced the court. No, she might not have the comfort of children, might never have them. But she had this moment, its quiet, these people, their love, her family, Hyacinthe and Thérèse and the two dogs. They were hers forever. And tomorrow, Roger was coming for her.
Chapter Twenty–Three
Hurry up, Thérèse! He will be here soon!"
Thérèse sighed and continued to lace up Barbara's stays at her own pace. He would not be here soon; they had almost another half–hour to go, but it would do no good to say so.
"Thérèse! You are too slow! Hurry!"
The dogs, picking up Barbara's nervousness, ran around Thérèse's feet and barked in agreement.
"Hush!" she told them.
The stays were tied. Now she draped a loose robe over Barbara and handed her a large paper cone and Barbara put her face into it. Hyacinthe, looking up from his book, seeing what they were doing, moved to a far corner of the bedchamber. (Yes, he had been reading, and yes, it was Robinson Crusoe, but Thérèse could hardly discipline him when she was secretly reading ahead herself.) The dogs scurried under the bed as Thérèse felt the texture of Barbara's hair to be certain she had rubbed in enough pomatum to hold the hair powder. She opened the box of white powder, violet– and orrisroot–scented, and tapped a large powder puff in it.
Little clouds of white powder rose around Barbara's head as Thérèse lightly powdered it. Hyacinthe hid himself behind a window drapery. When she was finished, Thérèse walked around Barbara. Yes. It was perfect. Barbara raised her face from the paper cone, and Thérèse pressed the puff along her hairline to blend excess powder back into her hair. She stepped back and looked critically at her work. Yes. Yes, it was good. It made Madame Barbara older–looking, but without harshness, for her face was still young and soft enough to carry the stark white powder. Barbara unfastened the robe to finish dressing, and Harry and Charlotte came out from under the bed to growl and attack the powder–scented garment until Hyacinthe managed to drag it away from them and fold it away. Thérèse tied a black armband around the sleeve of Barbara's gray gown, and while Barbara slipped on jewelry, she rouged and patched her face and ran the little lead combs through her lashes and brows.
"I wish this day were over," Barbara said.
As do I, thought Thérèse. We should have stayed in Tamworth with your grandmother; you were not well enough to come to London and see him again. And now this has happened, but the note from Lord Devane is what is disturbing you most. I feel your mind searching, probing, wondering why, not daring to acknowledge hope. Ah, Lord Devane, you
must somehow give my dear Barbara her life again. You do not deserve her love, but what has that to do with anything? Love is not given because one deserves it. She needs a child. If you come back, I shall pray every day to the Blessed Virgin to heal her barrenness and bring a child. And then she made a strange face at her own tiny sorrow remembered.
Hyacinthe saw her face. "Thérèse, what is wrong? Did a pin stick you?"
"No," she said. "Life did."
"Go to the window and see if you can see Lord Devane's carriage," Barbara told Hyacinthe, but before he could, someone knocked at the door, and Barbara started at the sound. It was a footman with a note. Thérèse recognized the writing; it was from Lord Russel, but Barbara put it on her dressing table without opening it.
