“I can’t do it, Amber. Let’s not talk about it.”
“Then you’ve got another reason! You have, haven’t you? What is it?”
He was suddenly impatient and faintly angry. “For the love of God, Amber, let it go! I can’t do it. That’s all.”
She looked at him for a long .minute, her eyes narrowed. “I know why,” she said slowly at last. “I know why you won’t take me over there, and why you won’t marry me. It’s because I’m a farmer’s niece and you’re a nobleman. My father was only a yeoman, but your family was sitting in the House of Lords before there was one. My mother was just a plain simple woman, but your mother was a Bruce and descended from no one less than Holy Moses himself. My relatives are farmers—but you’ve got some Stuart blood in you, if you look hard enough to find it.” Her voice was sarcastic and bitter, and as she talked her mouth twisted, giving an ugly expression to her face.
She turned angrily away and began to pull on the rest of her clothes, while he watched her. There was a kind of tenderness on his face now and he seemed to be trying to think of something to say to her that would help take away the painful sense of humiliation she felt. But she gave him no opportunity to speak. In only two or three minutes she was dressed and then as she picked up her cloak she cried: “That’s why, isn’t it!”
He stood facing her. “Oh, Amber, why must you always make things hard for yourself? You know as well as I do that I couldn’t marry you if I wanted to. I can’t marry just for myself. I’m not alone in the world, floating in space like a speck of dust. I’ve got relatives by the score—and I’ve got a responsibility to my parents who are dead and to their parents. The Bruces and Carltons mean nothing to you—and there’s no reason why they should —but they’re damned important to the Bruces and Carltons.”
“That wheedle won’t pass with me! You wouldn’t marry me even if you could! Would you!”
They stared at each other; and then his answer cracked out, surprising as the sharp report of a pistol.
“No!”
For an instant Amber continued looking at him, but her face had turned beet-red and the blue cords throbbed in her throat and forehead. “Oh!” she screamed, almost hysterical with rage and pain. “I hate you, Bruce Carlton! I hate you—I—” She turned and rushed from the room, slamming the door after her. “I hope I never see you again!” she sobbed to herself as she dashed headlong down the stairs. And she told herself that this was the end—the last insult she would take from him—the last time he would ever—
Amber ran out of Almsbury House and straight to her coach. She jumped in. “Drive away!” she yelled at Tempest. “Home!” She flung herself back and began to cry distractedly, though with few tears, her teeth biting at the tips of her gloved hands.
She was so excited that she did not notice another coach waiting just outside the gates, with its wooden shutters closed, which started up and came rumbling along behind her own. And it stayed there, just behind her, following every turn, halting when her coach halted, proceeding at exactly the same rate of speed and never letting another coach come between them. They were almost home before Amber noticed that two of her footmen, who were hanging on the side, kept looking back and gesturing, apparently both puzzled and amused. She turned and glanced through the back window, saw the hackney behind them, but was not much concerned.
And then, as they turned through the great south gate of Dangerfield House, the impertinent hackney turned in also. Amber got out, still scowling in spite of her struggles to compose her face, and confronted Jemima who had just stepped down from the hackney. Carter was paying the driver.
“Good morning, Madame,” said Jemima.
Amber started off, and tossed Jemima what she hoped was a careless greeting. “Good morning, Jemima.” But her heart was pounding and she had a sick feeling of despair. The damned girl had been spying! And, what was worse, had caught her!
“Just a moment, Madame. Haven’t you time for a word with me? You were glad enough to be my friend—before Lord Carlton came.”
Amber stopped still, and then she turned around to face her step-daughter. There was nothing to do but try to brazen it out with her. “What’s Lord Carlton got to do with this?”
“Lord Carlton’s staying at Almsbury House. That’s why you were there just now—and day before yesterday and twenty other times this past month, for all I know!”
“Mind your own business, Jemima! I’m no prisoner here. I’ll come and go as I like. As it happens Lady Almsbury is a dear friend of mine—I was visiting her.”
“You didn’t visit her before Lord Carlton came to town!”
“She wasn’t here! She was in the country. Now look here, Jemima, I’ve a mighty good idea why you’ve been following me—and I’ve a mind to tell your father. He’ll take a course with you, I warrant.”
“You’ll tell Father! Suppose I tell him a few things I know—about you and Lord Carlton!”
“You don’t know a thing! And if you weren’t as jealous as a barren wife you wouldn’t have such suspicions, either!” Her eyes went swiftly from Jemima to Carter and back again. “Who puts these ideas in your head? This old screech-owl here?” Carter’s guiltily shifted glance told her that her guess was right and Amber, with a great show of independent virtue, gave her a last warning and went off. “Don’t let me hear any more of your bellow-weathering, Jemima, or we’ll try which one of us your father will believe!”
Jemima evidently did not care to make the test, and Dangerfield House remained quiet. Amber pretended to have the ague so that her step-daughter could not ask why she had stopped going to visit Lady Almsbury. The time was drawing nearer for Jemima’s wedding, though the date had been postponed a few days at her almost hysterical demand, and Amber was eager to have it over and the girl out of her way.
A week after her quarrel with Bruce Samuel told her that Lord Carlton had been in his office that morning. “He’s sailing tomorrow,” he said, “if the wind serves. I hope that once he’s gone Jemima will—”
But Amber was not listening. Tomorrow! she thought. My God—he’s going tomorrow! Oh, I’ve got to see him—I’ve got to see him again—
His ships lay at Botolph Wharf and Amber waited inside her coach while Jeremiah went to find him. She was excited and anxious, afraid that he would still be angry, but when he returned and found who it was waiting there for him he smiled. The afternoon was hot and he wore no periwig but only his breeches and bell-sleeved white shirt, and his tanned face was wet with perspiration.
She leaned forward eagerly and put her hand on his as he stood in the door, and her voice spoke swiftly and softly. “I had to see you again, Bruce, before you went.”
“We’re busy loading, Amber. I can’t leave.”
“Can’t we go on board? Just for a minute?”
He stepped back and took her hand to help her down.
Everywhere about them was activity. Tall-masted ships, elaborately carved and gilded, moved gently with the water, and the wharf was crowded. There were sailors who had been so many years at sea that they walked with a rolling gait which would distinguish them anywhere. Husky-shouldered porters were trundling casks or staggering along bent beneath great wooden boxes and iron-hooped bales. Well-dressed merchants strolled up and down, pestered by the beggars—broken old seamen who had given a leg or an arm or an eye for England. There were wide-eyed boys, loitering old men and blatantly painted harlots—a noisy variegated crowd.