But the best news she heard was from Shadrac Newbold—who had a messenger out there two days after she got back to inform her that not one of his depositors had lost a shilling. She found out later that though much money had gone up in the Fire, almost all the goldsmiths had saved what was entrusted to them. And though there was less than half of it left now, twenty-eight thousand pounds, even that was enough to make her one of the richest women in England. Furthermore, it was being added to by interest and by returns on the investments he had made for her, and later she could augment it by renting Lime Park and selling much of the furnishings—though so far she could not bring herself to touch Radclyffe’s effects.
Certainly there was brilliant promise in the future. But the present was a source of fear and anxiety to her—for though Radclyffe was dead she had not been able to get rid of him. He had come there to his home to haunt her. She met him unexpectedly as she rounded a corner in the gallery; he stood behind her when she ate; he accosted her in the night and she lay sweating with terror, jumping at imaginary sounds, or she woke up with a hysterical scream. She wanted to get away, but Nan’s baby had been born just the day before she returned and she intended to wait until Nan could travel. She was staying mostly out of affection for Nan and gratitude for what she had done during the Plague—but also because she had no place to go but Almsbury’s, and did not want to rouse his suspicions by rushing away pell-mell at first news of her husband’s death. She was not willing to entrust her fatal secret to anyone but Big John and Nan.
Jenny’s mother came, and as soon as the child had been born and Jenny recovered she was going home to her own people. Amber felt a little guilty when, at the first of October, she left for Barberry Hill—but she told herself that after all Jenny had no reason to be afraid of staying there. She had never been his Lordship’s enemy; she had had nothing to do with Philip’s death—the walls and ceilings and very trees had nothing to say to her. But for herself—she could stand it no longer. And she went.
At Barberry Hill she felt more comfortable, and it did not take her as long to forget—Radclyffe, Philip and everything that had happened this past year—as she had thought it would. She put it all resolutely out of her mind. She had an uncomfortable feeling that Almsbury guessed she knew more about her husband’s death than she had told—perhaps he thought that she had hired a gang of bullies to murder him—but he never tried to trick her into making an inadvertent admission, and they seldom mentioned his Lordship at all.
Once he said to her, teasingly, “Well, sweetheart—who d’ye suppose you’ll marry next? They say Buckhurst has almost made up his mind to risk matrimony—”
She shot him a sharp indignant glance. “Marry come up, Almsbury! You must think I’m cracked! I’m rich and I’ve got a title now—why the devil should I make myself miserable by marrying again! There never was such a wretched state as matrimony! I’ve tried it three times and—”
“Three times?” he asked, his voice sliding over the words with a sound of amusement.
Amber flushed in spite of herself, for Luke Channell was a secret she had never shared with anyone but Nan. It was one of the few things of which she was ashamed. “Twice, I mean! Well—what are you smirking for? Anyway, smile if you like, but I’ll never get married again—I’ve got better plans for myself than that, I warrant you!” She turned, her black-silk skirts swishing about her, and started to leave the room.
Almsbury was lounging against the fireplace, filling his pipe. He looked after her and grinned, but shrugged his shoulders.
“God knows, sweetheart, it’s nothing to me if you’ve had three husbands or thirteen. And none of my business if you marry again or not. I was just wondering—how d’you think you’ll look in stark black by the time you’re thirty-five?”
Amber stopped in her tracks and turned to stare back at him, over her shoulder; her face looked suddenly white and shocked. Thirty-five! My God—I’ll
“Damn you, Almsbury!” she muttered, and went swiftly out of the room.
It was not long before Amber began to grow impatient. What was the good of money and a title, beauty and youth—if you buried it alive in the country? By the time a couple of months had passed she felt convinced that whatever speculation his Lordship’s sudden death might have aroused would now be abated—scandals at Court were even shorter-lived than love-affairs—and she was eager to return. She coaxed and cajoled and finally she persuaded Lord and Lady Almsbury to go back with her for the winter social season. It would give her a house to live in, and the prestige of John’s and Emily’s families. She might need both, for a while.
