Winsor, Kathleen (112 page)

He
took out his comb and began to run it through his flaxen periwig. His clothes,
at least, were now as fine and fashionable as any that money could buy, though
his unprepossessing physique and spindly legs did not set them off to
advantage.

"Pas
du tout, madame," said Gerald. All the wits and pretended wits sprinkled
their conversation with French phrases as a lady sprinkled her face with black
taffeta patches. Gerald did likewise, for it gave him a sense of being in the
mode. "As you know, I have a mere three rooms. There's no place to put her
there." He was living at the Cheval d'Or, a lodging-house popular with the
gallants because the landlady had a pretty and obliging daughter.

"Well,
where
do
you propose to put her then? I don't like that curl, Durand.
Pray, do it again." She was still surveying herself, front face now,
observing her teeth, her skin, the smooth red paint on her lips.

Gerald
gave a Parisian shrug of his thin shoulders. "Eh bien —I thought she might
stay here."

Amber
set the mirror down with a slam, though it lighted on a pile of ribbons and was
saved. "Oh, you did! Well, she won't! D'ye think Lord Almsbury's running a
lodging-house? You'd best send her a letter and tell her to stay where she is.
What the devil does she want to come to London for anyway?" She gave a
shake of her right wrist to hear the bracelets clink.

"Why,
I suppose she wants to see her old acquaintances she hasn't seen in many years.
And also, madame, I may as well speak frankly, she wonders why we keep separate
lodgings."

Because
he was afraid of what she might say to that he turned and went across the room,
taking a long-stemmed pipe out of the capacious pocket of his coat and filling
it with tobacco, using a match-stick from the fireplace to light it.

"Good
Lord! Write and tell her you're of age now and married and able to manage your
own affairs!" And then, seeing that he was smoking, she cried: "Get
out of here with that filthy thing! D'ye think I want my rooms to stink? Go
down and order the coach—I'll be with you presently. Or go on alone, if you
prefer."

Gerald
left hastily, obviously relieved, but Amber sat scowling into the mirror while
Monsieur Durand, who was not supposed to make use of his ears, continued to
work with passionate intensity upon the curl she had criticized.

"Lord!"
muttered Amber crossly at last. "What a dull, insipid thing a husband
is!"

Durand
smiled unctuously, gave a final twirl of his comb and stepped back to survey
her head. Then, satisfied, he took up a tiny vial, filled it with water and
slipping in a golden rose tucked it among her curls. "It's true they've
grown out of the fashion, madame. I find a lady of quality would no more wear
one of 'em on her heart than she'd wear a bouquet of carnations."

"Why
is it only the fools who marry?" she demanded, but went on talking without
waiting for an answer. "Well, thank you, Durant, for coming to me. And
here's something for your good work." She picked up three guineas from the
table and dropped them into his hand.

His
eyes began to glisten and he bowed again and again. "Oh, merci, madame,
merci! It is indeed a pleasure to serve one so generous—and so beautiful. Pray
call upon me at any time —and I come though I disappoint Majesty itself!"

"Thanks,
Durand. Tell me—what d'you think of this gown? My dressmaker is a French woman.
Has she done well by me, do you think?" She turned slowly about before him
while Durand clasped his hands and kissed his fingers.

"C'est
exquis, madame! Vraie Parisienne, madame! Exquis!"

Amber
gave a little laugh and took up her fan and gloves. "What a flattering
rogue you are! Nan, let him out—"

She
left the room, beckoning Tansy to follow her, and he carried the long train of
her gown in his hands so that it would not be soiled before she got to the
ball. Durand was worth the three guineas she had given him—preposterous as the
price was—not so much for the work of his clever fingers as for the prestige of
having him. It had taken some scheming, but she had gotten him away from
Castlemaine for that night, and every woman at the ball would know it.

A
week later Amber was in the nursery—where she spent an hour or two every
morning—playing trick-track with Bruce. Susanna, in a white linen-and-lace gown
with a tiny apron and a starched lace cap that perched far back over her long
glossy blonde hair, sat on the floor beside them. Already she was beginning to
dominate the nursery and had her heel firmly on the necks of the Almsbury
children, but her own brother was a more recalcitrant subject and refused the
yoke of the little tyrant.

Amber
loved the hours she spent in the nursery, for they were the one sure tie that
bound her to Lord Carlton. These
children were his children too, his
blood was in their veins, they moved and spoke and had their being because of
him. Their love for her was, in a sense, his—their kisses his. They were the
memories of things past, all that she had for the present, and they offered her
hope of the future.

"Mother!"
Susanna was perpetually interrupting their game, for though she was too young
to play she intended to have a part in it anyway.

"Yes,
darling?"

"Wiggle-waggle!"

"Let
me finish this game, Susanna. I just played wiggle-waggle."

Susanna
pouted and made a face at her brother, but Amber saw it and threw one arm about
her, hugging her close. "Here, what are you doing, you little witch?"

"Witch!
What's a witch?"

"A
witch," said her brother, somewhat bored, "is a nuisance."

Amber
looked up at a footman who had just entered the room and came to stand beside
them. "Yes?"

"You're
wanted, madame."

"Who
is it? Anyone of importance?"

"Your
husband, I believe, madame—and his mother."

"Oh,
Lord! Well—thank you. Tell 'em I'll be in presently." The man left and
Amber got to her feet, though both children immediately began to protest.
"I'm sorry, darlings, I'll come back if I can."

Bruce
bowed to her. "Good-day, Mother. Thank you for
coming to see
us."

Amber
bent and kissed him and then she picked up Susanna, who kissed her with
smacking abandon on the cheeks and mouth. "Here, Susanna!" protested
Amber. "You'll take all my powder off, you little minx." She kissed
her and then put her down, waved them both goodbye and left the room—but her
smile faded the instant she closed the door.

For
a moment she stood in the hall, staring. Now why the devil did that old woman
have to come here? she thought irritably. Pregnancy always made her feel that
everything unpleasant which happened was done for the sole purpose of annoying
her. And then with a sigh and a little shrug she started back toward her own
rooms at the opposite end of the gallery.

Gerald
Stanhope and his mother sat on a couch before the fireplace in Amber's
drawing-room. The Dowager Baroness had her back to the door and she was
chattering away at Gerald whose face looked worried and anxious. The starkly
black-painted eyebrows he affected because they were supposed to be all the
mode contrasted shockingly with his white skin and ash-blond wig. But the
moment Amber entered the room the Baroness ceased talking and, after giving
herself a moment or two to compose her features, she turned a fixed sweet smile
in the direction of her daughter-in-law. Her eyes did not conceal
the sudden
surprise and displeasure she felt at what she saw.

Amber
came toward them walking lazily, her dressing-gown flowing back from the lacy
ruffled petticoat she wore beneath it. Gerald, looking as if he expected the
roof to blow off the house at any moment, stood up to present his wife to his
mother. The two women embraced, carefully, as though each were afraid of
soiling her hands and garments on the other. And then each turned her cheek—it
was an affectation of great ladies to present their cheeks rather than their
lips for a salute. As they stepped back their eyes ran over each other
appraisingly, and neither one of them missed a detail. Gerald stood and bobbled
his Adam's apple and took out a comb to occupy his hands.

Lucilla,
Lady Stanhope, was just over forty. She had a plump petulant face that made
Amber think of one of the King's spaniels, with a mouth turned down at the
corners and shaky round cheeks. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now
caramel-coloured. But the skin was still pink and fresh and she had prominent
thrusting breasts. Her clothes were even more out of style than those of most
country ladies, and her jewels were insignificant.

"Oh,
pray take no notice of my clothes," said her Ladyship instantly.
"They're nothing but old frippery I was about to give my maid, but the
roads were so bad I didn't dare wear anything else! Heavens, as it was, one
cart overturned and flung three of my trunks into the mud!"

"Oh,
barbarous!" agreed Amber sympathetically. "Your Ladyship must be
jolted to a jelly. Can't I send for some refreshment?"

"Why,
yes, madame. I do believe I'd like a dish of tea."

She
had never drunk any tea, for it was far too expensive, but now she was
determined to show everyone that for all she had been twenty years in the
country she had never been out of touch with the Town.

"I'll
send for some. Arnold! Drat that man! Where is he? Always kissing the maids
when you want him." Amber walked toward the door of the next room.
"Arnold!"

The
Baroness watched her, envy and disapproval in her eyes.

She
had never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that the days of her own
youth and beauty had occurred so unpropitiously. First there had been the Civil
War and her husband gone most of the time, then finally killed, leaving her
condemned to live out her best years in the country, impoverished by taxes and
forced to do part of her own housework like any farmer's wife. The years had
slipped treacherously by. She had not realized until today how many of them
were gone.

She
had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor
widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been
fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must
have
a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop
in London on his return to see if he might catch the King's eye and perhaps
bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had
succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come
from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but
had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl
of Danforth and bridegroom.

Overjoyed,
she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and
moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for
her clothes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty
too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself
that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a
fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very
reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a
gentleman to her taste.

The
letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.

"My
dear Lucilla," it read. "Pray accept of the good thoughts and best
wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased
that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been
more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven
years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or
honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old
ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.

"We
were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald's marriage, happening so
suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard
that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you've heard
that she's thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be
in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays,
but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over
the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a
time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a
woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.