by Karleen Koen
Richard, she had said, sitting beside his marble tomb, I am thinking of joining you. All the children are gone, and Barbara and Harry and Tony— and God knows, Diana—do not need me, and I am old and my legs always hurt and sometimes I cannot walk. And even your memory is growing dim, my love, and I thought that would never happen. Never. I want to be with you and the boys. I am tired of bees. And then she told him the latest scandal about their granddaughter, described in lurid detail in a recent letter from Abigail. (The footman, over in a corner out of her way—she hated to be reminded visibly of her infirmities—had averted his head at the sight of tears slowly trickling down the Duchess's old, wrinkled face.)
Leaning heavily on her cane, the Duchess walked slowly away from the garden wall toward Richard's rose garden. The beekeeper, who had been in the middle of explaining when he would take the honey, exchanged a glance with the footman. More and more, the Duchess's mind seemed to wander. She would be talking, or listening, and without warning she would drift off. But woe to the person who dared correct her. She came back with startling, killing suddenness.
The rosebushes are glorious now, she thought, in their last season of blooming, their litter of falling petals only one reminder of the end of summer. Yes, already August was on the wane, and autumn was coming. She could feel it in her bones; she could see it around her. The sun set a little earlier in the evenings, and in the mornings sometimes a mist rose from the stream trickling in the woods. Many of the birds were gone—she missed their shrill, sweet songs—and the ferns in the woods were beginning to show new splotches of russet color among their fans of green. She took a deep breath of rose–scented air. Autumn, around the corner, was a good time. A busy time. Idle hands were the Devil's plaything, as was an idle mind. She would have no time for idleness; there would be all the harvesting to oversee. Where now there was a sea of green stalks bursting with golden heads of fat wheat, there would soon be nothing but blackened stubble. Then came the picking of plums and pears and apples, and the frantic making of jellies and jams and preserves. Her stillroom would be worse than any beehive, as Annie and she and helpers mixed potpourris and made rose brandies and lemon drops and strawberries in wine and cordials for fever and pearl in the eye and coughs and agues. Candles and soap had to be made, ale brewed, hogs slaughtered, all before winter. Before the time of hibernation. Of rest. Of death. Well, she would savor each small thing this autumn, the ripe darkness of a gooseberry, the high squeals of dying hogs, the smell of hive wax and bayberry essence in candles, the distilled perfection of drying rosebuds. Each detail would be sweet. Bittersweet. As life so often was.
Ahead of her, a small, fluffy white kitten cleaned herself on the broad flagstone steps of the terrace. The new Dulcinea. The old one had gone into a decline after her last litter, of which this new kitten was the Duchess's choice to continue the cycle. She had outlasted even her ancient cat. She sighed and hobbled her way up the steps. Time to ascertain if there was enough in the pantries for the coming harvest supper, when the last of the corn was harvested, and laborers and tenants and farmers and all of Tamworth celebrated with a huge supper on the lawns, a tradition that went back to the beginnings of Tamworth itself. Richard would want plenty of good ale for the workers, and Giles would not yet be off to school and could help her….No. Richard was dead. A long time dead. And Giles. She knew that. She knew it as well as she knew her own name, yet sometimes the past was more real to her than the present. Dulcinea leapt up as she passed by and batted at her long skirt.
"Bah!" she said. "You will never match your mother."
"Your grace!"
It was Annie calling. Annie, and her butler, Perryman, ancient enemies over household precedence, had formed an unholy and uneasy alliance these last years to watch over her. Annie was a fretful old hen, always clucking. And Perryman was a great fool without the bells on his cap. The Duchess scowled at the sound of Annie's voice. She would be wanting her to rest, which was exactly what the Duchess had in mind, but she did not like to be reminded of it. The footman assigned to follow her, a big, bold young man with a round, merry face and an impudent smile in spite of broken front teeth, suppressed a smile at the expression on her face.
"You!"
She had turned on him, with startling suddenness for such an old woman, and was glaring at him. He stiffened.
"You, there. Jim! Or is it John?"
"Tim, madame."
"Tim, is it? Well, you just go tell Annie where I am before she bellows the house down. Go on. Do as I say. I am not liable to fall down these steps, and if I do, I daresay I will he healed in a month or so. What did you say your name was?"
"Tim, madame."
"What happened to John?"
"Ah, John was…needed in another part of the house, madame."
"Could not put up with me, could he? You, Jim, go on now—"
"Tim, madame."
"I know. Do not keep interrupting me, boy! Go and do as I say. I do not have all day to talk with footmen!"
She sat down on one of the stone benches and Dulcinea jumped up in her lap and rolled on her back and began to bat at her hands. The Duchess scratched her belly. You are already fat, she thought. You will be fatter than your mother. Poor Dulcinea. It was the last litter that killed her, for she was too old to be bearing kittens, but she always got an itch at the cry of a tomcat. I hope you are going to be the proud, selfish, immoral hussy your mother was, the Duchess thought, looking down at the white bundle of fur which had wrapped herself around her hand. What a shame I will not live long enough to see you in your prime. Well, Tony will take you. Tony is a good, dear boy who comes to see me often and lies and says how Barbara is always asking after me when I know Barbara never gives me one thought anymore. What happened in Paris? And was it my fault, Dulcinea? Was it?
Annie, thinner, browner, bossier than ever, came outside to the terrace. Too bossy. But the Duchess had not the strength these days to deal with insubordination. Emotion tired her. Anger tired her. Sweet Jesus, getting out of bed in the morning tired her! What would happen to Annie when she died? Who would have an irritable, thin old brown stick who knew every charm in the east of England and could recite the recipes for half the Duchess's concoctions by heart? Well, doubtless Tony would see after her, too. I only hope that little actress is making him happy, thought the Duchess, giving a grim chuckle. (Her sister–in–law Louisa had written her that gossip and she had gone off in a choking fit of laughter that nearly killed her.)
"It is from Barbara," Annie repeated impatiently.
She ought to be more patient, thought the Duchess. I am old. Then the sense of the words penetrated. She held out her claw of a hand and ripped past the seal. Dulcinea batted at the single sheet of parchment.
Dearest Grandmama,
Doubtless you already know the news of my latest scandal, but
what you do not know is that I am coming to you. The thought was
there before the scandal. Look for me the day after this letter.
Your loving granddaughter,
Barbara, Countess Devane
Annie glanced at the Duchess's face, which was without expression.
"Help her to her bedchamber," she ordered Tim, the footman.
Tim put his hand on the Duchess's bony elbow.
"Bah!" she snapped, slapping at him. "Take your hands off me. I am no cripple!"
Startled, he stepped back.
She stood up. Without a word, she hobbled into the house, Dulcinea following.
"I knew the letter would cheer her up," Annie said.
* * *
Housemaids were bustling and had been since early morning, cleaning and polishing places already cleaned and polished, but Mistress Barbara was expected today, said Annie, and her grace was in a demanding mood. Windows in the late duke's bedchamber were opened to air out the room. For the first time since his death, it was going to be used. For Mistress Barbara. The Duchess had been in the gardens all morning, ruthlessly ordering the cutting of
roses and snapdragons and pinks and dahlias. Stableboys were sent to the woods to gather gillyflowers and harebells and ferns. Every room still used had its vase of flowers with trailing tendrils of dark green ivy down its sides.
A dinner had been in preparation since before dawn: a great roast beef and spinach tarts and patties of calf brains and a fricassee of rabbit and a salad of radishes and lettuce and boiled summer peas. And as a special treat, a gooseberry–apple pie, as big as a wagon wheel, with preserved flowers sprinkled across its crust. Even now Perryman and one footman sensible enough to handle the responsibility were mixing Tamworth punch, peeling the lemons, stirring the sugar and brandy and rum, arguing over the amount of nutmeg and gin. "Not that she deserves a bit of this," the Duchess could be heard to mutter on and off throughout the morning, as she was everywhere, in the garden, the kitchen, the great hall, the duke's bedchamber, her keen eye on every item, while Dulcinea curled in the crook of her arm and she leaned on Tim.
She rested at noon, refused any luncheon. and allowed Annie to dress her in her second–best gown and place a black lace cap on her head. Now she sat in a parlor off the great hall that overlooked the avenue of lime trees Barbara's carriage would drive down. Her hands clasped and reclasped the golden head of her cane, as Dulcinea dozed on and off in her lap and played with the lace on her sleeves (and got slapped for her mischief). Young house servants tiptoed past the open door, whispering and pointing at her solitary, motionless figure gazing out the windows until she told Tim irritably to close the door.
Sometime in midafternoon, a young stableboy came running down the avenue, leaping barefooted across the gravel in the courtyard to dive into a side door of the house, startling both Perryman and Annie, drinking tea in the servants' hall.
"It is her! It is her! I saw the carriage!"
Perryman rose majestically. "Very good. I will inform her grace—"
Annie glared at him. The rivalry between them was as ancient and fierce as that of any savage tribe. "I am her tirewoman, and I will do the informing. Her system must have no shocks to it."
"She has the constitution of a rock, and my news can hardly be a shock since Lady Devane is expected. I have been in this household since the Duchess became a duchess. My father served hers! I believe I know my responsibilities."
Perryman swept majestically from the room. At times such as these, any pretense of dignity was forgotten between him and Annie. She hitched up her skirts and passed him in the great hall. He broke into a run, and the two of them reached the parlor door at the same time. They wrestled over the door handle, both jerking it open. Perryman managed to precede Annie, but was pulled up short. Annie ran into his back.
Tim and the stableboy stood before the Duchess.
"It is a grand black carriage with a crest on the door," the stableboy was saying. "With four black horses pulling it. Grand enough for a king."
"Yes, that would be Roger's. Here is a coin for you, boy. John, give the boy a coin."
"Tim, madame."
"My cane," said the Duchess. Tim handed her her cane. Annie and Perryman stood coldly some distance away. The Duchess stopped in front of Perryman.
"Things have come to a pretty pass," she said to the middle of his chest, "when I have to depend on a stableboy and a footman for news of my granddaughter's arrival."
Perryman stared frostily at Tim. "Those who do not recognize the order of a household must learn. I was just coming in to inform the Duchess—"
"It is my duty to inform the Duchess—" broke in Annie.
"I saw him running by outside," Tim said, grinning impudently at the two of them. "I thought he might have some news. The old girl was anxious."
"Do not call her 'the old girl,'" Annie began, but the sound of a carriage, horse's hooves against gravel, and the jingle of harness came clearly into the room. Annie and Perryman looked at each other; they might miss the arrival. They crowded back through the parlor door together. Several stableboys, a groom or two, the cook, footmen, and maidservants came running out of doors, clustering behind the Duchess like chickens behind a mother hen.
Trembling, pawing the gravel, the horses stopped, and a groom and stableboys ran to grab the lead bridles. Perryman stepped forward to open the carriage door. Out tumbled the two pugs, their little eyes bright and bulging. They ran forward, yapping shrilly, and Dulcinea leapt from the Duchess's arms to Tim to a nearby bush, her tail straight up in fright. Hyacinthe descended and bowed before the Duchess. The stableboys, remembering again his black skin and his fine clothes from the spring's quick visit, glared at him. Thérèse stepped down daintily, showing pretty ankles, to the delight of watching grooms and footmen, who had discussed her frequently since their own brief glimpse of her in the spring, when she had accompanied Lady Devane and Master Harry. She curtsied to the Duchess. And finally, one hand in Perryman's, Barbara descended from the carriage.
She is too thin, thought the Duchess. When I last saw her at least she had some flesh on her bones. This summer has hurt her. I see it in her face.
"You! Boy!" she snapped to Hyacinthe, who bowed again and told her his name. "You find those dogs and shut them up. I cannot abide yapping, misbehaved, spoiled animals. The duke's dogs were always well–trained. You! Coachman!"
Barbara's coachman froze.
"You just mind where you drive those horses on the way to the stables. I will not have my lavender beds ruined by careless driving! You, footmen, get these trunks off this coach! Have you all turned to stone?"
Galvanized, people were scurrying right and left. Only she and Barbara were unmoving, as people moved around them as water does stones in a stream.
"You! Frenchy!"
Smiling, Thérèse repeated her name softly, and several footmen and grooms were seen to roll it on their tongues silently.
"You follow my Annie, and she will show you my granddaughter's chambers."
She looks so old, thought Barbara. I had forgotten, or perhaps I never noticed. Oh, Grandmama. You can still bark. And I'm sure you can still bite. How glad I am to be home. She smiled at her grandmother.
Impudent chit, thought the Duchess. She is the image of her grandfather at this moment. I ought to cane her. Ah, Richard, our girl is home. She opened her arms, and without a word, Barbara walked into them.
* * *
Barbara did not eat much of the dinner prepared in her honor, though she did smile at the sight of Cook and two footmen bearing in a pie the size of a wagon wheel. But as the servants in the household gathered around for a slice, along with a cup of Tamworth punch Perryman was now importantly ladling out, she slipped away in the laughing disorder, climbing the back, uneven stairs to the attics, opening the door to her old room. But there was nothing left to remind her of herself. The bed stood bare, without its draperies and mattress. The Dutch chest was empty now. Her bird's nest and treasures were long gone. She sat a moment at her window, gazing out onto Tamworth, trying to remember the girl who had once sat here by the hour, but all she could recall was the expression on Charles's face as he stared down at her, and she told him she hated him. In the nursery, she sat for a long time on the floor, the dust motes from the sun coming through the window to dance around her. On top of low tables were stacked small wooden chairs; a cradle sat empty and forlorn in a corner, not even its gauze draperies to swathe it. The pale ghosts of her brothers and sisters floated dimly in her memory. Here all was stillness, all was time, wound down, stopped, no more.
Bab, said dead Charlotte in her mind, do not leave. Little Anne's hand clutched the cloak of a fifteen–year–old girl off to London. I am the bride, Anne said, clomping about in her big sister's shoes, look at me. Bab, Tom and Kit said to her in her bride's finery, you are beautiful. I love you, Bab, said Charlotte, I love you. Dear, shy, difficult Charlotte. Nothing now. Worms and moldering bones. Oh, Charles, I wish we had not quarreled. In her mind, he said the hurtful, ugly truths to her again, and in her mind, she covered his lovely, firm mouth with her hand to silence him. S
he looked toward the empty cradle. Baby smiled a ghostly toothless smile. A spider was making a web in one corner. Jemmy lay bleeding to death on the ground. It only hurts when I laugh, said Richelieu. Roger, she thought. It hurts. It all hurts me so.
* * *
That evening she walked with her grandmother to Tamworth church. All was soft and mellow now with dusk. In another hour it would be dark; the evening was cool and quiet, but with country sounds—the lowing of cattle in their fields, the frogs. Harry and Charlotte were around her feet, their coats covered with briars and weed seeds, as she stooped to gather gillyflowers and pimpernel that grew along the ditches of the lane. Inside Tamworth chapel, while her grandmother murmured to the eternally young marble figure of her grandfather lying across the top of his table tomb, Barbara read the memorial tablets on the walls for her uncles, her brothers and sisters, Cousin Henley. She filled the basalt vases in the corners with the wildflowers.
