Winsor, Kathleen (15 page)

"Oh!
I hate her!" The words burst out as though driven by some pent-up
violence.

"Sweetheart,"
said Almsbury, "someday you'll learn it's impossible to hate every woman a
gentleman may make love to. It wears out your own guts, and that's all the good
it does."

But
Amber neither could nor wished to accept his Lordship's mellow philosophy.
"I don't
care if it does!" she insisted stubbornly. "I do hate her! And I hope
she gets the pox!"

"No
doubt she will."

After
that they went to the Banqueting Hall to watch the King dine in state, which he
usually did at one o'clock on Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. The galleries were
massed to see him but he did not come and at last they had to go away,
disappointed. Amber had been much impressed when she had seen King Charles the
day he returned to London; after Bruce she thought him the finest man in
England.

About
the first of August Amber became convinced that she was pregnant, partly
because she had at least one symptom but mostly because it was forever on her
mind. For a couple of weeks past she had waited and counted on her fingers and
nothing had happened. Now her breasts began to feel stretched and sore and as
though pricked by a thousand pins. She wanted to tell Bruce and yet she was
half scared, for she guessed that he would not be pleased.

He
got up early every morning—no matter how late he might have come in the night
before—and Amber would put on her dressing-gown and talk to him until he left,
after which
she went back to sleep again. On this day she sat at the edge of the bed,
swinging her bare feet and pulling a tortoise-shell comb through the tangled
snarls of her hair. Bruce stood near her, wearing only his breeches and shoes,
shaving with a long sharp-bladed razor.

For
several minutes Amber watched him and neither of them spoke. Each time she
tried to open her mouth her heart gave a leap and her courage failed her. Then
all at once she said: "Bruce—what if I should get with child?"

He
gave a slight involuntary start and cut himself, the bright blood showing in a
little line on his chin, and then he turned to look at her. "Why do you
say that? Do you think you are?"

"Well—haven't
you noticed anything?" She felt strangely embarrassed.

"Noticed
what? Oh—I hadn't thought about it." He scowled and even though it was not
at her she felt a sudden frightened loneliness; then he turned back, took up a
small bottle and put a drop of liquid styptic on the cut. "Jesus!" he
muttered.

"Oh,
Bruce!" She jumped off the bed and ran to him. "Please don't be mad
at me!"

He
had started shaving again. "Mad at you? It's my fault. I intended to be
careful—but sometimes I forgot."

Amber
looked at him, puzzled. What was he talking about? She'd heard in Marygreen
that it was possible to avoid pregnancy by spitting three times into the mouth
of a frog or drinking sheep's urine, but Sarah had warned her often enough that
such methods were unreliable.

"Sometimes
you forgot what?"

"Nothing
it will do any good to remember now." He wiped his face with a towel,
tossed the towel onto the tabletop and then turned to put on the rest of his
clothes. "Oh, Lord, Amber —I'm sorry. This is a devil of a mess."

She
was quiet for a moment, but finally she said, "You don't like babies, do
you?"

She
asked the question so naively, looked up at him with so sad and wistful an
expression that all at once he took her into his arms and held her head against
his chest while one hand stroked tenderly over her hair. "Yes, my darling,
of course I like them." His mouth was pressed against the top of her head,
but his eyes were troubled and a little angry.

"What
are we to do?" she asked him at last.

Held
close in his arms with her body against his she felt warm and safe and
happy—the problem had dissolved. For though he had told her he would not marry
her and she had believed it at first, now she was almost convinced that he
would. Why shouldn't he? They loved each other, they were happy together, and
during the past several weeks of living with him she had almost forgotten that
he was a lord and she the niece of a yeoman farmer. What might once have seemed
impossible to the point of absurdity now seemed to her quite natural and
logical.

He
let her go and stood with his arms hanging at his sides while he talked, his
green-grey eyes hard and uncompromising, watching her steadily. There was no
doubt he meant every word he said.

"I'm
not going to marry you, Amber. I told you that at the first and I've never once
said anything to the contrary. I'm sorry this has happened—but you knew it
probably would. And remember, it was your idea that you come to London— not
mine. I won't just leave you to drift—I'll do everything I can to make it
easier for you—everything that won't interfere with my own plans. I'll leave
you money enough to take care of yourself and the baby. If you won't go back to
Marygreen the best thing is for you to go to one of the women here in London
who take care of pregnant women and arrange for their lying-in—some of those
places are very comfortable and no one will inquire too closely for your
husband. When you're well again you can do as you like. With a few hundred
pounds in cash a woman as beautiful as you are should be able to marry a
country-squire, at the least—or perhaps a knight, if you're clever
enough—"

Amber
stared at him. She was suddenly furious, all the pride and happiness she had
felt at the prospect of bearing him a child was drowned now in pain and
outraged pride. The sound of his voice enraged her—talking so coolly, as if
falling in love with a man and having his baby was a matter to be settled with
money and logic, like provisioning a ship! She almost hated him.

"Oh!"
she cried. "So you'll give me money enough to catch a knight—if I'm
clever! Well, I don't want to catch a knight! And I don't want your money,
either! And as for the matter of that—I don't want your baby! I'm sorry I ever
laid eyes on you! I hope you go away and I never see you again! I hate you!
—Oh!—" She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

Bruce
stood watching her for a moment, but at last he put on his hat and started out
of the room. Amber looked up. And when he had scarcely reached the bedroom door
she ran after him.

"Where
are you going?"

"Down
to the wharf."

"Will
you come back tonight? Please come back! Please don't leave me alone!"

"Yes—I'll
try to get here early. Amber—" His voice was again warm and smooth,
caressing, tender. "I know this is hard for you and I'm truly sorry it's
happened. But it'll be over sooner than you expect and you'll be none the worse
for it. It's really no great tragedy when a woman has a baby—"

"No
great tragedy to a man! You'll go away and forget all about it—but
I
can't
go away!
I
can't forget it! I'll never be able to forget it— Nothing
will
ever
be the same for me again! Oh, damn men!"

As
the days passed she became convinced beyond all doubt that she actually was
pregnant.

Less
than a week after she had told him, she began to retch the moment she lifted
her head in the mornings. She was morose and unhappy and cried upon the
slightest provocation, or with none at all. He began coming home even later at
night and when he did they often quarrelled; she knew that her ill temper was
keeping him from her, but she could not seem to control herself. But she knew
also that nothing she said or could say would make him change his mind. And
when he was away once for an entire day and night and until late the next
night, she realized that she must give over her haranguing and tantrums or lose
him even before he sailed. She could not bear the thought of that, for she
still loved him, and she made a tremendous effort to seem once more gay and
charming when they were together.

But
alone she was no more reconciled than she had been and the hours without him
seemed endless, while she trailed idly about the house, steeped in pity for
herself. This great world of London to which she had come with such brilliant
expectations only four months ago now seemed a dismal place and full of woe.
She had not the vaguest idea as to what she would do when he was gone and
refused to discuss it with him, even pushing the thoughts out of her own mind
when they began to creep in. When that day came she felt that the end of the
world would also come, and did not care what happened afterward.

One
hot mid-morning in late August Amber was down in the courtyard playing with
some puppies that had been born at the inn a month or so before. She knelt on
the flag-stones in the mottled shade of a fruit-heavy plum tree, laughing and
holding two of the puppies in her arms while the proud mother lay nearby,
wagging her tail and keeping a careful eye on her offspring. And then,
unexpectedly, she glanced up and saw Bruce leaning on the rail of the gallery
outside their bedroom, watching her.

He
had left several hours before and she had not expected him back till evening,
at the earliest. Her first reaction was one of delight that he had come home
and surprised her and she gave him a wave as she got quickly to her feet,
putting the puppies back into their box. But then immediately a slow stealthy
fear began to sneak in. It grew ominously, and as she reached the stairs and
started to mount them she raised her eyes and met his. She knew it then for
sure. He was leaving today.

"What
is it, Bruce?" she asked him, warily, as though she could ward off the
answer.

"The
wind's changed. We're sailing in an hour."

"Sailing!
In an hour! But you said last night it wouldn't be for days!"

"I
didn't think it would. But we're ready sooner than I expected and there's
nothing to wait for."

While
she stood there, helpless, he turned and went through the door, and then she
followed him. There was a small leather-covered nail-studded trunk of his on
the table already packed more than half full, while the wardrobe in which he
kept his clothes was opened and empty. Now he took some shirts from a carved
oak chest, piled them into the trunk, and as he did so he began to talk to her.

"I
haven't much time, so listen to what I say. I'm leaving the coach and horses
for your use. The coachman gets six pound a year with his livery and the
footman gets three, but don't pay them until next May or they'll likely rub
off. I've paid all the bills and the receipts are in the drawer of that table.
So are the names and locations of a couple of women who can take care of
you—ask them what the charge will be before you move into the house. It
shouldn't be more than thirty or forty pound for everything."

While
Amber stood staring at him, horrified at the brusque impersonal tone of his
voice, he closed the lid of the trunk and walked swiftly to the door of the
other room where he made a signal to someone evidently waiting out in the hall.
The next moment he was back, followed by a great ruffian with a patch over one
eye, who shouldered the trunk and went out again. All the while Amber had been
watching him, desperately trying to think of something she could say or do to
stop him. But she felt stunned, paralyzed, and no words came to help her.

From
the pocket of his doublet Bruce now drew a heavy leather wallet, closed by
draw-strings and bulging with coins and tossed it onto the table.

"There's
five hundred pound. That should be enough to take care of you and the baby for
several years, if necessary, but I'd advise you to put it with a goldsmith. I'd
intended to do that for you, but now I haven't time. Shadrac Newbold is
perfectly reliable and he'll allow you six percent interest if you put it with
him at twenty days call, or three and a half if you want it on demand. He lives
at the Crown and Thistle in Cheapside; his name is written on this piece of
paper. But don't trust anyone else—above all don't trust a maid if you take one
into service, and don't trust any strangers no matter how much you may like
them. Now—" He turned and picked up his cloak. "I've got to go."

He
spoke swiftly, giving her no chance to interrupt, and obviously was in a hurry
to get out before she started to cry. But he had not taken three steps when she
ran to throw herself before him.