Nan arrived a fortnight later with Susanna, the wet-nurse, Tansy and Big John Waterman. They had spent the four months going from one village to another, fleeing the plague. Despite everything only one cart-load had been stolen; almost all of Amber’s clothes and personal belongings were intact. She was so grateful that she promised Nan and Big John a hundred pounds each when they returned to London.
Bruce was enchanted with his seven-months-old daughter. Susanna’s eyes were no longer blue but now a clear green and her hair was bright pure golden blonde, not the tawny colour of her mother’s. She did not very much resemble either Bruce or Amber but she gave every promise of being a beauty and seemed already conscious of her destiny, for she flirted between her fingers and giggled delightedly at the mere sight of a man. Almsbury, teasing Amber, said that at least there could be no doubt as to her mother’s identity.
The very day of Nan’s arrival Amber put off Emily’s unbecoming black dress and, after considerable deliberation, selected one of her own: a low-bosomed formal gown of copper-coloured satin with stiff-boned bodice and sweeping train. She painted her face, stuck on three patches, and for the first time in many months Nan dressed her hair again in long ringlets and a high twisted coil. Among her jewellery she found a pair of emerald ear-rings and an emerald bracelet.
“Lord!” she said, surveying herself in the mirror with pleased satisfaction. “I’d almost forgot what I look like!”
She was expecting Bruce back soon—he and Almsbury had gone out to hunt—and though she was eager to have him see her at her best again she was a little apprehensive too. What would he say about her putting off mourning so soon? A widow was expected to wear plain unadorned black with a long veil over her hair all the rest of her life—unless she married again.
At last she heard the door slam in the next room and his boots crossed the floor. He called her name and then almost immediately appeared in the doorway, pulling loose the cravat at his neck. She was watching for him with her eyes big and uncertain, and she broke into a delighted smile as he stopped abruptly and then gave a long low whistle. She spread her fan and turned slowly around before him.
“How do I look?”
“How do you look! Why, you vain little minx, you look like an angel—and you know it!”
She ran toward him, laughing. “Oh, do I, Bruce!” But suddenly her face sobered and she looked down at her fan, beginning to count the sticks. “D’you think I’m wicked to leave off mourning so soon? Oh, of course,” she added hastily, with a quick upward glance, “I’ll wear it when I get back to town. But out here in the country with no one to see me or know if I’m a widow or not—it doesn’t matter out here, does it?”
He bent and gave her a brief kiss, grinning, and though she searched his face carefully she could not be sure what he was thinking. “Of course it’s not wicked. Mourning, you know, is done with the heart—” Lightly he touched her left breast.
After an unusually hot and arid summer the weather changed swiftly at the end of October. Violent rainstorms came in rapid succession and by the middle of the month there were hard frosts. The two men went out to ride or hunt in spite of it, though usually the powder became wet and they seldom shot anything. Amber spent most mornings in the nursery. Other times Bruce and Almsbury played billiards while she watched, or the three of them played cards or amused themselves by making anagrams out of their own names or someone else’s—for the most part they turned out to be unflattering. Emily seldom joined in these pastimes for she was an old-fashioned housewife who preferred to oversee each smallest detail of cooking and cleaning, rather than leave it to a steward as many great ladies had begun to do. Amber did not see how she could tolerate spending all her hours in the nursery, the still-room, or the kitchen, but there was no doubt the three of them were gayer when Emily was not present.
Ordinarily Barberry Hill was overflowing with guests at that time of year for both the Earl and her Ladyship had vast numbers of relatives, but the plague was keeping everyone at home and only occasionally some neighbour came to call. More encouraging news, however, had begun to come from London. The number of deaths was decreasing, though it was still over a thousand a week. Many who had left town when fewer than a hundred died in one week were now going back. The streets were full of beggars covered with plague sores, but no more corpses were to be seen and the dead-carts came only at night. A feeling of optimism was beginning to prevail again for they thought that the worst was over.
Bruce was growing restless. He was worried about what had happened to his ships and the prizes he had brought; he wanted to go back to London and, as soon as possible, to sail again for America. Amber asked when he thought that he would leave.
“As soon as I can. Whenever it seems likely that men will be willing to sign on again.”
“I want to go back with you.”
“I don’t think you’d better, Amber. I’m going to Oxford first—the Court’s there now and I want to see the King about a grant of land. The weather’s terrible and I can’t take the time to travel by coach—and once I get to London I’ll be so busy I wouldn’t be able to see you. Stay here with Almsbury another month or two—the city isn’t safe yet.”
“I don’t care,” she insisted stubbornly, “whether it’s safe or not. If I can see you at all I’m going. And it won’t hurt me to ride horseback that far, I’ll warrant you.”
But one noon as she stood at her windows looking out over the grey-skied rolling hills that swept away south, watching a party of horsemen approach the house, a strange feeling of dread and suspicion began to take hold of her. Before it was possible actually to distinguish the individual horses or their riders she was sure that Bruce was not among them. Suddenly she turned, swooping up her skirts, and rushed out of the room, along the hallway and down the great staircase. She arrived at the bottom and confronted Almsbury just as he entered the hall.
“Where’s Bruce!”
Almsbury, who wore a long riding-cloak and high leather boots, his brown hair wet and the feathers on his hat soaking and draggled, looked at her uneasily. “He’s gone, Amber. Back to London.” He took off his hat and knocked it against his knee.
“Gone? Without me!” She stared at him, first in surprise and then with growing anger. “But I was going, too! I told him I was going!”
“He said that he told you he was going alone.”
“Blast him!” she muttered, and then all at once she turned and started off. “Well, he’s not! I’m going too!”
Almsbury shouted her name but she paid no attention and ran on, back up the stairs again. Half-way up she passed someone she had not seen before, a well-dressed elderly man, but though he turned and looked after her she ignored him and ran on. “Nan!” she cried violently, bursting into her rooms again. “Pack some clothes for me! I’m going to London!”
Nan stared at her and then looked toward the windows where the rain was furiously beating and splashing and the upper branches of an elm tree could be seen writhing with the wind. “To London, mam? In this weather?”
“Damn the weather! Pack my clothes I tell you! Anything, I don’t care! Throw it in!”
She was yanking loose the bows that fastened the front of her bodice and now she tore the gown down and stepped out of it, kicking it to one side as she went to the dressing-table and began to slam her bracelets onto its polished wood surface. Her face was glowering and her teeth clenched furiously.
Damn him! she thought. At least he could let me have that much! I’ll show him! I’ll show him!
Nan scurried about, pulling gowns and smocks and shoes off hooks and out of drawers. Both women were so occupied they did not see Almsbury open the door and come in until he spoke.