She was less confident, however, about herself. “Gemini!” she whispered, round-eyed, to Almsbury. “How handsome all the ladies are!”
“There’s not one of ’em,” said the Earl, “half so pretty as you.”
She gave him a grateful, sparkling smile and slipped her arm through his. She and Almsbury had become great friends and though he had not asked again to sleep with her he had told her that if she ever needed money or help he would be glad to give it. She thought that he had fallen in love with her.
And then all at once something happened. A ripple of excitement flowed along the Gallery, turning heads as it passed, catching the Earl and Amber in its wake.
“Here comes Mrs. Palmer!”
Amber’s head turned with every other. And she saw advancing toward them, with people falling back on either side to make way for her, a magnificent red-haired white-skinned woman, trailing behind her a serving-woman, two pages, and a blackamoor. Haughty and arrogant, she walked with her head held high, seeing no one, though she could not but be well aware of the excitement she was creating. Amber’s eyes began to burn with rage and jealousy and her heart set up a suffocating flutter. She was sickeningly afraid that Madame Palmer would see Almsbury—who she knew was acquainted with her—and stop. But she did not. She went past them without a glance.
“Oh! I hate her!” The words burst out as though driven by some pent-up violence.
“Sweetheart,” said Almsbury, “someday you’ll learn it’s impossible to hate every woman a gentleman may make love to. It wears out your own guts, and that’s all the good it does.”
But Amber neither could nor wished to accept his Lordship’s mellow philosophy. “I don’t care if it does!” she insisted stubbornly. “I do hate her! And I hope she gets the pox!”
“No doubt she will.”
After that they went to the Banqueting Hall to watch the King dine in state, which he usually did at one o’clock on Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. The galleries were massed to see him but he did not come and at last they had to go away, disappointed. Amber had been much impressed when she had seen King Charles the day he returned to London; after Bruce she thought him the finest man in England.
About the first of August Amber became convinced that she was pregnant, partly because she had at least one symptom but mostly because it was forever on her mind. For a couple of weeks past she had waited and counted on her fingers and nothing had happened. Now her breasts began to feel stretched and sore and as though pricked by a thousand pins. She wanted to tell Bruce and yet she was half scared, for she guessed that he would not be pleased.
He got up early every morning—no matter how late he might have come in the night before—and Amber would put on her dressing-gown and talk to him until he left, after which she went back to sleep again. On this day she sat at the edge of the bed, swinging her bare feet and pulling a tortoise-shell comb through the tangled snarls of her hair. Bruce stood near her, wearing only his breeches and shoes, shaving with a long sharp-bladed razor.
For several minutes Amber watched him and neither of them spoke. Each time she tried to open her mouth her heart gave a leap and her courage failed her. Then all at once she said: “Bruce—what if I should get with child?”
He gave a slight involuntary start and cut himself, the bright blood showing in a little line on his chin, and then he turned to look at her. “Why do you say that? Do you think you are?”
“Well—haven’t you noticed anything?” She felt strangely embarrassed.
“Noticed what? Oh—I hadn’t thought about it.” He scowled and even though it was not at her she felt a sudden frightened loneliness; then he turned back, took up a small bottle and put a drop of liquid styptic on the cut. “Jesus!” he muttered.
“Oh, Bruce!” She jumped off the bed and ran to him. “Please don’t be mad at me!”
He had started shaving again. “Mad at you? It’s my fault. I intended to be careful—but sometimes I forgot.”
Amber looked at him, puzzled. What was he talking about? She’d heard in Marygreen that it was possible to avoid pregnancy by spitting three times into the mouth of a frog or drinking sheep’s urine, but Sarah had warned her often enough that such methods were unreliable.
“Sometimes you forgot what?”
“Nothing it will do any good to remember now.” He wiped his face with a towel, tossed the towel onto the table-top and then turned to put on the rest of his clothes. “Oh, Lord, Amber —I’m sorry. This is a devil of a mess.”
She was quiet for a moment, but finally she said, “You don’t like babies, do you?”
She asked the question so naively, looked up at him with so sad and wistful an expression that all at once he took her into his arms and held her head against his chest while one hand stroked tenderly over her hair. “Yes, my darling, of course I like them.” His mouth was pressed against the top of her head, but his eyes were troubled and a little angry.
“What are we to do?” she asked him at last.
Held close in his arms with her body against his she felt warm and safe and happy—the problem had dissolved. For though he had told her he would not marry her and she had believed it at first, now she was almost convinced that he would. Why shouldn’t he? They loved each other, they were happy together, and during the past several weeks of living with him she had almost forgotten that he was a lord and she the niece of a yeoman farmer. What might once have seemed impossible to the point of absurdity now seemed to her quite natural and logical.
He let her go and stood with his arms hanging at his sides while he talked, his green-grey eyes hard and uncompromising, watching her steadily. There was no doubt he meant every word he said.
“I’m not going to marry you, Amber. I told you that at the first and I’ve never once said anything to the contrary. I’m sorry this has happened—but you knew it probably would. And remember, it was your idea that you come to London—not mine. I won’t just leave you to drift—I’ll do everything I can to make it easier for you—everything that won’t interfere with my own plans. I’ll leave you money enough to take care of yourself and the baby. If you won’t go back to Marygreen the best thing is for you to go to one of the women here in London who take care of pregnant women and arrange for their lying-in—some of those places are very comfortable and no one will inquire too closely for your husband. When you’re well again you can do as you like. With a few hundred pound in cash a woman as beautiful as you are should be able to marry a country-squire, at the least—or perhaps a knight, if you’re clever enough—”
Amber stared at him. She was suddenly furious, all the pride and happiness she had felt at the prospect of bearing him a child was drowned now in pain and outraged pride. The sound of his voice enraged her—talking so coolly, as if falling in love with a man and having his baby was a matter to be settled with money and logic, like provisioning a ship! She almost hated him.
“Oh!” she cried. “So you’ll give me money enough to catch a knight—if I’m clever! Well, I don’t want to catch a knight! And I don’t want your money, either! And as for the matter of that—I don’t want your baby! I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on you! I hope you go away and I never see you again! I hate you! —Oh!—” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
Bruce stood watching her for a moment, but at last he put on his hat and started out of the room. Amber looked up. And when he had scarcely reached the bedroom door she ran after him.
“Where are you going?”
“Down to the wharf.”
“Will you come back tonight? Please come back! Please don’t leave me alone!”
“Yes—I’ll try to get here early. Amber—” His voice was again warm and smooth, caressing, tender. “I know this is hard for you and I’m truly sorry it’s happened. But it’ll be over sooner than you expect and you’ll be none the worse for it. It’s really no great tragedy when a woman has a baby—”