"Of course he wouldn't!" agreed Amber, very positively.
"I don't know what's to be done—"
"I do, Samuel! You must make her marry Joseph Cuttle— right now! Before something much worse happens!"
Chapter Twenty-nine
That was the end of Jemima's friendship with her stepmother. For by an unerring feminine instinct she knew immediately who was responsible for her father's sudden determination to marry her to Joseph Cuttle without more delay. It was the one thing Amber had done of which the family approved, for they had been worried too about Jemima's infatuation for a Cavalier—though they considered that it was Madame's fault Jemima had ever fallen in love with him. They did not believe it would have occurred to Jemima to admire such a man, but for the bad example of false values Amber had set. But Bruce seemed somewhat shocked when Amber told him the contract had been signed and the marriage date set for August 30th—forty days from the time of betrothal.
"Good Lord!" he said. "That awkward spindle-shanked boy! Why should a pretty little thing like Jemima have to marry him?"
"What difference does it mate to you who she marries!"
"None at all. But don't you think you're meddling rather impertinently in the affairs of the Dangerfield family?"
"I am not! Samuel was going to make her marry him anyway. I just got the matter settled—for her own good."
"Well, if you think I intend seducing her, I don't. I took her driving because she asked me to and it would have been an affront to her father if I'd refused." He gave her a long narrow look. "I wonder if you have any idea what a very fine old gentleman Samuel Dangerfield is. Tell me—how the devil did you manage to marry him? The Dangerfields aren't people who would welcome an actress to the hearth-side."
She laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know!" But she never told him.
It was not long before Amber refused altogether to heed Brace's admonitions—she went to Almsbury House three or four mornings in every week. Samuel left for his office at about seven and returned between eleven and noon; she was there when he left and there when he got back. But even if she had not been it would have occasioned no comment. He trusted her implicitly and when he asked her where she had been it was never from motives of suspicion, but only to make conversation or because he was interested in the little things which occupied her day. Whatever off-hand tale she told him, he believed.
And Jemima, meanwhile, turned sulky and bad-tempered, refused to take an interest in the elaborate preparations for her wedding. Dressmakers and mercers filled her rooms at all hours; she was to be married in cloth-of-gold and her wedding-ring was studded with thirty diamonds. The great ballroom in the south wing of the house where the wedding-feast and masque were to take place would be transformed into a blooming, green-leafed forest, with real grass on the floor. There would be five hundred guests for the ceremony and almost a thousand for the festivities afterward. Fifty of the finest musicians in London were being hired to play for the ball and a noted French chef was coming from Paris to oversee the preparation of the food. Samuel was eager to please his daughter and her persistent sullenness troubled him.
Amber magnanimously took Jemima's part. "There's nothing wrong with her, Samuel, but what's wrong with all girls old enough to be married who aren't. She's got the greensickness, that's all. Wait till after the wedding, she'll be herself again then, I warrant you."
Samuel shook his head. "By heaven, I hope so! I hate to see her unhappy. Sometimes I wonder if we're not making a mistake to insist that she marry Joseph. After all, there are suitable matches enough for her in London if she—"
"Nonsense, Samuel! Who ever heard of a girl choosing her own husband! She's too young to know what she wants. And Joseph is a fine young man; he'll make her mighty happy." That settled it. And Amber thought that she had managed everything with great cleverness—Jemima was no source of worry to her now. Silly girl! she thought scornfully. She should have known better than to cross swords with me!
Scarcely six weeks had gone by since Bruce's arrival in London when she told him that she was sure she was pregnant, and explained why she believed the child must be his. "I hope it'll be a girl," she said. "Bruce is so handsome—I know she'd be a beauty. What do you think we should name her?"
"I think that's up to Samuel, don't you?"
"Pish—why should it be? Anyway, he'll ask me. So you tell me what name you'd like—please, Bruce, I want to know."
He seemed to give it a few moments' serious consideration— but the smile that lurked about his mouth showed what he was thinking. "Susanna's a pretty name," he said at last.
"You don't know anyone named Susanna, do you?"
"No. You asked me for a name that I liked, and I told you one. I had no ulterior motives."
"But you've named your share of bastards, I doubt not," she said. "What about that wench—Leah, or what d'ye call her? Almsbury said you'd had two brats by her."
By now Bruce had been back long enough and she had seen him so often that the jealousies and worries that beset her when he was away had begun to encroach upon the pleasure she found in being with him. She had begun to feel more discontented over what she was missing than grateful for what she had.
His voice answered her quietly. "Leah died a year ago, in childbirth."
She looked up at him swiftly, saw that he was serious and a little angry. "Oh, I'm sorry," she lied. But she turned to another subject. "I wonder where you'll be when Susanna's born?"
"Somewhere giving the Dutch hell, I hope. We'll declare war on them as soon as Parliament votes the money for it. While we're waiting I'll try what I can do to keep the peace the way his Majesty wants it kept." England and Holland had been at war everywhere but in the home seas for almost a year, and during the past two months the fight had blazed into the open; it needed only to be declared, but Charles had to wait on further preparation and Parliamentary grants.
They were lying on the bed, half-dressed. Bruce had his periwig off and his own hair had been cut short so that now it was no more than two or three inches long, and combed back from his forehead in a wave. Amber rolled over onto her stomach and reached for a bunch of purple Lisbon grapes in a bowl on the table.
"Heigh ho! I suppose it's a dull day for you when there isn't a town to burn or a dozen Dutchmen to kill!"
He laughed, pulled a small cluster of grapes from the bunch she held, and began to toss them into his mouth. "Your portrait's somewhat bloodthirsty."
She gave a sigh. "Oh, Bruce! If only you'd listen to me!" And then all at once she bounced up and knelt facing him, determined that he should listen to her. Somehow he had always managed to stop her before—but not this time. This time he was going to hear her out. "Go off to the wars if you must, Bruce! But when it's over sell your ships and stay here in London. With your hundred thousand and my sixty-six we'd be so rich we could buy the Royal Exchange for a summer pavilion. We could have the biggest finest house in London—and everyone who was anybody at all would come to our balls and suppers. We'd have a dozen coaches and a thousand servants and a yacht to sail to France in if we took the notion. We'd go to Court and you'd be a great man—Chancellor, or whatever you wanted, and I'd be a Lady of the Bedchamber. There wouldn't be anyone in England finer than us! Oh, Bruce, darling—don't you see? We'd be the happiest people in the world!"
She was so passionately convinced herself that she was positive she could convince him; and his answer was a painful disappointment.
"It would be fine," he said. "For a woman."
"Oh!" she cried furiously. "You men! What do you want then!"
"I'll tell you, Amber." He sat up and looked at her. "I want something more than spending the next twenty-five years standing on a ladder with one man's heels on my fingers and mine on the man's beneath. I want to do something besides plot and scheme and intrigue with knaves and fools to get a reputation with men I despise. I want a little more than going from the theatre to a cock-fight to Hyde Park to Pall Mall and back over the s
ame round the next day. Playing cards and poaching after anything that goes by in petticoats and a mask and serving my turn as the King's pimp—" He made a gesture of disgust. "And finally dying of women and drink."
"I suppose you think living in America will keep you from dying of women and drink!"
"Maybe not. But one thing I know—When I die it won't be from boredom."
"Oh, won't it! I don't doubt it's mighty exciting over there with blackamoors and pirates and Newgate-birds and every other kind of ragamuffin!"
"It's more civilized than you imagine—there are also a great many men of good family who left England during the Commonwealth, remember. And who are still leaving—for the same reason I am. It isn't that I'm going there because I think the men and women in America are better or different from what they are in England; they're the same. It's because America is a country that's still young and full of promise, the way England hasn't been for a thousand years. It's a country that's waiting to be made by the men who'll dare to make it—and I intend getting there while I can help make it my way. In the Civil Wars my father lost everything that had belonged to our family for seven centuries. I want my children to have something they can't lose, ever."
"Well, then, why trouble yourself to fight for England— since you love her so little!"
"Amber, Amber," he said softly. "My dear, someday I hope you'll know a great many things you don't know now."
"And someday I hope you'll sink in your damned ocean!"
"No doubt I'm too great a villain to drown."
She jumped off the bed in a fury, but suddenly she stopped, turned and looked at him as he lay leaning on his elbow and watching her. And then she came back and sat down again, covering his hand with both of hers.
"Oh, Bruce, you know I don't mean that! But I love you so—I'd die for you—and you don't seem to need me at all, the way I need you! I'm nothing but your whore—I want to be your wife, really your wife! I want to go where you go, and share your troubles and plan with you for what you want, and bear your children—I want to be a part of you! Oh, please, darling! Take me to America with you! I don't care what it's like, I swear I don't! I'll live in anything! I'll do anything! I'll help you cut down trees and plant tobacco and cook your meals—Oh, Bruce! I'll do anything, if only you'll take me with you!"
For a moment he continued to stare at her, his eyes glittering, but just when she thought she had convinced him he shook his head and got up. "It would never work out that way, Amber. It's not your kind of life and in a few weeks or months you'd get tired of it, and then you'd hate me for bringing you."
She ran after him, throwing herself before him, grabbing frantically at the happiness that seemed just to elude her fingers but which she was sure she could catch. "No, I wouldn't, Bruce! I swear it! I promise you! I'd love anything if you were there!"
"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 Braces 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, Brace 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 just 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 straggles 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 Danger-field 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 or 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.
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