Then all at once she caught sight of a face which, for an instant, she did not recognize, seeing it in this unfamiliar environment. And suddenly she clapped her mask back on, turned up her hood and began to make her goodbyes. For there across the room, talking to one of the new actresses, was Henry Dangerfield. In less than a minute she was on her way down the dimly-lighted corridor, but she had not gone far when footsteps came up behind her.
“I beg your pardon, madame—”
Amber’s heart jumped and she stopped perfectly still, but only for an instant and then immediately she went on again.
“I don’t know you, sir!” she snapped, changing her voice to a higher pitch.
“But I’m Henry Dangerfield and you’re—”
“Mrs. Ann St. Michel, sir, and travelling alone!”
“I beg your pardon, madame—”
To her intense relief Amber found that he had stopped and when she got outside and glanced back he was not in sight. Nevertheless she did not get into the coach but said softly to Tempest as she walked by, “Meet me at the Maypole corner.”
Amber spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, nervous and restless. She paced back and forth, looked out the window dozens of times, wrung her hands and asked Nan over and over why Samuel was late. Nan had not said that she knew this would happen, but she looked it.
But when he came in, late in the afternoon, he greeted her with a smile and kiss, just as he always did. Amber, who had put on a dressing-gown and nothing else, laid her head against his chest.
“Oh, Samuel! Where ’ve you been! It’s so late—I’ve been so worried about you!”
He smiled and, glancing around to make sure that Nan was not looking, he slipped one hand into her gown. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. A gentleman had come from out of town on business and we talked longer than I expected—” His head bent to kiss her again, and from behind his back Amber signalled at Nan to leave the room.
At first she thought she would stay there that night and not go down to supper, but finally she decided that it would do no good. If Henry had recognized her he could mention it tomorrow as well as today, and she could not hide in their apartments forever.
But the supper went exactly as it usually did and afterward, as was their custom, they all went into one of the small parlours to spend an hour or two before retiring. Again Amber thought of pleading a headache and getting Samuel to go upstairs with her, but again she decided against it. If Henry was suspicious and she stayed—perhaps he would think that he had been wrong.
Lettice, with Susan and Philadelphia and Katherine, sat before the fireplace talking quietly and working on pieces of embroidery. The younger children started a game of blind-man’s-buff. Samuel sat down to a chess game which had been going on for several nights between him and twelve-year-old Michael, and Henry pulled up a chair to watch. The older brothers smoked their pipes and discussed business and the Dutch and criticized the government. Amber, beginning to feel comfortable again, sat in a chair and talked to Jemima, prettiest of all the good-looking Dangerfield children.
Jemima, just fifteen, was the one friend Amber had made in her new home; and Jemima admired her whole-heartedly. She was too unsophisticated to understand much more regarding her father’s recent marriage than that he had brought a new woman to live in the house. And this woman looked and dressed and behaved exactly as she would have liked to do herself. She could not understand the animosity felt toward Madame by her older brothers and sisters, and had often repeated to Amber the things she had heard them say about her. Once she told her that Lettice, upon hearing of how devotedly Madame had nursed him through his illness, had said that she would just as soon think she had made him sick herself to have the opportunity of making him well. Amber, somewhat uneasy to hear this, was relieved that the oldest brother had cautioned Lettice against being carried too far by her own jealousy. After all, he had said, the woman might be of dubious character—but she couldn’t be that bad.
Amber—who usually got along well with girls too young or unattractive to compete with her—encouraged the friendship. She found Jemima’s naive admiration and talkativeness a convenient means of informing herself on the others—as well as a source of entertainment to help her pass the long dull days. Furthermore, she took malicious delight in annoying Lettice. For Lettice had warned Jemima repeatedly against the association, but Lettice was no longer head of the house and Jemima was spirited enough to enjoy disobeying her.
She was about the same height Amber was, but her figure was slight and less rounded. Her hair was rich dark brown with sparks of copper in it; her skin fine and white and she had blue eyes with a sweep of curling black lashes. She was eager, vivacious, spoiled by her father and elder brothers, independent, stubborn and lovable. Now she sat on a stool beside Amber, her fingers clasped over her knees, eyes shining in fascination while Amber told her a story she had heard at second-hand of the King begging my Lady Castlemaine’s pardon on his knees.
Across the room Susan glanced at them and raised her eyebrows significantly. “How devoted Jemima is to Madame! They’re all but inseparable. I should think you’d be more careful, Lettice. Jemima might learn to paint.”
Lettice gave her a sharp glance but found her looking down at her embroidery, taking tiny precise stitches. For several years, ever since Lettice had returned home and assumed management of the household, there had been a low-current feud going on between her and this wife of the eldest brother. The other two women smiled faintly, amused, for they were all secretly a little pleased that at last Lettice had found someone she could not dominate. But they were not so pleased it sweetened the bitter gall of lost money: the new wife was still the common enemy of them all, and their little personal animosities of but minor importance.
Lettice answered her quietly. “I am going to be more careful in the future—for that isn’t all the child might learn from her.”
“Low-necked gowns without a scarf too, perhaps,” said Susan.
“Much worse than that, I’m afraid.”
“What could be worse?” mocked Susan.
But Katherine sensed that Lettice knew something she had not told them, and her eyes lighted with the prospect of scandal. “What’ve you heard, Lettice? What’s she done?” At Katherine’s tone the other two instantly leaned forward.
“What do you know, Lettice?”
“Has she done something terrible?” They could not even imagine what could be terrible enough.
Lettice threaded her needle. “We can’t discuss it now with the children in the room.”
Immediately Philadelphia rose. “Then I’ll send them to bed.”
“Philadelphia!” said Lettice sharply. “I’ll handle this! Wait until she begins to sing.”
For every night, after the children had gone to bed and just before they all retired, Amber sang to them. Samuel had instigated the custom, and now it was a firmly-established part of household routine.
The women fidgeted nervously for almost an hour, begging Lettice in whispers over and over again to send the children to bed, but she would not do so until exactly the time when they went every night. She returned from seeing them into the custody of their nurses to find Amber strumming her guitar and singing a mournful pretty little song:
“What if a day, or a month, or a year,
Crown thy delights