by Ann Bridge
Amber put the letter down and looked out over the Park again. Yes, that was that! But Nugent was right—it did do her good to know that she hadn’t been mistaken, that there had been a foundation for that unbelievable bliss. It was irrelevant now, of course—and yet perhaps nothing in one’s life was really quite irrelevant. Poor Rupert! Oh, poor Rupert! A scatter of bright drops fell on the window-seat. She took up the letter again.
“I think I must tell you that that is off, thank Goodness. I didn’t much like that young woman. I think it was her controlled certainty about everything that caught him; it went one better than his own dogmatism. I’m glad it’s over—I don’t believe he loved her much. But I expect the experience has been good for him—he will look deeper next time. I think loving you did him more good—and will go on doing so.”
She turned a page, but did not at once read further. So he wasn’t engaged to that girl any more. If she had known that two months ago, would it have made any difference? Answer! Answer! said her heart. But Amber didn’t answer just then—she went on with the next sheet of Nugent’s letter.
“I expect you will always love Rupert a good deal—and I daresay he will you, more than he thinks. But you will do better with Joe. You’ve taught him some of the things he most wanted to learn, which no one had taught him before. Lots of women would simply have plundered him, and mocked him while they did it—he is that sort; but with you he will be safe. He is more defenceless than Rupert. But don’t be afraid or ashamed of loving Rupert still—in fact it’s usually a great mistake to be afraid or ashamed of loving anyone.”
There it was, her answer. Probably she always would love Rupert a good deal, but she loved Joe very much, and she would do better with Joe. Besides Joe did need her more. Nugent was right, as always.
Lady Julia bustled in, sumptuous in a wedding-garment. “My dear child, they are here with your dress! Haven’t you changed your underclothes yet?”
She was engulfed in clothes; the room billowed with tissue-paper; her own maid and Lady Julia’s ran to and fro; the dressmaker put on her wedding-dress, Gemma pinned on her own diamond brooch for her “something borrowed.” Then the hairdresser tackled her coppery mop, putting a pink printed cloak over her shoulders to protect her dress. Amber laughed into the glass—the pink made her too hideous, with her hair! She shut her eyes to avoid the screaming clash of colour.
Curiously, when she did that, she saw two places, perfectly clear, in her mind—a pool on a road with stars shining up from dark water, and a young moon between the thin branches of alders—and a little hut standing in an empty space on a great fortification, which looked out over a snowy plain to mountains shining like the battlements of Heaven. And clear and far, but not faint, the echo of the music with which those two places rang was in her ears, unearthly lovely, unutterably sweet. Yes, there was that! Such music draws tears to the eyes just because of its sheer loveliness—it isn’t that one needs it! Amber gave her head a little shake. “One moment, Mademoiselle!” the coiffeur implored—“just to adjust the veil.” No, she didn’t need it—it was a thing by itself, and she had had it, anyhow. All was well. She had got that freedom—the freedom that Nugent, staring at some grave-mounds stuck with willow-wands, away in Peking, at the other side of the world, had said was the main thing. And suddenly she saw him again, sitting there, with his tired face and his greying hair and his shapely hands, and realised, with a little stab of comprehension, something she had never understood before—how easily Nugent could have made the world sing for her! She opened her eyes to stare at this idea; from the mirror her face stared back at her, veiled now, crowned with green and white flowers. Oh yes—the wonder really was how he had managed not to! She took up his letter and began to read it again. Absorbed, she never noticed the coiffeur give his handiwork a final pat; bow, scrape and withdraw. Oh wise, dear Nugent! Grateful as she was to him for so much, she was now most grateful of all for this. “In fact,” she read again, “it’s usually a great mistake ever to be afraid or ashamed of loving anyone.” In this too, all was well; he had himself given her this enfranchisement. Darling Nugent!
Suddenly she remembered something. Joe wanted her to have rouge on, and they’d forgotten it. She threw back her veil and hunted in the drawer—where was the blessed stuff? She practically never used it. Ah, there it was. Darling Joe—he should have a blushing bride if he wanted one! She dabbed and rubbed and powdered—yes, that would do. She went back to her letter.
“Now, dear child, we ought to start,” said Lady Julia, coming in. “Good heavens! What has happened to your veil? Agnes, here, quickly!”
“It’s all right—I’ve only been putting some rouge on,” said Amber. While her mother fussed, and the maids tweaked the veil, she slipped Nugent’s letter into the front of her dress. Then, smiling, she went off to marry Mr. George Hawtrey.
A Note on the Author
Ann Bridge was born in 1889 in Hertfordshire. Bridge's novels concern her experiences of the British Foreign Office community in Peking in China, where she lived for two years with her diplomat husband; her works combine courtship plots with vividly-realized settings and demure social satire.
Bridge went on to write novels based around a serious investigation of modern historical developments. In the 1970s Bridge began to write thrillers centred on a female amateur detective, Julia Probyn, as well as writing travel books and family memoirs. Her books were praised for their faithful representation of foreign countries which was down to personal experience and thorough research. Ann Bridge died in 1974.
Discover books by Ann Bridge published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/Ann Bridge
A Lighthearted Quest
A Place to Stand
Emergency in the Pyrenees
Enchanter’s Nightshade
Frontier Passage
Julia in Ireland
Moments of Knowing
Singing Waters
The Dangerous Islands
The Dark Moment
The Episode at Toledo
The Ginger Griffin
The Malady in Maderia
The Numbered Account
The Portuguese Escape
The Tightening String
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Copyright © 2013 Ann Bridge
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448211487
Visit www.bloomsburyreader.com to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can sign up for
newsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.
s-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
