by Karleen Koen
"Hush now."
"Bah!"
"Bah, yourself."
"I will send you to Virginia with Bab if you are rude to me!"
"Oh, bah, yourself. Bossy old stick."
* * *
The letter came from London informing her that Parliament had found Roger guilty of breach of trust as a South Sea director and was fining him a portion of his estate and earnings. There was no cash with which to pay the fines, wrote Montrose, and she must seriously consider Jacombe's recommendation to dismantle Devane House and sell it piece by piece. Part could go toward Parliament and part toward Lord Devane's creditors, who were becoming increasingly insistent. Enclosed were papers that would begin the process of dismantling.
Barbara looked up from the letter. She sat on an old stone wall that separated the woods from the orchards. The apple and plum and cherry trees were full of blossoms, lacy white, edged with pink, their fragrance the sweetest of smells. Bees dove among them drunkenly, so swollen with the nectar of their flowers that they could scarcely fly. She stared once more at the papers she must sign. The dismantling of Devane House—necessary, or she would live under a burden of debt which would crush her forever. Only the plans would be left, the dead dreams in a wooden box.
On the way back to the house, she gathered all the bluebells she could hold in her arms, and walked into the great hall with them, past her grandmother, who sat by a window in the sun, reading her letters.
The Duchess looked up at her, at her straight back and rigid profile, as she began to arrange bluebells in a bowl.
"Abigail writes me the news. I am sorry."
Barbara was silent, and the Duchess said no more. Abigail had written, in addition to the news about Roger's estate, that Robert had been made first lord of the treasury and chancellor—a victory indeed for a man who had been outside the king's cabinet for three years. A victory that would keep Diana in London, sharing the triumph. Another month and she would send her granddaughter to Gravesend with Perryman to board a ship sailing to the Americas. Another month and she would buy her granddaughter time. The only thing that healed one completely…time.
* * *
May Day, and Tamworth village held its May feast in the churchyard. The young men of the village competed against one another in leaping and vaulting and archery, and they raised a maypole, though Vicar frowned, not quite sure of the church's position on such pagan rites. The girls danced around it, flowers in their hair. Barbara, sitting beside her grandmother, both of them in black, was a severe contrast to the white and scarlet and green of the village maidens' gowns, to the pastels of the flowers woven in their hair. The Duchess had hired a troupe of Morris dancers, and everyone watched, enthralled, as they acted out a garbled version of the legend of Robin Hood, entwined with dancing and singing and the sound of pipes and tabor, and the children cheered for Fool and Hobby Horse while the maidservants sighed at Maid Marion and dashing Robin Hood.
"I have had a letter from Caesar," said the Duchess.
Barbara looked at her.
"Three weeks," said the Duchess, and Barbara turned back to watch the Morris dancers.
* * *
Tony guided his horse through the gates of Devane House and trotted up the circular drive, which did not have its usual allotment of carriages and bystanders assembled to watch the dismantling. I would have fought, Abigail had said. I would have kept them in court for years. The directors were not even allowed counsel, Tony had replied. Bab is fortunate to be given the allowance and dower land and such furnishings and personal items as they are permitting. Is it not strange to you, Abigail had said, how little we hear these days from Tamworth? Is it not strange to you that Barbara does not come to London to oversee? Abigail tapped a finger against her lip. It is not like the Duchess, she said.
He passed men uprooting trees and shrubs in the gardens and dismounted and walked past workmen going up and down the front stairs, carrying elaborate chimney–pieces and mirrors and marble floor tiles from the house. Inside, workmen were everywhere, some on ladders, carefully prying intricate ceiling moldings from their place, others loosening the expensive, embroidered damask from the walls. Montrose stood in the gallery with a pencil behind each ear, and his wig pushed back, arguing with a foreman.
"No," he was saying. "The chimneypieces in this room were purchased in Italy in 1716. I have the receipts here. You are not to have them."
"I was told to take all the chimneypieces—"
"Well, you were told wrong! Five of them belong to the estate prior to 1719, and I have an order from Parliament in my hand allowing them to Lady Devane—"
"Montrose!"
Tony and Montrose both turned. Diana, looking sleekly plump again in a black gown and a glittering new necklace of rubies, walked in from the bedchamber.
"They are trying to dismantle and take away the bed in there," she said.
"It is on my list! It is on my list. These people. They are like locusts!" And Montrose ran past Diana into the bedchamber.
She looked Tony up and down, and he smiled slowly, shyly, and bowed over her hand. She stared at the top of his blond head.
"Why will you never wear a wig?"
"They are hot."
"Nonsense. Though I must say, your hair becomes you. Where have you been? They are trying to pick this place clean. I swear I should take the time to drag Barbara up here by her hair. Why she is not here, I do not know! It is ridiculous to leave this all to Montrose, though he does his job. He thinks there will be enough to make a good sale, once Parliament takes its part. He thinks we may whittle the debt down to a manageable size within three years, if we do not sell too quickly." Tony smiled at her use of the word "we," but she did not notice. She sighed and walked over to a window. "Look," she said. "They are even digging up the trees."
"So you hear nothing from her?"
"Not one word. Not that I expected to. Well, I can do more without her than I can with her. I leave her to her grief. A year or so at Tamworth will make her easier to manage in the long run." Diana shuddered. "I never could abide Tamworth."
"And do you hear from Grandmama?"
"Yes, but such short letters. Look, Tony, they are taking away the French cabinets."
He came to stand by her, and they watched a crew of workmen staggering under the burden of heavy cabinets, intricate in their layering of different woods, in their delicate carving. A pensive look crossed Diana's face. "This was a beautiful house," she said.
Tony looked around him. Paneling lay stacked in a corner, and all the furniture and paintings were gone, as were the draperies and wall fabric. Workmen were gathered by the fireplace ready to pull away its marble surround, yet still the room retained the outline of something once fine and gracious.
"Yes," he said. "It was beautiful."
"She ought not to have allowed it dismantled!"
"How else will she satisfy Parliament's fines and pay off Roger's debt?"
"I do not know!" Diana said irritably. "But if she had stayed in London as she ought, someone would have helped. The prince. Someone." She glanced up at Tony in a half–challenging way. "She did not even bother to explore all the avenues open to her."
"The avenue of Charles Russel is closed."
Diana stared at him, interested, mocking. "Oh?"
"I will not allow him to hurt my sister."
"And how will you stop him? Or her?"
Tony was silent.
"I want to see her married again," Diana said. "Secure. Name someone who will marry a penniless widow!"
Tony smiled, a slow, shy, unexpectedly attractive smile. "I will."
Diana stared at him as he walked away, over to Montrose, who was arguing once more with the foreman; he had set a crew of workmen to pull out the marble chimneypieces from the wall.
"I told you that this belongs to the pre–1719 grouping—"
"Montrose," said Tony, "what do you hear from Lady Devane?"
"Nothing," Montrose said, harassed, distract
ed, looking through his sheaf of papers for the necessary receipt. "She will be at Gravesend most likely—" He broke off.
"Gravesend? Why would she go to Gravesend?"
"Gravesend? Who is in Gravesend?" Diana asked, walking up behind Tony.
"Did I say Gravesend?" said Montrose, his cheeks scarlet; then he laughed nervously. "My mind is on so much. There is an offer for sale of a chimneypiece from a man living in Gravesend. Yes. That is what I was thinking of."
* * *
Barbara stood in the courtyard, waiting for her grandmother, who was still in her chamber, resting. Thérèse and Hyacinthe and the dogs were already in the carriage, and Perryman sat beside the coachman. Behind the carriage was a wagon full of the items her grandmother insisted she take to Virginia: spinach seeds, Duke of Tamworth rose cuttings, jars of jam, books on husbandry and farming, the Duchess's only copy of Thomas Tusser's almanac, a miniature of the duke, herb seedlings, bolts of fabric, a small barrel of nails and two hammers, a French table and armchairs, many of Barbara's gowns (a decision the Duchess and Thérèse had made independently, reasoning that once her year of mourning was over, she would have need of them, to impress the colonials if nothing else). There was also a small wooden box packed away, a box filled with sketches and a pair of leather gloves. A widow must be allowed her whims, thought Barbara, as it was placed in the wagon. Her dreams. Even dead dreams were better than no dreams. Thérèse had half of Barbara's jewels sewn in the hem of her gown, and Barbara had the deed to the plantation and her grandmother's letter appointing her agent tucked inside her corset. A cow was tied to the wagon, and from several closed baskets came the nervous continuous clucking of chickens.
Inside the house, Annie tried to shake the Duchess awake.
"She is leaving. Wake up, your grace, she is leaving. For Virginia."
"Who?" said the Duchess irritably, trying to sit up, trying to see through her lace cap, which had slipped over her eyes. "Who is going to Virginia?"
Annie and Tim exchanged a glance.
"Mistress Barbara—" began Annie, but the Duchess interrupted.
"Mistress Barbara! Why would she do a fool thing like go to—" She stopped. She pulled her lace cap back out of her eyes. "I am old," she said with great dignity. "I forget."
"What you are," said Annie, "is an old pain. If you do not really mean her to go, after all the fuss and secrecy—"
"I mean it! I mean it. I forget why, but I mean it. Move, you old stick, and give me my cane."'
"You cannot walk two steps without falling. Tim is here."
"Tim is here," muttered the Duchess. "They treat me like an invalid."
"She is upset by the leaving," Annie whispered to Tim. "She will be impossible."
Tim nodded and leaned down and smiled and gathered the Duchess in his arms.
"Wipe that smile from your face," the Duchess said savagely. "I will not have it."
Downstairs, in the courtyard, Barbara was going from servant to servant; they had gathered to say good–bye to her, not only because she was their favorite, but also because they wanted to see with their own eyes someone who was actually crossing the great sea and going to Virginia, wherever that was. It was like an adventure, they whispered among themselves. Like Robinson Crusoe.
Tim carried the Duchess outside. She blinked at the sun and motioned for him to put her down, and leaned against her cane, watching Barbara, who was hugging a kitchenmaid. Barbara walked over to her, and the two of them stared at each other.
"You have the miniature?" the Duchess asked.
"Yes."
"See you hang on to it. If you decide on any wildness, you just look at that miniature and remember who your grandfather was. The finest man I ever knew."
"Yes."
"You have a Bible?"
"Yes."
"Tusser's almanac?"
"Yes. And the seeds and nails and rose cutttings and the hundred– and– one other things you wished me to take. I can always send for whatever I need once I am there."
But it will take weeks and weeks and weeks, months, thought the Duchess, for your letters to arrive, we will be separated by such distance. You are going a world away. Oh, Richard, what have I done?
From the top of the carriage, Perryman said, "It is getting late, ma'am. We must leave."
Barbara smiled suddenly at her grandmother, her grandfather's smile. "Come with me," she said.
For a moment, the Duchess's eyes sparkled. "If I could, I swear I would! If I were ten—no, five—years younger, maybe I would." She swallowed and said, "You just remember who you are."
"I know who I am." Barbara took her in her arms and hugged her. "The granddaughter of the Duchess of Tamworth." Then, to Annie, fiercely, "You better keep her well."
"She is too mean to die," Annie replied.
Barbara stepped back from her grandmother. "I must go." She got into the carriage and shut the door and the carriage lumbered off, with Barbara and Thérèse and Hyacinthe leaning out the windows, waving. The ser vants gave a cheer; some of them were crying. The stableboys ran after the carriage, escorting it out. Annie blew her nose fiercely.
"Half–gypsy, that is what she is," she said to herself. "Always was. Always will be."
"I want to go to chapel." The Duchess's voice broke on the word "chapel."
Tim picked her up at once. She was crying. Tears streamed down her face, down its wrinkles, and lost themselves in the lace ruffles of the neck of her bedjacket.
"Never you mind," Tim said to her gently. "I will take you to chapel. Yes, I will. Right now."
Inside the carriage, Barbara wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and blew her nose. "What are we doing?" she said to Thérèse, who laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Barbara leaned out the window. "Stop at Tamworth church," she told the coachman.
At the church, she leapt out and ran quickly through to the chapel. She stood a moment before each memorial tablet, touching the names of her brothers and sisters, standing the longest at Harry's. Then she went to Roger's bust. The wildflowers she had brought yesterday were faded; wildflowers never lasted long. She touched a marble cheek.
"Good–bye," she said. And then she went out of the chapel and down the aisle of the church and out into the waiting carriage.
* * *
White was at the appointed place in Gravesend, and he straightened up as the carriage lurched down the cobbled main street, a cow tied to the wagon following behind. He waved his arm. The coachman pulled the carriage up short, and Barbara leaned her head out the window as White walked up to her. From the wagon came a clamorous clucking of chickens. White smiled at the sound of it.
"What have you brought with you?" he said to Barbara. Thérèse leaned out the other window and the dogs began to bark.
"You would never believe it," she said.
"Well, the ship is delayed, but only for a few days. I have reserved rooms for you at a tavern. Did you know Pocahontas is buried in the parish church here?"
"Who?" Thérèse asked.
"An Indian princess," said Barbara. "From Virginia." She leaned farther out the window and pressed White's hand. "You have been a good friend."
"A well–paid one."
"No one knows?"
"Only Montrose. Speaking of which, I have at least ten papers he insists you must sign before you leave. You have made him a happy man, you know. The settling of Lord Devane's estate will take at least four years, and he is inundated with paper and legal documents and schedules he must keep, and he complains all day and makes lists and has never been more satisfied with himself."
Barbara laughed and called up to Perryman, "We are going to a tavern. The ship is delayed. You take the wagon onto the ship. It is the Brinton under Captain Smith."
While she was talking, White smiled at Thérèse.
"You have made your choice, have you?" he said, the edges of his smile sad.
She nodded and touched the mourning ring suspended on the gold necklace she always wore.
&nb
sp; "We are on an adventure," Hyacinthe said behind her.
"Indeed you are," White said.
* * *
Two days later, a carriage, driven hard, pulled into the courtyard of the tavern, and the coachman jumped down and opened its door, while the horses stood heaving, spittle at their mouths. Diana, her face grim, stepped down into the courtyard and strode into the tavern. Local men, tradesmen, merchants, a few sailors, stared at her—her beautiful set face, her rubies, her sweeping black gown, her hat with its trailing feathers. The tavernkeeper hurried to her, bowing and smiling.
