They took the main road down through Surrey toward the sea-coast. As in London it was raining—and had been almost every day for a month and a half—so that they travelled slowly and had to make frequent stops to haul the coach out of mud-bogs, for the roads were now nothing more. But the countryside was beautiful. This was the rich agricultural heart of England and prosperous farms lay spread over the rolling hills; many of them were enclosed by hedges, though that practice was as yet an uncommon one. The cottages and manor-houses were made of cherry-coloured brick and silver oak and the luxuriant gardens were massed with purple-and-white violets, tulips, crimson ramblers.
Amber and Bruce sat side by side, hands lightly clasped, looking out the glass windows and talking softly. As always his presence gave her a sense of finality, a sureness that this was all she wanted from life and that it would last as it was forever.
“It makes me think of home,” she said, gesturing to take in the village through which they were passing. “Marygreen, I mean.”
“ ‘Home’? Does that mean you’d like to go back?”
“Go back—to Marygreen? I should say
The first night they stopped at a little inn, and since the rain continued they decided to stay there. It was warm and comfortable and friendly and the food was good. The host was a veteran of the Civil Wars, a bluff old fellow who cornered Bruce every time he saw him and went into lengthy reminiscences of Prince Rupert and Marston Moor. They were the only guests there.
But the week which she had expected would pass so slowly seemed to pick up speed as it went and the precious minutes and hours rushed along, slipping out of her hands as she tried to catch at them and drag them back. So soon now it would be over—he would be gone—
“Oh,
“Haven’t you learned yet to be careful of what you wish for?”
They spent the days idly, lay long in the mornings, and went to bed early at night. While the rain poured down outside they sat before the fire and played card games, costly-colours, putt, wit-and-reason; invariably he won and, though she thought that she had become very clever, he always seemed to know when she was cheating. If the evenings were nice, as two or three of them were, they bowled on the green beside the inn.
They had brought the baby with them—as well as Nan and Tansy—and Bruce told her that he had arranged with Almsbury to take him from Mrs. Chiverton and put him into the nursery with the Earl’s two sons. Amber was delighted to see how intensely fond he was of the child she had borne him. It encouraged her to think that sooner or later he would give up his roving life, and marry her—or take her to America with him.
Until the last day she kept her resolution not to argue with him, and then she could not resist making one more effort to convert him. “I don’t see why you want to live in America, Bruce,” she said, pouting a little before he had even had time to answer. “What can you like about that country—full of nothing but wild Indians and blackamoors! Why, you said yourself there isn’t a town the size of London in the whole of it. Lord, what can you find to do? Why don’t you come back to England and live when you’re done privateering?”
The rain had stopped and the sun come out hot. They had spread a blanket beneath a beech-tree, heavily laden with long drooping clusters of purple blossoms, and Amber sat cross-legged on it while Bruce lay stretched out on his stomach. As she talked she kept an eye on the baby who had wandered some yards away to watch a duck and several little tawny ducklings swimming on a shallow pond; from his hand trailed a neglected wooden doll tied to a cord. She had just cautioned him not to go too close, but he was absorbed in the ducks and paid her scant attention.
Bruce, with a stalk of green grass between his teeth and his eyes narrowed against the sun, looked up at her and grinned.
“Because, my darling, the life I want for myself and my children doesn’t exist in England any more.”
“Your children! How many bastards have you, pray? Or are you married?” she asked suddenly.
“No, of course not.” He gave a quick gesture as she started to open her mouth. “And let’s not talk about that again.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going to! You have such a damned high opinion of yourself! I don’t have to go begging for a husband, let me tell you!”
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose you do. I’m only surprised that you aren’t married already.”
“If I’m not it’s because I’ve been a silly fool and thought that you’d—Oh, I’m not going to say it! But
“Perhaps. But the price is too high for my purse.”
“But you’ll be rich as anything—”
