It was Rochester’s habit to dress one of his footmen as a sentry and post him about the Palace at night, there to observe who went abroad at late hours. With information thus secured he would retire to his country-estate and write his nasty satires, several copies of which would be scribbled out and sent back anonymously to be circulated through the Court. They always pleased everyone but the subject, but the Earl was impartial—sooner or later every man and woman of any consequence might expect to feel the poisonous stab of his pen.
For the first few minutes of her visit Barbara made trifling but pleasant conversation—the brand-new French gowns called sacques, yesterday’s play at the Duke’s Theatre, the great ball which was to be held in the Banqueting House next week. And then all at once she was launched upon the current crop of love-affairs, who slept with whom, what lady feared herself to be with child by a man not her husband, who had most recently caught a clap. Corinna, guessing what all this was leading to, felt her heart begin to pound and her breath choked short.
“Oh, Lord,” continued Barbara airily, “the way things go here—I vow and swear an outsider would never guess. There’s more than meets the eye, let me tell you.” She paused, watching Corinna closely now, and then she said, “My dear, you’re very young and innocent, aren’t you?”
“Why,” said Corinna, surprised, “I suppose I am:”
“I’m afraid that you don’t altogether understand the way of the world—and as one who knows it only too well I’ve come to you as a friend to—”
Corinna, tired of the weeks of worry and uncertainty, the sense of sordidness and of helpless disillusion, felt suddenly relieved. Now at last it would come out. She need not, could not, pretend any longer.
“I believe, madame,” she said quietly, “that I understand some things much better than you may think.”
Barbara gave her a look of surprise at that, but nevertheless she drew from her muff a folded paper and extended it to Corinna. “That’s circulating the Court—I didn’t want you to be the last to see it.”
Slowly Corinna’s hand reached out and took it. The heavy sheet crackled as she unfolded it. Reluctantly she dragged her eyes from Barbara’s coolly speculative face and forced them down to the paper where eight lines of verse were written in a cramped angular hand. Somehow the weeks of misery and suspicion she had endured had cushioned her mind against further shock, for though she read the coarse brutal little poem it meant no more to her than so many separate words.
Then, as graciously as if Barbara had brought her a little gift, perhaps a box of sweetmeats or a pair of gloves, she said, “Thank you, madame. I appreciate your concern for me.”
Barbara seemed surprised at this mild reaction, and disappointed too, but she got to her feet and Corinna walked to the door with her. In the anteroom she stopped. For a moment the two women were silent, facing each other, and then Barbara said: “I remember when I was your age—twenty, aren’t you?—I thought that all the world lay before me and that I could have whatever I wanted of it.” She smiled, a strangely reflective cynical smile. “Well—I have.” Then, almost abruptly, she added, “Take my advice and get your husband away from here before it’s too late,” and turning swiftly she walked on, down the corridor, and disappeared.
Corinna watched her go, frowning a little. Poor lady, she thought. How unhappy she is. Softly she closed the door.
Bruce did not return home that night until after one o’clock. She had sent word to him at Whitehall that she was not well enough to come to Court, but had asked him not to change his own plans. She had hoped, passionately, that he would—but he did not. She found it impossible to sleep and when she heard him come in she was sitting up in bed, propped against pillows and pretending to read a recent play of John Dryden’s.
He did not come into the bedroom but, as always, went into the nursery first to see the children for a moment. Corinna sat listening to the sound of his steps moving lightly over the floor, the soft closing of the door behind him—and knew all at once that little Bruce was the Duchess’s son. She wondered why she had not realized it long ago. That was why he had told her almost nothing at all of the woman who supposedly had been the first Lady Carlton. That was why the little boy had been so eager to return and had coaxed his father to take him back to England. That was why they seemed to know each other so well—why she had sensed a closeness between them which could have sprung from no casual brief love-affair.
