Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel by Karleen Koen

bothering everyone. Think. Dark hair, beautiful eyes, huge, white tits. 'I would like to jump her,' you told me. Your exact words—" The door closed behind them.
       The Duke of Bedford was still examining the Rubens.
       "I do not know how Roger managed to outbid me," he said. "I was assured I made the highest offer. Just look at those flesh tones."
       "Lord Devane has excellent taste," ventured White, not quite sure whether he was included in this conversation or not.
       "Yes," snapped the Duke. "So we all know."

    * * *

       Barbara sat staring at the fog, terrible impatience filling her as surely as the fog filled the square of Covent Garden below her with its thick, gray, rolling mists. I want something to happen, anything, she was thinking, as the flower and vegetable and herb vendors packed away their goods, putting a child or two in among their baskets of walnuts or onions, to carry them both under the vaulted arcades of the stuccoed houses on the other side. They would gather there in groups to gossip, smoke their pipes, and nurse their babies until the fog lifted. Then great carriages, pulled by four or six horses, would lumber up again, their occupants spilling like melons from a box to shop the market. Housekeepers, cooks, maidservants and merchants' wives would wander among the heaped baskets, pinching the produce, haggling with the vendors. Noise and confusion would begin anew just beneath her window.
       She was unbelievably homesick for Tamworth, its gardens and woods and familiar comfort, for her grandmother's gruffness and for her brothers and sisters. From the moment the carriage had squeezed across London Bridge, nothing had gone the way she expected. The carriage had lurched to a stop just off the bridge, and her mother pushed the French maid she had brought with her from Tamworth out the door, tossed a handful of coins after her and told the coachman to drive on. The woman ran after them, screaming French obscenities.
       "I cannot afford her!" Diana snapped to her wide–eyed look, and Barbara had known from that moment that nothing would be as she had been led to believe. She was correct. Instead of pulling up before the house she knew her parents owned in Westminster, the carriage had rattled through narrow, twisted streets filled with shops until it had pulled into the piazza of Covent Garden. They stepped out in front of one of the four–story brick buildings with curving Dutch roofs. She followed Diana up the flights of stairs—Clemmie, her mother's serving woman, stood smiling gap–toothed at the top—to dark, small, smelly rooms consisting of a parlor and hall, two bedchambers, and a tiny adjoining room. The rooms smelled of other tenants and dirt and had only the barest essentials for furniture. Meres reappeared like a stray dog to sleep under a table in the parlor, during the day lounging on the stairs until Diana should have an errand for him to run. Barbara had thought to go shopping for gloves and fans and ribbons. She had thought to visit her cousins at Saylor House, the mansion her grandfather had built in London. She had thought to see Westminster Abbey and St. James's Palace and the Tower of London. She had thought to see Roger, not to be cooped up in these rooms as day led into day, while her mother sat by the hour in the parlor, at the same table, slowly emptying a bottle or two of wine as she dashed off note after note in sprawling, blotted handwriting. Why? she asked her mother, daring her slaps—which she received. Because, her mother answered, swaying a little with the wine she had drunk, I have debts. Many debts. And no one can find me here; once the marriage is announced, it will change. She stared at Barbara, who was rubbing her cheek, and who had not cried, but stood looking at her mother with blue eyes Diana read too clearly. Never mind thinking you can write to your grandmother, Diana said coldly, because Clemmie is watching you every second I am