Winsor, Kathleen (90 page)

She
tried to tell him something of how she felt and added, "I never used to
feel that way about it when I lived there— yet God knows I don't want to go
back!"

He
smiled at her tenderly. "You're growing older, darling."

Amber
looked at him with surprise and resentment. "Old! Marry come up! I'm not
so old! I'm not twenty-two yet!" Women began to feel self-conscious about
age as soon as they reached twenty.

He
laughed. "I didn't mean that you're growing old. Only that you're enough
older you've begun to have memories— and memories are always a little
sad."

She
digested that thoughtfully, and gave a light sigh. It was just at gloaming and
they were walking back to the Sapphire through a low lush river meadow. Nearby
they could hear the castanet-like voice of a frog, and the stag-beetles buzzing
noisily.

"I
suppose so," she agreed. Suddenly she looked up at him.
"Bruce—remember the day we met? I can shut my eyes and see you so
plain—the way you sat on your horse, and the look you gave me. It made me
shiver inside—I'd never been looked at like that before. I remember the suit
you had on—it was black velvet with gold braid—Oh, the most wonderful suit! And
how handsome you looked! But you scared me a little bit too. You still do, I
think—I wonder why?"

"I'm
sure I can't imagine." He seemed amused, for she often brought up such
remnants of the past, and she never forgot a detail.

"Oh,
but just think!" They were crossing a shaky little wooden bridge now,
Amber walking ahead, and suddenly she turned and looked up at him. "What
if Aunt Sarah hadn't sent me that day to take the gingerbread to the
blacksmith's wife! We'd never even have known each other! I'd still be in
Mary-green!"

"No
you wouldn't. There'd have been other Cavaliers going through—you'd have left
Marygreen whether you'd ever seen me or not."

"Why
Bruce Carlton! I would not! I went with you because it was fate—it was in the
stars! Our lives are planned in heaven, and you know it!"

"No,
I don't know it, and you don't either. You may think it, but you don't feel
it."

"I
don't know what you're talking about." They were across
the bridge,
strolling along side by side again, and Amber switched petulantly at the grass
with a little twig she had picked up. Suddenly she flung it away and faced him
squarely, her hands catching at his arms. "Don't you think that we were
meant for each other, Bruce? You
must
think so—now."

"What
do you mean, 'now'?"

"Why—after
everything we've been through together. Why else did you stay and take care of
me then? You could have gone away when you were well and left me alone—if you
hadn't loved me."

"My
God, Amber, you take me for a greater villain than I am. But of course I love
you. And in a sense I agree with you that we were meant for each other."

"In
a sense? What do you mean by that?"

His
arms went about her, the fingers of one hand combing through the long glossy
mass of her hair, and his mouth came down close to hers. "This is what I
mean," he said softly. "You're a beautiful woman—and I'm a man. Of
course we were meant for each other."

But,
though she did not say anything more about it just then, that was not what she
wanted to hear. When she had stayed with him in London, at the risk of her own
life, she had not thought of or expected either gratitude or return. But when
he had stayed with her, and cared for her as tenderly and devotedly as she had
for him—she believed then that he had changed, and that now he would marry her.
She had waited, with growing apprehension and misgiving, for him to speak of
it—but he had said nothing.

Oh,
but that's not possible! she told herself again and again. If he loved me
enough to do all that—he loves me enough to marry me. He thinks I know he will
as soon as we're where we can—that's why he hasn't said anything— He thinks I—
torment that grew more insistent with each day that passed.

But
not all her brave assurances could still the doubts and She began to realize
that, after all, nothing had changed—he still intended to go on with his life
just as he had planned it, as though there had never been a plague.

She
wanted desperately to talk to him about it but, afraid of blighting the harmony
there was between them—almost perfect for the first time since they had known
each other—she forced herself to put it off and wait for some favourable
opportunity.

Meanwhile
the days were going swiftly. The holly had turned scarlet; loaded wagons stood
in the orchards, and the air was fragrant with the fresh autumn smell of ripe
red apples. Once or twice it rained.

They
left the boat at Abingdon and stayed overnight in a quiet old inn. The host and
hostess finally accepted their certificates-of-health, but with obvious
misgivings and only because Bruce gave them five extra guineas—though their
money supply was now almost gone. But the next morning they hired horses and a
guide and set out for Almsbury's country home,
some sixty miles away. They
followed the main road to Gloucester, spent the night there and went on the
next day. When they reached Barberry Hill in mid-morning Amber was thoroughly
exhausted.

Almsbury
came out of the house with a yell. He swung her up off her feet and kissed her
and pounded Bruce on the back, telling them all the while how he had tried to
find them both— never guessing that they were together—how scared he had been,
and how glad he was to have them there with him, alive and well. Emily seemed
just as pleased, though considerably less exuberant, and they went inside
together.

Barberry
Hill had not been the most important country possession of the Earls of
Almsbury, but it was the one he had been able to have restored to the family.
Though less imposing than Almsbury House in the Strand, it had a great deal
more charm. It was L-shaped, built of red brick, and lay intimately at the foot
of a hill. Part of it was four stories high, part only three; there was a
pitched slate roof with many gables and dormer-windows and several spiralling
chimneys. All the rooms were decorated with elaborate carvings and mouldings,
the ceilings were crusted with plaster-work as ornamental as the frosting on a
Twelfth Day cake, the grand staircase was a profusion of late Elizabethan
carving and there were gay gorgeous colours everywhere.

Almsbury
immediately sent a party of men to find Nan Britton and bring her there. And
when Amber had rested and put on one of Lady Almsbury's gowns—which she did not
think had any style at all and which she had to pin in at the sides— she and
Bruce went to the nursery. They had not seen their son for more than a year,
not since the mornings when they had met at Almsbury House, and he had grown
and changed considerably.

He
was now four and a half years old, tall for his age, healthy and sturdy. His
eyes were the same grey-green that Bruce's were and his dark-brown hair hung in
loose waves to his shoulders, rolling over into great rings. He had been put
into adult clothes—a change which was made at the age of four—and they were in
every way an exact replica of Lord Carlton's, even to the miniature sword and
feather-trimmed hat.

These
grown-up clothes for children seemed symbolic of the hot-house forcing of their
lives. For he was already learning to read and write and do simple arithmetic;
riding-lessons had begun, as well as instruction in dancing and deportment.
Before long there would be more lessons: French, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew;
fencing, music, and singing. Childhood was brief, manhood came early, for life
was an uncertain risk at best. There was no time to be lost.

When
they entered the nursery little Bruce, with Almsbury's eldest son, was seated
at a tiny table studying his horn-book. But obviously he knew that his parents
were coming to see him, for just as they opened the door he looked around with
a
quick
expectancy which suggested many previous eager glances in that direction. As
the horn-book went clattering to the floor, he was off the chair and running
toward them joyously. But instantly, at a sharp word from his nurse, he
stopped, swept off his hat and bowed with great ceremony, first to Bruce and
then to Amber.

"I'm
glad to see you, sir. And, madame."

But
Amber was not in awe of the nurse. She rushed forward, dropped to her knees and
swooped him into her arms, covering his pink cheeks with passionate kisses. Tears
glistened in her eyes and began to fall, but she was laughing with happiness.
"Oh, my darling! My darling! I thought I would never see you again."

His
arms were about her neck. "But why, madame? I was sure I'd see you both
again one day."

Amber
laughed and murmured quickly beneath her breath: "Damn the nurse! Don't
call me madame! I'm your mother and that's what I'll be called!" They
laughed together at that, he whispered "Mother," and then gave a
quick half-apprehensive, half-defiant look over his shoulder to where the nurse
stood watching them.

He
was more reserved with Bruce and apparently felt that they were both gentlemen
from whom such demonstrations were not expected. It was obvious, however, that
he adored his father. Amber felt a pang of jealousy as she watched them but she
scolded herself for her pettiness and was even a little ashamed. After an hour
or so they left the nursery and started back down the long gallery toward their
own adjoining apartments at the opposite end of the building.

All
of a sudden Amber said: "It isn't right, Bruce, for him to live this way.
He's a bastard. What's the use for him to learn to carry himself like a
lord—when God knows how he'll shift once he's grown-up."

She
looked up at him sideways, but his expression did not change and now, as they
reached the door to her apartment, he opened it and they went in. She turned
about quickly to face him, and knew at that instant he was about to say
something which he expected would make her angry.

"I've
been wanting to talk to you about this, Amber—I want to make him my heir—"
And then, as a flash of hope went over her face, he hastily added: "In
America no one would know whether he's legitimate or not—they'd think he was
the child of an earlier marriage."

She
stared at him incredulously, her face recoiling as though from a sudden cruel
slap. "An earlier marriage?" she repeated softly. "Then you're
married now."

"No,
I'm not. But I'll marry someday—"

"That
means you still don't intend to marry me."

He
paused, looking at her for a long moment, and one hand started to move in an
involuntary gesture, but dropped to his
side again. "No, Amber," he
said at last. "You know that. We've talked this all over before."

"But
it's different now! You love me—you told me so yourself? And I know you do! You
must! Oh, Bruce, you didn't tell me that to—"

"No,
Amber, I meant it. I do love you, but—"

"Then
why
won't you marry me—if you love me?"

"Because,
my dear, love has nothing to do with it."

"Nothing
to do with it! It has everything to do with it! We're not children to be told
by our parents who we'll marry! We're grown up and can do as we like—"

"I
intend to."

For
several seconds she stared at him, while the desire to lash out her hand and
slap him surged and grew inside her. But something she remembered—a hard and
glittering expression in his eyes—held her motionless. He stood there watching
her, almost as though waiting, and then at last he turned and walked out of the
room.

Nan
arrived a fortnight later with Susanna, the wet-nurse, Tansy and Big John
Waterman. They had spent the four months going from one village to another,
fleeing the plague. Despite everything only one cart-load had been stolen;
almost all of Amber's clothes and personal belongings were intact. She was so
grateful that she promised Nan and Big John a hundred pounds each when they
returned to London.

Bruce
was enchanted with his seven-months-old daughter. Susanna's eyes were no longer
blue but now a clear green and her hair was bright pure golden blonde, not the
tawny colour of her mother's. She did not very much resemble either Bruce or
Amber but she gave every promise of being a beauty and seemed already conscious
of her destiny, for she flirted between her fingers and giggled delightedly at
the mere sight of a man. Almsbury, teasing Amber, said that at least there
could be no doubt as to her mother's identity.