A week later Amber was in the nursery—where she spent an hour or two every morning—playing trick-track with Bruce. Susanna, in a white linen-and-lace gown with a tiny apron and a starched lace cap that perched far back over her long glossy blonde hair, sat on the floor beside them. Already she was beginning to dominate the nursery and had her heel firmly on the necks of the Almsbury children, but her own brother was a more recalcitrant subject and refused the yoke of the little tyrant.
Amber loved the hours she spent in the nursery, for they were the one sure tie that bound her to Lord Carlton. These children were his children too, his blood was in their veins, they moved and spoke and had their being because of him. Their love for her was, in a sense, his—their kisses his. They were the memories of things past, all that she had for the present, and they offered her hope of the future.
“Mother!” Susanna was perpetually interrupting their game, for though she was too young to play she intended to have a part in it anyway.
“Yes, darling?”
“Wiggle-waggle! ”
“Let me finish this game, Susanna. I just played wiggle-waggle.”
Susanna pouted and made a face at her brother, but Amber saw it and threw one arm about her, hugging her close. “Here, what are you doing, you little witch?”
“Witch? What’s a witch?”
“A witch,” said her brother, somewhat bored, “is a nuisance.”
Amber looked up at a footman who had just entered the room and come to stand beside them. “Yes?”
“You’re wanted, madame.”
“Who is it? Anyone of importance?”
“Your husband, I believe, madame—and his mother.”
“Oh, Lord! Well—thank you. Tell ’em I’ll be in presently.” The man left and Amber got to her feet, though both children immediately began to protest. “I’m sorry, darlings, I’ll come back if I can.”
Bruce bowed to her. “Good-day, Mother. Thank you for coming to see us.”
Amber bent and kissed him and then she picked up Susanna, who kissed her with smacking abandon on the cheeks and mouth. “Here, Susanna!” protested Amber. “You’ll take all my powder off, you little minx.” She kissed her and then put her down, waved them both goodbye and left the room—but her smile faded the instant she closed the door.
For a moment she stood in the hall, staring. Now why the devil did that old woman have to come here? she thought irritably. Pregnancy always made her feel that everything unpleasant which happened was done for the sole purpose of annoying her. And then with a sigh and a little shrug she started back toward her own rooms at the opposite end of the gallery.
Gerald Stanhope and his mother sat on a couch before the fireplace in Amber’s drawing-room. The Dowager Baroness had her back to the door and she was chattering away at Gerald whose face looked worried and anxious. The starkly black-painted eyebrows he affected because they were supposed to be all the mode contrasted shockingly with his white skin and ash-blonde wig. But the moment Amber entered the room the Baroness ceased talking and, after giving herself a moment or two to compose her features, she turned a fixed sweet smile in the direction of her daughter-in-law. Her eyes did not conceal the sudden surprise and displeasure she felt at what she saw.
Amber came toward them walking lazily, her dressing-gown flowing back from the lacy ruffled petticoat she wore beneath it. Gerald, looking as if he expected the roof to blow off the house at any moment, stood up to present his wife to his mother. The two women embraced, carefully, as though each were afraid of soiling her hands and garments on the other. And then each turned her cheek—it was an affectation of great ladies to present their cheeks rather than their lips for a salute. As they stepped back their eyes ran over each other appraisingly, and neither one of them missed a detail. Gerald stood and bobbled his Adam’s apple and took out a comb to occupy his hands.
Lucilla, Lady Stanhope, was just over forty. She had a plump petulant face that made Amber think of one of the King’s spaniels, with a mouth turned down at the corners and shaky round cheeks. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now caramel-coloured. But her skin was still pink and fresh and she had prominent thrusting breasts. Her clothes were even more out of style than those of most country ladies, and her jewels were insignificant.
“Oh, pray take no notice of my clothes,” said her Ladyship instantly. “They’re nothing but old frippery I was about to give my maid, but the roads were so bad I didn’t dare wear anything else! Heavens, as it was, one cart overturned and flung three of my trunks into the mud!”
“Oh, barbarous!” agreed Amber sympathetically. “Your Ladyship must be jolted to a jelly. Can’t I send for some refreshment?”
“Why, yes, madame. I do believe I’d like a dish of tea.”
She had never drunk any tea, for it was far too expensive, but now she was determined to show everyone that for all she had been twenty years in the country she had never been out of touch with the Town.
