It seemed he was finding a very pleasant niche indeed, for he was betrothed to none other than Mary Fairfax, the daughter of the Parliamentarian General who, next to Cromwell himself, was the most important man in the Commonwealth.
Mary Fairfax was her father’s darling and, good Parliamentarian though she might be, was bedazzled not only by the handsome looks and charming manners of the Earl, but by the prospect of becoming a Countess.
So this was one way in which a member of the aristocracy could live comfortably in the new England.
Barbara admired the man before she saw him, and he showed on the first day under her stepfather’s roof that he was not indifferent to Barbara. She would look up to discover his eyes upon her, and to her surprise she found herself blushing. He seemed to sense her confusion. It amused him; and she, telling herself that she was furious with him for this, knew in her heart that she was far from displeased. His attention was reminding her that she was not a little girl any longer; she was a young woman; and she fancied that he was comparing her with Mary Fairfax.
She would ignore him. She shut herself into her own room; but she could not drive him from her thoughts. She saw the change in herself. She was like a bud which was opening to the warmth of the sun; but she was not a bud—she was a woman responding to the warmth of his glances.
He came upon her once on the staircase which led to her room. He said: “Barbara, why do you always avoid me?”
“Avoid you!” she said. “I was not aware of you.”
“You lie,” he answered.
Then she turned and tossed her long hair so that it brushed across his face, and would have darted up the stairs; but the contact seemed to arouse a determination within him, for he caught the hair and pulled her back by it; then he laid a hand on her breast and kissed her.
She twisted free and, as she did so, slapped his face so hard that he reeled backwards. She was free and she darted up the stairs to her room; when she reached it, she ran in and bolted the door.
She leaned against it; she could hear him on the other side of it as he beat on it with his fists.
“Open it,” he said. “Open it, you vixen!”
“Never to you,” she cried. “Take care you are not thrown out of this house, my lord earl.”
He went away after a while, and she ran to her mirror and looked at herself; her hair was wild, her eyes shining, and there was a red mark on her cheek where he had kissed her. There was no anger in her face at all; there was only delight.
She was happier than she had ever been, but she was haughty to him when they next met, and scarcely spoke to him; her mother reprimanded her for her ill manners to their guest; but when had she taken any notice of her mother?
After that she began to study herself in the mirror; she loosened her curls; she unlaced her bodice that more of her rounded throat might be shown. She was tall, and her figure seemed to have matured since that first encounter. When she was near him she was aware of a tingling excitement such as she had never known before in the whole of her life. Feigning to avoid him she yet sought him. She was never happier than when she was near him, flashing scornful glances at him from under her heavy lids; it amused her in the presence of her mother and stepfather to ask artless questions concerning the beauty and talents of his betrothed.
She saw a responsive gleam in his eyes; she was wise enough to know that she was but a novice in the game she was playing; she knew that he stayed at her stepfather’s house for only one reason, and that he would not leave it until he had captured her. This made her laugh. Not that she would avoid the capture; she had determined to be captured. She believed that she was on the point of making an important discovery. She was beautiful, and beauty meant power. She could take this man—the betrothed of Mary Fairfax—and drive everything from his mind but the desire for herself. That was power such as she longed to wield; and she had learned from those moments when he had touched her or kissed her, that surrender would be made without the slightest reluctance.
Barbara was beginning to know herself.
So one day she allowed him to discover her stretched out on the grass in the lonely part of the nuttery.
There was a struggle; she was strong, but so was he; she was overpowered and, when she was seduced, she knew that she would never find life dull while there were men to make love to her.
From that moment Barbara was aware that her first and most impelling need would always be the satisfaction of her now fully aroused sexual desires; but there was one other thing she wanted almost equally: Power. She wanted no opposition to any desire of hers, however trivial. She wanted to ride in her carriage through London and be admired and known as the most important person in the city. She wanted fine clothes and jewels—a chance to set this beauty of hers against a background which would enhance rather than minimize it. In the clothes she was obliged to wear, her fine already maturing figure was not displayed to advantage; the color of her gown subdued the dazzling blue of her eyes and it did not suit the rich auburn of her hair. Clothes were meant to adorn beauty, yet she was so much more beautiful without hers; it would seem therefore that she wore the wrong clothes.
Clearly she must be free. She was sixteen and would be no longer treated as a child.
She thought of Chesterfield and wondered whether through him lay a means of escape. There had been more amorous encounters between them. Although there was little of tenderness in their relationship, both recognized in each other a passion which matched their own. Barbara at sixteen was wise enough to realize that her feelings for this man were based on appetite rather than emotion, and Barbara’s appetite was beginning to be voracious.
Chesterfield was a rake and a reckless man. From an early age he had been obliged to fend for himself; he was not the man to sacrifice his life to an ideal. He was as ambitious as Barbara, and almost as sensual. His father had died before he was two years old and he had received most of his education in Holland. He was some eight years older than Barbara and already a widower, for Anne Percy, his wife, had died three years ago and the seduction of females was no unusual sport of his.
Barbara often wondered what sort of husband he had been to Anne Percy. A disturbing one, she fancied, and of course an unfaithful one. He did not speak of Anne, though he found a malicious enjoyment in discussing his betrothed Mary Fairfax with Barbara.
He dallied at the house, delaying his departure; and it was all on account of Barbara.
That was why she began to contemplate marriage with him as a means of escape. They were of a kind, and therefore suited. She would not ask him to be faithful to her, for she was sure she would not wish to be so to him. Already she found herself watching others with eager speculation; so she and Philip would not be ill matched.
He was betrothed to Mary Fairfax, but who was Mary Fairfax to marry with an Earl? Whereas Barbara, on the other hand, was a member of the noble family of Villiers.
She hinted that her family might not be averse to a match between them. He had visited her in her room—a daring procedure; but Barbara could be sure that none of the servants who might discover her escapade would dare mention it for fear of what might happen to them if their tattling reached their mistress’s ears. Moreover she was growing careless.
So as they lay on her bed she talked of her family and his, and the possibility of a marriage between them.
Chesterfield rolled onto his back and burst out laughing.
“Barbara, my love,” he said, “this is not the time to talk of marriage. It is not the custom, for marriages are not planned in bedchambers.”
“I care not for custom,” she retorted.
“That much is clear. It is a happy quality … in a mistress. In a wife, not so … ah, not so.”