Winsor, Kathleen (59 page)

It
was not long before they were spending hours out of every day together, and
though Samuel insisted that she must grow bored with the company of an old man
and urged her to become acquainted with the few young people who were there,
Amber insisted that she hated young fellows who were always so silly and
empty-headed and thought of nothing but dancing or gambling or going to the
play. She kept in close and never
went out when she could avoid it, for
she was afraid that someone else might recognize her.

And
she thought that she could guess pretty well what he would think of an actress,
by his opinion of the Court in general. For one day, after some mention of King
Charles, he said: "His Majesty could be the greatest ruler our nation has
ever had but, unfortunately, not only for him but for all of us, the years of
exile were his ruin. He learned a set of habits and a way of living during that
time from which he can never escape—partly, I'm afraid, because he doesn't want
to."

Amber,
stitching on a piece of embroidery borrowed from Nan's work-basket, observed
soberly that she had heard Whitehall had grown a most wicked place.

"It
is wicked. Wicked and corrupt. Honour is a sham, virtue a laughing-stock,
marriage the butt for vulgar jests. There are still decent and honest men
aplenty at Whitehall, as everywhere else in England—but knaves and fools elbow
them aside."

Most
of their conversation, however, was less serious, and he seldom cared to
discuss ethical or even political matters with her. Women were not interested
in such things, and pretty ones least of all. Besides, she was his escape from
them.

But
Amber did often ask him to advise her about financial matters; and listened
wide-eyed and with her head nodding every so often to his talk of interest and
principal, mortgages, title-deeds, and revenue. She talked of her goldsmith and
when she mentioned Shadrac Newbold's name was glad to see how favourably
impressed he seemed. She said that it was a great responsibility for her to
handle her husband's money—she represented herself as a rich young widow—and
that she worried a great deal for fear someone would cheat her out of it. That
was another reason, she said, why she was always suspicious of young men who
wished to strike up an acquaintance. She also talked frequently about her
family and what terrible things they had suffered in the Wars—recounting, with elaboration,
tales she had heard from Almsbury about his own or Lord Carlton's difficulties.
By these devices she hoped to discourage him, had he been so inclined, from
taking her for a fortune-hunter.

They
played dozens of games of wit-and-reason, and she always let him win. She made
him laugh with her mimicry of the fat middle-aged women and gouty old men who
were there taking the waters. She played for him on her guitar and sang
songs—not ribald street-ballads, but gay country tunes or the old English folk-songs:
"Chevy Chase," "Phillida Flouts Me," "Highland
Mary." She pampered and flattered him and teased him, treated him at all
times as though he was much younger than he was, and yet was solicitous for his
comfort as if he had been much older. She guessed his age one day at forty-five
and when he told her that his eldest son was thirty-five, insisted he could
never make her believe that Banbury-story. She
gave a lively imitation of a
woman most thoroughly infatuated.

But
at the end of three weeks he had not tried to seduce her and she was growing
worried.

She
stood at the window one evening just after he had gone and traced idle patterns
on the frosted pane with her fingernail. Her lower lip stuck out and there was
a scowl on her forehead.

Nan,
who was lifting hot embers out of the fireplace with a pair of tongs and
putting them into a silver warming-pan, glanced sideways at her.
"Something amiss, mam?"

Amber
swung around, giving a petulant switch to her skirt. "Yes, there is! Oh,
Nan. I'm ready to run distracted! Three weeks I've been coursing this hare—and
haven't caught 'im yet!"

Nan
closed the warming-pan and started into the bedroom with it. "But he's
getting winded, mam. I know he is."

Amber
followed her in and began to undress, but her face was gloomy and from time to
time she gave an impatient ill-tempered sigh. It seemed to her that she had
been trying all her life to make Samuel Dangerfield propose to her. Nan came to
help her undress and stood behind her, unlacing her busk.

"Lord,
mam!" she protested now. "You've got no cause for such vapourings! I
know these formal old Puritans—I've worked in their houses. They think
fornication's a serious matter, let me tell you! Why, I'd bet my virginity he
hasn't laid with any woman save his wife these twenty years past! Heavens, give
the gentleman leave to overcome his modesty! And what's more, don't forget
you've gone to the greatest pains to make him take you for a woman of virtue.
But I've watched him like a witch and I know he's mighty uneasy—there's fire in
the flax and it'll be quenched," she added with a sage nod. "Only
give 'im the right opportunity and you'll have 'im—secure as a woodcock in a
noose." She made her two hands into a trap and put them about her own
neck.

While
Amber stepped out of her smock Nan whisked the warming-pan over the sheets,
held back the covers and Amber jumped in, pulling them up quickly about her
chin. Then she lay there in luxurious warmth and considered her problem.

This
was, and she knew it, her last chance to take the world by its ears and climb
on top. If she failed now—but she could not fail. She did not dare. She had
seen too much at first hand of what happened to the women who, like her, made a
livelihood by their wits and physical attractions but who had somehow let the
years and the opportunities pass without achieving security.

Somehow,
somehow, she thought desperately. I've got to do it; I've
got
to make
him marry me!

And
as she lay there thinking, it occurred to her all at once that perhaps she had
been wrong, trying to make him marry her out of remorse and sense of guilt.
Why, she thought, with a sudden feeling of discovery, that would never enter
his head! Of
course he's not going to seduce me! He thinks I'm innocent and virtuous and he
respects me! He'll never marry me any way at all but from his own free will.
That's what I've got to do —I've got to get him to make me an
honest
proposal
of marriage! Why didn't I think of that long ago? But how can I do it —how can
I do it—?

Amber
and Nan put their heads together over that problem, and at last they worked out
a plan.

About
a week later Amber and Samuel Dangerfield set out for London in his coach. He
had told her several days before that he must return and she had said that
since she was leaving soon they might as well travel together; she would feel
much safer riding with him. Her own coach, carrying Nan and Tansy, followed
them. They had had a breakfast together at her cottage that morning—a
substantial meal to prepare them for the journey—and though Amber had been gay
and playful while they ate, now she had subsided into wistful and pensive
quietness. From time to time she gave a little sigh.

The
day was gray and dark and the rain seeped steadily down through the leafless
branches of the forest. The air had a wet and penetrating chill, but they had
fortified themselves against it with fur-lined cloaks and a fur-lined robe
spread across their laps. Beneath their feet each one of them had a little
brazier, like the ones people took to church, full of burning coals. So it was
warm and moist inside the great lurching and rocking coach, and the warmth with
the steam on the windows gave it a strange intimacy, making it a private little
island shut off from the world.

Perhaps
it was that seclusion and aloneness which made him bold enough to reach for her
hand beneath the robe and say, "A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. St.
Clare?"

For
a moment Amber said nothing, and then she looked at him with her tenderest and
most appealing smile. She gave a faint shrug of her shoulders. "Oh,"
she said, "I was just thinking that I'm going to miss our card games and
suppers and walking up to the well in the afternoons." She gave another
soft little sigh. "It's going to seem mighty lonely now I've grown used to
company." She had told him how retired she lived in London, where she had
no relatives, only a few friends, and was wary of making new acquaintances.

"Oh,
but, Mrs. St. Clare, I hope you won't think our friendship is over. I—Well, to
be honest, I've been hoping we might meet sometimes in London."

"That's
kind of you," said Amber sadly. "But I know how busy you'll be—and
you have all your family about you." Most of the children, she knew, grown
and small alike, still lived at the great family mansion in Blackfriars.

"No,
I assure you I won't. My physician wants me to do less work and as for the
matter of that, I find, I've a taste for idleness—if it's spent in pleasant
company." She smiled, and lowered her eyes at the compliment. "And
I'd like to have you
meet my family. We're all very happy together and I think you'd like them—I
know
they'd like you."

"You're
so kind, Mr. Dangerfield, to care about what—Oh! is something amiss?" she
cried, as a sudden spasm of pain shot across his face.

For
a moment he was silent, obviously embarrassed to be caught with an ailment at a
moment so delicately romantic. But at last he shook his head. "No—"
he said. "No, it was nothing."

But
presently the look of agony came again and his face flushed dark. Amber, now
greatly alarmed, seized hold of his arm.

"Mr.
Dangerfield! Please! You must tell me—What is it!"

He
now looked wretchedly uncomfortable and was finally forced to admit that
something, he could not imagine what, was causing him great abdominal
discomfort. "But don't trouble yourself for me, Mrs. St. Clare," he
pleaded. "It will pass presently, it's only—Oh!" A sudden
uncontrollable grunt escaped him.

Amber's
own face reflected sympathetic pain as she watched him. But instantly she was
in practical charge of the situation. "There's a little inn not far up the
road—I remember we passed it on the way down. We'll stop there. You must get
into bed right away, and I'm sure I have some—Oh, now don't make any
objections, sir!" she said as he began to protest, and though her tone
would permit no argument it was tender as a mother's speaking to her sick
child. "I know what's best for you. Here—I've got some hawkweed and
camomile in this little bag, I always carry it with me. Wait till I get this
waterflask open so you can wash it down—"

It
was not long before they reached the inn, at which Amber called out to order
the coachman to stop, and Mr. Dangerfield's gigantic footman, Big John
Waterman, helped him to make his way inside. Big John offered to carry him, and
no doubt could easily have done so, but he flatly refused and resented such
assistance as he was forced to receive. Amber was as busy as a hen with chicks.
She rushed ahead to bid the hostess get a chamber ready, directed Tempest and
Jeremiah which trunks to unload, ran back a half-dozen times to make sure Mr. Dangerfield
was all right. At last they had him upstairs and, against his will, lying down
in the great testered bed.

"Now,"
said Amber to the hostess, "you must make a hot fire and bring me a kettle
and crane so that I can heat water. Bring me all the hot-water bottles you have
and some more blankets. Nan, open that trunk and get out the boxful of herbs
—Jeremiah, go find my almanac—it's in the bottom of the green leather trunk, I
think. Now get out of here, all of you, so Mr. Dangerfield can rest—"

Amber
loosened his clothes, took off his cloak and hat, cravat and doublet, piled
hot-water bottles around him and covered him with blankets. She was quick and
gentle, cheerful but
concerned; an outsider would have thought she was already his wife. He begged
her not to trouble herself with him, but to go on to London and send back a
doctor. And, apparently in some apprehension that this might be another and
perhaps final stroke, he asked her to notify his family. Amber firmly refused.

"It's
nothing serious, Mr. Dangerfield," she insisted. "You'll be hearty as
ever in a few days, I know you will. It wouldn't be right to scare them that
way—especially with Lettice about to lie-in." Lettice was his eldest
daughter.

"No,"
he agreed meekly. "It wouldn't be right, would it?"

And
in spite of his discomfort it soon became clear that he was enjoying his
illness and the attentions it brought him. No doubt he had always felt obliged
to be stoical before; now, far from home and those who knew him, he could
luxuriate in the care and endless concern of a beautiful young woman who seemed
to think of nothing at all but his comfort. She refused even to leave him alone
at night, for fear the attack might recur, and slept there on the trundle only
a few feet away.

The
slightest sound from him and she was out of bed and beside him, her rich heavy
hair falling about her face as she bent over him, the faint light from the
candle throwing shadows across her arms and into her breasts. Her murmuring
voice was like a caress; her flesh was warm whenever she happened to touch him;
the heat in the room brought out an intoxicating fragrance of jasmine flowers
and ambergris in her perfume. No illness had ever been so pleasant. And, half
because she persuaded him he was pale and not strong enough to be removed, he
remained in bed many days after all the pain had gone.