These people—his wife and the other women and men who frequented Whitehall—were all so brazenly confident, so selfish in their preoccupations, so cruelly unconcerned for the hurts or hopes of another human. He longed for the quiet and peace and sense of security he had had at home. This world of palaces and taverns, theatres and bawdy-houses, scared and baffled him. He almost dreaded to have his mother come, to have her meet his wife, and yet the news that she was coming had relieved him considerably. Mother was not afraid of anyone.
He took out his comb and began to run it through his flaxen periwig. His clothes, at least, were now as fine and fashionable as any that money could buy, though his unprepossessing physique and spindly legs did not set them off to advantage.
“Pas du tout, madame,” said Gerald. All the wits and pretended wits sprinkled their conversation with French phrases as a lady sprinkled her face with black taffeta patches. Gerald did likewise, for it gave him a sense of being in the mode. “As you know, I have a mere three rooms. There’s no place to put her there.” He was living at the Cheval d’Or, a lodging-house popular with the gallants because the landlady had a pretty and obliging daughter.
“Well, where
Gerald gave a Parisian shrug of his thin shoulders. “Eh bien —I thought she might stay here.”
Amber set the mirror down with a slam, though it lighted on a pile of ribbons and was saved. “Oh, you did! Well, she won’t! D’ye think Lord Almsbury’s running a lodging-house? You’d best send her a letter and tell her to stay where she is. What the devil does she want to come to London for anyway?” She gave a shake of her right wrist to hear the bracelets clink.
“Why, I suppose she wants to see her old acquaintances she hasn’t seen in many years. And also, madame, I may as well speak frankly, she wonders why we keep separate lodgings.”
Because he was afraid of what she might say to that he turned and went across the room, taking a long-stemmed pipe out of the capacious pocket of his coat and filling it with tobacco, using a match-stick from the fireplace to light it.
“Good Lord! Write and tell her you’re of age now and married and able to manage your own affairs!” And then, seeing that he was smoking, she cried: “Get out of here with that filthy thing! D’ye think I want my rooms to stink? Go down and order the coach—I’ll be with you presently. Or go on alone, if you prefer.”
Gerald left hastily, obviously relieved, but Amber sat scowling into the mirror while Monsieur Durand, who was not supposed to make use of his ears, continued to work with passionate intensity upon the curl she had criticized.
“Lord!” muttered Amber crossly at last. “What a dull, insipid thing a husband is!”
Durand smiled unctuously, gave a final twirl of his comb and stepped back to survey her head. Then, satisfied, he took up a tiny vial, filled it with water and slipping in a golden rose tucked it among her curls. “It’s true they’ve grown out of the fashion, madame. I find a lady of quality would no more wear one of ’em on her heart than she’d wear a bouquet of carnations.”
“Why is it only the fools who marry?” she demanded, but went on talking without waiting for an answer. “Well, thank you, Durand, for coming to me. And here’s something for your good work.” She picked up three guineas from the table and dropped them into his hand.
His eyes began to glisten and he bowed again and again. “Oh, merci, madame, merci! It is indeed a pleasure to serve one so generous—and so beautiful. Pray call upon me at any time—and I come though I disappoint Majesty itself!”
“Thanks, Durand. Tell me—what d’you think of this gown? My dressmaker is a Frenchwoman. Has she done well by me, do you think?” She turned slowly about before him while Durand clasped his hands and kissed his fingers.
“C’est exquise, madame! Vraie Parisienne, madame! Exquise!”
Amber gave a little laugh and took up her fan and gloves. “What a flattering rogue you are! Nan, let him out—”
She left the room, beckoning Tansy to follow her, and he carried the long train of her gown in his hands so that it would not be soiled before she got to the ball. Durand was worth the three guineas she had given him—preposterous as the price was—not so much for the work of his clever fingers as for the prestige of having him. It had taken some scheming, but she had gotten him away from Castlemaine for that night, and every woman at the ball would know it.
