Winsor, Kathleen (148 page)

She
leaned out a little, looking toward the busy barge-laden river where the sun
was going down, turning the water to red brass. Below in the shadows of the
courtyard two men stood talking, turning their heads as a girl walked by with a
slopping pail of water in each hand, her hair bright as flames where a last
shaft from the sun struck it. There was a languor and quietness in the air as
the long day drew to a close—and the movements of all creatures were slower and
a little weary. Amber's throat swelled and began to ache; her eyes were wet
with tears as
she turned to look across the room at him.

"Oh,
Bruce, it's going to be a glorious night. Wouldn't it be wonderful to take a
barge and sail up the Thames to some little inn and ride back in the
morning—"

"It
would," he agreed.

"Then
let's!"

"You
know we can't."

"Why
not!" Her voice and eyes challenged him. But he merely looked at her, as
though the question were superfluous. Both of them were silent for a few
moments. "You don't dare!" she said flatly at last.

Now
it came welling back into her again, all the anger and resentment, the hurt
pride and baffled affection of these past months. She came to sit beside him
again on the rumpled bed, determined to have it out with him now.

"Oh,
Bruce, why can't we go? You can think of something to tell her. She'll believe
anything you say. Please! You'll be gone so soon!"

"I
can't do it, Amber, and you damn well know it Anyway, I think it's time to
leave." He sat up.

"Of
course!" she cried furiously. "The minute I mention something you
don't like to hear then it's time to leave!" Her mouth twisted a little
and there was bitter mockery in her tones. "Well, this is one time you're
going to hear me out! How happy d'ye think
I've
been these five months
past—sneaking about to see you, scarcely daring to give you a civil word in
company—all for fear
she
might notice and be hurt! Oh, my! Poor Corinna!
But what about me!" Her voice was harsh and angry and at the last she hit
herself a smack on the chest. "Don't
I
count for something
too!"

Bruce
gave her a bored frown and got to his feet. "I'm sorry, Amber, but this
was your idea, remember."

She
sprang up to face him. "You and your blasted secrecy! Why, there's not
another man in London coddles his wife the way you do her! It's
ridiculous!"

He
reached for his vest, slipped it on and began to button it. "You'd better
get into your clothes." His voice spoke shortly and the line of his jaw
was hard; the expression on his face roused her to greater fury.

"Listen
to me, Bruce Carlton! You may think I should be pleased you'll so much as do me
the favour of lying with me! Well, maybe I was once—but I'm not just a simple
country wench any longer, d'ye hear? I'm the Duchess of Ravenspur-— I'm
somebody now, and I won't be driven around in hackneys or met at lodging-houses
any longer! And I mean it! D'ye understand me?"

He
took up his cravat and turned to the mirror to knot it. "Pretty well, I
think. Are you coming with me?"

"No,
I'm not! Why should I!" She stood with her feet spread and hands planted
on her hips, watching him with her eyes defiantly ablaze.

The
cravat tied, he put on his periwig, picked up his hat and walked through the
bedroom toward the outside door, while Amber stared after him with growing fear
and misgiving. Now what was he going to do? Suddenly she ran after him and just
as she got to him he reached the door, took hold of the knob and turned to look
down at her. For a moment they looked at each other in silence.

"Goodbye,
my dear."

Her
eyes shifted warily over his face. "When will I see you again?" She
asked the question softly and her voice was apprehensive.

"At
Whitehall, I suppose."

"Here,
I mean."

"Not
at all. You don't like meeting in secret—and I won't do it any other way. That
would seem to settle the matter."

She
stood and stared at him in horrified unbelief, and then all at once her fury
burst. "Damn you!" she yelled. "I can be independent too! Get
out of here, then—and I hope I never see you again! Get out! Get
out!"
Her
voice rose hysterically and she lifted her fists to strike at him.

Swiftly
he opened the door and went out, slamming it behind him. Amber flung herself
against the panels and burst into wild helpless angry tears. She could hear his
feet going down the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away, and then—
when she quit sobbing for a moment and listened—she could hear nothing at all.
Only the faint sound of a fiddle playing somewhere in the building. Whirling
around she ran to the window and leaned out. It was almost dark but someone was
just coming into the courtyard carrying a lighted link and she saw him down
there, rapidly crossing the square.

"Bruce!"

She
was frantic now, and thoroughly scared.

But
she was three stories above the ground and perhaps he did not hear her; in
another moment he had disappeared into the street.

She
did not see him at all for six days. At first she thought that she could make
him come to her, but he did not. She wrote to let him know that she was ready
to accept an apology. He replied that he had no wish to apologize but was
satisfied to leave it as it was. That alarmed her, but still she refused to
believe that all those tempestuous years, the undeniably powerful feeling they
had for each other, could end now—tamely, uselessly, disappointingly—over a
petty quarrel that could so easily have been avoided.

She
looked for him everywhere she went.

Each
time she entered a crowded room her eyes swept over it, searching for him. When
she walked through the Privy Garden
or along the galleries she expected and
hoped to see him there, perhaps only a few feet ahead of her. At the theatre
and driving through the streets she kept an eager alert watch for him. He
filled her mind and emotions until she was conscious of nothing else. A dozen
different times she thought that she saw him. But it was always someone else,
someone who did not really look like him at all.

Not
quite a week after their quarrel she went to a raffle at the India House in
Clement's Lane, Portugal Street, which opened just off the Strand and had
several little shops patronized by men and women of fashion. On that day every
surrounding street was blocked by the great gilt coaches of the nobility and
crowds of their waiting, gossiping footmen.

The
room, which was not a very large one, was packed full of ladies with their
lapdogs and blackamoors and waiting-women, as well as several gallants who
stood among them. Feminine voices and high little shrieks
of laughter
babbled through the room like a spring freshet dashing headlong toward the
river. China tea-dishes clinked and taffeta skirts whistled softly.

The
raffle had been under way for an hour or more when the Duchess of Ravenspur
arrived. Her entrance was spectacular, made with the sense of showmanship and
ostentation which proclaimed her still more actress than great lady. Like a
wind she swept upon them, nodding here and smiling there, well aware
of the sudden
lull she had caused, the murmurs that followed after her. She was, as always,
splendidly dressed. Her gown was cloth-of-gold, her hooded cloak emerald velvet
lined in sables and there was a spray of emeralds pinned to her great sable
muff. The blackamoor carrying her train wore a suit of emerald velvet and his
skull was bound in a golden turban.

Amber
was pleased by their interest, malicious as it was, for only jealousy and envy
ever got a woman such attentions from her own sex she thought. Next to a man's
admiration she valued a woman's envy. Someone quickly placed a chair for her
beside Mrs. Middleton, and as she took it Jane's face clouded with the
resentful troubled expression of a pretty woman forced into comparison with one
far handsomer.

Amber
saw at a glance Middleton's ambitious costume, too expensive for her husband's
modest estate, the pearls that had been given her by one lover, the ear-drops
by another, the gown in which she had been seen more times than was fashionable
and which should have been on her waiting-woman's back several weeks since.

"My
dear!" she cried. "How fine you look! I vow and swear, that gown!
Where'd you ever get it?"

"How
kind of you to say so, madame, when of course you outshine me by far!"

"Not
at all," protested Amber. "You're too modest, with every man at Court
adying to be your servant!"

The
fencing-match of compliments ended when a young Negro brought Amber a bowl of
tea which she took and began to sip while her slanted eyes moved about the
room—looking for him. He was not here either, though she would have sworn that
was Almsbury's coach in the street. They were preparing now to auction off a
length of Indian calico—the expensive flowered cotton which the ladies like to
have made into morning-gowns, because of its extreme rarity. The auctioneer
measured down an inch of candle and stuck a pin into it, the candle was
lighted, and the bidding began. Middleton gave Amber a nudge and smiled at her
slyly from over the top of her bowl, glancing off across the room.

"Weill
Who d'ye think I see?"

Amber's
heart stopped completely and then began to pound.

"Who!"

But
even as she spoke her eyes followed Middleton's and she saw Corinna sitting
just a few feet away, but half-turned so that only the curve of her cheek and
the long black arc of her lashes was visible. Her cloak fell slant-wise,
concealing the grotesque bulge of pregnancy, and as she moved her head to speak
to someone her full profile appeared, serene and lovely. Amber was seized with
a fury of murderous hatred.

"They
say," Middleton was drawling, "that his Lordship is
mad
in
love with her. But it's no wonder, is it?—she's such a beauty."

Amber
dragged her eyes away from Corinna, who either did not know that she was in the
room or pretended not to know it, and gave Middleton a savage glare. The
bidding was idle and the customers inattentive for, as at the theatre, they
were more interested in themselves than in what they had ostensibly come for.
Without much success the auctioneer tried to whip up some competition; the
calico was a beautiful piece, printed in soft shades of rose and blue and
violet, but the highest bid so far was only five pounds.

Amber
was leaning across the woman on her left to talk to a couple of young men and
the three of them were busily murmuring and laughing together over the newest
scandal.

The
night before Charles had gone with Rochester to the Russia House, a brothel in
Moor Fields, and while the King's attentions were occupied his Lordship had
stolen his money and left. When he was ready to pay his fee and go Charles
found himself penniless and was only saved from a severe beating when someone
chanced to recognize him. Rochester had gone to take the country air and, no
doubt to polish a new set of lampoons which would soon flood the Court.

"D'you
think it's true?" Henry Jermyn wanted to know. "I saw his Majesty
this morning and he looked as spruce as you please."

"He
always does," the other reminded him. "It's his Majesty's great good
fortune that his dissipations don't show in his face—at least not yet."

"We'll
never know if it's true or not," said Amber. "For he won't tolerate
being reminded the next morning of what he did the night before."

"Your
Grace should know."

"They
say he's mightily taken with Nell Gwynne these days," said Jermyn, and he
watched Amber carefully as he spoke. "Chiffinch tells me he goes to see
her two or three times a week, now her belly's got so big she can't hop in and
out of hackneys."

Amber
knew that already, and in fact Charles had not visited her at night for several
weeks. Ordinarily she might have been worried about it, but she had been too
much concerned over Bruce to give it very much thought. He had neglected her
before, and she knew that he would do so again, for the King liked variety in
his love-affairs and no one woman could satisfy him for long. It was a habit he
had contracted early in life and which he had never wanted or tried to change.
But it made her angry to have others know and remind her that she was less a
favourite than she had been on her first coming to Court.

She
might have thought of something flippant to say in retort, but at that moment
she caught the end of the auctioneer's sentence: "—if no one else wishes
to bid, this length of cloth goes to my Lady Carlton for the sum of six
pound—" His eyes went over the room. "Is there another bid! No?
Then—"

"Seven
pound!"

Amber's
voice rang through the room, loud and clear and defiant; she was half startled
herself to hear it. For certainly she had no use for that calico—pretty as it
was; it was printed in colours she never wore and would not have considered
wearing. But Corinna had bid for it, wanted it—and must not have it.