Amber spent several days exploring Lime Park.

There were dozens of rooms, all of them filled with furniture and pictures and objects which had come from every part of the world but which, by means of his Lordship’s own peculiar alchemy, had been made to harmonize perfectly. The Italian gardens were immense and laid out in great terraces surrounding the south and east sides of the house and connected by marble flights of steps and broad gravelled walks. There were long shaded alleys of cypress and yew, and avenues of clipped, bright-green lime-trees; there were flowers in stone vases lining the stairs or walks or set on the balustrades. There was not a ragged hedge nor a weed to be found anywhere. Even the stables were immaculate, walled inside with Dutch tile and kept freshly whitewashed, and there were an orangerie, greenhouses, and a pretty little summer-house.

It was no wonder, she thought, that he had been in debt. But now that she saw what her money had been spent for she was less resentful, for she looked at everything with the appraising critical eye of an owner. She passed nothing without making a decision as to whether she would want to keep it or sell it when the time came. For certainly nothing should stay hidden out here in the country where no one of any consequence might see and admire it. These fine things were destined for London: perhaps apartments in Whitehall or some grand new house in St. James’s Square or Piccadilly.

At first Jennifer was shy, but Amber—because she had nothing else to do and also because she was a little sorry for her—made the effort to become friendly. The girl responded with warm gratitude, for she had grown up in a large family and was lonely here, where, even with more than two hundred servants, the house seemed empty and dull.

It was now the end of April and the days were often warm and pleasant. The nightingales had arrived, cherry and plum trees were in full bloom and the gardens were filled with the sweet scent of potted lilacs. Jennifer and Amber, gaily chatting and laughing, strolled over the green lawns arm in arm, their silk gowns gently blowing, admiring the raucous-tongued peacocks. In no time at all they seemed fast friends.

Like a woman in love, Amber was forever talking of London, where Jennifer had never been. She told her about the theatres and the taverns, Hyde Park and Pall Mall and Whitehall, the gambling in the Queen’s Drawing-Rooms, the balls and the hawking parties. For to her London was the center of the universe and whoever was absent from it might almost as well have been on a distant star.

“Oh, there’s nothing so fine,” she cried enthusiastically, “as to see all the Court driving in the Ring! Everyone bows and smiles at everyone else each time they come round and his Majesty lifts his hat to the ladies and sometimes he calls out to them too. Oh, Jenny, you must come to London one day!” She continued to talk as if she were still there.

Jenny had always listened with great interest and asked innumerable questions, but now she gave an apologetic little smile. “It sounds very fine but—well, I think I’d rather hear about it than see it myself.”

“What?” cried Amber, shocked at this blasphemy. “But London’s the only place in the world to be! Why don’t you want to go?”

Jenny made a vague, deprecatory gesture. She was always acutely conscious of the greater strength of Amber’s personality, and it made her feel embarrassed and almost guilty to express an opinion of her own. “I don’t know. I think I’d feel strange there. It’s so big and there are so many people and all the ladies are so handsome and wear such fine clothes—I’d be out of place. Why, I’d be lost.” Her voice had a timid and almost desperate sound, as though she were already lost in that great terrifying city.

Amber laughed and slipped one arm about her daughter-in-law’s waist. “Why, Jenny, with paint and patches and a low-necked gown you’d be as pretty as anyone! I’ll warrant you the gallants wouldn’t let you alone—they’d be after you day and night.”

Jenny giggled, and her face grew pink. “Oh, your Ladyship, you know they wouldn’t! My heavens! I wouldn’t even know what to say to a gallant!”

“Of course you would, Jenny. You know what to say to Philip, don’t you, and all men are alike. There’s just one topic that interests ’em when they’re talking to a woman.”

Jenny turned red. “Oh, but I’m married to Philip and he— well—” She changed the subject hastily. “Is it really true what they say about the Court?”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Oh, you know. They say such terrible things. They say everyone drinks and swears and that even her Majesty plays cards on Sunday. They say his Majesty sometimes doesn’t so much as see the Queen for months at a time, he’s so busy with his other—er, ladies.”

“Nonsense! He sees her every day and he’s as kind and fond as can be—he says she’s the best woman in the world.”

Jenny was relieved. “Then it isn’t true that he’s unfaithful to her?”

“Oh, yes, he is. All men are unfaithful to their wives, aren’t they, if they get a chance?” But at that Jenny looked so stricken she gave her a little squeeze and added hastily, “Except men who live in the country—they’re different.”

And at first she half thought that Philip was different. The instant he had seen her his eyes had lighted with surprise and admiration—but his father was there and the look swiftly passed. After that she met him seldom, usually only at dinner and supper, and then he paid her the same deferential consideration she might have expected had she been at least twenty years older. He very politely tried to pretend that she actually was nearer his father’s age than his own. Amber finally decided, correctly, that he was afraid of her.

Prompted by boredom and mischief and a desire to revenge herself on Radclyffe, she set out to make Philip fall in love with her. But she knew the Earl well enough to realize that she would have to be cautious, and take strictly in private any satisfaction she might find in cuckolding him with his own son. For if he should ever suspect or guess—but she refused to think of that, for nothing violent or cruel seemed beyond him. But Philip was the only young and personable and virile male at Lime Park, and she craved excitement as well as the flattery of a man’s adoration.

One rainy morning she met him in the gallery where they stopped to talk for a moment about the weather. He would have gone on almost immediately but she suggested a game of shovel-board and while he was trying to find an excuse she hurried him off to where the table was set. After that they bowled or played cards occasionally, and a couple of times, apparently by accident, they met at the stables and rode together. Jenny was pregnant and could not ride.

But Philip continued to treat Amber like a step-mother and even seemed to be somewhat in awe of her, which was an emotion she was not accustomed to rousing in men, either young or old. She decided that he must have forgotten everything he had learned on his Tour.

She saw Radclyffe no oftener now than when they had been in town. He supervised every detail regarding the house which was not attended to by the steward (for he refused to allow a woman to manage his household); he planned new arrangements for the gardens, directed the workmen, and spent hours in his laboratory or in the library. He never rode horseback or played a game or a musical instrument, and though he was sometimes out-of-doors it was never to idle but always for a definite purpose and when it was accomplished he returned to the house. He wrote interminably. When Amber asked him what it was, he told her. He was writing the complete history of every article of value he had acquired so that the family would always know what its possessions were. He also wrote poetry, but never offered to read it to her and she never asked to see it. She thought it a very dull occupation and could not imagine a man wasting his time shut up in a dark close room when outside the white violets were poignantly fragrant, beech-trees were hung with purple clusters of bloom, and clean cool rain-swept air washed over the hills.

When she tried to quarrel with him about returning to London he told her flatly that she had conducted herself like a fool there and was not fit to live where she would be subjected to temptation. He repeated that if she wanted to go back alone he was willing to have her do so, but he reminded her that if she did she would forfeit her money to him—all but ten thousand pounds. She shouted at him in a fury that she would never turn that money over to him, not if she had to stay in the country for the rest of her life.

Consequently, convinced that she might be there a long while, she sent for Nan and Susanna and Big John Waterman. Nan, who had earlier had one miscarriage and one abortion, was now pregnant again—this time by Big John—and though it was the fifth month and Amber told her not to come if she thought it might hurt her, she arrived within a fortnight.

As always, they seemed to have a great deal to talk about, for both women were interested in the same things and they gossiped and chattered and exchanged intimate personal details without hesitation or self-consciousness. Jenny’s innocence and inexperience had begun to bore Amber who was relieved to have someone she could talk to frankly, someone who knew her for exactly what she was and who did not care. When she told Nan that she intended seducing her husband’s son Nan laughed and said there was no limit to a woman’s desperation once she was carried off into the country. For certainly Philip could not bear comparison with Charles II or Lord Carlton.