"I don't care. I'd look like a blow-sabel in it." And then, just as the two women came up behind her she gave a little cry of surprise. "Lord, ladies! How you sneak up on one!"
"Do we so? We came in noisy as anything, your Grace. Your thoughts must have been elsewhere."
Amber gave a little smile and snipped at the soap bubbles with her thumb and forefinger. "Oh, well—perhaps you're right. You can all go now—" she told the tradesmen. "I don't want anything more today. Herman—" She glanced over her shoulder at the eunuch. "Fling me a towel."
Mrs. Middleton's eyes were running appraisingly over Herman's imposing physique and now she said, as though he were no human being but a mere inanimate object: "Where did you get this fine-looking fellow? My eunuch is a mere jack-straw— a frightful object, let me die."
Amber took the towel and stood up to begin drying herself, conscious of their close jealous scrutiny. But let them stare as they could, she thought they would discover few flaws, for in spite of bearing three children she looked very much as she had at sixteen—her waist was as slim, her belly as taut and smooth, her breasts as high and pert. She had given herself the best of care, and yet perhaps she had been a little lucky too.
"Oh, I got him from what-d'ye-call—the East Indies merchant. He was mighty dear, but I think he makes a fine enough show to be worth the price, don't you?"
Lady Southesk regarded him with contempt. "Gad, I wouldn't have one of 'em about me! Filthy creatures! Unable to perform a man's most significant function."
Amber laughed. "Some of 'em will even do that for you, I'm told. Would you like to borrow Herman someday and find out if it's true?"
Southesk looked furiously insulted at that, though certainly her reputation was none too tidy, but Middleton hastily changed the subject. "Oh, by the way, your Grace, whom d'you think we encountered just at your door?"
Amber gave her a quick narrow look, seeing that the cat was out. She was almost pleased, though she would not have dared spread the news herself. "Lord Carlton, I suppose. Do be seated, ladies. Pray, no ceremony here."
Amber derived a great deal of malicious amusement from the etiquette which decreed that persons of inferior rank might sit in the presence of a duchess only with her permission, and then upon armless chairs. It pleased her every time a woman who had once ignored or sneered at her was forced to rise or to move to a less comfortable seat because she had entered a room.
Flinging the towel to Herman she slipped into a dressing-gown held by one of the maids, stuck her toes into a pair of mules and taking the bodkins from her hair gave it a vigorous shake. The glowing warmth which filled her each time she saw Bruce still lingered, and she had a wonderful sense of vigorous well-being. It seemed to her that life had never been more delicious or more satisfying.
"They say that Lord Carlton has a most wicked reputation," Southesk told her now and Amber gave her a half-smile, one eyebrow raised. "I'm afraid your Grace's reputation will suffer if he's seen leaving your apartments very often."
Before Amber could reply Middleton was prattling again.
"Lord, but he's the finest person, let me die! I swear he's the handsomest male I've ever clapped eyes on! But every time I've seen 'im he's been so furiously absorbed in his wife! How the devil did your Grace contrive to make his acquaintance so neatly?"
"Oh, didn't you know?" cried Southesk. "Why, her Grace has known 'im for years!" She turned back to Amber and smiled sweetly. "Haven't you, madame?"
Amber laughed. "I protest—you ladies are much better informed about all this than I."
They stayed a few minutes longer, all three of them gossiping with idle viciousness of the doings of their friends and acquaintances. But Southesk and Middleton had found out what they had come for and soon they went off to spread the news through Whitehall and Covent Garden. Bruce, however, never spoke of it to Amber and, whenever she saw her, Corinna was as friendly and gracious as she always had been. It was obvious that she, at least, had no slightest suspicion regarding the Duchess of Ravenspur and her husband.
Then at last, some eight weeks after Lord and Lady Carlton had arrived, Amber went to call upon her—carefully choosing a day when she knew that Bruce had gone to hunt with the King. Corinna met her at the entrance to the sitting-room of their apartments in Almsbury House, and she smiled with genuine pleasure when she saw who her guest was. The two women curtsied but did not kiss for Corinna had not yet contracted the London habit and Amber could not have brought herself to it—though she habitually kissed and was kissed by many women she liked but little better.
"How kind of your Grace to call on me!"
Amber began to pull off her gloves, and in spite of herself her resentment and jealousy began to rise as her eyes flickered over Corinna. "Not at all!" she protested, very careless. "I should have called much sooner. But, Lord! there's always such a deal of business here in London! One must go here and there—do this and that and the other! It's barbarous!" She dropped into a chair. "You must find it a mighty great change from America." Her tone implied that America must be a very dull place where there was little to do but tend babies and work embroidery.
But even as she talked her eyes were observing Corinna carefully, noticing every detail of her coiffure and clothes, the way she walked and held her head and sat. Lady Carlton was wearing a gown of pearl-grey satin with pink musk-roses thrust into the bodice and there was a fine strand of sapphires about her throat; she wore no other jewels except her gold-and-sapphire wedding-ring.
"It is different," agreed Corinna. "But though it may sound strange I find there's less to do in London—for me, at least— than in America."
"Oh, we have a thousand diversions here—one needs only get acquainted with 'em. How d'you like London? It must seem a great city to you." Try as she would, Amber found that she could not speak without sarcastic overtones, belittling suggestions, a hint of superiority she was by no means secure in feeling.
"Oh, I love London! I'm only sorry that I couldn't have seen it before the Fire. We left here before I was quite five, you see, and I couldn't remember anything about it. I've always wanted to come back, though, for in America we all think of England as 'home.' "
She was poised, so quietly yet radiantly happy that Amber longed to say something which would shatter that serene protected world in which she lived. But she dared not. She could only murmur: "But isn't it furiously dull—living on a plantation? I suppose you never see a living soul, save blackamoors and wild Indians."
Corinna laughed. "I suppose it might seem dull to one who had always lived in a city, but it doesn't seem dull to me. It's such a beautiful land. And the plantations all front on rivers so that we travel easily by boat anywhere we want to go. We love to give parties—and often they last for days or weeks. The men are busy, of course, with their work, but they have time aplenty for hunting and fishing and gambling and dancing, too. Oh, forgive me, your Grace, I'm boring you with all this nonsense—"
"By no means. I've always wondered what America was like. Perhaps I'll pay you a visit someday." She could not imagine what had prompted her to say that.
But Corinna caught her up eagerly. "Oh, your Grace, if you would! My husband and I would love to have you! You can't imagine what excitement it would cause! A duchess and a beauty in America! Why, you'd be feted in every great house in Virginia—but of course we'd keep you with us most of the time." Her smile was so genuine, so guileless, that Amber boiled inside with resentful fury. Lord, but she must have lived a retired life! she thought scornfully.
Aloud she asked her: "When are you going over to France?" She had asked Bruce several times but had never received a definite answer, and since they had already been there two months she was afraid that they might be planning to leave very soon.
"Why—not for some time, I think." Corinna hesitated a moment, as though uncertain whether she should say any more. Then quickly, with a kind of pride and the air of giving a precious confidence, she added: "You see, I've found that
I'm with child and my husband thinks it would be unwise to start until after the baby has been born."
Amber said nothing, but for a moment she felt sick with shock, her mind and muscles seemed paralyzed. "Oh," she heard herself murmur at last. "Isn't that fine."
Angrily she told herself that she was being a fool. What did it matter if the woman was pregnant? What could that mean to her? She should be glad. For now he would be here longer than he had intended—much longer, for so far Corinna showed no evidence at all of pregnancy. She got to her feet then, saying that she must go, and Corinna pulled a bell-rope to summon a servant.
"Thank you so much for coming to call, your Grace," she said as they walked toward the door. "I hope we shall become good friends."
They paused just in the doorway now and Amber looked at her levelly. "I hope we shall too, madame." Then, unexpectedly, she said something else. "I met your son yesterday in the Palace."
A quick puzzled look crossed Corinna's face, but instantly she laughed. "Oh, you mean young Bruce! But he isn't my son, your Grace. He's my husband's son by his first wife—though truly, I love him as if he were my own."
Amber said nothing but her eyes turned suddenly hard, and the swift fierce jealousy sprang up again. What do you mean! she thought furiously. You love him as if he were your own! What right have you to love him at all! What right have you to even know him! He's mine—
Corinna was still talking. "Of course I never met the first Lady Carlton—I don't even know who she was—but I think she must have been a very wonderful woman to have had such a son."
Amber forced herself to give a little laugh, but there was no humour in it. "You're mighty generous, madame. I should think you'd hate her—that first wife he had."
Corinna smiled slowly. "Hate her? Why should I? After all —he belongs to me now." She was speaking, of course, of the father, not the son. "And she left me her child."
Amber turned about swiftly to shield her face. "I must go now, madame— Good-day—" She walked along the gallery but had gone only a few steps down the broad staircase when she heard Corinna's voice again.
"Your Grace—you dropped your fan—"
She went on, pretending not to hear, unable to bear the thought of facing her again. But Corinna came hurrying after her, her high golden heels making a sharp sound as she walked along. "Your Grace," she repeated, "you dropped your fan."
Amber turned to take it. Corinna was standing just above her on the steps and now she smiled again, a friendly almost wistful smile. "Please don't think me foolish, your Grace— but for a long while I've felt that you disliked me—"
"Of course I don't—"
"No, I'm sure you don't. And I shall think of it no more. Good-day, your Grace—and pray do come visit me again."
Chapter Sixty-three
One warm night in early November there was a water-pageant on the Thames. This was a favourite entertainment of the King's, and a group had gathered in his apartments to watch from the balconies. The skiffs and barges were decorated with flower-garlands and banners and a multitude of lanterns and flaring torches. From the other shore rockets shot up and fell back, hissing, into the water; streaks of yellow light crossed the sky. Music drifted from the boats and the King's fiddlers played in a far corner of the room.
Under cover of the music, the rockets and confused chatter of voices, Lady Southesk spoke to Amber. "Who d'you think is Castlemaine's newest conquest?"
Amber was not very much interested for she was concerned in keeping an eye on Bruce and Corinna where they stood, a few feet away. She shrugged carelessly. "How should I know? Who is it—Claude du Vall?" Du Vall was a highwayman of great current notoriety and he bragged that more than one lady of title had invited him to her bed.
"No. Guess again. A good friend of yours."
Knowing Southesk, Amber now gave her a sharp glance.
"Who!"
Southesk looked over toward Lord Carlton and she lifted her brows significantly, smiling as she watched Amber's face. Amber glanced swiftly at Bruce, then back at Southesk. She had turned white.
"That's a lie!"
Southesk shrugged and gave a languid wave of her fan. "Believe me or not, it's true. He was there last night—I have it on the very best—Lord, your Grace!" she cried now, in mock alarm. "Have a care—you'll break your laces!"
"You prattling bitch!" muttered Amber, furious. "You breed scandal like a cess-pool breeds flies!"
Southesk gave her a look of hurt indignant innocence, tossed her curls and sailed off. Only a few moments later she was murmuring in someone else's ear, a secret smile on her mouth as she nodded, very discreetly, in Amber's direction. Amber, with as much nonchalance as she could muster, strolled over to link her arm through Almsbury's, and as he greeted her she tried to give him a gay smile. But her eyes betrayed her.
"What's the matter?" he whispered.
"It's Bruce! I've got to see him! Right now!"
"After all, sweetheart—"
"Do you know what he's been doing! He's been laying with Barbara Palmer! Oh, I could murder him for that—"
"Shh!" cautioned the Earl, shifting his eyes about, for they were surrounded by a dozen pairs of alert ears. "What's the difference? He's done it before."
"But Southesk is telling everyone! They'll all be laughing at me! Oh, damn him!"
"Did it ever occur to you that they may also be laughing at his wife?"
"What do I care about her! I hope they are! Anyway, she doesn't know it—and I do."
When she next saw Bruce she tried to force him to promise her that he would never visit Barbara again, and though he refused to make any promises she later convinced herself that he did not. For she heard no more gossip and was sure that Barbara would not have been secretive about it. Her own affair with him, however, gained notoriety in an ever-spreading circle and though it seemed incredible, Corinna was evidently the only person left in fashionable London who did not know about them. But Corinna, Amber thought, was such a fool she would not have guessed that Bruce was her lover if she had found them in bed together.
She was mistaken.
The first night that Corinna had seen Amber she had been shocked by her costume and, later, sorry for her own bad manners in noticing it. The Duchess's cold hostility she assumed to have been caused by that episode, and she had been genuinely pleased when she finally paid her a visit, thinking that at last she had forgotten it. But even before then Corinna had been aware that she was flirting with her husband.
In the four years since she had married him Corinna had watched a great many different kinds of women, from the black wenches on the plantation to the titled ladies of Port Royal, flirt with Bruce. Perfectly secure in his love for her, she had never been worried or jealous but, rather, amused and even a little pleased. She soon realized, however, that the Duchess of Ravenspur was potential trouble. She was, of, course, extraordinarily lovely with her provocative eyes, rich honey hair and voluptuous figure—and what was more she had an attraction for men as powerful and combustible as was Bruce's for women. She was no one any woman would like to find interested in the man she loved.
For the first time since her marriage Corinna was frightened.
Before long the other women began to drop hints. There were sly malicious little suggestions passed in the supper-table talk or when they came to call in the afternoons. A nudge and a glance would indicate the way her Grace leant over Lord Carlton as he sat at the gaming-table, her face almost touching his, one breast pressing his shoulder. Lady Southesk and Mrs. Middleton invited her to visit the Duchess with them one morning—and she met Bruce just coming out.
But Corinna refused to think what they so obviously wanted her to think. She told herself that surely she had enough sophistication to realize that idle people often liked to cause trouble among those they found happier and more content than themselves. And she wanted passionately to keep her belief in Bruce and in all that he meant to her. She was determined that her marriage should n
ot be shaken because one woman was infatuated with her husband and others wished to destroy her faith in him. Corinna was not yet acquainted with Whitehall, for that took time, like accustoming oneself, after sunlight, to a darkened room.
But in spite of herself she found a mean resentful feeling of jealousy growing within her against the Duchess of Ravenspur. When she saw her look at Bruce or talk with him, sit across from him at the card-table, dance with him, or merely tap him on the shoulder with her fan as she went by, Corinna felt suddenly sick inside and cold with nervous apprehension.
At last she admitted it to herself; she hated that woman. And she was ashamed of herself for hating her.
And yet she did not know what she could do to stop the progress of what she feared was rapidly becoming an affair, in the London sense of the word. Bruce was no boy to be ordered around, forbidden to come home late or warned to stop ogling some pretty woman. Certainly there had been nothing so far in his behaviour which was real cause for suspicion. The morning she had met him leaving the Duchess's apartments he had been perfectly cool and casual, not in the least embarrassed to be found there. He was as attentive and devoted to her as he had ever been, and she believed that she had a reasonably accurate idea as to where he spent his time when they were apart.
I must be wrong! she told herself. I've never lived in a palace or a great city before and I suppose I'm suspecting all sorts of things that aren't true. But if only it were any other woman—I don't think I'd feel the way I do.
To compensate in her heart for the suspicions she held against him, Corinna was more gay and charming than ever. She was so afraid that he would notice something different in her manner and guess at its cause. What would he think of her then—to know how mean she could be, how petty and jealous? And if she was wrong—as she persistently told herself she must be—it would be Bruce who would lose faith in her. Their marriage had seemed to her complete and perfect; she was terrified lest something happen through her own fault to spoil it.
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