Free Through a Glass Darkly: A Novel by Karleen Koen

that followed. Trunks had to be dragged down from the attics and aired and then packed. Then, more often than not, they would have to be repacked, according to her grandmother's latest dictate. The Duchess had taken to her bed, cold and emotion having taken their toll on her legs. She ran the household as forcefully as ever and oversaw every detail of Barbara's leaving. A hundred times during the course of a day Barbara would be summoned to her grandmother's chambers. She would find her propped up in bed, pillows behind her back and all around her to support the wooden trays that held her paper and pens and ink pots and empty teacups. She wore at least three Spanish shawls, her huge lace cap and mittens, these in spite of the roaring fire in the fireplace. Dulcinea stayed nearby, dozing, or if she was in a playful mood, slapping at the feather in the Duchess's pen as she checked yet another item off her ink–stained lists. All the clothes must be checked, laces resewn, ribbons cleaned, dried lavender, mint and rose petals sprinkled carefully in their folds.
       "Mother! I will have gowns made in London! These are old-fashioned!" Diana cried in exasperation, but the Duchess paid no attention because she was arguing with Annie on how best to clean the stained silk ribbons.
    "You pare four or five good–sized potatoes, being careful to slice them very thin. You lay them in a quart of cold water for a few hours. Then you sponge the silk with the water and iron it dry!"
       Annie folded her arms stubbornly. "Spirits of wine, powdered French chalk, and pipe clay is what my mother always used—"
       "Your mother was an idiot, then! Check my recipe books. It is my grandmother's recipe! Are you missaying my grandmother, God rest her soul, you stubborn old stick?"
       Then Annie had to find the milk of roses—made from sweet almonds beaten to a paste with drops of oil of lavender and rose water added—and carefully measure out a portion for Barbara to take with her. It would protect her complexion and keep it smooth and white.
       "It is already smooth and white, Mother!"
       "This will make it smoother and whiter still! She is after a husband, and a good complexion helps! And you, chit! If you do marry Roger, and I am not saying you will, but if you do, be sure you take care not to wear pearls at your wedding. They are a symbol for tears, you know!"
       "She is driving me mad!" cried Diana. But Barbara said nothing. She knew this briskness and bustle covered softer feelings and was her grandmother's way of blessing her venture not with holy water, but with the more intimate, homier ingredients of lavender and milk of roses and clean silk ribbons.
       "Will she need candles? There are some freshly made."
       "Good God, Mother! Candles may be bought in London!"
       "Do not take the Lord's name in vain, Diana. It is a sin—run along, Bab. You will never get to London and that fine husband you covet if you dawdle in my chambers all day!"
       She slipped out of the room, away from the beginning of a rousing quarrel between her mother and grandmother. She would be summoned again in a few hours with fierce demands as to why she was never around when she was needed, but for now, while she was free, she would go up to the schoolroom and hear the children at their lessons. Her one grief in all of this was leaving them and her grandmother. But Roger was rich now, they said. And he was kind. She knew that someday soon her brothers and sisters would come to live with her. And Roger. She would provide for them. It was one of the duties of a gentlewoman, to provide for family. She opened the door quietly and sat down at her scarred wooden desk–table, folding her hands to listen. They were reciting their Bible verses and the sound of their clear, high young voices soothed her.
       "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth,
       "Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: