She had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must have a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop in London on his return to see if he might catch the King’s eye and perhaps bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl of Danforth and bridegroom.

Overjoyed, she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for her clothes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a gentleman to her taste.

The letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.

“My dear Lucilla,” it read. “Pray accept of the good thoughts and best wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.

“We were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald’s marriage, happening so suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you’ve heard that she’s thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays, but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.

“I hope to have the pleasure of your company soon. No doubt you will be coming to London as soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.

“Your very humble and obedient servant, madame,


”I am,

“Margaret, Lady Clifford.”

There it was. Like a rock dropped in the middle of a quiet pool. “As soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.” What did her Ladyship mean?

Were they married and not living together? Where was he living then? Where was she living? She read the letter over again, very carefully, and this time she could pick out several more ominous suggestions. She decided that she could not get there too soon for her son’s welfare.

And now here she was, in the very presence of the hussy, all her outraged virtue seething within her—and she found that in spite of herself she was embarrassed and uneasy. Twenty years of living secluded, of seeing only her children and the villagers and near neighbours, of scraping to keep them in food and clothes and trying to save money enough so that Gerald could cut a figure at Oxford and abroad, watching her good looks grow overblown and begin to fade, had not prepared her for this moment.

Because, for all her awareness that behind her stood generations of haughty ancestors—while this creature was a reputed upstart from the theatres or some place even worse—she was bewildered and overawed by the other woman’s cool self-possession, her fine clothes, her casual confident beauty. Above all, by her youth. Still, Lady Stanhope was of sterner stuff than her shy awkward son. Now she smiled at her daughter-in-law who sat facing her while they waited for the tea to be brought, and she fluttered her fan as if the room were too hot, tipping her head archly to one side.

“And so you are my new daughter-in-law? How pretty you are, too. Gerry must be very proud of you. I assure you I’ve been hearing a great deal about you.”

“So soon? I thought your Ladyship had only just arrived in town.”

“Oh, by letter, my dear! Lady Clifford is my very dear friend and has kept me as intimately informed as if I were living on the Piazza. It’s been a great diversion to me, I assure you, through these last years when I’ve been too sadly stricken by the death of my dear husband to venture into company. Oh, I’m as competent a gossip as if I’d been here all along, I warrant you.”

She gave a little laugh, glancing brightly at the uncomfortable Gerry and then at her daughter-in-law, wondering if the wench had wit enough to understand her meaning. But either she did not or she did not care.

“Well,” said Amber, “there’s nothing so plentiful as gossip these days. That’s one thing we don’t have to depend upon the French for.”

Lady Stanhope cleared her throat slightly and turned to lay one hand over Gerald’s, giving him a fond maternal beam. “How my Gerry has changed! I haven’t seen him since he set out for the Continent—two years ago this coming June. I vow he looks as modish as a French count. Well, madame, I hope you’ll be happy together. I’m sure Gerry can make a woman as happy as any man in Europe—And there’s nothing so important to a woman as a happy marriage—for all that some lewd persons like to ridicule matrimony nowadays.”

Amber smiled faintly but did not answer. And at that moment the footman appeared, followed by two others, who laid before them an elaborate silver tea-table and service with little China porcelain tea-bowls and small crystal glasses for the brandy which always followed.

Lady Stanhope feigned enthusiasm. “How extraordinary good this tea is! Pray, where did you get it? Mine was never so fine, I assure you.”

“Lady Almsbury’s steward got this—at the East India House, I suppose.”

“Hmm—delicious.” She took another sip. “I suppose that you and Gerry will be moving soon into your own home?”

Amber smiled over the rim of her dish at her, her eyes seeming to slant, shining and hard as a cat’s. “Perhaps we’ll build a house one day—when workmen are easier to find. Just now they’re all engaged in the City, putting up taverns.”

“But what will you do in the meantime, my dear?” The Baroness looked innocent and amazed.

“Why, I suppose we’ll continue as we are. It seems a comfortable arrangement, don’t you agree, sir?”

Gerald, thus appealed to, with his wife’s and his mother’s eyes suddenly upon him, started a little and spilled some tea on his white lace cravat. “Why—a—yes. I suppose so. It seems well enough, at least for now.”

“Nonsense, Gerald!” sharply contradicted his mother. “It’s shocking! I may as well tell you bluntly, my dear,” she said, turning back to Amber, “it’s all the talk.”

“Don’t you mean, madame, it was all the talk? Frances Stewart’s elopement is à la mode now.”

The Baroness was becoming exasperated. This was not the kind of resistance to which her years of ruling a pliable son and two meek daughters had accustomed her, and she found it both insulting and annoying. Didn’t the jade realize that she was her mother-in-law, a person of some importance, as well as of far higher quality than herself?

“Have your jest, my dear. But nevertheless it’s an unheard-of thing that a husband and wife should live apart. The world is censorious, you know, and such an arrangement calls into question the integrity of both—but most especially of the wife. I know the age is different from the one I was married in, but let me assure you, madame, that even present-day manners will not condone a thing of that sort.” The longer she talked the more excited she became; at the end she was like an outraged pouter-pigeon.

Amber was beginning to grow angry too. But she saw Gerald’s miserable pleading face and restrained herself, taking pity on him. She set down her tea-dish and poured the brandy. “Well, I’m sorry if the arrangement is not to your liking, madame, but since it suits both of us I think we’ll leave it as it is.”

The Baroness’s mouth flew open again but her protest was cut off, for at that moment Lady Almsbury entered the room. Amber presented the two women to each other and this time Gerald’s mother embraced her new acquaintance with enthusiasm, kissing her on the mouth, making a very obvious contrast between the honour she was prepared to show a plain and good woman and what was due an impertinent strumpet, even if she was her daughter-in-law.

“I heard you’d come, madame,” said Emily, taking another chair beside the fireplace and accepting the dish of tea which Amber gave her, “and I wanted to bid you welcome. You must find London sadly changed.”

“Indeed I do, madame,” agreed Lady Stanhope quickly. “It was not thus when I was last here in ’43, let me tell you!”

“Well, it looks almost hopeless now. But they’ve already made some very fine plans and building has begun in various parts of the City. They say that one day London will rise again, more glorious than ever—though of course it made us all sad to see the old London go. But pray, my lady, was your trip pleasant?”

“Heavens, no! It was wretched! I was telling her Ladyship only a few moments since that I dared not wear any fine clothes for fear of spoiling them! But it had been two years since I’d seen Gerry—and I knew he wouldn’t think of leaving London when he’d just been married, so I came in spite of everything.”