He paused, looking at her for a long moment, and one hand started to move in an involuntary gesture, but dropped to his side again. “No, Amber,” he said at last. “You know that. We’ve talked this all over before.”
“But it’s different now! You love me—you told me so yourself! And I know you do! You must! Oh, Bruce, you didn’t tell me that to—”
“No, Amber, I meant it. I do love you, but—”
“Then
“Because, my dear, love has nothing to do with it.”
“Nothing to do with it! It has everything to do with it! We’re not children to be told by our parents who we’ll marry! We’re grown up and can do as we like—”
“I intend to.”
For several seconds she stared at him, while the desire to lash out her hand and slap him surged and grew inside her. But something she remembered—a hard and glittering expression in his eyes—held her motionless. He stood there watching her, almost as though waiting, and then at last he turned and walked out of the room.
Nan arrived a fortnight later with Susanna, the wet-nurse, Tansy and Big John Waterman. They had spent the four months going from one village to another, fleeing the plague. Despite everything only one cart-load had been stolen; almost all of Amber’s clothes and personal belongings were intact. She was so grateful that she promised Nan and Big John a hundred pounds each when they returned to London.
Bruce was enchanted with his seven-months-old daughter. Susanna’s eyes were no longer blue but now a clear green and her hair was bright pure golden blonde, not the tawny colour of her mother’s. She did not very much resemble either Bruce or Amber but she gave every promise of being a beauty and seemed already conscious of her destiny, for she flirted between her fingers and giggled delightedly at the mere sight of a man. Almsbury, teasing Amber, said that at least there could be no doubt as to her mother’s identity.
The very day of Nan’s arrival Amber put off Emily’s unbecoming black dress and, after considerable deliberation, selected one of her own: a low-bosomed formal gown of copper-coloured satin with stiff-boned bodice and sweeping train. She painted her face, stuck on three patches, and for the first time in many months Nan dressed her hair again in long ringlets and a high twisted coil. Among her jewellery she found a pair of emerald ear-rings and an emerald bracelet.
“Lord!” she said, surveying herself in the mirror with pleased satisfaction. “I’d almost forgot what I look like!”
She was expecting Bruce back soon—he and Almsbury had gone out to hunt—and though she was eager to have him see her at her best again she was a little apprehensive too. What would he say about her putting off mourning so soon? A widow was expected to wear plain unadorned black with a long veil over her hair all the rest of her life—unless she married again.
At last she heard the door slam in the next room and his boots crossed the floor. He called her name and then almost immediately appeared in the doorway, pulling loose the cravat at his neck. She was watching for him with her eyes big and uncertain, and she broke into a delighted smile as he stopped abruptly and then gave a long low whistle. She spread her fan and turned slowly around before him.
“How do I look?”
“How do you look! Why, you vain little minx, you look like an angel—and you know it!”
She ran toward him, laughing. “Oh, do I, Bruce!” But suddenly her face sobered and she looked down at her fan, beginning to count the sticks. “D’you think I’m wicked to leave off mourning so soon? Oh, of course,” she added hastily, with a quick upward glance, “I’ll wear it when I get back to town. But out here in the country with no one to see me or know if I’m a widow or not—it doesn’t matter out here, does it?”
He bent and gave her a brief kiss, grinning, and though she searched his face carefully she could not be sure what he was thinking. “Of course it’s not wicked. Mourning, you know, is done with the heart—” Lightly he touched her left breast.
After an unusually hot and arid summer the weather changed swiftly at the end of October. Violent rainstorms came in rapid succession and by the middle of the month there were hard frosts. The two men went out to ride or hunt in spite of it, though usually the powder became wet and they seldom shot anything. Amber spent most mornings in the nursery. Other times Bruce and Almsbury played billiards while she watched, or the three of them played cards or amused themselves by making anagrams out of their own names or someone else’s—for the most part they turned out to be unflattering. Emily seldom joined in these pastimes for she was an old-fashioned housewife who preferred to oversee each smallest detail of cooking and cleaning, rather than leave it to a steward as many great ladies had begun to do. Amber did not see how she could tolerate spending all her hours in the nursery, the still-room, or the kitchen, but there was no doubt the three of them were gayer when Emily was not present.
