by Karleen Koen
The household was waiting when they returned, gathered in the great hall for evening prayers. Perryman brought the Bible box and opened it and took out the huge Tamworth Bible and laid it in the Duchess's lap. She sat tiny and wrinkled, dwarfed in the duke's massive oak chair. The hall, with its dark timbers of wood vaulting above, was almost like a church itself.
"'Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness,'" she began to read in a quavering voice, and Barbara closed her eyes to listen, evening prayers a constant she had grown up on, and now the full sounds and cadences of King James's scholars soothed her heart because the words brought back memories of such evenings stretching back as far as she could remember. After the reading, the Duchess added her few short, personal requests, that the weather continue mild, and that one of the kitchen maids—who would go unnamed but who would know herself—not be so forward with the stableboys. Everyone bowed his head to pray silently. "Lord, have mercy upon us," the Duchess finished.
"Christ, have mercy upon us," repeated her household. "Amen."
Tamworth's day was over.
Barbara lay in her bed. The dogs, at her feet, were already snoring loudly, exhausted with their first day in the country, with their exploring and attempts to follow a scent, with the fruitless effort to corner and kill the kitten, Dulcinea. She had returned to her bedchamber to find Hyacinthe trying to wash an eye turning black and blue. She listened to his excited version of a fight with two stableboys, and tonight he was sleeping over the stables with them. He had fought, successfully, to make his first friends. She and Thérèse had smiled at each other above his head.
From her bed, she could see the moon. If I were in Richmond or London or even Paris, she thought, my evening would only be beginning. I would still be dressing for the theater or a game of cards in the Frog's private chambers. There would be hours ahead of me, long hours, in which to gamble and flirt and be bored. Charles would be watching me, and I would see in his eyes that he wanted me. And I might walk with him in the gardens, letting him kiss me until my legs were weak and all I could think of was to be alone with him, naked in his arms. Or I might flirt with someone else just to see his anger. As Richelieu taught me…how well he taught me…people around me would be gossiping, drinking, becoming louder as the night wore on. And I would go to my bed in the early hours of the morning, and if I were sober, I would think, another night has passed. And my life goes on. And nothing happens. Words from her grandmother's reading this evening drifted into her mind. Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Oh, Charles, there were times when I almost loved you. I did not treat you fairly. Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. Roger, you smile at me with your handsome face and expect me to fall at your feet. If only I could…but I cannot.
She climbed out of bed and opened the door to her grandmother's chambers. Her grandmother lay back against a snowy mountain of pillows, but she was not asleep. A solitary candle glimmered on the table beside the bed, and one hand moved in a rhythmic motion over a purring, white bundle of fur, the new Dulcinea, while her grandmother read from her Bible, her lips moving with the words. Barbara smiled…nothing changed, and everything did.
The Duchess looked up as she saw her granddaughter walking toward her. Nothing changes, she thought, and everything does. Here is my Bab with me once more, but not the Bab I knew. That Bab would have come bounding into my bed, spilling over with thoughts, with her hurts and needs, heart and face an open book to me. This is a woman who approaches me, and her hurts are not open for all the world to see, but still she comes to me, as always, the ritual remembered, beloved. Thank you, my heavenly Lord, for your multitude of tender mercies. Richard, our girl is home.
Barbara got into the bed and moved Dulcinea and lay down and without a word, the Duchess reached out and touched her hair, her hands stroking the red–gold curls. Barbara closed her eyes. There was a comfortable silence between them. The Duchess felt herself begin to doze. It was the warm familiarity, the old, beloved memory now real again, for the young Barbara had spent many a night thusly, and then it was over misbehavior also…what a mischievous, headstrong child she had been… what had she done this time…had she and that rogue Harry given the pigs her precious rose brandy to drink so that the poor creatures staggered like fat, pink, drunken barrels in their pens, while the grooms leaned against the fence, watching, crying with laughter…had she and Harry gotten into John Ashford's orangery to steal his newly formed fruit? Well, she would talk with John tomorrow.
"You know of the duel?"
Her words jerked the Duchess awake, and she found herself looking into her granddaughter's blue eyes.
"Duel?" she said, parrying for time. "Has Harry been sent down from school again for dueling?'
Barbara leaned on one elbow to stare at her. "No, Grandmama. That was long ago. I meant the duel between Charles Russel and Jemmy Landsdowne."
"Oh…yes…that duel. Of course I know about it! I am not in my dotage yet! Your Aunt Abigail broke two pens in her haste to see I had the news." She sat up straighter and pulled forward her lace–edged cap, which had slipped during her doze. "Who was this Jemmy?"
"An admirer…a friend…a boy. He reminded me of Kit. I flirted with him. And more. Which he died for."
Ah, yes, thought the Duchess. I know. I know all they say of you. Abigail sees to that. A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold…as a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is fair woman which is without discretion…Oh, there were many verses she could now recite to her granddaughter…about women and their wiles and their wicked ways…but she found that not even one of them would go past her lips. She could not say them to this girl, this woman, she loved so, yet how easily she had always said them to Diana and turned away from her daughter contemptuously. If she had never said them to Diana, never judged her, would things have been different? If she could have loved Diana the way she loved Barbara…the thoughts pained her. Old, she said to herself. I am too old for regrets now. Too old to change. Softly, in a hesitant voice that was so unlike herself that Barbara stared, she said, "In this life, many things happen in which we play a shameful part. Those of us who are strong forgive ourselves and go on. The weak wallow in their shame and allow it to devour them. There is no one of us without sin, child. There ought to be some comfort in that."
Surprised, Barbara smiled at her.
How lovely she is, thought the Duchess, for all her thinness. No wonder a man was killed for her. But she could not read her granddaughter's heart, as once she had done so easily. Barbara closed her eyes again, and the Duchess began to stroke her hair. Roger, she thought. Does she still love him, or does she love this Charles Russel? What happened in Paris? Am I ever to know…and can I bear it if I do?
Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities, Barbara was thinking, the words from the evening reading still in her mind. Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation….Oh, Grandmama, how glad I am to be here, to be with you. I know what you will do from the moment you rise in the morning until you go to bed at night. Your world is a ritual and you are unvarying in your strength and steadfastness, and you and Tamworth will make me well again. I know it. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.
* * *
She sat with her grandmother in the afternoon shade of some ancient oaks. The oaks were not far from the house, atop a small hillock from which could be seen both the house and the fields of wheat, colored with the moving shapes of workers, busy at harvest. Letters had arrived; there were always letters; the Duchess maintained a network of correspondence; people throughout the county rode over to hear the news from her letters. Her system was to read them in the afternoons and reply to them in the mornings, and all through each day, as she oversaw her household
, going from stilllroom to kitchen to parlor to garden, she could be heard calling impatiently for Annie to write down some thought or comment she meant to include in a letter.
"From Tony," said the Duchess, picking up and ripping past the seal of a letter with pleasure. A smaller note inside fluttered into her lap. She tossed it to Barbara and spread open her own letter and began to read it with relish.
"London is hot….of course it is! It is the end of August….He says South Sea closed their stock transfer books after a day, the crowds to transfer were so thick, and that the terms for this new subscription are far stricter….He says he does not like it and to sell out any stock I might have, no matter the loss….Bah! I sold out in May! Bunch of greedy goldsmiths and stockjobbers! That John Blunt is a scrivener and nothing more, and all the knighthoods in the world will not rub the ink from his fingers nor the figures from his heart! What else does my boy say….Alexander Pope and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu continue to flirt with each other at their poetry readings….Hmm…I do not like Pope. His spirit is mean and small. Caesar White is the better poet. He was a fool to leave your household, you know. A writer needs a patron. What is he doing these days?"
Barbara looked up from her letter. "I have no idea. I have only seen him once—to thank him for the Aurora poem. I–I had other things on my mind."
"Exactly why a writer needs a patron," the Duchess repeated stubbornly, but Barbara was not listening. Her grandmother opened another letter.
"Abigail says all the gossip is of the writs the South Sea will bring against the…what is this word? Her handwriting looks like a hen's scratching. Is it English Copper Company? Yes. That must be it. And the Welsh Copper Company and the Yorks Buildings Company. She says the Prince of Wales has been advised, and he has resigned as governor of the Welsh Company. Roger sent a personal note to Tony to inform him so that he might sell any stock invested. A handsome gesture. Abigail says the prince was furious, but the directors were determined. Stock for the Royal Assurance Company and the London Exchange Company are both dropping. Everyone is watching with bated breath, she says…."
"Breath," murmured Barbara. "Yes." In her letter, Tony said not one word about stock or Alexander Pope but instead wrote how much he missed her. The Countess of Camden—Jemmy's mother—had taken ill, he wrote. Barbara looked up and out over the cornfields a moment before continuing to read. Charles had left Richmond to go to one of his father's estates. The Prince of Wales would not allow her name mentioned in his presence, but her mother was in and out of his private apartments continually. Tony had seen Roger, who looked well, and told him when he wrote her to tell her to expect a letter soon. A letter, thought Barbara, and she reread Tony's.
"Yes," said the Duchess. "Any fool can see it is not possible to carry that much paper credit with so little specie behind it. It is a bubble and will burst."
* * *
Harvest Home…the Tamworth harvest was finished, and reapers prepared to celebrate before they moved to the next farm and its fields. The brightest of reapers' handkerchiefs and flowers and ripe sheaves of grain decorated the cart containing the last of the harvest. The corn baby, a rough image fashioned from wheat sheaves, sat atop the cart. It was wrapped in white linen, had a scythe tied to one outstretched arm, and wore one of the Duchess's old straw hats, into which convolvulus— the flowering vine that loved to wrap itself around stalks—and tassels of wheat were twined. The cart rumbled down the road to Tamworth, and neighboring farmers left their fields to cheer its progress and join its parade. The reapers, flowers and tassels of wheat in their hats or behind their ears, played pipes and tabors, or small drums, while their women and children danced with them and all around the harvest cart.
Tamworth servants scurried to be ready before the cart and reapers and neighbors arrived. The Duchess and Dulcinea sat watching the activity in the duke's massive oak chair, brought outside for the festivities. She would give up her place to the corn baby when it arrived and would make the first toast to the hard work and successful harvest with a tankard of her best ale, ale that would flow freely all evening and late into the night. Servants staggered by her, toward the rough tables set up on the lawn and covered with her best linen tablecloths, carrying plates piled high with boiled potatoes and cabbage and turnips and carrots. Perryman and the footmen were bringing out roasted and boiled beef, mutton, veal, and pork. For days Cook had been making custards and apple pies, both now being carried to the tables hot and smoking from the ovens. There was ale and tea and cider. The village fiddler sawed on his fiddle, warming up for the night of leaping country dances ahead. The Duchess smiled at the bustle around her, proof of her good management of Tamworth's bounty against a cold winter or late spring. There would be enough for Tamworth and for any neighbors or tenants not as fortunate.
Sir John Ashford from Ladybeth strolled over to her. The next harvest suppers would be his and Squire Dinwiitty's. He had arrived early to read her latest letter from Abigail (and to sample her ale).
"The ale is bitter this year, Alice."
She glared up at him. Her ale was always excellent. He had some fool notion that Ladybeth's was sweeter.
"Abigail and Maude seem to agree on the situation. Maude wrote us that the city was on pins and needles about the price of stock, too. Royal Assurance is down. And South Sea," he said.
"I sold out in May," the Duchess replied. "I do not hold with so much loose paper scrip. Give me a solid bag of gold coins every time." Scrip entitled its owner to shares in a joint–stock undertaking and was exchanged for a formal certificate when payment for the stock was made. It was now functioning as money, but scrip from goldsmiths, banks, South Sea, and other joint stock companies were all competing chaotically against one another.
Sir John frowned at her and moved on. They did not agree on economics, but then what did they agree on? she thought. It was the arguing that mattered. Doubtless after he had drunk more of her bitter ale, he would return to expound upon his own theories. Well, she had spent the morning resting, and she would be ready for him.
She noticed the footman Tim ride up from the village. Bringing her letters, but today she would forgo the pleasure of reading them, for she would have to listen to the head reaper's speech in her honor and admire the corn baby and welcome everyone with a speech of her own. She saw Vicar Latchrod, newly arrived, sneak a glass of ale and smiled grimly as he noticed her notice him. Drink up, Vicar, she thought. Perhaps the ale will shorten your long–winded prayers. Barbara and Thérèse went by carrying a huge tray of freshly baked bread. Barbara was laughing, and the Duchess smiled to see her. She is fatter, she thought. Though she has been with me less than two weeks, she is fattening up, growing sleek again under my and Tamworth's good care. Hyacinthe and a stableboy and the two dogs went shrieking past. Dulcinea did not even jump away to hide. She and the dogs had come to an understanding. Already she was nearly their size, and they could not match her for simple, cold cruelty. You leave me alone, she had told them, and I shall not slice your stupid pugs' noses into warm, bleeding ribbons each time I see you. Harry, nursing a torn nose, agreed, and Charlotte followed his lead. To salve their pride, they pretended Dulcinea did not exist. But she did, and now she sat up to watch them, her eyes slitted with interest.
Tim gave Barbara a letter. The Duchess saw her face as she glanced at it, and her heart gave an odd leap. Without a word to anyone, Barbara turned and walked away, away from the tables and merry, bustling servants—many of whom had been sampling the ale—toward the oaks on the small hillock. The pipes and tabor could be heard clearly now; the harvesters were in the avenue of limes. The Duchess glanced toward the oaks. Barbara, a small figure, was sitting on one of the benches built around a tree, her head bent as if she were reading.
The letter was from Roger. He had written…as he said he would. She could put it away…she did not have to read it…she could always say she had never received it. She ripped past the wax sealing it together.
My dearest Barbara,
I meant to write you long before now, but my salon is crowded from morning until night with South Sea and Bank of England and East India directors and members of the ministry and friends who want favors because the exchange is so erratic. You see how I begin….I have forgotten how to write a love letter. I bore you with news about stocks when all I want is to open my heart to you. And so I shall. Over the last four years, there have been many times I thought of you and wanted you with me, but I remembered your last words to me, and I felt any message on my part might only further estrange us.
She raised her head. The high, clear sounds of the pipes and tabor caught her attention, and she looked down to the lawn, filled now with women and men and children and a cart dressed as if it took a bride to her wedding. There was a sudden clapping on everyone's part, and the lead reaper stood before her grandmother and spoke. She could not hear the exact words, but they changed little from year to year. Her throat closed. I will not cry, she thought. He does not deserve my tears. She looked back down at her letter.
