She flung her hat aside and loosened the laces of her corselet so that she would be more comfortable, and they sat down to eat. All her resentment had gone. They talked and laughed, enjoying the good food, absorbed in each other, both of them happy and content.
They had come at only a few minutes past two and it had seemed then that there was a long afternoon before them. But the sun had moved from where it had been falling across their dining-table, around to the bedroom, onto the recessed seat below the square-paned windows, and finally out of the room altogether. Inside it was already cool shadowy dusk, though not dark enough yet to light the candles. Amber got up from where she had been lying on the bed with a pile of nutshells between her and Bruce, and went to look out the window.
She was only partly dressed, bare-footed and wearing her smock. Bruce, in his plain-cut breeches and wide-sleeved white shirt lay stretched out and resting on one elbow, cracking a nutshell in his right hand, watching her.
She leaned out a little, looking toward the busy barge-laden river where the sun was going down, turning the water to red brass. Below in the shadows of the courtyard two men stood talking, turning their heads as a girl walked by with a slopping pail of water in each hand, her hair bright as flames where a last shaft from the sun struck it. There was a languor and quietness in the air as the long day drew to a close—and the movements of all creatures were slower and a little weary. Amber’s throat swelled and began to ache; her eyes were wet with tears as she turned to look across the room at him.
“Oh, Bruce, it’s going to be a glorious night. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to take a barge and sail up the Thames to some little inn and ride back in the morning—”
“It would,” he agreed.
“Then let’s!”
“You know we can’t.”
“Why not!” Her voice and eyes challenged him. But he merely looked at her, as though the question were superfluous. Both of them were silent for a few moments. “You don’t dare!” she said flatly at last.
Now it came welling back into her again, all the anger and resentment, the hurt pride and baffled affection of these past months. She came to sit beside him again on the rumpled bed, determined to have it out with him now.
“Oh, Bruce, why can’t we go? You can think of something to tell her. She’ll believe anything you say. Please! You’ll be gone so soon!”
“I can’t do it, Amber, and you damn well know it. Anyway, I think it’s time to leave.” He sat up.
“Of course!” she cried furiously. “The minute I mention something you don’t like to hear then it’s time to leave!” Her mouth twisted a little and there was bitter mockery in her tones. “Well, this is one time you’re going to hear me out! How happy d’ye think I’ve been these five months past—sneaking about to see you, scarcely daring to give you a civil word in company—all for fear she might notice and be hurt! Oh, my! Poor Corinna! But what about me!” Her voice was harsh and angry and at the last she hit herself a smack on the chest. “Don’t I count for something too!”
Bruce gave her a bored frown and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Amber, but this was your idea, remember.”
She sprang up to face him. “You and your blasted secrecy! Why, there’s not another man in London coddles his wife the way you do her! It’s ridiculous!”
He reached for his vest, slipped it on and began to button it. “You’d better get into your clothes.” His voice spoke shortly and the line of his jaw was hard; the expression on his face roused her to greater fury.
“Listen to me, Bruce Carlton! You may think I should be pleased you’ll so much as do me the favour of lying with me! Well, maybe I was once—but I’m not just a simple country wench any longer, d’ye hear? I’m the Duchess of Ravenspur—I’m somebody now, and I won’t be driven around in hackneys or met at lodging-houses any longer! And I mean it! D’ye understand me?”
He took up his cravat and turned to the mirror to knot it. “Pretty well, I think. Are you coming with me?”
“No, I’m not! Why should I!” She stood with her feet spread and hands planted on her hips, watching him with her eyes defiantly ablaze.
The cravat tied, he put on his periwig, picked up his hat and walked through the bedroom toward the outside door, while Amber stared after him with growing fear and misgiving. Now what was he going to do? Suddenly she ran after him and just as she got to him he reached the door, took hold of the knob and turned to look down at her. For a moment they looked at each other in silence.
“Goodbye, my dear.”
Her eyes shifted warily over his face. “When will I see you again?” She asked the question softly and her voice was apprehensive.
“At Whitehall, I suppose.”
“Here, I mean.”
“Not at all. You don’t like meeting in secret—and I won’t do it any other way. That would seem to settle the matter.”
She stood and stared at him in horrified unbelief, and then all at once her fury burst. “Damn you!” she yelled. “I can be independent too! Get out of here, then—and I hope I never see you again! Get out! Get out!” Her voice rose hysterically and she lifted her fists to strike at him.
Swiftly he opened the door and went out, slamming it behind him. Amber flung herself against the panels and burst into wild helpless angry tears. She could hear his feet going down the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away, and then—when she quit sobbing for a moment and listened—she could hear nothing at all. Only the faint sound of a fiddle playing somewhere in the building. Whirling around she ran to the window and leaned out. It was almost dark but someone was just coming into the courtyard carrying a lighted link and she saw him down there, rapidly crossing the square.
“Bruce!”
She was frantic now, and thoroughly scared.
But she was three stories above the ground and perhaps he did not hear her; in another moment he had disappeared into the street.
CHAPTER SIXTY–SIX
SHE DID NOT see him at all for six days. At first she thought that she could make him come to her, but he did not. She wrote to let him know that she was ready to accept an apology. He replied that he had no wish to apologize but was satisfied to leave it as it was. That alarmed her, but still she refused to believe that all those tempestuous years, the undeniably powerful feeling they had for each other, could end now—tamely, uselessly, disappointingly—over a petty quarrel that could so easily have been avoided.
She looked for him everywhere she went.
Each time she entered a crowded room her eyes swept over it, searching for him. When she walked through the Privy Garden or along the galleries she expected and hoped to see him there, perhaps only a few feet ahead of her. At the theatre and driving through the streets she kept an eager alert watch for him. He filled her mind and emotions until she was conscious of nothing else. A dozen different times she thought that she saw him. But it was always someone else, someone who did not really look like him at all.
Not quite a week after their quarrel she went to a raffle at the India House in Clement’s Lane, Portugal Street, which opened just off the Strand and had several little shops patronized by men and women of fashion. On that day every surrounding street was blocked by the great gilt coaches of the nobility and crowds of their waiting, gossiping footmen.