Barbara's eyes popped and her face went white, one hand to her mouth and the other pointing at him. "George! It isn't you!"
"It is, madame. And don't make any sound, I beg of you. This implement"—he tapped his gun—"is loaded, and I should not like to shoot you just now—for I think you're still of some value to me."
"But what are you doing here—of all places! You're mad! They'll cut off your head if they find you!"
"They won't find me. A disguise that was good enough to fool my cousin should be good enough to fool anyone, don't you agree?" He seemed highly amused.
"But what are you doing here?"
"Don't you remember? You sent for me."
"Oh, you impertinent dog! I could kill you for this trick! Anyway—I only meant to raise your blood—I was just passing the time with you—"
"A very pretty pastime for a person of quality, I must agree. But I didn't take up that post to be seduced by my Lady Castlemaine. You know what I'm here for."
"Not I, I'm sure. I've had no hand in your troubles."
"Only that you gave my secret away to his Majesty."
"Gave it away? You lied to me! You told me it was York's horoscope you were having cast!"
"Even a lie, apparently, was unsafe with you. The King needs only a sentence to guess at the whole plot of a play." He shook his head, as though in sympathy for her. "How can you be so foolish, Barbara, when it's only by my good nature that you remain in England at all? However, it will doubtless be easy enough to buy my freedom now. I have an idea he'd forgive a much greater offense than mine to know that those letters are burned—"
"George!" cried Barbara frantically. "My God, you wouldn't tell him! You can't tell him! Oh, please, darling! I'll do anything you say! Command me and I'll be your slave—only promise me you won't tell him!"
"Lower your voice or you'll tell him yourself. Very well then—since you want to bargain. What will you give in exchange for my silence?"
"Anything, George! Anything at all! I'll give you anything— I'll do anything you say!"
"There's just one thing—I want at present—and that's the clearance of my name."
Barbara sat down suddenly, scared and hopeless, her face turned white. "But you know that's the one thing I can't do! No one could do that for you—not Minette herself! Everyone says you're going to lose your head—the courtiers are already begging your estate! Oh, George, please—" she was beginning to cry, wringing her hands together.
"Stop that! I hate a driveling woman! Old Rowley can watch you mope and wail if he likes but I've got other matters to think of! Look here, Barbara: your influence with him isn't wholly gone. You can convince him, if you try, that I'm innocent. I'll leave you to think of your own means— A woman never needs help making up lies."
He put the black wig onto his head again and picked up his musket. "I'll make it possible for you to communicate with me." He bowed. "I wish you success, madame." Turning then on his high heel he left her apartments and the Palace; the broad-shouldered, black-haired sentry was never again seen at Lady Castlemaine's door.
Chapter Forty-nine
Even after Amber was married she continued to remain at Almsbury House, for she hoped soon to be given an appointment at Court and live there.
As for her husband, she suggested that he take lodgings in Covent Garden, and because he had been henpecked from the cradle he did so, though against his better judgment. For despite the fact that it was permissible, even correct form, for husbands and wives to hate each other, to keep mistresses and take lovers, to bicker and quarrel in public and circulate the grossest slander about each other—it was not permissible to occupy separate homes or to sleep in separate beds. Amber was amused to discover that she had started a scandal which swept all the fashionable end of town.
Her husband was named George Stanhope, and the title conveyed upon him by the King was Earl of Danforth. He was just twenty-two, a year younger than she, and to Amber he seemed an arrant fool. Timid and non-assertive, weak and thin, he lived in a habitual froth of worry as to what "Mother" was going to think about everything he or his wife did. Mother, he said, would not approve of them occupying separate lodgings, and finally he brought the news that Mother was coming up to London for a visit.
"Have you room for her in your apartments?" asked Amber.
She sat at her dressing-table having her hair arranged by a Frenchman newly arrived from Paris, over whose services the ladies were clawing one another. In one hand she held a silver-backed mirror, surveying her profile, admiring the lines of her straight forehead and dainty tilted nose, the pouting curves of her mouth and small round chin.
I'm handsomer than Frances Stewart any day, she thought, rather defiantly. But still I'm glad she's gone and disgraced and will never be back to trouble us more.
Gerald looked unhappy, pale and ineffectual. Travel on the Continent had not polished him; a moderately good education had not given him mental poise; the customary indulgence in whoring and drinking had certainly not made him sophisticated. He seemed still like a confused uncertain lonesome boy and this new turn his life had taken only made him feel more lost than ever.
These people—his wife and the other women and men who frequented Whitehall—were all so brazenly confident, so selfish in their preoccupations, so cruelly unconcerned for the hurts or hopes of another human. He longed for the quiet and peace and sense of security he had not had at home. This world of palaces and taverns, theatres and bawdy-houses, scared and baffled him. He almost dreaded to have his mother come, to have her meet his wife, and yet the news that she was coming had relieved him considerably. Mother was not afraid of anyone. -
He took out his comb and began to run it through his flaxen periwig. His clothes, at least, were now as fine and fashionable as any that money could buy, though his unprepossessing physique and spindly legs did not set them off to advantage.
"Pas du tout, madame," said Gerald. All the wits and pretended wits sprinkled their conversation with French phrases as a lady sprinkled her face with black taffeta patches. Gerald did likewise, for it gave him a sense of being in the mode. "As you know, I have a mere three rooms. There's no place to put her there." He was living at the Cheval d'Or, a lodging-house popular with the gallants because the landlady had a pretty and obliging daughter.
"Well, where do you propose to put her then? I don't like that curl, Durand. Pray, do it again." She was still surveying herself, front face now, observing her teeth, her skin, the smooth red paint on her lips.
Gerald gave a Parisian shrug of his thin shoulders. "Eh bien —I thought she might stay here."
Amber set the mirror down with a slam, though it lighted on a pile of ribbons and was saved. "Oh, you did! Well, she won't! D'ye think Lord Almsbury's running a lodging-house? You'd best send her a letter and tell her to stay where she is. What the devil does she want to come to London for anyway?" She gave a shake of her right wrist to hear the bracelets clink.
"Why, I suppose she wants to see her old acquaintances she hasn't seen in many years. And also, madame, I may as well speak frankly, she wonders why we keep separate lodgings."
Because he was afraid of what she might say to that he turned and went across the room, taking a long-stemmed pipe out of the capacious pocket of his coat and filling it with tobacco, using a match-stick from the fireplace to light it.
"Good Lord! Write and tell her you're of age now and married and able to manage your own affairs!" And then, seeing that he was smoking, she cried: "Get out of here with that filthy thing! D'ye think I want my rooms to stink? Go down and order the coach—I'll be with you presently. Or go on alone, if you prefer."
Gerald left hastily, obviously relieved, but Amber sat scowling into the mirror while Monsieur Durand, who was not supposed to make use of his ears, continued to work with passionate intensity upon the curl she had criticized.
"Lord!" muttered Amber crossly at last. "What a dull, insipid thing a husband is!"
Durand smiled unc
tuously, gave a final twirl of his comb and stepped back to survey her head. Then, satisfied, he took up a tiny vial, filled it with water and slipping in a golden rose tucked it among her curls. "It's true they've grown out of the fashion, madame. I find a lady of quality would no more wear one of 'em on her heart than she'd wear a bouquet of carnations."
"Why is it only the fools who marry?" she demanded, but went on talking without waiting for an answer. "Well, thank you, Durant, for coming to me. And here's something for your good work." She picked up three guineas from the table and dropped them into his hand.
His eyes began to glisten and he bowed again and again. "Oh, merci, madame, merci! It is indeed a pleasure to serve one so generous—and so beautiful. Pray call upon me at any time —and I come though I disappoint Majesty itself!"
"Thanks, Durand. Tell me—what d'you think of this gown? My dressmaker is a French woman. Has she done well by me, do you think?" She turned slowly about before him while Durand clasped his hands and kissed his fingers.
"C'est exquis, madame! Vraie Parisienne, madame! Exquis!"
Amber gave a little laugh and took up her fan and gloves. "What a flattering rogue you are! Nan, let him out—"
She left the room, beckoning Tansy to follow her, and he carried the long train of her gown in his hands so that it would not be soiled before she got to the ball. Durand was worth the three guineas she had given him—preposterous as the price was—not so much for the work of his clever fingers as for the prestige of having him. It had taken some scheming, but she had gotten him away from Castlemaine for that night, and every woman at the ball would know it.
A week later Amber was in the nursery—where she spent an hour or two every morning—playing trick-track with Bruce. Susanna, in a white linen-and-lace gown with a tiny apron and a starched lace cap that perched far back over her long glossy blonde hair, sat on the floor beside them. Already she was beginning to dominate the nursery and had her heel firmly on the necks of the Almsbury children, but her own brother was a more recalcitrant subject and refused the yoke of the little tyrant.
Amber loved the hours she spent in the nursery, for they were the one sure tie that bound her to Lord Carlton. These children were his children too, his blood was in their veins, they moved and spoke and had their being because of him. Their love for her was, in a sense, his—their kisses his. They were the memories of things past, all that she had for the present, and they offered her hope of the future.
"Mother!" Susanna was perpetually interrupting their game, for though she was too young to play she intended to have a part in it anyway.
"Yes, darling?"
"Wiggle-waggle!"
"Let me finish this game, Susanna. I just played wiggle-waggle."
Susanna pouted and made a face at her brother, but Amber saw it and threw one arm about her, hugging her close. "Here, what are you doing, you little witch?"
"Witch! What's a witch?"
"A witch," said her brother, somewhat bored, "is a nuisance."
Amber looked up at a footman who had just entered the room and came to stand beside them. "Yes?"
"You're wanted, madame."
"Who is it? Anyone of importance?"
"Your husband, I believe, madame—and his mother."
"Oh, Lord! Well—thank you. Tell 'em I'll be in presently." The man left and Amber got to her feet, though both children immediately began to protest. "I'm sorry, darlings, I'll come back if I can."
Bruce bowed to her. "Good-day, Mother. Thank you for coming to see us."
Amber bent and kissed him and then she picked up Susanna, who kissed her with smacking abandon on the cheeks and mouth. "Here, Susanna!" protested Amber. "You'll take all my powder off, you little minx." She kissed her and then put her down, waved them both goodbye and left the room—but her smile faded the instant she closed the door.
For a moment she stood in the hall, staring. Now why the devil did that old woman have to come here? she thought irritably. Pregnancy always made her feel that everything unpleasant which happened was done for the sole purpose of annoying her. And then with a sigh and a little shrug she started back toward her own rooms at the opposite end of the gallery.
Gerald Stanhope and his mother sat on a couch before the fireplace in Amber's drawing-room. The Dowager Baroness had her back to the door and she was chattering away at Gerald whose face looked worried and anxious. The starkly black-painted eyebrows he affected because they were supposed to be all the mode contrasted shockingly with his white skin and ash-blond wig. But the moment Amber entered the room the Baroness ceased talking and, after giving herself a moment or two to compose her features, she turned a fixed sweet smile in the direction of her daughter-in-law. Her eyes did not conceal the sudden surprise and displeasure she felt at what she saw.
Amber came toward them walking lazily, her dressing-gown flowing back from the lacy ruffled petticoat she wore beneath it. Gerald, looking as if he expected the roof to blow off the house at any moment, stood up to present his wife to his mother. The two women embraced, carefully, as though each were afraid of soiling her hands and garments on the other. And then each turned her cheek—it was an affectation of great ladies to present their cheeks rather than their lips for a salute. As they stepped back their eyes ran over each other appraisingly, and neither one of them missed a detail. Gerald stood and bobbled his Adam's apple and took out a comb to occupy his hands.
Lucilla, Lady Stanhope, was just over forty. She had a plump petulant face that made Amber think of one of the King's spaniels, with a mouth turned down at the corners and shaky round cheeks. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now caramel-coloured. But the skin was still pink and fresh and she had prominent thrusting breasts. Her clothes were even more out of style than those of most country ladies, and her jewels were insignificant.
"Oh, pray take no notice of my clothes," said her Ladyship instantly. "They're nothing but old frippery I was about to give my maid, but the roads were so bad I didn't dare wear anything else! Heavens, as it was, one cart overturned and flung three of my trunks into the mud!"
"Oh, barbarous!" agreed Amber sympathetically. "Your Ladyship must be jolted to a jelly. Can't I send for some refreshment?"
"Why, yes, madame. I do believe I'd like a dish of tea."
She had never drunk any tea, for it was far too expensive, but now she was determined to show everyone that for all she had been twenty years in the country she had never been out of touch with the Town.
"I'll send for some. Arnold! Drat that man! Where is he? Always kissing the maids when you want him." Amber walked toward the door of the next room. "Arnold!"
The Baroness watched her, envy and disapproval in her eyes.
She had never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that the days of her own youth and beauty had occurred so unpropitiously. First there had been the Civil War and her husband gone most of the time, then finally killed, leaving her condemned to live out her best years in the country, impoverished by taxes and forced to do part of her own housework like any farmer's wife. The years had slipped treacherously by. She had not realized until today how many of them were gone.
She had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must have a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop in London on his return to see if he might catch the King's eye and perhaps bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl of Danforth and bridegroom.
Overjoyed, she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for her clo
thes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a gentleman to her taste.
The letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.
"My dear Lucilla," it read. "Pray accept of the good thoughts and best wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.
"We were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald's marriage, happening so suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you've heard that she's thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays, but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.
"I hope to have the pleasure of your company soon. No doubt you will be coming to London as soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.
"Your very humble and obedient servant, madame,
"I am,
"Margaret, Lady Clifford."
There it was. Like a rock dropped in the middle of a quiet pool. "As soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together." What did her Ladyship mean?
"Were they married and not living together? Where was he living then? Where was she living? She read the letter over again, very carefully, and this time she could pick out several more ominous suggestions. She decided that she could not get there too soon for her son's welfare.