Winsor, Kathleen (62 page)

Dangerfield
House was in the aristocratic old quarter of Blackfriars and had been built
twenty years before on the site of a great fourteenth-century mansion. It
formed a broad sprawling H, with courtyards both in front and in back, and was
four stories high with a fifth half-story; the ground floor and the basement
served for offices and warehouse. Made of red brick it was perfectly
symmetrical with innumerable large square-paned glass windows, several gables
cutting into the roof-line and a forest of chimney-tops. It stood on the corner
of Shoemaker Row, facing Greed Lane, and was surrounded on every side by a tall
iron picket-fence, guarded by massive gates where servants waited at all hours
of the day or night.

Climbing
out of the coach before the twin staircases which led to the main entrance on
the second floor, Amber looked up at it with wide wondering eyes.

This
house was something bigger, more imposing, more formidable than she had
expected. Two hundred thousand pounds was an even greater amount of money than she
had realized. Until now she had thought of Samuel Dangerfield merely as a kind
simple old gentleman whom she had contrived to hoodwink, but now he took on
something of the awe-inspiring quality of his home, and she began to feel a
little nervous at the prospect of meeting his family. She wished that she felt
as convinced as he did that they were going to welcome her with open arms—love
her at sight.

And
now, as they stood for a moment in the February drizzle while he gave
instructions to the footman regarding the disposal of their trunks and baggage,
a third-story window was flung open and a woman appeared in it.

"Dad!
At last you're back! We were so worried—you've been gone so long! But did it
help you? Are you feeling better?" She did not, or pretended not to notice
that there was a woman with her father.

But
Amber looked up at her curiously. That, she thought, must be Lettice.

She
had heard a great deal about Lettice—as she had heard a great deal about all
his children—but more, perhaps, of Lettice than any of the others. Lettice had
been married for several years, but at her mother's death she had returned to
Dangerfield House with her husband and family to take charge of the
housekeeping. Without intending to, Samuel had portrayed a prim energetic domineering
woman, whom his wife was already prepared to dislike. And now Lettice was
ignoring her, as though she were a lewd woman whom it was not necessary to
notice.

"I'm
feeling very well," said Samuel, obviously annoyed by his daughter's bad
manners. "How is my new grandson?"

"Two
weeks old yesterday and thriving! He's the image of John!"

"Come
down into the front drawing-room, Lettice," Samuel said crisply. "I
want to see you—immediately."

Lettice,
after giving a quick stealthy glance at Amber, closed the window and
disappeared and Amber and Samuel—with Nan and Tansy following—went up the
staircase and into the house. The door was opened for them by a gigantic Negro
in handsome blue livery and they stepped into a great entrance-hall out of
which opened other rooms; a pair of broad curved staircases ran up either side
of it to the railed-off hallway above.

Everywhere
about them were the evidences of lush comfort and wealth: the beautifully laid
floors, the carved oak furniture and tapestry-hung walls. And yet, somehow, the
impression created was one of soberness, not frivolity. An almost ponderous
conservatism marked each velvet footstool and carved cornice. It was possible
to know at a glance that quiet and well-bred and moderate people lived in this
house.

They
walked off to the left into a drawing-room more than fifty feet long and Samuel
saw immediately, to his regret, that he had made a careless mistake. For there,
over the fireplace, hung a portrait of him and his first wife, painted some
twenty years before; it had been there so long that he had forgotten it. But
Amber, looking at the powerful prim unlovely face of the first Mrs.
Dangerfield, understood immediately why it had been possible to induce Samuel
to marry her—though she doubted whether his family would understand as well.

At
that moment there were footsteps behind them and she turned to see a replica of
the woman on the wall standing facing her. For an instant Lettice's eyes met
hers in a quick fierce womanly stare, all-seeing, and condemning, and then she
turned to her father. Amber gave her a sweeping glance which discovered that
she knew nothing about clothes, was too tall, and looked older than her
thirty-two years. The gown Lettice was wearing was like those Killigrew had put
on the actresses when he wished to show a hypocritical Puritan, and against
which they had always protested violently. It was perfectly plain black and
fitted neither snugly nor too loosely, had a deep white-linen collar which
covered her to the base of her throat, and broad linen cuffs. Her light-brown
hair was almost entirely concealed beneath a starched little cap with
shoulder-length lappets, and she wore no jewellery but a diamond-studded
wedding-band. Against such simplicity Amber, who had thought herself very demure,
felt suddenly gaudy and flamboyant.

"My
dear," said Samuel to Amber, and he took her arm "may I present my
eldest daughter, Lettice? Lettice, this is my wife."

Lettice
gasped and turned paste-white. Amber—once the ceremony was performed—had
suggested to Samuel that they send a messenger ahead to notify the family. But
he had
insisted upon giving them what he was sure would be a most happy surprise.

Now
Lettice stood and stared at her father for several stark quiet moments, and
then as she turned to look at Amber there was an expression of frank horrified
shock on her face. She seemed aware of it herself, but unable to help it, and
this unexpected reaction on her part was making Samuel angry. Amber who had
prepared herself for it, smiled faintly and nodded.

At
last Lettice managed to speak. "Your—wife? But, Dad—" She put one
hand distractedly to her head. "You're married? But your letters never
mentioned—We didn't—Oh, I—I'm sorry—I—"

She
seemed so genuinely and painfully stunned that Samuel's rigid hauteur
collapsed. He put one arm about her. "There, my dear, I know it's a
surprise to you. But I was counting on you, Lettice, to help me tell the
others. Look at me—And please smile. I'm very happy and I want my family to be
happy with me."

For
a long minute Lettice buried her head against her father's chest and Amber
waited with a feeling of annoyance, expecting hysterics. But at last she stood
erect, kissed Samuel's cheek and smiled. "I'm glad you're happy,
Dad." She turned about quickly. "I'll make arrangements for
dinner," and she ran out of the room.

Amber
glanced at Samuel and saw a strange thoughtful look on his face as his eyes
followed Lettice. She put her hand into his. "Oh, Samuel—she doesn't like
me. She didn't want you to get married."

His
eyes came back to her. "Well, perhaps she didn't," he agreed, though
before he had never admitted such a possibility. "But then Lettice never
likes anything new—no matter what it is. But wait until she knows you. She'll
love you then—no one could help it."

"Oh,
Samuel, I hope so! I hope they'll
all
like me. I'll try so hard to make
them like me."

They
went upstairs then to his apartments which were in the southwest wing of the
building, overlooking the rear court and the garden. The suite consisted of a
string of rooms opening one into another, all of them furnished in much the
same style as the others she had seen. There were reminders of his first wife
everywhere: another portrait of her above the fireplace, a wardrobe which must
have held her clothes and perhaps still did; there was the impress of her
personality on every rug and piece of furniture. Amber felt as though she had
walked into a room which still belonged to the dead woman, and decided
immediately that she would make some changes here.

Promptly
at one o'clock Samuel and Amber entered the dining-room. They found every
member of the family who was home and old enough to walk assembled there to
meet her. Almost thirty persons stood about the huge table, several of them
children who would ordinarily have been eating in
the nursery. Such large families
were common among the richer middleclasses, for their children did not die in
as large proportion as did those of the poor and their women made no effort to
prevent child-bearing as did the fashionable ladies of Whitehall and Covent
Garden.

Now,
as Amber and Samuel stood in the doorway, one little moppet inquired loudly:
"Mother, is
that
the woman?" Her mother administered a hasty
embarrassed slap and followed it with a shake to keep her from crying.

Samuel
ignored this incident and began to make the introductions. Each person, when
presented, came forward to how, if a man, or to curtsy and give her a peck on
the cheek if a woman. The children, staring round-eyed, likewise made their
awkward bows and curtsies. It was obvious from their interest and awe that much
had already been said among the grownups about the new Mrs. Dangerfield.

On
the whole they were handsome people; Lettice's plain face was almost
conspicuous. There was the eldest son, Samuel, with his wife and six children.
Robert, the next son, whose wife was dead, and his two children. Lettice's
husband, John Beck-ford, and their eight children. The third son, John, who
also lived in the house with his wife and five children and was engaged as were
the older sons in their father's business. A daughter who had come from her
nearby home with her children for the occasion. James, with his wife and two
children. And three younger children, girls fifteen and thirteen, and a
twelve-year-old boy. There were others—one travelling abroad, one at Grey's Inn
and one at Oxford, a girl who lived in the country and another whose first
pregnancy had kept her from attending the great event.

Lord!
thought Amber. So many people to divide a fortune between! Well, there's one more
now.

They
were all instructed to call her "Madame"—Samuel could not bring
himself to tell them her first name—and a troop of footmen began to march into
the room carrying great silver trays, porringers and tankards, steaming with
the most deliciously fragrant food and brimful of good golden ale. The
dining-room was as solemnly impressive as the rest of the house. The stools
they sat on were covered with tapestry; a great carved-oak cupboard was loaded
with silver plate that made Amber's eyes pop; they drank from fragile crystal
glasses and ate from silver dishes. And yet in the midst of all that splendour
they sat in their quiet unpretentious clothes, black and grey and dark green,
with white collars and cuffs, drab as sparrows. Ribbons and lace, false curls
and powder and patches were nowhere to be seen and Amber, even in her simple
black velvet gown with the white lace collar, felt strangely conspicuous—and
she was.

She
had expected them to be hostile, and they were, for by law in the City of
London one-third of a man's fortune must
go to his widow and, if she bore him a
child—as she hoped to do—she might get even more.

But
that was not the only reason they disliked her. They disliked her first because
their father had married her, and every grievance stemmed from that, though it
was not probable they would have had a good opinion of her under any
circumstances. She was, though she tried not to seem so, an alien, different
from them in all the wrong ways.

Her
beauty, even without obvious paint, was too vivid to be decent in their eyes.
The women were convinced that she was neither as sweet nor as innocent as she
seemed, for they recognized though they did not discuss her blatant quality of
sexual allure. A woman's eyes should not have that wicked slant, nor her body
an air of being unclothed even when thoroughly covered. They learned what her
first name was and were shocked; their own names were the old-fashioned and
trustworthy ones, Katherine, Lettice, Philadelphia, Susan.

And
Amber, in spite of her protestations to Samuel that she wanted nothing on earth
but the love of his family, did from the start many things which they could
only resent and criticize.

She
had already possessed an extensive wardrobe, but nevertheless she was
constantly ordering and buying new things— elaborate gowns, fur-lined cloaks,
dozens of pairs of silk stockings, fans and shoes and muffs and gloves by the
score. For weeks at a time she never appeared twice in the same costume. And
she wore her jewels, emeralds, diamonds, topazes, as carelessly as if they were
glass beads. Her portrait, faintly smiling in a gold-lace gown, replaced that
of Samuel and the first Mrs. Dangerfield in the drawing-room. The bedroom in
which many of them had been born was refurnished and gold-flowered crimson-damask
hangings went up at the windows and around the bed; the old fireplace was torn
out and a new black Genoese marble mantel put in its stead; Venetian mirrors
and lacquered East Indian cabinets and screens supplanted the respectable
pieces of English oak.

But
even those things they might have forgiven her had it not been for their
father's obvious and shameless infatuation. For once married to him Amber was
able to make use of a great many means for increasing his passion which she had
not dared employ during the courtship. She knew that her chief hold over him
was her youth and beauty and flagrant desirability—qualities his first wife had
utterly lacked and would have scorned as more suitable to a man's whore than to
his lawful wife. And, because she wanted a child to bind him even closer, she
pandered in every way she could to his concupiscence. He neglected his work to
be with her, lost weight, and —even though he made an effort to behave
decorously before his family—his eyes betrayed him whenever he looked at her.
They were aware of all this, aware in fact of more than any of them cared to
mention, and their hatred grew.