Amber was unhappy and worried and sickeningly jealous, desperately afraid of her step-daughter. She and Bruce had been together all afternoon, and the glow of those hours still lingered, throbbing and reverberating through every chord of her being. But now here was Jemima, young, lovely, audacious, who suddenly seemed to her a dangerous rival. For by her own marriage to a rich old merchant Amber had acquired a sort of counterfeit respectability which she felt made her less alluring. She was married but Jemima was not; and for all Samuel’s certainty that Lord Carlton would not care to marry into the Dangerfield family, Amber was scared.
Don’t be a fool! she had told herself a hundred times. He wouldn’t marry a simpleton like Jemima for
She did not look at Jemima as she got into her gown but she could feel the girl watching her, anxiously, and her own confidence began to return. The gown was made of champagne-coloured lace over champagne satin, and was spangled with thousands of golden stars. She turned, still avoiding Jemima’s eyes, and walked back to the dressing-table to put on her emeralds.
“Oh!” cried Jemima at last. “How beautiful you are!” Her eyes wistfully sought out her own reflection in a mirror. “He won’t even see me!”
“Of course he will, sweetheart,” said Amber, better-natured now. “You’ve never looked half so pretty.”
At that moment Jemima’s woman, Mrs. Carter, stuck her head in the door. “Mrs. Jemima!” she hissed. “His Lordship’s here! He just came in!”
Amber’s heart gave a bound, but she did not turn her head or move. Jemima, however, looked as distraught as a girl summoned to her execution. “He’s here!” she breathed. “Oh, my God!” That alone was enough to show her mortal desperation, for blasphemy was no more allowable in Dangerfield House than was bawdry.
And then Jemima picked up her skirts and was gone.
Five minutes later Amber was ready to go downstairs herself. She was eager to see how he looked at Jemima, what he seemed to think of her—but most of all she wanted nothing but to see him again, to hear his voice and watch his face, to be in the same room with him.
“Take care, mam,” cautioned Nan softly, as she gave her her fan.
Amber saw him the moment she entered the drawing-room. He was standing across from her talking to Samuel and two other men, and Jemima was there at his side, staring up at him like a flower with its face turned to the sun. She started toward them but had to stop a great many times on the way to greet her other guests, most of whom were familiar to her for they had been there often during the past five months.
They were merchants and lawyers and goldsmiths, part of that solid body of upper-middle-class rich which was rapidly becoming the greatest force in England. More and more they were able to control governmental policies both at home and overseas, because they now controlled the largest share of the country’s money. Almost without exception they had been on the winning side in the Civil Wars, and their fortunes had continued to grow during the years that the defeated Royalists suffered imprisonment and ruinous taxes at home or lived in desperate poverty abroad. Even the Restoration had not been able to bring about a return of the old conditions; these were the rich strong men of the kingdom now.
It was the merchants who were loudest and most insistent in demanding a war against the Dutch, which was necessary to protect England’s commerce and trade from the most formidable rival she had in that sphere. And Lord Carlton, as a privateer who had been sinking Dutch ships and capturing Dutch merchandise, was vastly respected and admired by them, in spite of the fact that he was an aristocrat.
At last Amber came up to the small group which stood framed by the new gold-embroidered velvet draperies she had put in the drawing-room. She made a deep curtsy and Bruce bowed to her. Jemima watched them both.
“I’m glad you were able to come, Lord Carlton.” She could face him more calmly now, though her inner excitement was still intense.
“I’m extremely happy to be here, Mrs. Dangerfield.”
No one could have guessed that only three hours ago they had lain together. Now they were cool and polite—strangers.
Supper was announced and the guests began to straggle into the dining-room where the meal was being served in French buffet style. There was food enough to feed three times the hundred people there were to eat it, and gallons of white and red wine. Wax candles cast a soft bright light on the women’s hair and shoulders; music of fiddles drifted from the rooms beyond. Some of the women were dressed with as great splendour as the Court ladies; the men were for the most part in sober dark velvets or wool.
