Slowly Corinna's hand reached out and took it. The heavy sheet crackled as she unfolded it. Reluctantly she dragged her eyes from Barbara's coolly speculative face and forced them down to the paper where eight lines of verse were written in a cramped angular hand. Somehow the weeks of misery and suspicion she had endured had cushioned her mind against further shock, for though she read the coarse brutal little poem it meant no more to her than so many separate words.
Then, as graciously as if Barbara had brought her a little gift, perhaps a box of sweetmeats or a pair of gloves, she said, "Thank you, madame. I appreciate your concern for me."
Barbara seemed surprised at this mild reaction, and disappointed too, but she got to her feet and Corinna walked to the door with her. In the anteroom she stopped. For a moment the two women were silent, facing each other, and then Barbara said: "I remember when I was your age—twenty, aren't you?—I thought that all the world lay before me and that I could have whatever I wanted of it." She smiled, a strangely reflective cynical smile. "Well—I have." Then, almost abruptly, she added, "Take my advice and get your husband away from here before it's too late," and turning swiftly she walked on, down the corridor, and disappeared.
Corinna watched her go, frowning a little. Poor lady, she thought. How unhappy she is. Softly she closed the door.
Bruce did not return home that night until after one o'clock. She had sent word to him at Whitehall that she was not well enough to come to Court, but had asked him not to change his own plans. She had hoped, passionately, that he would—but he did not. She found it impossible to sleep and when she heard him come in she was sitting up in bed, propped against pillows and pretending to read a recent play of John Dryden's.
He did not come into the bedroom but, as always, went into the nursery first to see the children for a moment. Corinna sat listening to the sound of his steps moving lightly over the floor, the soft closing of the door behind him—and knew all at once that little Bruce was the Duchess's son. She wondered why she had not realized it long ago. That was why he had told her almost nothing at all of the woman who supposedly had been the first Lady Carlton. That was why the little boy had been so eager to return and had coaxed his father to take him back to England. That was why they seemed to know each other so well—why she had sensed a closeness between them which could have sprung from no casual brief love-affair.
She was sitting there, almost numb with shock, when he came into the room. He raised his brows as if in surprise at finding her awake, but smiled and crossed over to kiss her. As he bent Corinna picked up Rochester's lampoon and handed it to him. He paused, and his eyes narrowed quickly. Then he took it from her, straightened without kissing her and glanced over it so swiftly it was obvious he had already seen it, and tossed it onto the table beside the bed.
For a long moment they were silent, looking at each other. At last he said, "I'm sorry you found out this way, Corinna. I should have told you long ago."
He was not flippant or gay about it as she had thought he might be, but serious and troubled. But he showed no shame or embarrassment, not even any regret except for the pain he had caused her. For several moments she sat watching him, the opened book still in her lap, one side of her face lighted by the candles on a nearby table.
"She's Brace's mother, isn't she?" she said at last.
"Yes. I should never have made up that clumsy lie—but I wanted you to love him and I was afraid that if you knew the truth you wouldn't. And now—how will you feel about him now?"
Corinna smiled faintly. "I'll love him just as much as I ever did. I'll love you both as much as I ever did." Her voice was soft, gentle, feminine as a painted fan or the fragrance of lilacs.
He sat down on the bed facing her. "How long have you known about this?"
"I'm not sure. It seems like forever, now. At first I tried to pretend that it was only a flirtation and that I was being foolishly jealous. But the other women dropped hints and I watched you together and once I saw you at the New Exchange— Oh, what's the use going over it again? I've known about it for weeks."
For a time he was silent, sitting staring with a scowl down at his feet, shoulders hunched over, elbows resting on his spread legs. "I hope you'll believe me, Corinna—I didn't bring you to London for anything like this. I swear I didn't expect it to happen."
"You didn't think she'd be here?"
"I knew she would. But I hadn't seen her for two years. I'd forgotten—well, I'd forgotten a lot of things."
"Then you saw her when you were here last—after we were married?"
"Yes. She was staying here at Almsbury House."
"How long have you known her?"
"Almost ten years."
"Almost ten years. Why, I'm practically a stranger to you." He smiled, looking at her briefly, and then turned away again. "Do you love her, Bruce—" she asked him at last. "Very much?" She held her breath as she waited for him to answer.
"Love her?" He frowned, as though puzzled himself. "If you mean do I wish I'd married her, I don't. But in another sense— Well, yes, I suppose I do. It's something I can't explain—something that's been there between us since the first day I saw her. She's—well, to be perfectly honest with you, she's a woman any man would like to have for a mistress— but not for a wife."
"But how do you feel now—now that you've seen her again and can't give her up? Perhaps you're sorry that you married me."
Bruce looked at her swiftly, and then all at once his arms went about her, his mouth pressed against her forehead. "Oh, my God, Corinna! Is that what you've been thinking? Of course I'm not sorry! You're the only woman I ever wanted to marry—believe me, darling. I never wanted to hurt you. I love you, Corinna—I love you more than anything on earth."
Corinna nudged her head against him, and once more she felt happy and secure. All the doubts and fears of the past weeks were gone. He loves me, he doesn't want to leave me. I'm not going to lose him after all. Nothing else mattered.
Her life was so completely and wholly absorbed in him that she would have taken whatever he was willing to give her, left over from one love-affair or ten. And at least she was his wife. That was something the Duchess of Ravenspur could never have—she could never even acknowledge the son she had borne him.
At last Corinna said softly, her head resting just beneath his chin: "You were right, Bruce, when you said that I belonged to a different world from this one. I don't feel that I'm part of it at all—no Court lady, I suppose, would dare admit she cared if her husband was in love with someone else. But I care and I'm not ashamed of it." She tipped back her head and looked up at him. "Oh, darling—I do care!"
His green eyes watched her tenderly and at last he gave a faint rueful smile, his mouth touching the crown of her head just where the glossy hair parted. "It won't do any good for me to tell you I'm sorry I've hurt you. I am. But if you read any more lampoons or hear any more gossip— Believe me, Corinna, it's a lie."
Chapter Sixty-four
In Hyde Park there was a pretty half-timbered cottage set beside a tiny lake, where all the fashionable world liked to stop for a syllabub or, if the weather was cold, a mug of lambs'-wool or hot mulled wine. It was almost Christmas now and too late in the year to ride, but there were several crested gilt coaches waiting in the cold grey-and-scarlet sunset outside the Lodge. The drivers and footmen smoked their pipes, sometimes stamped their feet to keep warm as they stood about in groups, laughing and talking together—exchanging the newest back-stairs gossip on the lords and ladies who had gone inside.
A sea-coal fire was burning high in the oak-panelled great room. There was a cluster of periwigged and beribboned young fops about the long bar, drinking their ale or brandy, throwing dice and matching coins. Several ladies were seated at tables with their gallants. Waiters with balanced trays moved about among them and three or four fiddles were playing.
Amber—wearing an ermine-lined hooded cloak of scarlet velvet and holding a syllabub glass in one hand and he
r muff of dripping ermine tails in the other—stood near the fireplace talking to Colonel Hamilton, the Earl of Arran and George Etherege.
She chattered fluently and there was an ever-shifting, vivacious play of expression over her face. She seemed to be engrossed in the three of them. But all the while her eyes watched the door—it never opened that she did not know who came in or went out. And then, at last, the languid golden Mrs. Middleton sauntered in with Lord Almsbury at her elbow. Amber did not hesitate an instant. Excusing herself from the three men she wove her way across the room to where the newcomers were standing, Jane still pausing just within the doorway to give the crowd time to discover her.
Amber gave Middleton only a vague nod as she came up. "Almsbury, I've got to talk to you! I've been looking for you everywhere!"
The Earl bowed to Mrs. Middleton. "Will you excuse me for a moment, madame?"
Jane looked bored. "Oh, lord, sir, you must excuse me! There's Colonel Hamilton beckoning me now—I just recalled he asked me this morning to meet him here and I'd all but forgot, let me die." With an airy wave of one small gloved hand she drifted off, not even glancing at Amber who seemed unaware she had ever been there.
"Come over here—I don't want a dozen big ears listening to us." They crossed the room to a quiet little corner near the windows. "Tell me what's happened!" she cried without an instant's hesitation. "I haven't seen him alone for fourteen days! I write to him and he doesn't answer! I talk to him in the Drawing-Room and he looks at me as if I'm a stranger! I ask him to visit me and he doesn't come! Tell me what's happened, Almsbury! I'm going stark staring mad!"
Almsbury gave a sigh. "My Lady Castlemaine showed his wife the satire that Rochester wrote about you—"
"Oh, I know that!" cried Amber scornfully, cutting him off. "But what's happened to make him treat me like this!"
"That's what's happened."
She stared at him. "I don't believe you." Both of them were silent, looking at each other, for a long moment and then Amber said: "But that can't be the only reason. Just because his wife found out. It must be more than that."
"It isn't."
"Do you mean to tell me, John Randolph, that he's been using me like this because his wife told him to!"
"She didn't tell him to. He decided it for himself. I may as well tell you the truth, Amber—he doesn't intend to see you alone any more."
"Did he tell you that?" Her voice spoke to him, just above a whisper.
"Yes. And he meant it."
Amber stood helplessly. She put her drink down on the broad sill of the casemented window and stood staring out at the bare-branched trees. Then she looked up at him again. "Do you know where he is now?"
"No."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're lying. You do know! And
you've got to tell me! Oh, Almsbury—please tell me! You know how much I love him! If only I can see him again and talk to him I can make him see how foolish this is! Please, Almsbury—please, please! He's going away soon and then I might never see him again! I've got to see him while he's here!"
For a long moment he hesitated, looking at her shrewdly, and then finally he gave a jerk of his head. "Come along."
As they passed Jane Middleton he stopped to speak to her but she tossed her curls and turned him a haughty shoulder. Almsbury shrugged.
The afternoon was cold and the mud hard and slippery with a thin layer of ice. Together they got into Amber's enormous crested gilt coach which was drawn by eight tawny horses, their manes and streaming tails braided with gold and green ribbons. The coachman and eight running footmen wore her emerald-velvet livery and there was another dressed all in white and carrying a white wand with an orange fastened to one end for his refreshment, who ran ahead to proclaim her coming. Some of the footmen hung onto the sides, while others jogged along in back or went ahead to order the rabble out of the way. Inside, the coach was upholstered with emerald velvet, deep-tufted on seat and sides and roof, festooned with gold swags and tassels.
Almsbury gave the coachman his directions and then climbed in beside Amber. "He's at his stationer's in Ave Maria Lane, I think, buying some books." He looked around him, whistling softly. "Jesus Christ! When did you get this?"
"Last year. You've seen it before."
She answered him abruptly and without paying much attention for she was absorbed in her own thoughts, trying to plan what she would say to Bruce, how she would convince him that he was wrong. It was several minutes before Almsbury spoke again.
Then he said: "You've never been sorry, have you?"
"Sorry for what?"
"Sorry that you left the country and came to London."
"Why should I be sorry? Look where I am!"
"And look how you got here. 'All rising to great places is by a winding stair.' Have you ever heard that?"
"No."
"You've come by a winding stair, haven't you?"
"What if I have! I've done some things I hated, but that's over now and I'm where I want to be. I'm somebody, Almsbury! If I'd stayed in Marygreen and married some lout of a farmer and bred his brats and cooked his food and spun his linen—what would I be? Just another farmer's wife and nobody would ever know I'd been alive. But now look at me— I'm rich and a duchess and one day my son will be a duke— Sorry!" she finished with scornful positiveness. "My God, Almsbury!"
He grinned. "Amber, my darling, I love you— But you're an unprincipled calculating adventuress."
"Well," retorted Amber, "I didn't have anything to start with—"
"But beauty and desirability."
"There are other women aplenty who had that—but they aren't all duchesses today, I'll warrant you."
"No, sweetheart, they aren't. The difference is that you were willing to make use of both to get what you wanted— and didn't care too much what happened to you on your way."
"Lord!" she cried impatiently. "You're in a scurvy humour today!" Abruptly she leaned forward and rapped on the front wall, shouting at her coachman: "Drive faster!"
Ave Maria Lane was one of the tiny streets which formed a maze about the great burned pile of old St. Paul's. When at last they arrived, Almsbury took her to the entrance of a new-built brick courtyard and pointed to one of the signs. "He should be in there—the 'Three Bibles and Three Bottles of Ink.' " Too excited even to thank him, she picked up her skirts and ran into the court; he watched her go and, when she had disappeared into the building, turned about and left.
It was now dark outside and the shop was dim-lit; there was a thick dusty smell of ink, paper, leather and frying tallow. The walls were lined with book-shelves, all of them crowded, and piles of brown- or green- or red-bound volumes were stacked on the floor. In one corner, reading by a flickering light in the wall-sconce, stood a short plump young man. He had a pair of thick green spectacles on his nose, a hat on his head, and though it was close and too-warm in there he wore his cloak. No one else was in the room.
Amber looked about and was on the point of going through the door beyond when an old man came out, smiling, and inquired if he might help her. She crossed to him and asked, very softly so that if Bruce were there he would not hear her: "Is my Lord Carlton in there?"
"He is, madame."
She put a cautioning finger to her lips. "He's expecting me." Reaching into her muff she took out a guinea and pressed it into his palm. "We don't want to be disturbed."
The man bowed, glancing surreptitiously at the coin in his hand, still smiling. "Certainly, madame. Certainly." He grinned, pleased to be party to a rendezvous between his Lordship and this fine woman.
She went to the door, opened it, stepped inside and softly closed it. Bruce, wearing his cloak and plumed hat, stood several feet away examining a manuscript; his back was to her. Amber paused, leaning against the door, for her heart was pounding and she felt suddenly weak and breathless. She was almost afraid of what he might do or say when he saw her.
After a moment Bruce, without glancing around, said, "This manuscript
of Carew—how did you get hold of it?" And then when he got no answer he turned and saw her.
Timidly Amber smiled and made him a little curtsy. "Good even, my lord."
"Well—" Bruce tossed the manuscript onto a table just behind him. "I would never have taken you for a book-collector." His eyes narrowed. "How the devil did you get here?"
She ran toward him. "I had to see you, Bruce! Please don't be angry with me! Tell me what's happened! Why have you been avoiding me?"
He frowned slightly, but did not look away. "I didn't know any other way to do it—without a quarrel."
"Without a quarrel! I've heard you say that a hundred times! You, who made your living fighting!"
He smiled. "Not with women."
"Oh, I promise you, Bruce, I didn't come to quarrel! But you've got to tell me what happened! One day you came to see me and we were happy together—and the next you'd scarce speak! Why?" She spread her hands in a gesture of pleading.
"You must know, Amber. Why pretend you don't?"
"Almsbury told me, but I wouldn't believe him. I still can't believe it. You, of all men, being led by the nose by your wife!"
He sat down on the top of the table near which they were standing and braced one foot on a chair. "Corinna isn't the kind of woman who leads a man by the nose. I decided myself —for a reason I don't think I can explain to you."
"Why not?" she demanded, half insulted at that. "My understanding's as good as another's, I'll warrant you! Oh, but you must tell me, Bruce. I've got to know! I have a right to know!"
He took a deep breath. "Well—I suppose you heard that Castlemaine showed Corinna the lampoon—but she said she'd known we were lovers long before that. She's gone through a kind of agony these last weeks we don't know anything about. Adultery may seem no serious matter to us, but it is to her. She's innocent, and what's more, she loves me—I don't want to hurt her any more than I have."
Forever Amber Page 98