Suddenly Amber flung back the covers and began to get out of bed. “I think I’ll go drink some waters myself. Get out my green velvet gown with the gold braid and the green cloak. Is it muddy enough to wear chopins?”
“I think it is, mam.” Nan was scurrying busily about, searching through unfamiliar drawers for smocks and petticoats, ransacking the still half-unpacked trunk for garters and ribbons, chattering all the while. “Only to think, mam! What luck we’re in! I vow and swear you must have been born with a caul on your head!” Both women were gayer and in better spirits than they had been for some weeks past.
It had stopped raining the day before and the night had been cold, so that there was a crust on the mud. A pale sun sifted down through the grey-blue sky and there were whiffs of clouds overhead, too white and thin to threaten more immediate rain. Country girls in straw hats and short skirts, with baskets over their arms, appeared in the street crying their wares of poultry and fresh butter, milk and vegetables. And when Amber, with Nan and Tansy, strolled to the well two young men in ribboned suits and plumed hats, with long curling wigs and elaborate swords, bowed ceremoniously and begged leave to present themselves. It was the custom of such resort-places, where a man might with propriety introduce himself.
They were Frank Kifflin and Will Wigglesworth and they told her that they had come down from London to avoid a lady who was beginning to insist that Will marry her. Amber had never seen either of them at the theatre and decided that they were most likely a pair of rooks who posed as men of quality, or perhaps younger sons who had to live like gentlemen without being given the means to do so. Card-sharpers, pick-pockets, forgers, they preyed upon the naive and unsuspecting—young country squires and heiresses were their easiest dupes. Luke Channell had been a crude specimen of the breed; Dick Robbins who had lived at Mother Red-Cap’s a subtler and more clever one. Probably, since Tunbridge could not be a very fertile field for such activities at that time of the year, they had been run out of London or some other city and were in temporary retirement here.
To Amber’s dismay they perked up immediately when she told them her name. “Mrs. St. Clare?” repeated Will Wigglesworth, an ugly pock-marked weasel-toothed young man. “I vow to gad the name’s familiar, madame. What about you, Frank? Haven’t we met Mrs. St. Clare somewhere before?”
“Why, yes, I’m sure we have, madame. Where could it have been, I wonder? Were you at Banstead Downs last year, perhaps?”
Oh, damn! thought Amber. If these fools find out who I am and Mr. Dangerfield hears about it, I wouldn’t have any more chance with him than the man in the moon!
But she smiled at them very sweetly. “No, gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve got some other lady in mind. Neither of you looks at all familiar to me—and I know I’d never have forgotten your faces if we’d ever met.”
Both of them took that for a compliment, grinned and coughed and made simultaneous bows. “Your servant, madame.” But even then they would not let the subject drop and, probably for lack of other conversation, galloped along in relentless pursuit. Frank asked Will if they hadn’t seen her in the Mall, and Will assured Frank it must have been in the Drawing-Room. Amber denied having been anywhere at all and was casting about for a means of escape when Mr. Dangerfield arrived and came to speak to her.
“You’re looking very well, madame. I hope your ague is improved?”
She curtsied and smiled at him, and wished she could blow Kifflin and Wigglesworth away like two puffs of smoke. However, while Amber and Mr. Dangerfield talked of the weather, the taste of the well-water, and Tansy’s scuffed shoes, they fiddled with their ribbons and combs and rolled their eyes about, obviously wishing that the old dotard would go away. But when Amber presented them to him she was amused to see the great change in their manners. She knew for sure then that she had guessed them for what they really were.
“Samuel Dangerfield, sir?” repeated Will Wigglesworth, as both of them jerked suddenly to attention. “I know a Bob Dangerfield. That is, we met once at the home of a mutual friend. He’s a member of the great merchant family. Are you, by any chance, sir, a relative?”
“I’m Bob’s father.”
“Well, well. Only fancy, Frank. This is Bob’s father.”
“Hm, only fancy. Pray take our regards to Bob, sir, when you return to London.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, I will.”
Amber was growing nervous for she did not want them to begin talking and guessing at her identity again before Mr. Dangerfield. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must be getting back now. Your servant, sir.” She curtsied again to Mr. Dangerfield, but as she would have left, the two young men insisted that they be allowed to see her home.
