Winsor, Kathleen (57 page)

Amber
rode along in sullen silence, eyes tight shut and teeth clenched, not even
hearing the chattering of Nan and Tansy. She had taken Mrs. Fagg's evil-tasting
medicine and her belly was full of grinding cramps which seemed worse than
those of child-birth. She wished that the earth would open and swallow them
all, that a thunderbolt from heaven would strike her, or merely that she would
die and be relieved of her misery. She told herself that if a man ever dared
make her an indecent proposal again, though for a thousand pound in gold, she
would have him kicked like a common lackey.

They
stopped at an inn late that afternoon and went on the next morning. The
medicine had taken its effect but she felt even worse than she had the day
before, and at each turn of the wheels she longed to open her mouth and scream
as loud as she could. She scarcely noticed when the coach came to a stop and
Nan began wiping at the steamy window with her sleeve, putting her face against
it to look out.

"Lord,
mam! I hope we're not set upon by highwaymen!" She had the same
apprehension almost every time Tempest and Jeremiah had stopped to pry the
wheels out of the mud.

Amber
scowled crossly, but kept her eyes shut. "My God, Nan! You expect a
highwayman behind every tree! I tell you they don't go abroad in weather like
this!"

At
that moment Jeremiah opened the door. "It's a gentleman, mam, who's been
stopped by highwaymen and his horses taken."

Nan
gave a little cry and turned to her with an accusing stare. Amber made a face.
"Well, ask him if he wants to ride with us. But tell 'im we're only going
to the Wells."

The
man who returned with Jeremiah was perhaps sixty, though his skin was clear and
smooth and fresh-coloured. His hair was white, cut much shorter than a
Cavalier's, and was not curled but had merely a slight natural wave. He was
handsome, somewhat above six feet, erect and broad-shouldered. The clothes he
wore were old-fashioned but well made of fine materials, sober black and
untrimmed with ribbon or gold braid.

He
bowed to her politely, but his manner suggested nothing of the French-tutored
courtier. This was some plain City-bred man, very likely a parliamentarian who
thought the worst of Charles Stuart and all his beribboned cursing whoring
sword-fighting crew—a substantial merchant, perhaps, or a jeweller or a
goldsmith.

"Good
afternoon, madame. It's very kind of you to invite me into your coach. Are you
quite sure I won't be making you uncomfortable?"

"Not
at all, sir. I'm glad to be of service. Pray get in, before the rain soaks you
through."

He
climbed in, Nan and Tansy moved over to make room for him, and the coach
started off. "My name is Samuel Danger-field, madame."

"Mine
is Mrs. St. Clare."

Mrs.
St. Clare obviously meant nothing to him, and for once she welcomed the
anonymity. "Did my coachman tell you that I'm only going as far as
Tunbridge? I don't doubt you can hire horses and another coach there."

"Thank
you for the suggestion, madame. But as it happens I too am going to
Tunbridge."

They
talked little after that and Nan explained her mistress's silence by saying
that she was suffering wretchedly from a quartan ague. Mr. Dangerfield was
sympathetic, said he had had that ailment himself, and suggested bleeding as a
sovereign remedy. Within three hours they arrived at the village.

Tunbridge
Wells was a fashionable spa and the previous summer her Majesty and all the
Court had paid it a visit; but now, in mid-January, it was a dreary deserted
scattered little village. Not a person was in sight, the elms that lined the
single main street were naked and forlorn, and only the smoke drifting from
several chimneys gave evidence of life.

Amber
and Samuel Dangerfield parted at the inn, where he had accommodations, and she
promptly forgot him. She rented
a neat little three-room cottage, furnished with
very old polished oak, chintz curtains, and an array of shining brass and
copper utensils. For four days she did not get out of bed but lay sleeping and
resting, and by the end of that time her vitality and energy began to return.
She started worrying again about what was to become of her.

"Well,
I can't go back to London, that's sure as the smallpox," she told Nan as
she sat morosely in bed, propped against pillows and plucking at her brows with
a silver-plated tweezer.

"I'm
sure I don't see why, mam."

"Don't
see why! D'you think I'd ever go back to that scurvy theatre again, and have
every town-fop laughing in his fist at me? I will not!"

"Well,
after all, mam, you can go back to London without going back to the stage,
can't you? It's a sorry mouse that has but one hole." Nan liked well-worn
aphorisms.

"I
don't know where else I'd go," muttered Amber.

Nan
drew in a deep breath to prepare for her next speech, but kept her eyes on her
deftly stitching needle. "I still think, mam, that if you'd take lodgings
in the City and set yourself up for a rich widow you'd not be long a-catching a
husband. Maybe you don't want to—but beggars should be no choosers."

Amber
looked at her sharply. Then suddenly she flung the tweezers away, tossed the
mirror aside and slumped back against the pillows with her arms folded. For
several moments both women remained silent and Nan did not even glance at her
glowering mistress. But at last Amber smoothed out her face and gave a sigh.

"I
wonder," she said, "if Mr. What-d'ye-call—who had his horses
stolen—is rich enough to bother with." Mr. Dangerfield had sent two days
earlier to inquire if her ague was improving; she had returned a careless
ungracious reply and had thought nothing of him since then.

"He
might be, mam. He's got a mighty handsome young footman I could go talk to for
a while."

Nan
came back a couple of hours later flushed and excited— not altogether, Amber
suspected, by the news she had heard. "Well?" asked Amber, who was
lying out flat with her arms braced behind her head. She had spent the time
since Nan's departure gloomily mulling over her past errors and disliking the
men she considered to have been responsible for them. "What did you find
out?"

Nan
swept into the room, bringing with her a gust of cool fresh air from the
outside and a buoyant energy. "I found out
everything!"
she
declared triumphantly, untying the strings of her hood and throwing it into a
chair. With her cloak still on she rushed to the bed and sat down beside Amber,
who stubbornly refused to catch her enthusiasm. "I found out that Mr.
Samuel Dangerfield is one of the richest men in England!"

"One
of the richest men in—England!" repeated Amber slowly, still incredulous.

"Yes!
He's got a fortune! Oh, I can't remember! Two hundred thousand pound or
something like that! John says everybody knows how rich he is! He's a merchant
and he's—"

"Two
hundred thous— Is he married?" demanded Amber suddenly, as her wits began
to revive.

"No,
he isn't! He was but his wife died—six years ago I think John said. But he's
got fourteen children; some other ones are dead-—I forget how many. He comes up
here every year to drink the waters for his health—he had a stroke. And he's
just getting ready now to go down to the wells—Big John's going with 'im!"

Suddenly
Amber flung back the covers and began to get out of bed. "I think I'll go
drink some waters myself. Get out my green velvet gown with the gold braid and
the green cloak. Is it muddy enough to wear chopins?"

"I
think it is, mam." Nan was scurrying busily about, searching through
unfamiliar drawers for smocks and petticoats, ransacking the still
half-unpacked trunk for garters and ribbons, chattering all the while.
"Only to think, mam! What luck we're in! I vow and swear you must have been
born with a caul on your head!" Both women were gayer and in better
spirits than they had been for some weeks past.

It
had stopped raining the day before and the night had been cold, so that there
was a crust on the mud. A pale sun sifted down through the grey-blue sky and
there were whiffs of clouds overhead, too white and thin to threaten more
immediate rain. Country girls in straw hats and short skirts, with baskets over
their arms, appeared in the street crying their wares of poultry and fresh
butter, milk and vegetables. And when Amber, with Nan and Tansy, strolled to
the well two young men in ribboned suits and plumed hats, with long curling
wigs and elaborate swords, bowed ceremoniously and begged leave to present
themselves. It was the custom of such resort-places, where a man might with
propriety introduce himself.

They
were Frank Kifflin and Will Wigglesworth and they told her that they had come
down from London to avoid a lady who was beginning to insist that Will marry
her. Amber had never seen either of them at the theatre and decided that they
were most likely a pair of rooks who posed as men of quality, or perhaps
younger sons who had to live like gentlemen without being given the means to do
so. Card-sharpers, pickpockets, forgers, they preyed upon the naive and
unsuspecting —young country squires and heiresses were their easiest dupes.
Luke Channell had been a crude specimen of the breed; Dick Robbins who had
lived at Mother Red-Cap's a subtler and more clever one. Probably, since
Tunbridge could not be a very fertile field for such activities at that time of
the year, they had been run out of London or some other city and were in
temporary retirement here.

To
Amber's dismay they perked up immediately when she told them her name.
"Mrs. St. Clare?" repeated Will Wigglesworth,
an ugly
pock-marked weasel-toothed young man. "I vow to gad the name's familiar,
madame. What about you, Frank? Haven't we met Mrs. St. Clare somewhere
before?"

"Why
yes, I'm sure we have, madame. Where could it have been, I wonder? Were you at
Banstead Downs last year, perhaps?"

Oh,
damn! thought Amber. If these fools find out who I am and Mr. Dangerfield hears
about it, I wouldn't have any more chance with him than the man in the moon!

But
she smiled at them very sweetly. "No, gentlemen, I'm sure you've got some
other lady in mind. Neither of you looks at all familiar to me—and I know I'd
never have forgotten your faces if we'd ever met."

Both
of them took that for a compliment, grinned and coughed and made simultaneous
bows. "Your servant, madame." But even then they would not let the
subject drop and, probably for lack of other conversation, galloped along in
relentless pursuit. Frank asked Will if they hadn't seen her in the Mall, and
Will assured Frank it must have been in the Drawing-room. Amber denied having
been anywhere at all and was casting about for means of escape when Mr.
Dangerfield arrived and came to speak to her.

"You're
looking very well, madame. I hope your ague is improved?"

She
curtsied and smiled at him, and wished she could blow Kifflin and Wigglesworth
away like two puffs of smoke. However, while Amber and Mr. Dangerfield talked
of the weather, the taste of the well-water, and Tansy's scuffed shoes, they
fiddled with their ribbons and combs and rolled their eyes about, obviously
wishing that the old dotard would go away. But when Amber presented them to him
she was amused to see the great change in their manners. She knew for sure then
that she had guessed them for what they really were.

"Samuel
Dangerfield, sir?" repeated Will Wigglesworth, as both of them jerked
suddenly to attention. "I know a Bob Dangerfield. That is, we met once at
the home of a mutual friend. He's a member of the great merchant family. Are
you, by any chance, sir, a relative?"

"I'm
Bob's father."

"Well,
well. Only fancy, Frank. This is Bob's father."

"Hm,
only fancy. Pray take our regards to Bob, sir, when you return to London."

"Thank
you, gentlemen, I will."

Amber
was growing nervous for she did not want them to begin talking and guessing at
her identity again before Mr. Dangerfield. "If you'll excuse me,
gentlemen, I must be getting back now. Your servant, sir." She curtsied
again to Mr. Dangerfield, but as she would have left, the two young men
insisted that they be allowed to see her home.

"Faith
and troth, Will," said Frank Kifflin, as soon as they were out of Mr.
Dangerfield's hearing. "Only think of meeting Bob's
old father
here. He seems a close acquaintance of yours, Mrs. St. Clare."

"Oh,
no. I happened upon him just after his coach had been held up and his horses
stolen, and carried him the rest of the way."

Will
was indignant. "Lord, to see the effrontery of the highwaymen nowadays! I
vow it's barbarous! They'll stop at nothing to gain their ends. And only to
think of the scurvy rascals daring to attack a man of Mr. Dangerfield's
consequence!"

"Barbarous!"
agreed Frank.

As
Amber stood in her doorway bidding them goodbye, Wigglesworth, who had been
studying her face carefully for some moments, suddenly gave a snap of his
fingers. "I know who you are now, Mrs. St. Clare! You're the player from
His Majesty's Theatre!"