Winsor, Kathleen (63 page)

At
his age it seemed to them not only disgusting but actually treacherous, a
desecration of the memory of their own mother. And it was incomprehensible, to
the men as well as the women, for Samuel had lived so continently, had worked
so hard and seemed so little interested in pretty women or any other form of
divertissement, that they could not understand why he should now suddenly reverse
all the habits of a lifetime.

But
it was Lettice, more than any of the others, who resented her. She felt that
Amber's presence in the house was a shamful thing, for she could not regard a
wife of barely twenty as anything other than her sixty-year-old father's
mistress, taken in his declining and apparently immoral years.

"That
woman!" she whispered fiercely one day to Bob and the younger Sam as the
three of them stood at the foot of the stairs and watched Amber run gaily up,
curls tossing, skirts lifted to show the embroidered gold clocks on her
green-silk stockings. "I vow she's no good! I'm sure she paints!"
They always criticized her for the things they dared to say out loud to each
other, though the rest was well if silently understood among them.

Twenty-year-old
Henry, who was a student at Grey's Inn, had just sauntered up and stood
watching her too. He was so much younger than the others that his share in the
fortune would not be a large one and so he had no prejudice on that score. For
the rest, he had a sly admiration, for his stepmother which he often humoured
in fanciful day-dreams.

"It
wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't a raving beauty into the bargain, eh
Lettice?" he said now.

Lettice
gave her brother a look of scorn. "Raving beauty! Who wouldn't be a beauty
with paint and curls and patches and ribbons and all the rest of it!"

Henry
shrugged, looking back to his sister now that Amber had disappeared down the
upper hallway. "It's a pity more woman aren't then, since it's so
easy."

"Faith
and troth, Henry! You're getting all your ideas from the playhouse!"

Henry
coloured. "I am not, Lettice. I've never been inside a playhouse and you
know it!"

Lettice
looked skeptical, and the other two brothers threw back their heads and
laughed. Henry, growing redder, turned hastily and walked off; and Lettice with
a sigh went out toward the kitchens to resume her work. For Amber had made no
attempt to take over the running of the household and though Lettice would have
liked to force it upon her Samuel had asked her to continue in charge and she
could not refuse him. But it was no easy task to organize and direct an
establishment consisting of thirty-five children and adults and almost a
hundred and fifty servants.

Upstairs
Amber was getting into her cloak, putting the hood up over her hair, tucking a
black-velvet vizard inside her muff. Her
movements were quick and her eyes
sparkled with excitement.

"I
tell you, mam," said Nan, helping her but shaking her red-blonde curls,
"it's a foolhardy thing to do."

"Nonsense,
Nan!" She began pulling on a pair of embroidered, elbow-length gloves.
"No one could recognize me in this!"

"But
suppose they
do,
mam! You'll be undone—and for what?"

Amber
wrinkled her nose and gave Nan's cheek a little pat. "If anyone wants me
I've gone to the 'Change. And I'll be back by three."

She
went out the door and down a narrow spiralling flight of stairs which led her
into the back courtyard where one of the great coaches stood waiting. She got
in quickly and the heavy vehicle lumbered about and drove out of the yard to
turn up Carter Lane; she had kept Tempest and Jeremiah with her and they drove
her wherever she went.

At
last they stopped. She put on her mask and got out, crossed the street and
turned into a lane which led through a teeming noisy courtyard and thence to
the back of the King's Theatre. She glanced around, then went in and down to
the door of the tiring-room which she found, as always, full of half-naked
actresses and beribboned gallants, most of whom were wearing the brand-new
fashion of periwigs.

For
a moment she stood unnoticed in the doorway and then Beck Marshall spoke to
her. "What d'you want, Madame?"

With
a triumphant laugh and a flourish Amber took off her mask and dropped back her
hood. The women shrieked with surprise and Scroggs waddled forward to greet
her, her ugly old face red and grinning, and Amber put an arm about her
shoulders.

"By
Jesus, Mrs. St. Clare! Where've ye been? See!" she crowed. "I told ye
she'd be back!"

"And
here I am. Here's a guinea for you to drink, Scroggs, you old swill-belly—that
should keep you foxed for a week."

She
came on into the room and was instantly surrounded on every side by the women
who kissed her, asking a dozen questions at once, while the gallants hung close
and insisted they had been adying for her company. There had been rumours that
she had gone into the country to have a baby, had died of the ague, had sailed
for America, but when she told them she had married a rich old merchant—whose
name she did not disclose—they were much impressed. The actors heard that she
was there and came in too, claiming a kiss each, examining her clothes and
jewels, asking her how much money she would inherit and if she was pregnant
yet.

Amber
felt wholly at her ease for the first time in more than four months. At
Dangerfield House she was constantly dogged by the feeling that she would
inadvertently do or say something improper. And she was made more uncomfortable
by a
nagging mischievous desire to suddenly throw off her air of sweet naivete, make
a bawdy remark, wink at a footman, shock them all.

Then
all at once she caught sight of a face which, for an instant, she did not
recognize, seeing it in this unfamiliar environment. And suddenly she clapped
her mask back on, turned up her hood and began to make her goodbyes. For there
across the room, talking to one of the new actresses, was Henry Dangerfield. In
less than a minute she was on her way down the dimly-lighted corridor, but she
had not gone far when footsteps came up behind her.

"I
beg your pardon, madame—"

Amber's
heart jumped and she stopped perfectly still, but only for an instant and then
immediately she went on again.

"I
don't know you, sir!" she snapped, changing her voice to a higher pitch.

"But
I'm Henry Dangerfield and you're—"

"Mrs.
Ann St. Michel, sir, and travelling alone!"

"I
beg your pardon, madame—"

To
her intense relief Amber found that he had stopped and when she got outside and
glanced back he was not in sight. Nevertheless she did not get into the coach
but said softly to Tempest as she walked by, "Meet me at the Maypole
corner."

Amber
spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, nervous and restless. She paced
back and forth, looked out the window dozens of times, wrung her hands and
asked Nan over and over why Samuel was late. Nan had not said that she knew
this would happen, but she looked it.

But
when he came in, late in the afternoon, he greeted her with a smile and kiss,
just as he always did. Amber, who had put on a dressing-gown and nothing else,
laid her head against his chest.

"Oh,
Samuel! Where've you been! It's so late—I've been so worried about you!"

He
smiled and, glancing around to make sure that Nan was not looking, he slipped
one hand into her gown. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. A gentleman had come from
out of town on business and we talked longer than I expected—" His head
bent to kiss her again, and from behind his back Amber signalled at Nan to
leave the room.

At
first she thought she would stay there that night and not go down to supper,
but finally she decided that it would do no good. If Henry had recognized her
he could mention it tomorrow as well as today, and she could not hide in their
apartments forever.

But
the supper went exactly as it usually did and afterward, as was their custom,
they all went into one of the small parlours to spend an hour or two before
retiring. Again Amber thought of pleading a headache and getting Samuel to go
upstairs with her, but again she decided against it. If Henry was suspicious
and she
stayed—perhaps he would think that he had been wrong.

Lettice,
with Susan and Philadelphia and Katherine, sat before the fireplace talking
quietly and working on pieces of embroidery. The younger children started a
game of blindman's-bluff. Samuel sat down to a chess game which had been going
on for several nights between him and twelve-year-old Michael, and Henry pulled
up a chair to watch. The older brothers smoked their pipes and discussed
business and the Dutch and criticized the government. Amber, beginning to feel
comfortable again, sat in a chair and talked to Jemima, prettiest of all the
good-looking Dangerfield children.

Jemima,
just fifteen, was the one friend Amber had made in her new home; and Jemima
admired her wholeheartedly. She was too unsophisticated to understand much more
regarding her father's recent marriage than that he had brought a new woman to
live in the house. And this woman looked and dressed and behaved exactly as she
would have liked to do herself. She could not understand the animosity felt
toward Madame by her older brothers and sisters, and had often repeated to
Amber the things she had heard them say about her. Once she told her that
Lettice, upon hearing of how devotedly Madame had nursed him through his
illness, had said that she would just as soon think she had made him sick
herself to have the opportunity of making him well. Amber, somewhat uneasy to
hear this, was relieved that the oldest brother had cautioned Lettice against
being carried too far by her own jealousy. After all, he had said, the woman
might be of dubious character— but she couldn't be
that
bad.

Amber—who
usually got along well with girls too young or unattractive to compete with
her—encouraged the friendship. She found Jemima's naive admiration and
talkativeness a convenient means of informing herself on the others—as well as
a source of entertainment to help her pass the long dull days. Furthermore, she
took malicious delight in annoying Lettice. For Lettice had warned Jemima
repeatedly against the association, but Lettice was no longer head of the house
and Jemima was spirited enough to enjoy disobeying her.

She
was about the same height Amber was, but her figure was slight and less
rounded. Her hair was rich dark brown with sparks of copper in it; her skin
fine and white and she had blue eyes with a sweep of curling black lashes. She
was eager, vivacious, spoiled by her father and elder brothers, independent,
stubborn and lovable. Now she sat on a stool beside Amber, her fingers clasped
over her knees, eyes shining in fascination while Amber told her a story she
had heard at second-hand of the King begging my Lady Castlemaine's pardon on
his knees.

Across
the room Susan glanced at them and raised her eyebrows significantly. "How
devoted Jemima is to Madame! They're
all but inseparable. I should think
you'd be more careful, Lettice. Jemima might learn to paint."

Lettice
gave her a sharp glance but found her looking down at her embroidery, taking
tiny precise stitches. For several years, ever since Lettice had returned home
and assumed management of the household, there had been a low-current feud
going on between her and this wife of the eldest brother. The other two women
smiled faintly, amused, for they were all secretly a little pleased that at
last Lettice had found someone she could not dominate. But they were not so
pleased it sweetened the bitter gall of lost money: the new wife was still the
common enemy of them all, and their little personal animosities of but minor
importance.

Lettice
answered her quietly. "I'm going to be more careful in the future—for that
isn't all the child might learn from her."

"Low-necked
gowns without a scarf too, perhaps," said Susan.

"Much
worse than that, I'm afraid."

"What
could be worse?" mocked Susan.

But
Katherine sensed that Lettice knew something she had not told them, and her
eyes lighted with the prospect of scandal. "What've you heard, Lettice?
What's she done?" At Katherine's tone the other two instantly leaned
forward.

"What
do you know, Lettice?"

"Has
she done something
terrible?"
They
could not even imagine what could be terrible enough.

Lettice
threaded her needle. "We can't discuss it now with the children in the
room."

Immediately
Philadelphia rose. "Then I'll send them to bed."

"Philadelphia!"
said Lettice sharply. "I'll handle this! Wait until she begins to
sing."

For
every night, after the children had gone to bed and just before they all
retired, Amber sang to them. Samuel had instigated the custom, and now it was a
firmly-established part of household routine.

The
women fidgeted nervously for almost an hour, begging Lettice in whispers over
and over again to send the children to bed, but she would not do so until
exactly the time when they went every night. She returned from seeing them into
the custody of their nurses to find Amber strumming her guitar and singing a
mournful pretty little song: