Forever Amber
Page 49
"You've got to marry him! There's nothing else you can do now! It's the only way you can keep the Dangerfields from being disgraced."
"I don't care! I don't care about them! I won't marry him! I'm going to run away from home and take lodgings somewhere and wait till Lord Carlton comes back. He'll marry me then, when he knows what happened."
Amber gave a short brutal laugh. "Oh, Jemima, you silly green foolish girl. Lord Carlton marry you! Are you cracked in the head? He wouldn't marry you if you had triplets. If he'd married every woman he's ever laid with I don't doubt he'd have as many wives as King Solomon. Besides, if you ran away from home you wouldn't even have a dowry to offer him! Marry Joseph Cuttle while you've still got time—it's the only thing you can do now."
For a long moment Jemima lay perfectly still and stared up at her.
"So at last you're going to get your way," she said softly. Her eyes glittered, but her next words merely formed on her mouth:
"Oh, how I despise you—"
Chapter Thirty
Jemima's wedding was a social event of considerable importance.
Between them the Dangerfields and the Cuttles had friends or relatives in almost every one of the great City families. Gifts for the bride and groom had been pouring into the house for weeks past, and had almost filled one large room set aside to receive them. The bride walked on a golden tapestry to the improvised altar which had been set up in the south drawing-room, while her aunts and female cousins sniffled and the mighty music of three great organs made the walls tremble. She wore her dark coppery hair flowing over her shoulders— symbol of virginity—and a garland of myrtle and olive and rosemary leaves; she was sober-faced and dry-eyed, which was unfortunate, for it was believed to be bad-luck if the bride did not weep. But she seemed preoccupied and almost unaware of what she was doing or saying, and when the ceremony was over she accepted the kisses of her eager happy groom and her friends and relatives with an air of absent-minded indifference.
The newly married couple opened the ball, and when the first dance was over they retired, as was customary, to the decorated bridal-chamber above. She began to cry when the women were undressing her, and everyone was pleased at this happy omen. When the two young people sat side by side in the great bed, Jemima's eyes now wide and troubled like those of a frightened animal which has been trapped, the spouted posset-pot was handed ceremoniously from one to another, all around the room.
There was no unseemly laughter, no bawdy jests or boisterous singing as was common at many weddings, but an atmosphere of quiet good-natured but serious responsibility. They went out then, leaving Jemima and her groom alone— and Amber heaved a grateful sigh of relief. There! she thought. It's done at last! And I'm safe.
But once she knew that she was secure, boredom began to settle on her like the gloomy fogs that hung over the river. She had bought too many gowns and too much jewellery to be satisfied by that any longer, particularly since she felt contemptuous of the opinion of those who saw them. Consequently she moped over her pregnancy, worried about the colour of her skin and the circles beneath her eyes, wept when her belly began to enlarge, and was sure that she was hideous and would always be so. For amusement she spent a great deal of time wishing for out-of-the-season foods—it was now winter—and since everyone knew that when a pregnant woman "longed" she must be satisfied or the child might be lost, it kept Samuel and all the household in a pother to supply her with the things she wanted. Usually by the time she got them the longing was gone, or another had taken its place.
She slept ten or eleven hours every night, no longer getting up at six with Samuel, but often drowsing till ten; and then she lay in bed another half-hour thinking discontentedly of the day before her. By the time she had dressed it was noon and dinnertime. If he stayed home after that she did too; otherwise she went to visit some of the dozens of Dangerfield relatives or the hundreds of Dangerfield friends, and sat talking talking talking of babies and servants, servants and babies.
"When do you reckon, Mrs. Dangerfield?" they asked her everywhere she went, and time after time. And then came the discussion of Cousin Janet and the frightful labour she had had—fifty-four hours of it—or of Aunt Ruth who had been brought to bed of triplets twice in succession. And all the while they sat and munched on rich cakes, thick pastries, cream and curds, plump good-natured happy satisfied women whom Amber thought the most absurd creatures in the world.
Weeks went by very quickly this way.
Ye gods! thought Amber dismally. I'll be twenty-one in March! I'll most likely be too old to enjoy it when I finally get that damned money.
Christmas was a welcome diversion to her. The house swarmed With children, more of them than ever: Deborah who lived in the country had come to spend the holidays, bringing with her a husband and six children. Alice and Anne, though they both lived in London, followed the Dangerfield tradition and came home with their families. William returned from abroad and George came down from Oxford. Only Jemima preferred to stay at her husband's home, but even she paid them a visit almost every day, with Joseph always beside her —full of pride for his pretty wife and so happy at the prospect of parenthood he must tell everyone he saw the wonderful news. And Jemima seemed, if not in love with Joseph, at least tolerant of his adoration—which she had not been before; pregnancy had given her a kind of serene contentment. Her rebellion against the manners and morals of her class was over, and she was beginning to accept and settle into her place in that life.
Laurel and cypress and red-berried holly decorated every room and filled them with a spicy winter fragrance. An enormous silver bowl of hot-spiced wine, garlanded with ivy and ribbons and floating roast apples, stood ever ready in the entrance hall. And there was food in all the glorious ancient tradition: plum-porridge and mince-meat pies, roast suckling pig, a boar's head with gilded tusks, fat geese and capons and pheasants roasted to a crusty golden brown. Every dinner was a feast, and whatever was left was distributed to the poor who crowded at the back gates in vast numbers, baskets over their arms, for the Dangerfield generosity was well-known.
Gambling for money was traditionally permitted in all but the strictest households at Christmas-time, and from early morning till late at night cards were shuffled and dice rolled and silver coins clinked merrily across the tables. The children played hot-cockles and blind-man's-buff and hunt-the-slipper, shouting and laughing and chasing each other from one room to another, from garret to basement. And for more than two weeks a stream of guests poured continuously through the house.
Amber gave Samuel a heart-shaped miniature of herself (fully clothed) set in a frame of pearls and rubies and diamonds. She gave gifts almost as expensive to every other member of the family, and her generosity to the servants convinced them that she was the best-natured woman in the world. She received as much as she gave, not because the family liked her any better than before, but to keep up appearances for their father and for outsiders. Amber knew this but she did not care, for nothing could have dislodged her now that he thought she carried his child. He gave her a beautiful little gilt coach, upholstered in padded scarlet velvet trimmed with swags of gold rope and numerous tassels, and six fine black horses to draw it. She was not, however, allowed to ride in it but must go everywhere in a sedan-chair—Samuel would take no chances with her health or the baby's.
Twelfth Night marked the end of the celebrations. It was late in the evening that Samuel suffered another severe stroke, his first since the previous July.
Dr. de Forest, who was sent for immediately, asked Amber in private if Samuel had obeyed his earlier advice and she reluctantly admitted that for some time past he had not. But she defended herself, insisting that she had tried to persuade him but that he had refused to listen and had said it was ridiculous to think a man of sixty-one too old for love, and swore he felt more vigorous than he had in years.
"I don't know what else I can do, Dr. de Forest," she finished, giving the responsibility back to him.
Amber turned about wearily and left the room. If she was ever to get rich Samuel must die, and yet she shrank from the thought of being his murderess, even indirectly. She had developed a genuine, if superficial, love for the handsome, kind and generous-spirited old man she had tricked into marriage.
In the anteroom to the bedchamber she came upon Lettice and Sam, and Lettice was in her brother's arms, crying mournfully. "Oh, Sam! If only it had happened any night but this one! Twelfth Night—that mean's he'll die before the year is out, I know it does!" Twelfth Night was the night of prophecy.
Sam patted her shoulders and talked to her quietly. "You mustn't think that, Lettice. It's only a foolish superstition. Don't you remember that last year Aunt Ellen had the ague on Twelfth Day? And she's been merry as a grig all year." He caught sight of Amber, pausing in the doorway, but Lettice did not.
"Oh, but it's different with Dad! It's that terrible woman! She's killing him!"
Sam tried to shush her beneath his breath, as Amber came on into the room. Lettice spun around, stared at her for a moment as though undecided whether to apologize or speak her mind. And then suddenly she cried out:
"Yes, you're the one I meant! It's all your fault! He's been worse since you came!"
"Hush, Lettice!" whispered Sam.
"I won't hush! He's my father and I love him and we're going to see him die before his time because this brazen creature makes him think he's five-and-twenty again!" Her eyes swept over Amber with loathing and contempt; Samuel's announcement of his wife's pregnancy had been a serious shock to her, as though it were the final proof of her father's infidelity to their dead mother. "What kind of a woman are you? Have you no heart in you at all? To hurry an old man into his grave so that you can inherit his money!"
"Lettice—" pleaded Sam.
Amber's own sense of guilt stopped her tongue. She had no stomach for a quarrel with his daughter when Samuel lay in the room beyond, perhaps dying. She answered with unwonted gentleness.
"That isn't true, Lettice. There's a great difference in our ages, I know. But I've tried to make him happy, and I think I have. He was sick before I came, you know that."
Lettice, avoiding her eyes, made a gesture with one hand. Nothing could ever make her like this woman whom she distrusted for a hundred reasons, but she could still try to show her at least a surface respect for her father's sake. "I'm sorry. I said too much. I'm half distracted with worry."
Amber walked by, toward the bedroom, and as she passed gave Lettice's hand a quick grasp with her own. "I am too, Lettice." Lettice looked at her swiftly, a questioning puzzled look, but she could not help herself; the woman's smallest gesture would always seem false-hearted to her.
Samuel refused to make his annual trip to Tunbridge Wells that January because his wife's advanced pregnancy would not allow her to accompany him. But he did rest a great deal. More and more he stayed in his own apartments with her, while the eldest sons took over the business. She read to him and sang songs and played her guitar, and with gaiety and affection tried to soothe her own conscience.
It was customary for men with financial responsibilities to check over and settle their accounts at the end of the year, but because of his stroke Samuel postponed doing so until early in February. And then he worked on them for several days. He had his wealth in goldsmiths' bills, stock in the East India Company—of which he was one of the directors—assignments upon rents, mortgages, shares in privateering fleets and other similar ventures, cargoes in Cadiz and Lisbon and Venice, jewels and gold-bullion and cash.
"Why don't you let Sam and Bob do that?" Amber asked him one day, as she sat on the floor playing a game of cat's-cradle with Tansy.
Samuel was at his writing-table, dressed in an East Indian robe which Bruce had given him, and there was a many-branched candlestick lighted above his head, for though midday it was dark as twilight. "I want to be sure myself that my affairs are in order—then if anything should happen to me—"
"You mustn't talk like that, Samuel." Amber got to her feet, dropping the cradle, and with a pat on the head for Tansy, she walked over to where he sat. "You're the picture of good health." She gave him a light kiss and bent over, one arm about his shoulders. "Heavens! What's all that? I couldn't puzzle it out to save my bacon. My senses seem to run a-wool-gathering at the sight of a number!" She could, in fact, not do much more than read them.
"I'm arranging everything so that you won't need to worry about it. If the baby's a boy I'm going to leave him ten thousand pound to start in a business for himself—I think that's better than for him to try to go in with his half-brothers—and if it's a girl I'll leave her five thousand for a marriage portion. How do you want your share? In money or property?"
"Oh, Samuel, I don't know! Let's not even think about it!"
He smiled at her fondly. "Nonsense, my dear. Of course we shall think about it. A man with any money at all must have a will, no matter what his age. Tell me—which would you prefer?"
"Well—then I suppose it would be best for me to have it in gold—so I won't get cheated by some sharp rook."
"I haven't that much cash on hand, but in a few week's time I think it can be arranged. I'll put it with Shadrac New-bold."
He died very quietly one evening early in April, just after he had gone upstairs to rest from a somewhat strenuous day.
In a great black mourning-bed, Samuel Dangerfield's body lay at home in state. Two thousand doles of three farthings each were distributed to the poor, with biscuits and burnt ale. His young widow—much pitied because it was so near the time of her confinement—received visitors in her own room; she was pale and wore the plainest black gown, with a heavy black veil trailing from her head almost to the floor. Every chair, every table and mirror and picture in the entire apartment had been shrouded in black crape, every window was shut and covered, and only a few dim candles burned— Death was in the house.
The guests were served cold meats, biscuits and wine, and at last the funeral procession set out. The night was dark and cold and windy and the torches streamed out like banners. They moved very slowly, with a solemn stumping tread. A man ringing a bell led them through the streets and he was followed by the hearse, drawn by six black horses with black plumes on their heads. Men in black mounted on black horses rode beside it, and there followed a train of almost thirty closed black coaches carrying all members of the immediate family. After that there came on foot and in their official livery the members of the guilds to which he had belonged and other mourners in a straggling line almost two miles long.
Amber could not go to sleep that night in her black room alone but insisted that Nan sleep with her and that a torchere be left burning beside the bed. She was not as glad to be a rich woman as she had expected she would be, and she was not as sorrowful at Samuel's death as she thought she should be. She was merely apathetic. Her sole wish now was that her pains would begin so that she could bear this child and be freed of the burden which grew more intolerable with each hour.
Chapter Thirty-one
The anteroom was crowded. Young men stood about in groups of two and three and four, leaning on the window-sills to look down into the courtyard where a violent mid-March wind racked the trees, bending them almost double. They wore feather-loaded hats and thigh-length cloaks, with their swords tilting out at an angle in back; lace ruffles fell over their fingers and flared out from their knees and clusters of ribbon loops hung at their shoulders and elbows and hips. Several of them were yawning and sleepy-eyed.
"Oh, my God," groaned one, with a weary sigh. "To bed at three and up at six! If only Old Rowley would find the woman could keep him abed in the mornings—"
"Never mind. When we're at sea we can sleep as long as we like. Have you got your commission yet? I'm all but promised a captaincy."
The other laughed. "If you're a captain I should be rear-admiral. At least I know por
t from starboard."
"Do you? Which is which?"
"Port's right, and starboard's left."
"You're wrong. It's the other way around."
"Well—it won't make much difference, this way or that. There never was a man so plagued by sea-sickness as I. If I so much as take a pair of oars from Charing Cross to the Privy Stairs I'm sure to puke twice on the way."
"I'm a fresh-water sailor myself. But for all of that I'm mighty damned glad the war's begun. A man can live just so long on actresses and orange-girls, and then the diet begins to pall. Curse my tripes, but I'll welcome the change—salt air and waves and fast gun-fire. By God, there's the life for a man! Besides, my last whore begins to grow troublesome."
"That reminds me—I forgot to take my turpentine pills this morning." He brought a delicate gem-studded box out of one pocket and snapped it open, extending it first to his friend who declined the offer. Then he tossed two of the large boluses into his mouth and gave a hard swallow to get them down, shaking his head mournfully. "I'm damnably peppered-off, Jack."
At that moment there was a stir in the room. The door was flung open and Chancellor Clarendon entered. Frowning and preoccupied as usual, his right foot wrapped in a thick bandage to ease his gout, he spoke to no one, but walked straight across and through the other door which led into his Majesty's bedchamber.
Eyebrows went up, mouths twisted, and sly secret smiles were exchanged as the old man passed.
Clarendon was rapidly becoming the most hated man in England—not only at Court but everywhere. He had been in power too long and the people blamed him for whatever went amiss, no matter how little he might have had to do with it. He would accept no advice, allow no opposition; whatever he did was right. Even those faults might have been overlooked but that he had others which were unforgivable. He was inflexibly honest and would neither take nor give bribes, and not even his friends profited by his favour. Though he had lived most of his life at courts he was contemptuous of courtiers and scorned to become one.