“Do something, some of you!” yelled Barbara furiously, but though the room was filling with people—footmen, pages, blackamoors, serving-women, courtiers who had been passing by—no one had yet made a move to put out the fire. They all stood for several seconds, looking on in stupefied amazement, each waiting for someone else to decide what should be done.
And then a couple of footmen arrived carrying buckets full of water and pushed their way in; they gave a mighty sling and sent the water splashing over one burning chair and carpet. There was a hissing and the smoke rolled out and everyone retreated, squinting his eyes and coughing. Several now began to run for more water.
Dogs were barking. A scared monkey leaped chattering from one shoulder to another and in his terror bit the hand of a woman who tried to knock him aside. Men rushed in and out with buckets of water, most of the women ran around distractedly, doing nothing. Barbara was trying to give orders to everyone at once, though no one paid her much attention. And now she seized a page by the arm as he went hurrying by, huge buckets slopping with water in either hand.
“Boy! Wait a moment—I want a word with you!” The young man stopped and looked at her; his eyes were bloodshot and his face wet with sweat and smeared with soot. She lowered her voice. “There’s a cabinet in there—a small one over in this corner—with a guitar atop it. Bring it out and I’ll give you twenty pound.”
His eyes flickered in surprise. Twenty pounds when his pay for the year was three! She must want it badly. “The whole side’s aflame, your Ladyship!”
“Forty pound, then! But bring it out!” She gave him a shove.
Two or three minutes later he came back carrying the cabinet easily in one hand, for it was very small. One side had been charred and as he set it down it fell apart and several folded letters dropped to the floor. He stooped quickly to retrieve them but Barbara cried: “Leave them alone!
She knelt on one knee and began to gather them swiftly, when all at once a hand reached across and took one from beneath her very fingers. Looking up she saw the Duke of Buckingham standing there smiling down at her. Her purple eyes narrowed and her teeth closed savagely.
“Give that to me!”
Buckingham continued to smile. “Certainly, my dear. When I’ve had a look at it. If it’s so important to you, perhaps it’s also important to me.”
For a moment they continued to stare at each other, Barbara still half crouching, her tall cousin looming over her, both impervious to the noise and confusion all about them. And then suddenly she sprang at him, but he stepped lightly aside and warded her off with one raised arm, meanwhile sliding the letter into an inside pocket of his doublet.
“Don’t be so hasty, Barbara. I’ll return it to you in good time.”
She gave him a sullen glare and muttered some impolite curse beneath her breath, but evidently realizing that she would have to wait until he was ready she went back to directing the workmen. The fire was almost out by now and they were carrying from the bedroom all the furniture which had not been scorched. But the entire apartment was black with smoke and the bedchamber a wet charred mess. The windows were flung open to air the rooms, though it was a gusty rainy night, and Wilson brought Barbara a mink-lined cloak to put over her dressing-gown.
When at last they had gone she turned back to Buckingham, who was strumming at a guitar. Barbara stared at him from across the room. “Now, George Villiers—give me that letter!”
The Duke made an airy gesture. “Tush, Barbara. You’re always so brisk. Listen to this tune I pricked out the other morning. Rather pretty, don’t you think?” He smiled at her and nodded his head in time to the gay little melody.
“A pox on you and your damned tunes! Give me that letter!”
Buckingham sighed, tossed the guitar into a chair and took the letter from his pocket; as he began to unfold it she started toward him. He held up a warning hand. “Stay where you are, or I’ll go elsewhere to read it.”
Barbara obeyed him and stood there, her arms folded and the toe of her mule tapping impatiently. The crisp parchment crackled in the quiet room, and then as his eyes went rapidly over the contents a smile of amusement and contempt stole onto his face.
“By God,” he said softly, “Old Rowley writes as lewd a love-letter as Aretino himself.” Old Rowley was his Majesty’s nickname, after a pet goat that roamed the Privy Gardens.
“Now will you give me that letter!”
Buckingham slipped it once more into his own pocket. “Let’s talk this over for a moment. I’d heard his Majesty wrote you some letters just after you’d met. What do you expect to do with ’em?”
“What business is that of yours!”
The Duke shrugged and started for the door. “None, I suppose, strictly speaking. Well—a very fine lady has made me an assignation and I should hate to disappoint her. Good-night, madame.”
