“Oh, thank God, sweetheart! Oh, I never was in such a taking! Six gentlemen in my house at once! Oh, Lord! What shall I do!” But even as she talked she had begun breaking the eggs into a great bowl.
At that moment fifteen-year-old Meg emerged from the trapdoor which led down into the cellar, her arms full of dusty green bottles, and Amber rushed. to her.
“Here, Meg! Let me help you!”
She took five of them from her and started for the other room, pushing the door open with her knee, but she kept her eyes down as she entered, and concentrated all her attention on the bottles. The men were standing about the room, cloaks off though they still wore their hats, and as she appeared Almsbury caught sight of her and came forward, smiling.
“Here—sweetheart. Let me help you with those. So they play that old game out here too?”
“What old game, m’lord?”
He took three of the bottles from her and she set the other two on the table, looking up then to smile at him. But instantly her eyes sought out the other man where he stood next the windows with two companions, throwing dice on a table-top. His back was half turned and he did not glance around but tossed down a coin as one of the others snapped his fingers at a lucky throw. Surprised and disappointed, for she had expected him to see her immediately—even to be looking for her—she turned again to Almsbury.
“Why, it’s the oldest game in the world,” he was saying. “Keeping a pretty bar-maid to lure in the customers till they’ve spent their last shilling—I’ll warrant you’ve lured many a farmer’s son to his ruin.” He was grinning at her and now he picked up a bottle, jerked out the cork and put it to his lips. Amber gave him another smile, arch and flirtatious, wishing that the other man would look over and see her.
“Oh, I’m not the bar-maid here, sir. I brought Mrs. Poterell a cake and helped Meg to carry in the bottles.”
Almsbury had taken several swallows, draining half the bottle at once. “Ah, by God!” he declared appreciatively. “Well, then, who are you? What’s your name?”
“Amber St. Clare, sir.”
“Amber! No farmer’s wife ever thought of a name like that.”
She laughed, her eyes stealing swiftly across the room and back again, but he was still intent on the dice. “That’s what my Uncle Matt says. He says my name should be Mary or Anne, or Elizabeth.”
Almsbury took several more deep swallows and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your uncle’s a man of no imagination.” And then, as she glanced toward the table again, he threw back his head and laughed. “So that’s what you want, is it? Well, come along—” And taking hold of her wrist he started across the room.
“Carlton,” he said, when they had come up to the group, “here’s a wench who has a mind to lay with you.”
He turned then, gave Almsbury a glance that suggested some joke between them, and smiled at Amber. She was staring up at him with her eyes big and shining, and had not even heard the remark. She was no more than five-feet three, a height convenient for making even a moderate-sized man feel impressive, but he towered over her by at least a foot.
She caught only a part of Almsbury’s introduction. “—a man for whom I have the highest regard even though the bastard does steal every pretty wench I set my eyes on—Bruce, Lord Carlton.” She managed a curtsy and he bowed to her, sweeping off his hat with as much gallantry as though she were a princess royal. “We’re all of us,” he continued, “come back with the King.”
“With the King! Is the King come back!”
“He’s coming—very soon,” said Carlton.
At this astonishing news Amber forgot her nervous embarrassment. For though the Goodegroomes had once been Parliamentarian in sympathy, they had gradually, as had most of the country, begun to long for monarchy and the old ways of life. Since the King’s murder his people had grown to love him as they had never done during his lifetime, and that love had been transferred to his heir.
“Gemini!” she breathed. For it was too great an event to realize all at once—and under such distracting conditions.
Lord Carlton took up one of the bottles which Meg had set on the table, wiped the dust from its neck with the palm of his hand, and pulling out the cork began to drink. Amber continued to stare at him, her self-consciousness now almost drowned in awe and admiration.
“We’re on our way to London,” he told her. “But one of our horses needs shoeing. What about your inn? Is it a good place to stay the night? The landlord won’t rob us—there aren’t any bed-bugs or lice?” He watched her face as he talked, and for some reason she did not understand there was a look of amusement in his eyes.
“Rob you?” she cried indignantly. “Mr. Poterell never robbed anybody! This is a mighty fine inn,” she declared with stanch loyalty. “The one in Heathstone is
