Winsor, Kathleen (100 page)

Jenny
giggled, and her face grew pink. "Oh, your Ladyship, you know they
wouldn't! My heavens! I wouldn't even know what to say to a gallant!"

"Of
course you would, Jenny. You know what to say to Philip, don't you, and all men
are alike: There's just one topic that interests 'em when they're talking to a
woman."

Jenny
turned red. "Oh, but I'm married to Philip and he— well—" She changed
the subject hastily. "Is it
really
true what they say about the Court?"

"What
d'ye mean?"

"Oh,
you know. They say such terrible things. They say everyone drinks and swears
and that even her Majesty plays cards on Sunday. They say his Majesty sometimes
doesn't so much as see the Queen for months at a time, he's so busy with his
other—er, ladies."

"Nonsense!
He sees her every day and he's as kind and fond as can be—he says she's the
best woman in the world."

Jenny
was relieved. "Then it isn't true that he's unfaithful
to her?"

"Oh,
yes, he is. All men are unfaithful to their wives, aren't they, if they get a
chance?" But at that Jenny looked so stricken she gave her a little
squeeze and added hastily, "Except men who live in the country—they're
different."

And
at first she half thought that Philip was different. The instant he had seen
her his eyes had lighted with surprise and admiration—but his father was there
and the look swiftly passed. After that she met him seldom, usually only at
dinner and supper, and then he paid her the same deferential consideration she
might have expected had she been at least twenty years older. He very politely
tried to pretend that she actually was nearer his father's age than his own.
Amber finally decided, correctly, that he was afraid of her.

Prompted
by boredom and mischief and a desire to revenge herself on Radclyffe, she set
out to make Philip fall in love with her. But she knew the Earl well enough to
realize that she would have to be cautious, and take strictly in private any
satisfaction she might find in cuckolding him with his own son. For if he
should ever suspect or guess—but she refused to think of that, for nothing
violent or cruel seemed beyond him. But Philip was the only young and
personable and virile male at Lime Park, and she craved excitement as well as
the flattery of a man's adoration.

One
rainy morning she met him in the gallery where they stopped to talk for a
moment about the weather. He would have gone on almost immediately but she
suggested a game of shovel-board and while he was trying to find an excuse she
hurried him off to where the table was set. After that they bowled or played
cards occasionally, and a couple times, apparently by accident, they met at the
stables and rode together. Jenny was pregnant and could not ride.

But
Philip continued to treat Amber like a step-mother and even seemed to be
somewhat in awe of her, which was an emotion she was not accustomed to rousing
in men, either young or old. She decided that he must have forgotten everything
he had learned on his Tour.

She
saw Radclyffe no oftener now than when they had been in town. He supervised
every detail regarding the house which was not attended to by the steward (for
he refused to allow a woman to manage his household); he planned new
arrangements for the gardens, directed the workmen, and spent hours in his
laboratory or in the library. He never rode horseback or played a game or a
musical instrument, and though he was sometimes out-of-doors it was never to
idle but always for a definite purpose and when it was accomplished he returned
to the house. He wrote interminably. When Amber asked him what it was, he told
her. He was writing the complete history of every article of value he had
acquired so that the family would always know what its possessions were. He
also wrote poetry,
but never offered to read it to her and she never asked to see it. She thought
it a very dull occupation and could not imagine a man wasting his time shut up
in a dark close room when outside the white violets were poignantly fragrant,
beech-trees were hung with purple clusters of bloom, and clean cool rainswept
air washed over the hills.

When
she tried to quarrel with him about returning to London he told her flatly that
she had conducted herself like a fool there and was not fit to live where she
would be subjected to temptation. He repeated that if she wanted to go back
alone he was willing to have her do so, but he reminded her that if she did she
would forfeit her money to him—all but ten thousand pounds. She shouted at him
in a fury that she would never turn that money over to him, not if she had to
stay in the country for the rest of her life.

Consequently,
convinced that she might be there a long while, she sent for Nan and Susanna
and Big John Waterman. Nan, who had earlier had one miscarriage and one
abortion was now pregnant again—this time by Big John—and though it was the
fifth month and Amber told her not to come if she thought it might hurt her,
she arrived within a fortnight.

As
always, they seemed to have a great deal to talk about, for both women were
interested in the same things and they gossiped and chattered and exchanged
intimate personal details without hesitation or self-consciousness. Jenny's
innocence and inexperience had begun to bore Amber who was relieved to have
someone she could talk to frankly, someone who knew her for exactly what she
was and who did not care. When she told Nan that she intended seducing her
husband's son Nan laughed and said there was no limit to a woman's desperation
once she was carried off into the country. For certainly Philip could not bear
comparison with Charles II or Lord Carlton.

But
it was the middle of May before he began to seek her out deliberately.

She
was waiting one morning for her pretty little golden mare to be saddled when
she heard his voice behind her. "Why, good morrow, your Ladyship! Are you
riding so early?" He tried to sound surprised, but she knew the moment she
looked at him that he had come purposely to meet her.

"Good-morning,
Philip! Yes, I think I'll gather some May dew. They say it's the most sovereign
thing in the world for a woman's complexion."

Philip
blushed, grinning at her, whacking his hat nervously against his knee.
"Your Ladyship can't have need of anything like that."

"What
a courtier you are, Philip."

She
looked up at him out of the shadow of her broad hat-brim, smiling a little. He
doesn't want to, she thought, but he's falling in love with me all the same.

The
mare, now accoutred with a handsome green-velvet
saddle embroidered in gold lace,
was led out to where they stood waiting beneath the great trailing
pepper-trees. For a moment Amber talked to her, patting her neck and giving her
a lump of sugar. Philip then stepped forward to help her mount. She sprang up
easily and gracefully.

"We
can ride together," she suggested now. "Unless you were going
somewhere to pay a visit."

He
pretended to be surprised at the invitation. "Oh, no. No, I wasn't. I was
just going to ride by myself. But thank you, your Ladyship. That's very kind.
Thank you very much."

They
set out over the rolling clover-thick meadowland, and were presently beyond
sight of the house. The grass was very wet and a slow-moving herd of cattle
grazed in the distance. For some time neither of them found anything to say,
but at last Philip called, happily: "What a glorious morning it is! Why do
people live in cities when there's the country?"

"Why
do they live in the country when there are cities?"

He
looked surprised and then grinned broadly, showing his even white teeth.
"But you don't mean that, my lady—or you wouldn't be at Lime Park!"

"Coming
to Lime Park wasn't my idea! It was his Lordship's!"

She
spoke carelessly, and yet something of the contempt and hatred she had for
Radclyffe must have been in her tone or in some fleeting facial expression, for
Philip replied quickly, as if to a challenge. "My father loves Lime
Park—he always has. We never have lived in London. His Majesty, Charles I,
visited here once and said that he thought there was no finer country home in
England."

"Oh,
it's a mighty fine house, I doubt not," agreed Amber, aware that she had
offended his family loyalty—though she did not care very much—and they rode
some distance farther without speaking. At last she called to him: "Let's
stop here awhile." Without waiting for his answer she began to rein in her
horse; but he rode several hundred yards beyond, wheeled, and came back slowly.

"Perhaps
we'd better not, since there's no one about."

"What
of that?" demanded Amber in half-impatient amusement.

"Well—you
see, madame—his Lordship thinks it best not to dismount when we ride. If we
were seen someone might misunderstand. Country people love to gossip."

"People
everywhere love to gossip. Well, you do as you like. I'm going to get
off."

And
immediately she jumped down, pulled off her hat to which she had pinned two or
three fresh red roses, and shook out her hair. He watched her and then, setting
his jaw stubbornly, he dismounted too. At his suggestion they started over to
see a pretty little stream that ran nearby. The brook was noisy and full,
dark-green bulrushes grew along the banks and there were weeping willows that
dipped their branches into the
water. Through the trees sunlight filtered down
onto Amber's head, like the light in a cathedral. She could feel Philip
watching her, surreptitiously, out of the corners of his eyes. She looked
around suddenly and caught him.

Slowly
she smiled and her eyes slanted, staring at him with bold impudence. "What
was your father's last countess like?" she asked him finally. She knew
that his own mother, the first Lady Radclyffe, had died at his birth. "Was
she pretty?"

"Yes,
a little, I think. At least her portrait is pretty, but she died when I was
nine—I don't remember her very well." He seemed uneasy at being alone with
her; his face had sobered and his eyes could no longer conceal what he really
felt.

"Did
she have any children?"

"Two.
They died very young—of the small-pox. I had it too—" He swallowed hard
and took a deep breath. "But I lived."

"I'm
glad you did, Philip," she said very softly. She continued to smile at
him, half in mockery, but her eyes were weighted with seduction. Nothing had
amused her so much in over four weeks.

Philip,
however, was obviously wretched. His emotions pulled him two ways, desire in
one, filial loyalty in another. He began to talk again, quickly, on a more
impersonal subject. "What is the Court like now? They say it's most
magnificent— and that even foreigners are surprised at the state in which his
Majesty lives."

"Yes,
it is. It's beautiful. I don't think there can be more handsome men or beautiful
women any place else on earth. When were you there last?"

"Two
years ago. I spent several months in London when I returned from my travels.
Many of the paintings and hangings had been brought back to Court then, but I
understand it's even finer now. The King is much interested in beautiful
things." His tongue talked but his mind did not follow it; his eyes were
hot and intense, and as he swallowed she saw the bobbing movement of his Adam's
apple in his thick corded neck. "I think we'd better start back now,"
he said suddenly. "It's—it's growing late!"

Amber
shrugged her shoulders, picked up her skirts and began to make her way back
through the tall grass. She did not see him at all the next day, for to tease
him she pleaded an attack of the vapours and ate dinner and supper in her own
chambers. He sent up a bouquet of roses with a formal little note wishing for
her rapid recovery.

She
expected to find him at the stables when she went out the following morning,
waiting there like a schoolboy hanging about the corner where he hoped his
sweetheart might pass— but he was nowhere in sight and she had a brief angry
sense of pique, for she had thought him badly smitten. And she had been looking
forward herself with some excited anticipation to their next encounter.
Nevertheless she set off alone in the
same direction they had taken two days
before. In only a few moments she had completely forgotten Philip Mortimer and
also his father—who was considerably more difficult to force out of her
mind—and was wholly engrossed in thoughts of Bruce Carlton.

He
had been gone for almost six months now and once again she was losing hold of
him—it was like a pleasant dream recalled vividly in the morning but fading to
nothing by noon. She could remember many things: the strange grey-green colour
of his eyes; the twist of his mouth that always told better than words what he
thought of something she had done; his quietness that carried in it the
perpetual promise and threat of suppressed violence. She could remember the
last time he had made love to her, and whenever she thought of it her head spun
dizzily. She had a poignant painful longing for his kisses and the knowing
caresses of his hands—but still he seemed to her like someone half imagined and
her memories were small comfort for the present. Even Susanna could not, as
Amber had expected and hoped, make Bruce seem any nearer or more real to her.