“Mother!” Susanna was perpetually interrupting their game, for though she was too young to play she intended to have a part in it anyway.
“Yes, darling?”
“Wiggle-waggle! ”
“Let me finish this game, Susanna. I just played wiggle-waggle.”
Susanna pouted and made a face at her brother, but Amber saw it and threw one arm about her, hugging her close. “Here, what are you doing, you little witch?”
“Witch? What’s a witch?”
“A witch,” said her brother, somewhat bored, “is a nuisance.”
Amber looked up at a footman who had just entered the room and come to stand beside them. “Yes?”
“You’re wanted, madame.”
“Who is it? Anyone of importance?”
“Your husband, I believe, madame—and his mother.”
“Oh, Lord! Well—thank you. Tell ’em I’ll be in presently.” The man left and Amber got to her feet, though both children immediately began to protest. “I’m sorry, darlings, I’ll come back if I can.”
Bruce bowed to her. “Good-day, Mother. Thank you for coming to see us.”
Amber bent and kissed him and then she picked up Susanna, who kissed her with smacking abandon on the cheeks and mouth. “Here, Susanna!” protested Amber. “You’ll take all my powder off, you little minx.” She kissed her and then put her down, waved them both goodbye and left the room—but her smile faded the instant she closed the door.
For a moment she stood in the hall, staring. Now why the devil did that old woman have to come here? she thought irritably. Pregnancy always made her feel that everything unpleasant which happened was done for the sole purpose of annoying her. And then with a sigh and a little shrug she started back toward her own rooms at the opposite end of the gallery.
Gerald Stanhope and his mother sat on a couch before the fireplace in Amber’s drawing-room. The Dowager Baroness had her back to the door and she was chattering away at Gerald whose face looked worried and anxious. The starkly black-painted eyebrows he affected because they were supposed to be all the mode contrasted shockingly with his white skin and ash-blonde wig. But the moment Amber entered the room the Baroness ceased talking and, after giving herself a moment or two to compose her features, she turned a fixed sweet smile in the direction of her daughter-in-law. Her eyes did not conceal the sudden surprise and displeasure she felt at what she saw.
Amber came toward them walking lazily, her dressing-gown flowing back from the lacy ruffled petticoat she wore beneath it. Gerald, looking as if he expected the roof to blow off the house at any moment, stood up to present his wife to his mother. The two women embraced, carefully, as though each were afraid of soiling her hands and garments on the other. And then each turned her cheek—it was an affectation of great ladies to present their cheeks rather than their lips for a salute. As they stepped back their eyes ran over each other appraisingly, and neither one of them missed a detail. Gerald stood and bobbled his Adam’s apple and took out a comb to occupy his hands.
Lucilla, Lady Stanhope, was just over forty. She had a plump petulant face that made Amber think of one of the King’s spaniels, with a mouth turned down at the corners and shaky round cheeks. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now caramel-coloured. But her skin was still pink and fresh and she had prominent thrusting breasts. Her clothes were even more out of style than those of most country ladies, and her jewels were insignificant.
“Oh, pray take no notice of my clothes,” said her Ladyship instantly. “They’re nothing but old frippery I was about to give my maid, but the roads were so bad I didn’t dare wear anything else! Heavens, as it was, one cart overturned and flung three of my trunks into the mud!”
“Oh, barbarous!” agreed Amber sympathetically. “Your Ladyship must be jolted to a jelly. Can’t I send for some refreshment?”
“Why, yes, madame. I do believe I’d like a dish of tea.”
She had never drunk any tea, for it was far too expensive, but now she was determined to show everyone that for all she had been twenty years in the country she had never been out of touch with the Town.
“I’ll send for some. Arnold! Drat that man! Where is he? Always kissing the maids when you want him.” Amber walked toward the door of the next room. “Arnold!”
The Baroness watched her, envy and disapproval in her eyes.
She had never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that the days of her own youth and beauty had occurred so unpropitiously. First there had been the Civil War and her husband gone most of the time, then finally killed, leaving her condemned to live out her best years in the country, impoverished by taxes and forced to do part of her own housework like any farmer’s wife. The years had slipped treacherously by. She had not realized until today how many of them were gone.
She had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must have a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop in London on his return to see if he might catch the King’s eye and perhaps bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl of Danforth and bridegroom.
Overjoyed, she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for her clothes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a gentleman to her taste.
The letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.
“My dear Lucilla,” it read. “Pray accept of the good thoughts and best wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.
“We were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald’s marriage, happening so suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you’ve heard that she’s thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays, but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.
“I hope to have the pleasure of your company soon. No doubt you will be coming to London as soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.
“Your very humble and obedient servant, madame,
”I am,