They roared with laughter. “So that formal old fop, your husband, locked you in!”
“I say an old man has no business marrying a young woman unless he can entertain her in the manner to which she’s accustomed herself. Can your husband do that, madame?” asked Rochester.
Amber changed the subject, afraid that some of the footmen or the loyal old driver might have been told to listen to whatever she said and report it. “What were you all arguing about? It looked like a conventicle-meeting when I drove up.”
“We were considering whether to stay here till we’re drunk and then go to a bawdy-house—or to go to a bawdy-house first and get drunk afterward,” Sedley told her. “What’s your opinion, madame?”
“I’d say that depends on how you expect to entertain yourselves once you get there.”
“Oh, in the usual way, madame,” Rochester assured her. “In the usual way. We’re none of us yet come to those tiresome expedients of old-age and debauchery.” Rochester was nineteen and Buckhurst, the eldest, was twenty-eight.
“Egad, Wilmot,” objected Buckhurst, who was now drunk enough to talk without stammering. “Where’s your breeding? Don’t you know a woman hates nothing so much as to hear other women mentioned in her presence?”
Rochester shrugged his thin shoulders. “A whore’s not a woman. She’s a convenience.”
“Come in and drink a glass with us,” invited Sedley. We’ve got a brace of fiddlers in there and we can send to Lady Bennet for some wenches. A tavern will serve my turn as well as a brothel any day.”
Amber hesitated, longing to go and wondering if it might be possible to bribe the coachman after all. But Nan was nudging her with her elbow and grimacing and she decided that it was not worth the risk of being locked up for another three weeks, or possibly longer. And worst of all, she knew, Radclyffe might be angry enough even to send her into the country—the favourite punishment for erring wives, and the most dreaded. By now her coach had begun to snarl the traffic. There were other coaches waiting behind, and numerous porters and carmen, vendors, beggars, apprentices and sedan-chair-men—all of them beginning to growl and swear at her driver, urging him to move on.
“There’s some of us got work to do,” bawled a chair-man, “even if you fine fellows ain’t!”
“I can’t go in,” said Amber. “I promised his Lordship I wouldn’t get out of the coach.”
“Make way there!” bellowed another man trundling a loaded wheelbarrow.
“Make room there!” snarled a porter.
Rochester, not at all disturbed, turned coolly and made them a contemptuous sign with his right hand. There was a low, sullen roar of protest at that and several shouted curses. Buckhurst flung open the coach-door.
“Well, then! You can’t get out—but what’s there to keep us from getting in?”
He climbed in—followed by Rochester and Sedley—and settled himself between the two women, sliding an arm about each. Sedley stuck his head out the window. “Drive on! St. James’s Park!” As they rolled off, Rochester gave an impertinent wave of his hand to the crowd. There was a breeze blowing up and it now began to rain, suddenly and very hard.
Amber came home in a gale of good humour and high spirits. Tossing off her rain-spattered cloak and muff in the entrance hall she ran into the library and, though she had been gone almost four hours, she found Radclyffe sitting just where she had left him, still writing. He looked up.
“Well, madame. Did you have a pleasant drive?”
“Oh, wonderful, your Lordship! It’s a fine day out!” She walked toward him, begining to pull off her gloves. “We drove through St. James’s Park—and who d’ye think I saw?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know.”
“His Majesty! He was walking in the rain with his gentlemen and they all looked like wet spaniels with their periwigs soaking and draggled!” She laughed delightedly. “But of course he was wearing his hat and looked as spruce as you please. He stopped the coach—and
Radclyffe smiled slightly, as at a naive child recounting some silly simple adventure to which it attached undue importance. “I have no idea.”
“He asked after you and wanted to know why he hadn’t seen you at Court. He’s coming to visit you soon to see your paintings, he says—but Henry Bennet will make the arrangements first. And”—here she paused a little to give emphasis to the next piece of news—“he’s asking us to a small dance in her Majesty’s Drawing-Room tonight!”
She looked at him as she talked, but she was obviously not thinking about him; she was scarcely even conscious of him. More important matters occupied her mind: what gown she should wear, which jewels and fan, how she should arrange her hair. At least he could not refuse an invitation from the King—and if her plans succeeded she would soon be able to cast him off altogether, send him back to Lime Park to live with his books and statues and paintings, and so trouble her no more.
