by Karleen Koen
She shivered as she walked, and it was not just the cold. The gardens were so empty. The legion of gardeners working in them had been a favor ite topic in London, and she still remembered how many people had been in them the day she visited. Now there was no one anywhere. It was as if time were suspended; here and there one saw a wheelbarrow overturned; burlapped plants that had been left unplanted and had died. Devane House rose behind her, massive and unfinished piles of brick and stone waiting, ladders, scaffolds…everything waiting. Last night Cradock complained to her of surly footmen who wanted back wages and food vendors who refused to deliver food because their bills were unpaid. Mrs. Elmo cornered her to say the housemaids were stealing little things, a book, a porcelain statue, a medal here and there from the collections. They, too, had not been paid. And there were broken drains in the kitchen and a leak in the roof that needed fixing, Mrs. Elmo said. Bills, Montrose said to her this morning, nothing but bills. He showed her the sheaf of papers, overdue notices for candles, food, oats, clothing, carriages, all the things whose payment she had always taken for granted.
Not only was the staff at Devane House due back wages, said Montrose, but so was the staff at St. James's Square. The contractors and craftsmen who had worked on the town houses and Devane House itself were due money. There were bills for furniture, drapery fabrics, porcelains. Roger's banker, Jacombe, wished to speak with her as soon as possible, Montrose said, as did the solicitors in the law firm Roger employed. Mr. Civins of that firm had written a polite but urgent note requesting a meeting—lawsuits pending for nonpayment, guessed Montrose. There were mortgages and settlements and indemnities to see to, as well as stocks and annuities. He was compiling a list of assets that Lord Devane had requested before his illness, and she ought to look at it; she ought to begin deciding what could be sold. She might have to go to creditors and appeal to them personally. They would not be able to refuse a woman, Montrose said. In the cash box were two bags of gold, the only cash we possess, Montrose told her. Tell me what to do, he said. Tell me what to do, said Cradock. Tell me what to do, said Mrs. Elmo.
She noticed squares of paper plastered over the front gates and on the fence; she tore one down. It was a crude printing taken from a better woodcut; the finer version would be on sale in bookshops. Titled "Britannia stript by a South Sea Director," it featured Britannia as a Roman matron pulling away from a South Sea director who looked like Roger. There were lines printed at the bottom:
See how a crafty vile projector picks
Britannia's purse by South Sea shams and tricks; Drains her of wealth till he has made her mourn,
And humbly cheats her with a false return;
Takes much, leaves little for her own support,
Gives her fair words, but all he says comes short,
Conveys her riches to a distant shore,
And daily courts the silly dame for more.
Behind the caricature of Roger was a waiting ship. Barbara crumpled the paper up. How did they dare? He was ill, perhaps dying, and they wrote vicious lies, blaming him for everything. She stared past the gates to Wren's unfinished church on the other side, its windows and doors boarded up. I hate this place, she thought. I want to take him away from here. Before it kills him.
* * *
The Duchess held out her hand, and Hyacinthe gave her the copy of Robinson Crusoe.
"Defoe, heh?" she said, examining it. "He is a scribbler and nothing more. In and out of prison for debt. And a dissenter, a Presbyterian to boot. Does he write a good story?"
Hyacinthe nodded his head listlessly.
The Duchess sighed. Barbara had been gone two days, and the house was a tomb without her. Hyacinthe moped in corners; she herself stayed in bed and cried. She had not been to chapel or held prayers for her household since Harry's death. She felt too weak and too tired. It was as if a part of her were buried with him. She patted the edge of the bed. Gingerly, eyeing her, Hyacinthe sat down. She gave him back the book, and Harry and Charlotte leapt up on the bed to settle themselves next to Dulcinea. She stared at the dogs, and Harry, tail wagging, barked happily at her. She felt too tired even to protest his impudence.
"Read it," she said to Hyacinthe, closing her eyes and leaning back on her pillows. "Let me see what this Defoe has to say for himself."
"'Preface,'" began Hyacinthe. "'If ever the Story of any private Man's Adventures in the World were worth making Publick, and were acceptable when publish'd, the Editor of this Account thinks this will be so.
"'The Wonders of this Man's Life exceed all that (he thinks) is to be found extant; the Life of one Man being scarce capable of a greater Variety.'"
"Bah!" said the Duchess, her eyes still closed.
"'The Story is told with Modesty, with Seriousness, and with a religious Application—"'
"A Presbyterian application, no doubt," sniffed the Duchess.
'"—Applicant of Events to the Uses to which wise Men always apply them—'"
Diana burst into the bedchamber, waving a letter. "Roger is ill," she said dramatically, her violet eyes shining with excitement, "perhaps dying."
"What? What?" said the Duchess, trying to push herself up on the pillows, her lace cap falling forward into her eyes, Dulcinea and the dogs protesting at her movement. "Give me that letter."
It took her a moment to make sense of it, and it was only after she had reread it that she realized the letter was addressed to Barbara, and that Diana had opened it.
"You opened her letter," she said to Diana.
Diana stared at her. "You are becoming senile. What has that to do with anything? I thought it might be important—"
"You thought nothing of the kind—"
"Are you going to lie there and scold me for opening a letter when my daughter's husband is ill? May, in fact, already be dead? God, this is unexpected. I have a thousand things to do—"
"Dead! Dead? Who says anything about dead?"
"Abigail says—quite clearly, Mother—that he has had a serious attack, and that Barbara must come immediately."
"She does not say he may be dead. Aqua mirabilis. And imperial water. Yes, imperial water and a syrup of violets and woodsorrel and lemon for fever. I have a palsy water recipe…she must bring him here. Annie! Where is that woman when you need her? Hyacinthe, you run and fetch Annie for me. And Tim. And Perryman."
She threw back the bed covers and sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, preparation for standing. Her legs were not to be trusted.
"Have you lost your mind?" said Diana. "What are you doing?"
"Doing? Doing? I will go to London. Annie and I. Between the two of us we will cure whatever ails Roger Montgeoffry—"
"You are mad! You cannot even stand up. The journey would kill you. See! See," said Diana, for the Duchess had tried to stand and had fallen back on the bed like a tipped–over doll. Dulcinea complained loudly, and the dogs jumped off the bed and barked at Diana.
"Go away!" she told them. "Mother, listen to me. Your health is poor. I will go to London. I will take your fever waters and cordials. I will take care of Barbara."
The Duchess looked at Diana with narrowed eyes. She had forgotten now exactly what they were speaking of, but she knew it was important and that it involved Barbara. Diana, regal in her black gown, confused her, staring at her with a face which showed nothing but concern. Ha, thought the Duchess, her face becoming mutinous.
"I know what you are thinking," said Diana, "but she is my daughter, the only child left to me, and I have nothing but her welfare at heart. I swear it. Now, I am not going to stand here arguing with you. I am going to pack and order my carriage." She swept forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. "I have Roger's welfare at heart also. You will just have to trust me." Her gown hissed against the floor as she left the room.
Roger, thought the Duchess. I remember. Abigail wrote that he is ill. Very ill. She scratched Dulcinea under the chin.
"I do not trust her. Do you, Dulcinea?" Dulcinea mewed
loudly and worked her long claws into the bed covers.
Hyacinthe and Annie and Perryman and Tim ran in and Hyacinthe stood to one side of the bed, while the Duchess—clearminded now— issued her orders. Annie was to pack the necessary waters, and she was to accompany Lady Diana to London. Lord Devane was ill. Bring him back if you can, she told her. Perryman and Tim were to see that Annie and the waters and Diana got out of Tamworth as soon as possible. Sooner. Breathless but triumphant, the Duchess settled back again in her pillows as the three left the room. Annie would put a crimp in Diane's style. She smiled grimly to herself and looked up to see a single tear rolling down one of Hyacinthe's cheeks. Her smile faded.
"Will Lord Devane die?" he asked.
She patted the bed, and Harry and Charlotte immediately jumped up.
"You and I are going to say some prayers. As soon as you finish reading me some more of that Robert Crenso—"
"R–Robinson Crusoe."
"Yes. We will read a little more of that, just a little. And then we will say prayers for Lord and Lady Devane—"
"And Thérèse?"
"And Thérèse. Our prayers may help more than any syrup of violets. We have to trust in the Lord, Hyacinthe. We do what we can, but we have to trust in the Lord."
* * *
Carefully, Justin and Thérèse turned Roger over, and Barbara dipped a rag in lavender water and washed his back. His skin seemed to be on fire. If anything, the fever seemed higher than this morning before her walk. Roger murmured and moaned, and his hands clawed at the bed sheets as Justin slipped a fresh nightgown on him. Barbara settled him back on the pillows and washed his face with the lavender water.
"Tommy Carlyle has sent you flowers," she told him. By the bed was an enormous bouquet of roses and holly and ivy. "He says he will call on you the moment you are well enough to receive visitors. He is saving gossip for you." Roger did not respond.
Barbara sighed and stood and happened to notice Thérèse's face. Her skin was sallow and there was a stricken look in her eyes. It has been too much, thought Barbara. Harry and the funeral and the journey and now this.
"Go and rest," she said sharply. "Take the rest of the afternoon off. I will be fine." And she meant it. She felt as if she had the strength of ten, had purpose once more in her life. Roger was going to live. She would not let him die.
Dully, Thérèse walked toward the kitchen. She did not like this house; in the day and night she had been here she had discovered suspicion and distrust everywhere. The housemaids were sullen, the footmen surly. They had not been paid their wages in two months, and many of them had lost money in South Sea, and they half–believed that Lord Devane had piles of money hidden somewhere. Their whispers were like the hisses of geese. She ignored them. She felt nothing; every feeling she possessed was with Harry. She went through the days with a space between her and everyone else in the world.
She opened the kitchen door quietly, intending to leave at once if the cook was there. Last night, he had asked her oh–so–careful questions about Lord Devane's health and Lady Devane's spending. She wished he would leave, all the servants would leave, as they had threatened to do last night as they drank forbidden brandy, Lord Devane's brandy, in their tea. He has thousands, a footman said, forgetting Thérèse. He has our money hidden away. It is a trick. I hope he dies, another said. Thérèse shook her head. These people were trash, without loyalty or kindness in their hearts—her eyes widened. In the kitchen, Montrose was packing a basket of food, and something in his furtive movement made the hair rise on her arms. Was he stealing too? It was like a canker spreading throughout the household, the stealing, the disloyal talk, the suspicion. She felt anger stirring tiredly inside herself.
"She would give you anything you asked!" she said loudly. "For what must you steal?"
Montrose started and dropped half a roasted chicken on the floor. Thérèse stared down at it disgustedly.
"It–it is not for me," he stammered defensively. Then he blushed. She walked into the kitchen, hands on her hips. "Well! Are you going to let it rot on the floor? This morning, she told me to begin cleaning her jewels. She thinks she may have to sell them. This evil mistress we have. This South Sea whore—Holy Mary, Mother of God, how can you steal from her? How can you steal from him?"
"I am not stealing! I just take a little. For someone who needs it! Lord Devane would not care! He would have me take more if he knew who—"
"Who! Who do you take 'a little' for?"
Montrose did not answer.
"A whore, perhaps," said Thérèse. "A food vendor, who sells it in turn and gives you half the money, a—"
"Caesar! It is for Caesar White."
And then he stopped, as if he had said far more than he meant. Thérèse's mouth fell open. Montrose frowned and picked up the chicken and put it in the basket. Thérèse saw a bottle of wine and some bread in it also. He put the basket over his arm and walked away from her, his expression both injured and dignified.
"Wait!" she called, running after him. She caught him by the arm. "Tell me—"
"Tell you what? Why should you believe me? After all, I may be lying. Someone like me, who has served Lord Devane for some six years. Be sure and lock up the silver, Thérèse. I intend to go after it next."
"Tell me."
"There is nothing to tell. Caesar lost everything in the fall of stock. He is living in a garret in Covent Garden without money for coal or food. And he is so despondent that I think sometimes he will—" He stopped, glancing at Thérèse, and changed what he had been going to say. "He made a little this summer, and I told him to stop playing the market and put it away, but he was stock mad, and when the prices fell, his fortune fell with it. Not an unusual story these days."
Thérèse crossed herself. Then she grabbed a cloak from a peg. "I am going with you."
Thoughts whirled in her head as she walked beside him. Despondent, so despondent that…the thin red line under Harry's chin was vivid in her mind. The flash of a razor. The whiteness, the stillness of his beloved face. Her own face became grim. She would not allow another person she knew to take his life. There was no misfortune worth that. It caused so much pain, so much guilt, to those left behind. And it was a sin before the sight of the Lord.
She ran up the dark stairs, stairs that smelled of cabbage and urine, ahead of Montrose, pausing only to glance back at his face to be certain she was before the correct door, then she strode in, an avenging, household goddess. Caesar lay on a cot, staring out a tiny window at the leaden sky. His withered arm, its tiny hand, lay outside the covers. He turned listlessly at the door's opening.
"So," Thérèse said, walking toward him, "this is how you end up when you have nothing more to do with your friends. Poor as a churchmouse and feeling sorry for yourself in the bargain. I hear you have lost everything. Well, so have I. But you do not see me lying in a bed like an invalid, crying in my pillow. No! And why? Because I have people who care for me. I have God, and the blessed Lord Jesus and his Holy Mother, and there is nothing more in life that is necessary, nothing—" She stopped, a breath turning into a sob, horrified with herself. She had not meant to say these things. They had just come out.
"Thérèse! I–I was sorry to hear of Harry. Oh, Thérèse, it is so good to see you," Caesar said slowly, and she burst into tears, crying, crying for herself, for the enormous hurt in her, the ache, crying for this life that was so hard to live sometimes, in spite of God, in spite of faith.
"You are loved," she sobbed. "And that is more important than anything in the world."
He got out of bed, and took her in his good arm. She sobbed against him. He stroked her hair, and murmured her name and said he was sorry, and she knew he meant Harry. Yes, they were all sorry. Harry.
Montrose remained transfixed at the door. Finally, he managed to get hold of himself and come inside the room. He opened the basket.
"A little food, a little wine,"' he said. "That is what we need."
Thérèse blew her no
se.
Caesar smiled. His smile was ragged at the edges, without the inner mirth that had once made it so special. But it was a smile nonetheless. "Food, wine, and the two of you," he said. "A feast for the gods. In truth."
* * *
That night, tired, Barbara went into the bedchamber where her trunks were, searching for paper on which to write a letter to her grandmother. Thérèse sat in a chair, cloths for cleaning and jewels scattered in her lap, looking at something in the palm of her hand and crying. Crying as if her heart were broken.
"Thérèse!" Barbara said, running to her, but she jumped up, the cloths and jewels falling to the floor, as well as what was in her hand, and ran from the room. Barbara knelt down to pick up the jewels and saw Harry's mourning ring. She picked it up and stared at it. Harry…Thérèse….
