Now they were crossing the swift-flowing river on a narrow shaky footbridge built of logs; below them the fish darted and dragon-flies zoomed low over the water and among the lily-pads that grew in a quiet pool. On the other side they entered the forest and took a wandering faint little path which led among the trees and ferns and flowering wild hyacinth. It was cool in there and still, fragrant with the smell of flowers and rotting leaves.
“I suppose it’s petty treason for an Englishman to admit he likes another country. But I liked several of them—Italy and France and Spain. But America most of all.”
“America! Why, that’s across the ocean!” That was, in fact, all she knew about America.
“A long way across,” he admitted.
“Was the King there?”
“No. I sailed once on a privateering expedition with his Majesty’s cousin, Prince Rupert, and another time on a merchant-fleet.”
She was entranced. To have seen such faraway places—to have even sailed across the ocean! It was incredible as a fairy-tale. Heathstone was as far from home as she had ever been, and that just twice a year, for the spring and autumn fairs. While the only person in her acquaintance who had been to London, twenty-five miles south-east of Marygreen, was the cobbler.
“What a fine thing it must be to see the great world!” She heaved a sigh. “Have you been to London, too?”
“Just twice since I’ve been old enough to remember. I was there ten years ago and then again a couple of months after Cromwell died. But I didn’t stay long either time.”
They had stopped now and he gave a glance up at the sky, through the trees, as though to see how much time was left. Amber, watching him, was suddenly struck with panic. Now he was going—out again into that great world with its bustle and noise and excitement—and she must stay here. She had a terrible new feeling of loneliness, as if she stood in some solitary corner at a party where she was the only stranger. Those places he had seen, she would never see; those fine things he had done, she would never do. But worst of all she would never see him again.
“It’s not time to go yet!”
“No. I have a while longer.”
Amber dropped onto her knees in the grass, her mouth pouting, eyes rebellious—and after a moment he sat down facing her. For several seconds she continued staring sulkily, mulling over her dismal future, and then swiftly her eyes went to his. He was watching her, steadily, carefully. She stared back at him, her heart pounding, and there began to steal over her a slow weakness and languor, so consuming that even her eyes felt heavy. Every part of her was tormented with longing for him. And yet she was half-scared, uncertain, and reticent, filled with a sense of dread almost greater than her desire.
At last his arm reached out, went around her waist, and drew her slowly toward him; Amber, tipping her head to meet his mouth, slid both her arms about him.
The restraint he had shown thus far now vanished swiftly, giving way to a passion that was savage, violent, ruthlessly selfish. Amber, inexperienced but not innocent, returned his kisses eagerly. Spurred by the caressing of his mouth and hands, her desire mounted apace with his, and though at first she had heard, somewhere far back in her mind, Sarah calling out to her, warning her, the sound and the image grew fainter, dissolved, and was gone.
But when he forced her back onto the earth she gave a quick movement of protest and a little cry—this was as far as her knowledge went. Something mysterious, almost terrible, must lie beyond. Her hands pushed at his chest and she gave a frightened little sob, twisting her face away from his. Her fear now was irrational, intense, almost hysterical.
“No!” she cried. “Let me go!”
She saw his face above her, and his eyes had become pure glittering green. Amber, crying, half-mad with passion and terror, suddenly let herself relax.
With slow reluctance Amber became again conscious of the surrounding world, and of both of them as separate individuals. She drew a deep luxurious sigh, her eyes still closed—she felt that she could not have moved so much as a finger.
After a long while he drew away from her and sat up, forearms resting on his knees, a long blade of grass between his teeth, staring ahead. His tanned face was wet with sweat and he mopped across it with the black-velvet sleeve of his doublet. Amber lay perfectly still beside him, eyes closed and one arm flung over her forehead. She was warm and drowsy, marvellously content, and glad with every fibre of her being that it had happened.
It seemed that until this moment she had been only half alive.
Aware of his eyes on her she turned her head slightly and gave him a lazy smile. She wanted to say that she loved him but did not quite dare, even now. She wished he would say that he loved her, but he only bent and kissed her, very gently.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t expect to find you a virgin.”
“I’m glad I was.”
Was that all he was going to say? She waited, watching him, beginning to feel uncertain and a little afraid. He looked again as he had when she first saw him—she could never tell now by his expression or manner how close they had been. She was surprised and hurt, for what had happened should have changed him as much as it had her. Nothing should ever be the same again, for either of them.
At last he got up, squinting overhead at the sun. “They’ll be waiting for me. We want to get into London before nightfall.” He reached down a hand to help her and she jumped up quickly, shaking out her hair, smoothing her blouse, touching her earrings to make sure she had not lost them.
“Lud, we mustn’t be late!”
Knocking at the dust on his hat, he gave her a glance of quick astonishment, then set it back on his head. He scowled, as though he had got more than he had bargained for.
At his look, Amber’s smile and excitement went suddenly dead. “Don’t you want me to go?” She was almost ready to cry.
“My dear, your aunt and uncle would never approve.”
“What do I care! I want to go with you! I hate Marygreen! I never want to see it again! Oh, please, your Lordship. Let me go with you.” Marygreen and her life there had suddenly become intolerable. He had crystallized all the restlessness, the thirst and longing for a broader, brighter life which had been working within her, half unrealized, ever since she had first talked to the cobbler many years ago.
“London’s no place for an unmarried girl without money or acquaintance,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, which even Amber knew meant that he did not care to be troubled with her. And then he added, perhaps because he was sorry to hurt her, “I won’t be there long. And what would you do when I go? It wouldn’t be easy to come back here—I know well enough what an English village thinks of such escapades. And in London there aren’t many means of livelihood open to a woman. No, my dear, I think you’d better stay here.”
All of a sudden, to his surprise as well as her own, she burst into tears. “I won’t stay here! I won’t! I can’t stay here now! How d’ye think I’m to explain to my Uncle Matt where I’ve been these two hours—when a hundred people I know saw us leave the fair grounds!”
A look of annoyance crossed his face, but she did not see it. “I told you that would happen,” he reminded her. “But even if he’s angry it’ll be better for you to go back and—”
She interrupted him. “I’m not going back! I won’t live here any more, d’ye hear? And if you won’t take me with you—then I’ll go alone!” She stopped suddenly and stood looking up at him, angry and defiant, but pleading, too. “Oh, please—your Lordship. Take me along.”