It was not long before they reached the inn, at which Amber called out to order the coachman to stop, and Mr. Dangerfield’s gigantic footman, Big John Waterman, helped him to make his way inside. Big John offered to carry him, and no doubt could easily have done so, but he flatly refused and resented such assistance as he was forced to receive. Amber was busy as a hen with chicks. She rushed ahead to bid the hostess get a chamber ready, directed Tempest and Jeremiah which trunks to unload, ran back a half-dozen times to make sure Mr. Dangerfield was all right. At last they had him upstairs and, against his will, lying down in the great testered bed.
“Now,” said Amber to the hostess, “you must make a hot fire and bring me a kettle and crane so that I can heat water. Bring me all the hot-water bottles you have and some more blankets. Nan, open that trunk and get out the boxful of herbs —Jeremiah, go find my almanac—it’s in the bottom of the green leather trunk, I think. Now get out of here, all of you, so Mr. Dangerfield can rest—”
Amber loosened his clothes, took off his cloak and hat, cravat and doublet, piled hot-water bottles around him and covered him with blankets. She was quick and gentle, cheerful but concerned; an outsider would have thought she was already his wife. He begged her not to trouble herself with him, but to go on to London and send back a doctor. And, apparently in some apprehension that this might be another and perhaps final stroke, he asked her to notify his family. Amber firmly refused.
“It’s nothing serious, Mr. Dangerfield,” she insisted. “You’ll be hearty as ever in a few days, I know you will. It wouldn’t be right to scare them that way—especially with Lettice about to lie-in.” Lettice was his eldest daughter.
“No,” he agreed meekly. “It wouldn’t be right, would it?”
And in spite of his discomfort it soon became clear that he was enjoying his illness and the attentions it brought him. No doubt he had always felt obliged to be stoical before; now, far from home and those who knew him, he could luxuriate in the care and endless concern of a beautiful young woman who seemed to think of nothing at all but his comfort. She refused even to leave him alone at night, for fear the attack might recur, and slept there on the trundle only a few feet away.
The slightest sound from him and she was out of bed and beside him, her rich heavy hair falling about her face as she bent over him, the faint light from the candle throwing shadows across her arms and into her breasts. Her murmuring voice was like a caress; her flesh was warm whenever she happened to touch him; the heat in the room brought out an intoxicating fragrance of jasmine flowers and ambergris in her perfume. No illness had ever been so pleasant. And, half because she persuaded him he was pale and not strong enough to be moved, he remained in bed many days after all the pain had gone.
“Ye gods!” said Amber to Nan one day as she was dressing in the room which adjoined his chamber. “I think when I marry this old man I’ll be a nursemaid and not a wife!”
“Heavens, mam, it’s you’ve insisted he can’t get out of bed! And it was your idea in the first place to feed ’im those toadstools—”
“Shhh!” cautioned Amber. “You’ve got no business remembering such things.” She got up, gave herself a last glance in the mirror, and went toward the door into the next room; an expression of sweet tenderness spread over her face before she opened it.
BARBARA’S HEAD LAY on James Hamilton’s shoulder.
And both of them lay motionless, half between waking and sleeping, eyes closed, faces smooth and peaceful. But slowly Barbara began to grow uneasy. Her nose wrinkled a little and then the nostrils flared; she sniffed once or twice. What the devil’s that smell? she thought irritably. And then all at once she realized.
Smoke!
The room was on fire!
She sat up with a start and saw that an entire velvet drapery was aflame, apparently having been lighted by a candle into which it had blown. She put her fists to her mouth and screamed.
“James! The room’s on fire!”
The handsome colonel sat up and glared resentfully at the flaming drapery. “Good Lord!”
But Barbara was pushing him out of bed, sticking her feet into mules, reaching for her dressing-gown. And now, suddenly wide awake, Hamilton rushed across the room and with a swift movement jerked the hanging from its rod and started to stamp the flame out. But already it had spread to a chair and as he flung it onto the floor a Turkish rug caught fire.
Barbara ran to him with his clothes in her hand. “Here!” She thrust them at him: “Get into these! Quick—down that stairway before someone comes! Help! Help!” she screamed. “Fire! Help!”
James got out of the room just as Barbara admitted half-a-dozen servants from the other door. By now the flames were licking up the walls, the opposite drapery was afire and smoke was beginning to fill the room and make them cough.
