by Karleen Koen
Thérèse shrugged, a lithe, little movement with her shoulders. "It takes time to heal from the death of a loved one." Her hand went to her neck, to the small lump beneath the fabric of her gown, the mourning ring suspended from its gold chain, intertwined with her crucifix.
* * *
Barbara kept her widow's veil lowered. She did not wish anyone to see her face as Mr. Craven of Roger's firm of solicitors read the will aloud to the those assembled to hear it, she and her mother and Tony and the servants, Cradock and Justin and Montrose.
It was much as she had expected. Roger left the estate to her entirely if there should be no children, the customary one third to her if there should be. But, of course, there were not. Unexpectedly, he requested that the estate be entitled to her firstborn son, should he die without children and should she remarry and have children. And if she should die without issue, he left the estate to the second Duke of Tamworth "in memory of his grandfather, and my friend, Richard Saylor."
There were bequests to the faithful: Cradock, Montrose, Justin; to friends, Walpole, Carlyle, Montagu; to the Prince de Soissons. Barbara's fingers curled into claws. She was glad of the widow's veil.
Craven coughed. Cradock and Justin were bowing over her hand, leaving the room, while Craven shifted the papers before him.
"Now," he said, "there are certain matters which you must consider, Lady Devane. First, the estate is sequestered. We have had the letter from Parliament. That means that you cannot sell anything toward Lord Devane's private debt without their permission. We already have a petition before Parliament to waive the fines of January, and I recommend another petition stating the extent of Lord Devane's personal debt and asking a lifting of the sequestration and an allowance for you.…"
Bankrupt, Barbara thought. What it truly means is I am bankrupt. Now I begin to understand why Harry slit his throat.
"The land itself," Tony said, "came as Lady Devane's dower. Could that not be exempt from the sequestration, from the debts?"
Diana turned to stare at Tony in surprise.
"There is precedent," Craven said excitedly. "The widow's right. Yes. Yes, your grace! An excellent point."
Later, when they were gone, and Barbara sat in her bedchamber, staring silently at the sea–foam damask on the walls, Diana said, "I think a private audience with the Prince of Wales would be a good idea. He will have influence in Parliament's decisions."
"Yes," said Barbara absently. She unfastened a diamond brooch. "Where ought I to go to pawn this?"
"Whatever for? You can live for years on credit."
"I need to honor the bequests to Montrose and Justin and Cradock—"
"Nonsense! Let them put liens against the estate. They will get the money eventually."
Barbara did not say anything. Diana watched her profile, which was not angry or stubborn or anything but serene.
"You are going to pawn it anyway, are you not?"
"Yes."
Diana sighed and held out, her hand. "Give it to me. If there is one thing I know, it is how to pawn jewels."
* * *
She waited with her mother in the drawing room at St. James's Palace, once more using her widow's veil as her shield. No one would recognize her under it, and if they should, they would respect her grief and leave her alone. Her mother had come to Devane House this morning to oversee her dressing. Barbara had let her have her way over her, rouge and powder and patches and jewelry, knowing her mother still treasured hopes that a frog, the Frog, might hop into her bed.
A footman opened the door to the private apartments and nodded to them. Barbara walked past clusters of those she had known so well this summer, Hervey and Campbell and their wives, the former Mistresses Lepell and Bellenden, Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Clayton. She kept her veil down. These people were nothing. It was the Frog she must capture. If she captured him, the toads would follow.
The Princess of Wales came to her, plump, blonde, highly rouged, blue eyes assessing, wishing, as Barbara well knew, to see past her veil. "We were so sorry," she murmured as Barbara curtsied to her. "Roger was such a favorite of ours." And there at last was the Frog. Eyes as buggy as ever, pale blue and cold; he was old enough to be her father. He wore one of his military uniforms; he loved to wear military uniforms. He bowed over her hand, excited by the secrecy of her widow's veil. He led her to a window; her mother, thinking herself clever, engaged the princess in conversation. The Frog pressed her hand to his mouth. He trembled. His complexion was pale, pasty in the sunlight from the window. Near Roger's age, but the difference! My dear one, my poor Barbara, we share your grief, he was our friend, we miss your presence at court. She allowed him to continue holding her hand. Will you be coming to the memorial service? she asked. He was silent. She bent her head. It would mean so much, your highness. She raised her veil and allowed him a glimpse of her face, of her large tear–filled eyes, so much larger now that she had lost weight. I would never forget your kindness, she said. She dropped the veil and went to her mother. The prince stared after her. There were more murmurs, whispers of condolence, pressed hands.
Barbara smiled under her veil as she walked away with her mother. How did one catch a Frog? Easily. I think I have him. For you, Roger.
"Did you mention the sequestration?" asked Diana.
"Yes, I did."
"But you did not say too much."
"No. I said just enough." She was thinking of her interview tomorrow with the king. It would be so much easier. They could be honest together, for Roger had been his friend, and she knew he would come to the service because of that.
* * *
She stood in the front entrance of St. James's Church to receive the guests. Can you make me beautiful? she had asked Thérèse anxiously that morning, as she stared in the mirror at her gauntness. Please make me beautiful for the memory of him, and Thérèse had, weaving magic with powder and patches and rouge and lead combs and discreet padding and diamonds glittering against her mourning black. The rising notes of Handel's "Chandos Anthems" rose through the vaulting ceiling of the church and swelled outward toward the door. Roger's bust stood by the font, draped in ivy and white roses. Tony and her mother stood on each side of her. Hyacinthe held her black fan and a basket of black mourning gloves to give each guest. The guests had begun to arrive, and Barbara kept track of each one, the guest list written in her mind. The Duke and Duchess of Montagu; Tommy Carlyle; the Dukes of Chandos, Newcastle, Leeds, Devonshire; Lords Townshend and Kent and Scarborough and Pembroke; Wart, bowing over her hand, winking at her (she knew he held Roger responsible for Harry's death and yet he had come); the South Sea directors, Blunt, Chapman, Chester, Child, Eyles, Gibbon, Janssen; Robert Walpole and his wife, Catherine, and his brother Horatio. Sir John Ashford, from home, in London to attend Parliament, to see the creators of the South Sea Company punished, bowed to her. He came out of respect to her grandmother. She smiled at him. The Prince and Princess of Wales and their entourage were arriving.
"You have done it," her mother said, squeezing her arm. "They came in spite of the scandal. I never thought they would."
There came Alexander Pope and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the Earl of Burlington, Godfrey Kneller, William Campbell, Sir Christopher Wren, Sir Hans Sloan and an old man whom her mother seemed to know whom she had not invited.
"Mr. Pendarves." Her mother smiled while the old man bowed over her hand, ancient liver spots on his face and hands, dirt under his fingernails, missing teeth, snuff stains, in the corners of his mouth, pressed into wrinkles. "My guest. Mr. Pendarves has never married," said Diana, watching him fondly as he walked past her into the church with the look of a cat who has just drunk a bowl of cream.
Her Aunt Shrewsborough was arriving, walking between Charles and Mary. Charles bowed over her hand, and his eyes glowed down at her like two dark sapphires. She stared after him.
"Philippe. This way, Philippe."
She turned to stone. Before her unbelieving eyes, her Aunt Abigail was entering
the gates, holding them open for Philippe de Soissons, who was limping more slowly than usual. How can he be here? she thought wildly; but the King of England was entering the churchyard behind them, his entourage surrounding him, Melusine von Schulenburg, now the Duchess of Kendall, on his arm, and Barbara swept into a low curtsy, rising as the king lifted her up and leaned forward and kissed her cheeks, and Diana smiled beside her. She lowered her widow's veil with trembling fingers. Philippe! But she must put him to one side, for her guests waited, Roger's memorial service waited, and she must do it justice to the last. All stood as the king walked to the front pew, and remained standing as Barbara followed, on Tony's arm. Handel's anthems came to a swelling end that filled the church, to its curving ceiling, and the rector, solemn in his white robes, bowed his head to lead a prayer.
There was a silence afterward, broken by the rustle of gowns, as Robert Walpole walked heavily to the intricately carved pulpit.
"We gather today, in a time of crisis, of accusations, of moral and spiritual malaise, to honor the memory of a man who was friend to all of us here. A man much maligned. A man much blamed. And yet a man I cannot praise too highly, a man who was the height and depth and breadth of grace and dignity."
It is going to be all right, Barbara thought, glancing at the faces to each side of her. Walpole was skillful, recalling Roger's years as a soldier, his service under the great Duke of Tamworth in Queen Anne's wars, his service to the House of Hanover, recalling his generosity and kindnesses. The committee's report linked him with bribes of stock to the Duchess of Kendall and other Hanoverians, but Walpole was reminding those gathered of his life before South Sea. The faces of those about her were softening in memory, and some were weeping. Walpole's voice rose and fell, carrying the guests with him.
"I close with the lines from a poet who was also a churchman. 'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.' The bell tolls for Roger Montgeoffry, who was my friend, and yours, who gave of himself in some way to each of us here. We are the lesser for his death."
And above them, the voices of the choir rose in the Twenty–third Psalm, the Lord is my Shepherd, as Walpole stepped down from the pulpit and stopped in front of Barbara and gave her his arm, and she stood and walked with him down the aisle, thinking, You have had a fitting good–bye, my love. And the bell of St. James's pealed its solemn, single toll of death.
She waited by herself in a corner of the tiny church garden, under a tree, for her carriage. At the sound of an uneven step, she turned, for all the guests were gone, and Philippe stood not far from her, leaning on his cane, his face thinner and more bitter. He has lost weight, she thought, as have I. Grief. Grief has done that to us. She felt as if she had been waiting forever for this moment.
"It was a fine service. You did justice to his memory."
"I did not invite you." And then she could not help herself. Something surged in her. "Did he love you?" She had to understand. She had to know. For certain. The words seemed to echo and swell and fill the church garden; she knew they filled her head. "Did he?"
His face had become still, as if he struggled with the answer, and she hated him at that moment, more than she had ever hated him.
"It does not matter now—"
"Tell me!"
She heard the cutting arrogance in her voice, but she could not stop it.
An eyebrow raised, that familiar, ironic expression came to his face. "Always the headstrong fool…yes. Love. It was love. Before you and after you. Do you feel better, or worse? Does any of it matter now?"
She felt a roaring begin in her ears, and when it had quieted, he was gone. Inside, she was dazed, as if she had fallen from a great height, and lay crushed and mangled, but no one knew. No one saw. You are a fool, she said to herself. It was better as it was.
* * *
"It does me good," said Walpole, waving a chicken leg about him at the reception at Saylor House, Tony's contribution to the memorial service, "to see us gathered as friends together once more. This South Sea disaster has torn us apart."
Barbara was standing in the great parlor, greeting guests, listening to their compliments about the memorial service, to their condolences, to a memory here and there of Roger. Carlyle stood by her, rocking back and forth on high red heels, surveying the guests, feeling free to comment on them and their style, or lack of style.
Diana came into the room, gracious in her black gown, on the arm of Mr. Pendarves. Carlyle raised his eyepiece, a magnifying glass attached by a red ribbon to his yellow and white vest.
"What is it?" he said.
"Barbara," said her mother, smiling, pulling Pendarves along with her, "Mr. Pendarves was just telling me how touched he was by the service, by your dignity—"
"Lumpy!"
Carlyle jumped, and Diana and Pendarves both turned as Aunt Shrewsborough sashayed forward, skirts swaying, for all the world as if she were sixteen instead of seventy. She pushed Diana to one side, and stood before Pendarves, waving her fan back and forth flirtatiously.
"Lumpy Pendarves, is that you? I saw you in church and I could not believe my eyes. How many years has it been—"
"At least a hundred," said Carlyle, but Aunt Shrewsborough swept right past him.
"It is me. Lou. Your Lou. Remember?" And she cackled, and the powder and rouge caked in her wrinkles fell in little flakes onto her gown.
Pendarves made a smacking sound with his mouth. "Lou?" he said hesitantly. Aunt Shrewsborough pinched a fold in his cheeks.
"Yes, Lou! Lumpy was a beau of mine," she said to Barbara. "Years ago. He swore he would never marry when he could not have me. I understand you are as rich as Midas now. Give me your arm, and we will drink a glass of wine to Roger Montgeoffry. That rogue. I lost fifteen thousand pounds because of him, but you would never know it to hear Robert Walpole. It was a pretty service, Bab. Diana, move out of the way."
Diana watched her drag him away.
"Incredible," said Carlyle, watching them through his eyepiece.
"I will never marry him, you know," Barbara said.
Diana and Carlyle both looked at Barbara.
"And he will never marry me. The debt, Mother. Mr. Pendarves does not look much like a man to take on so much debt. And then, I am more used to a handsomer man. He does not favor Roger, does he?"
Carlyle broke into laughter.
"Barbara—"
But she was walking away.
"She has grown up," said Carlyle. "You have your hands full."
* * *
Across another room, Barbara watched Charles and Mary as they stood at the buffet table, Charles filling Mary's plate. She was fashionable in black and pearls, lead now darkening her brows and lashes like Barbara's. But she was young, and looking up at her husband with eyes that loved him. Charles lifted his head and stared at Barbara. She read his eyes clearly. A mistake. I married out of anger and pride. I love you still. But the Prince and Princess of Wales were arriving and she went to greet them, and then she had to stroll through the rooms of Saylor House on the prince's arm, listening to his compliments whispered amid his loud public greetings. The somberness of the memorial service was wearing off, as Tony's wine and punch and brandy began to take effect. People spoke in louder tones, laughed, flirted, drank to Roger's memory more than once, more than twice.
Toward evening, she found herself in the hall, dark with the landing above it, the black and white squares of marble on the floor. The servants had not yet lit candles. I want to go home, she thought, and home was not Devane House, it was Tamworth. Love. It was love. Before you and after you. She found that tears were rolling down her cheeks.
"Barbara."
Charles took her hand and l
ed her to the shadows under the stairs, the shadows made by the way the stairs swept upward on each side to the landing above. And he dried her cheeks with a handkerchief and he held her.
"My love," he said. "My dear, sweet love. We have been fools. But we are going to begin again, and I promise it will be better between us. I promise." It felt good to be in his arms. It felt good to be held by a man who knew how to dry her tears and who held her so firmly, as if they belonged together, and she wished that he had not married and that Roger had not died, and that she had not asked Philippe that question. Charles was kissing her palm, his mouth becoming more searching, and she shivered with the hunger, the loneliness that rose in her. Change is an easy thing to decide and a difficult thing to do, her grandmother said in her mind. It is the day–to–day struggle of it that defeats people. If she were to take Charles back—it would be so easy—she would be the same as Philippe.
