Winsor, Kathleen (114 page)

Amber's
head turned suddenly and her eyes looked at him almost in astonishment. Married
again! Good Lord, she thought. I am! When Gerald was not around she totally
forgot his existence.

He
grinned. "What's the matter, darling? Forget which one it is? Almsbury
says his name is Stanhope—I think that was it—and the one before was—"

"Oh,
Bruce! Don't make fun of me! I'd never have married him in a thousand years if
I'd known that you were coming back! I hate him—he's a stupid addle-pated
booby! I only married him because—" She stopped at that and hastily
corrected herself. "I don't know why I married him! I don't know why I
ever married anyone! I've never wanted to be married to
anyone but you,
Bruce! Oh, darling, we could have had such a happy life together if only
you—"

Her
eyes saw the changing expression on his face—a look that at once seemed to warn
her and to shut her out. She stared at him, the old dread stealing up again,
and then at last, very softly, she said: "You're married—" She shook
her head slowly even as she spoke.

He
drew a deep breath. "Yes. I'm married."

There
it was. She had heard it at last—what she had expected and dreaded for seven
years. Now it seemed to her that it had been there between them always,
inevitable as death. Sick and weak, she could do nothing but look at him. He
sat down on a chair and tied the laces of his shoes. For a moment he continued
to sit there, elbows resting on his knees and his hands hanging between his
legs, but at last he turned to face her.

"I'm
sorry, Amber," he said softly.

"Sorry
you're married?"

"Sorry
that I've hurt you."

"When
were you married? I thought—"

"I
was married a year ago last February, just after I got back to Jamaica."

"Then
you knew you were going to get married when you left me! You—"

"No,
I didn't," he interrupted. "I met her the day I arrived in Jamaica.
We were married a month later."

"A
month later!" she whispered, and then suddenly all her muscles and bones
seemed to collapse. "Oh, my God!"

"Amber,
darling—please—I've never lied to you. I told you from the first I'd get
married someday—"

"Oh,
but so soon!" she protested irrationally, her voice a plaintive wail. And
then suddenly she lifted her head and looked at him; there was a glitter of
malice in her eyes. "Who is she! Some black wench you—"

Bruce's
face turned hard. "She's English. Her father is an earl and went to Jamaica
after the Wars—he has a sugar plantation there." He got up to continue his
dressing.

"She's
rich, I suppose."

"Rich
enough."

"And
beautiful too?"

"Yes—I
think so."

This
time she paused a moment, but then she drove out the question: "Do you
love her?"

He
turned and looked at her strangely, his eyes slightly narrowed. For a moment he
made no answer and then, softly he said, "Yes, I love her."

She
snatched up her dressing-gown, slid her arms into it, and flounced off the bed.
The words she said next were the same
as might have occurred to any Court-bred
lady faced with the same situation. "Oh, damn you, Bruce Carlton!"
she muttered. "Why should
you
be the only man in England to marry
for love!"

But
the veneer was too thin; under any real pressure it was sure to crack. Suddenly
she turned On him. "I hate her!" she cried furiously. "I despise
her! Where is she!"

He
answered gently. "In Jamaica. She had a child in November and didn't want
to leave."

"She
must be mighty fond of you!"

Bruce
made no reply to that sarcastic sneer and she added savagely, "So now
you've got married to a lady and you'll have someone to breed up your brats
whose ancestors have spent two thousand years sitting on their arses in the
House of Lords! I congratulate you, Lord Carlton! What a calamity if you'd had
to let any ordinary human raise your children!"

He
looked at her with anxiety and a kind of pity. His hat was in his hand.
"I've got to go now, Amber. I'm half an hour late already—"

She
gave him a sullen glare and turned her head away, as though expecting him to
apologize for having offended her. But then, against her will, she watched him
as he walked across the room—his body moving with the familiar remembered
rhythm that seemed to have in it something of all the reasons why she loved
him. "Bruce!" she cried suddenly. He paused and slowly turned to face
her. "I don't care if you are married! I'll never give you up—never as
long as I live, d'ye hear! You're as much mine as you are hers! She can
never
have all of you!"

She
started toward him but he turned again. In a moment he had opened the door and
gone out, closing it quietly. Amber stopped where she was, one hand reaching
out, the other catching at her throat to stifle a sob. "Bruce!" she
cried again. And then, wearily, she turned about and went back to the bed. For
several seconds she stood and stared at it, and then she dropped onto her knees
beside it. "He's gone—" she whispered. "He's gone— I've lost
him—"

During
the first two weeks that he was there Amber saw Lord Carlton but infrequently.
He was busy at the wharves and interviewing merchants, disposing of the tobacco
he had brought with him and drawing up new contracts, making purchases for
himself and the other plantation owners. Whenever he went to Whitehall it was
to see King Charles, for he wanted another land grant—this one for twenty
thousand acres to give him a total of thirty thousand. But he spent no time at
all in the Drawing-Rooms or at the theatre.

At
Amber's suggestion Lady Almsbury had given him apartments adjoining hers, and
though he said nothing about seeing her the second night—assuming that her
husband would be there—she knocked at his door when she heard him come in. They
met every night after that. There was no doubt that he knew she sometimes came
home late because she had been with the King, but he never mentioned it. Her
casual relationship
with Gerald seemed to amuse him, but he did not speak of that either.

It
did not, however, amuse Gerald's mother.

During
that fortnight Amber saw her only a time or two, at Whitehall, and then she
hurried off the other direction to avoid an encounter. But the Dowager Baroness
seemed to be very busy and Nan said that she was in constant cabal with
hair-dressers and jewellers, sempstresses and tailors and a dozen different kinds
of tradesmen, that her rooms were littered with satins and velvets, taffetas
and laces, ribbons and silks by the dozen-yard.

"What
the devil is she about?" asked Amber. "She hasn't got a
shilling!"

But
she thought that she knew well enough. The old jade
was spending
her
money. If she had not been so intensely preoccupied with Bruce and her
interests at Court she would not have let the Baroness continue her spending
spree for even two days—but as it was she let her go ahead and was relieved not
to be troubled by her. One of these days, she promised herself, I'll pluck a
crow with that woman. But Lady Stanhope sought her out first.

Amber
was never awake before nine o'clock—for it was late when she returned from the
Palace—and by that time Bruce was always gone. She would sip her morning cup of
chocolate, get into a dressing-gown and go to see the children. From ten until
noon she spent getting dressed. It took that long, partly because painting her
face and having her hair arranged and getting into her clothes was a
complicated process, but also because she admitted great numbers of those
mercers and jewellers and perfumers who flocked to the anterooms of the rich
and noble. No one was ever turned away from her door.

She
liked the noise and confusion, the sense of importance

it
gave her to be great enough that she should be so pestered, and she liked to
buy things. If the material was beautiful she could always order a new gown; if
the setting was unusual or extravagant she could always find use for a new necklace
or bracelet; if it had come from far away or was said to be very rare or if it
merely caught her fancy she never refused another vase or table or gold-framed
mirror. Her prodigality was well known among the tradesmen and before noon her
apartments were almost as crowded as the courtyard of the Royal Exchange.

She
would sit at her dressing-table wearing a loose gown, a pair of mules hanging
on the tips of her toes, while Monsieur Durand arranged her hair. Nan Britton
had advanced quite beyond such tasks. She was now waiting-woman to a countess
and had no duties but to dress handsomely, always look her best, and accompany
her mistress wherever she went. And, like most waiting-women of fashionable
ladies, she had her coterie of lovers—many of them the same lords and fops who
circulated
among the ladies themselves. Nan enjoyed her life with all the gusto and
enthusiasm she brought to everything she did —though it was a triumph and
success she had never expected, for which she would have made no effort herself.

The
tradesmen and women hovered in a buzzing circle about Amber, thrusting first
this and then that beneath her nose. "Pray, look at these gloves,
madame—and smell them. But place them to the nose and you'll never have another
scent. Is it not exquisite?"

Amber
smelled. "Neroli, isn't it? My favourite scent. I'll take a dozen
pairs." She whisked a tiny brush over her curved black brows, smoothing
them and taking off the specks of powder.

"I've
been saving this length for you, madame. Feel that nap, as deep as anything
ever woven. And the colour—it becomes your Ladyship to a miracle. See how it
matches your eyes!— as near as anything could. And let me add, madame,"
leaning close and whispering, "the Countess of Shrewsbury saw it the other
day and was mightily taken with it. But I told her it was already gone. I could
see it for no one but you, madame."

"I'll
have to take it now, won't I, you crafty knave?" She slid a pair of
diamond drops into her ears. "But it is beautiful. I'm glad you saved it
for me—and don't forget me when your next shipment comes in. Nan, give him the
money, will you?"

"Madame,
I beg of you, take this bracelet into your hand. See how it strikes the
light—how it flashes like fire? Finer stones were never mined. And let me tell
you—though it's worth five hundred pound and more—I'll give it to your Ladyship
at a great loss to myself, only for the honour of having my work upon your
Ladyship's arm. Though anyone else would demand at the very least five hundred
pound—I'll give it to your Ladyship for but one hundred and fifty."

Amber
laughed, holding the bracelet in her hand and admiring it. "At that price
how can I afford not to have it? Leave it then. I'll buy it." She tossed
it onto the dressing-table amid the heap of boxes and jars and bottles,
letters, fans, ribbons. "But send me a bill—I never keep such sums on
hand."

"S'il
vous pla
ît,
madame—" It was Monsieur Durand's agonized voice. "I beg of you, do
not move about so much! First this way and then that. I can accomplish nothing!
Mort Dieu, madame!"

"I'm
sorry, Durand. What've you got there, Johnson?"

It
went on morning after morning, this daily fair, offering entertainment and
profit for all, and Amber gave them at least as good a show as she got.
Fiddlers were almost always in the room, playing the latest ballads or the
newest tune from a play. Half-a-dozen maids came and went. Tansy strolled among
them and sometimes made a request for himself; he had grown inordinately vain
of his clothes and Amber dressed him at great expense, though he still refused
to put on a shoe which was not worn out. The King had given her a spaniel puppy
which she called Monsieur le Chien and he nosed at everyone,
snapping and
barking at whoever had not been previously identified.

Amber
was thus occupied one morning when a little page entered the room and came to
her. "Madame, the Baroness Stanhope to wait upon you."

Amber
rolled her eyes impatiently. "Hell and furies!" she muttered, and
looked around over her shoulder just as her Ladyship entered the room. Then her
eyes opened wide in amazement, and it was a moment before she could gather her
wits enough to stand and welcome her mother-in-law.

Lucilla
was now so different a woman as to be scarcely recognizable. Her head was as
golden as Susanna's, curled in the latest fashion and decorated with ribbons
and flowers and a twisted strand of pearls. Her face was painted like the face
of a China doll and there were evidently "plumpers" in her cheeks to
keep them firm and round. Her gown—made of pearl-grey satin over a
fuchsia-coloured petticoat—looked as though it had been turned out by deft
French fingers and the busk she wore beneath it narrowed her waist and thrust
her breasts high above the neckline. There was a string of pearls about her
neck, diamond pendants swinging from her ears, half a dozen bracelets on her
wrists, and rings on three fingers of each hand. All of them had a wicked
glitter that looked both genuine and expensive. She had become, in just a
fortnight, a very elegant lady of fashion, somewhat over-ripe, but still
inviting enough.