“Why!” cried the stranger then. “Is that your family, madame?” She referred to Bruce’s crest, which Amber had not removed from the door.
“Aye,” said Amber without hesitation. But she was hoping that the woman could not tell one from another. To her, at least, they all looked alike with their absurd clawing dog-faced lions, their checkerboards and stripes.
“Why, then I know your father well! My own country-seat is near Pickering in Yorkshire!”
“I come from Essex, madame. Near Heathstone.” She was beginning to wish that she had not lied about it, for it seemed likely she might be caught.
“Why, of course, Mrs. St. Clare! How furiously stupid of me! But your crest is so similar to that of a near neighbour of mine—though now I look closer I see well enough what the difference is. May I present myself, madame? I’m Mrs. Goodman.”
“I’m glad of your acquaintance, madame.” She bowed, thinking how much like a fine lady she was behaving, for she had learned those little niceties from her French master and by watching Lord Carlton and his friends. “Can’t I carry you somewhere?”
“Why, faith, my dear, I wouldn’t care to put you to the trouble. I was only going to pick up a trifle or so in the ’hange.”
The ’Change, Amber knew, was a fashionable lounge and meeting-place for the gallants and ladies, and that now seemed to her as good a place as any for her excursion. “I’m going there myself, madame. Pray ride along with me.”
Mrs. Goodman did not hesitate and they both got in, spreading their full skirts about them, ruffling their fans, commenting on the September heat. The coach started off across town, jogging about on the cobble-stones, and from time to time they were held up in a dispute with a hackney over the right of way or had to wait while a procession of colliers’ carts filed slowly by. Amber and Sally Goodman sat inside talking animatedly, and Amber had almost forgotten that she was a jilted woman carrying in her body a bastard child.
Sally Goodman was plump with pink over-fleshed arms and a bosom that bulged out of her low-necked gowns. Her skin was badly pock-marked, though she did what she could to remedy this defect by the application of a thick layer of some pink-white cosmetic, and her hair was two or three shades of light yellow so that it was plain she aided nature in this respect also. She admitted to twenty-eight of her thirty-nine years and, for that matter, she did contrive to look younger than she was. Her clothes had a sort of specious elegance, though a practiced eye might have known immediately that they were made of second-rate materials by a second-rate sempstress, and there was precisely the same quality in her manner and personality. But she had a hearty good-natured joviality that Amber found both warming and comforting.
Mrs. Goodman, it seemed, was a person of quality and means, making a short stay in London while her husband was abroad on business. Evidently judging Amber by her accent, clothes and coach, she assumed her to be a country heiress visiting in the city and Amber—pleased with this identity—agreed that she was.
“But, Lord, sweetheart!” said Mrs. Goodman. “Are you all alone? A pretty young creature like you? Why, there’s dozens of wicked men in London looking for just such an opportunity!”
Amber almost surprised herself with the readiness of her reply. “Oh, I’m visiting my aunt—that is, I—I’m going to visit her as soon as she gets back. She’s still in France—She was with his Majesty’s court—”
“Oh, of course,” agreed Mrs. Goodman. “My husband was there too, for a time, but the King thought he could do more good back here, organizing plots. Where does your aunt live, my dear?”
“She lives in the Strand—oh, it’s a mighty fine house!” Almsbury had once driven her by his home which was located there, though not yet returned to his possession.
“I hope she comes back soon. I’m afraid your parents would be uneasy to have you here alone for very long, my dear. You’re not married, I suppose?”
Amber felt a sudden hot blush at that question and her eyes retreated to her closed fan. But she found another nimble lie conveniently at her tongue’s end.
“No—I’m not—But I will be soon. My aunt has a gentleman for me—an earl, I think she said. He’s on his travels now but he’ll likely come home when she does.” Then she remembered what Almsbury had told her about Bruce’s parents and added: “My father and mother are both dead. My father was killed at Marston Moor and my mother died in Paris ten years ago.”
“Oh, you poor dear child. And have you no guardian, no one to care for you?”
“My aunt is my guardian when she’s here. I’ve been living with another aunt since she went abroad.”
Mrs. Goodman shook her head and sympathetically pressed Amber’s hand. Amber was passionately grateful for her kindly interest and understanding, for the mere fact that here was another human being she could talk to, share small experiences with—she had always felt miserable and lost when alone.
