Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

AMBER DECIDED TO go to Tunbridge Wells in the hope that drinking the waters would make her feel better. She set out early the next morning in her coach with Nan and Tansy, Tempest and Jeremiah. As it was raining, they could travel at but little more than a foot-pace, and even then the coach almost turned over several times.

Amber rode along in sullen silence, eyes tight shut and teeth clenched, not even hearing the chattering of Nan and Tansy. She had taken Mrs. Fagg’s evil-tasting medicine and her belly was full of grinding cramps which seemed worse than those of child-birth. She wished that the earth would open and swallow them all, that a thunderbolt from heaven would strike her, or merely that she would die and be relieved of her misery. She told herself that if a man ever dared make her an indecent proposal again, though for a thousand pound in gold, she would have him kicked like a common lackey.

They stopped at an inn late that afternoon and went on the next morning. The medicine had taken its effect but she felt even worse than she had the day before, and at each turn of the wheels she longed to open her mouth and scream as loud as she could. She scarcely noticed when the coach came to a stop and Nan began wiping at the steamy window with her sleeve, putting her face against it to look out.

“Lord, mam! I hope we’re not set upon by highwaymen!” She had had the same apprehension almost every time Tempest and Jeremiah had stopped to pry the wheels out of the mud.

Amber scowled crossly, but kept her eyes shut. “My God, Nan! You expect a highwayman behind every tree! I tell you they don’t go abroad in weather like this!”

At that moment Jeremiah opened the door. “It’s a gentleman, mam, who’s been stopped by highwaymen and his horses taken.”

Nan gave a little cry and turned to her with an accusing stare. Amber made a face. “Well, ask him if he wants to ride with us. But tell ’im we’re only going to the Wells.”

The man who returned with Jeremiah was perhaps sixty, though his skin was clear and smooth and fresh-coloured. His hair was white, cut much shorter than a Cavalier’s, and was not curled but had merely a slight natural wave. He was handsome, somewhat above six feet, erect and broad-shouldered. The clothes he wore were old-fashioned but well made of fine materials, sober black and untrimmed with ribbon or gold braid.

He bowed to her politely, but his manner suggested nothing of the French-tutored courtier. This was some plain City-bred man, very likely a Parliamentarian who thought the worst of Charles Stuart and all his beribboned cursing whoring sword-fighting crew—a substantial merchant, perhaps, or a jeweller or a goldsmith.

“Good afternoon, madame. It’s very kind of you to invite me into your coach. Are you quite sure I won’t be making you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all, sir. I’m glad to be of service. Pray get in, before the rain soaks you through.”

He climbed in, Nan and Tansy moved over to make room for him, and the coach started off. “My name is Samuel Dangerfield, madame.”

“Mine is Mrs. St. Clare.”

Mrs. St. Clare obviously meant nothing to him, and for once she welcomed the anonymity. “Did my coachman tell you that I’m only going as far as Tunbridge? I don’t doubt you can hire horses and another coach there.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, madame. But as it happens I too am going to Tunbridge.”

They talked little after that and Nan explained her mistress’s silence by saying that she was suffering wretchedly from a quartan ague. Mr. Dangerfield was sympathetic, said he had had that ailment himself, and suggested bleeding as a sovereign remedy. Within three hours they arrived at the village.

Tunbridge Wells was a fashionable spa and the previous summer her Majesty and all the Court had paid it a visit; but now, in mid-January, it was a dreary deserted scattered little village. Not a person was in sight, the elms that lined the single main street were naked and forlorn, and only the smoke drifting from several chimneys gave evidence of life.

Amber and Samuel Dangerfield parted at the inn, where he had accommodations, and she promptly forgot him. She rented a neat little three-room cottage, furnished with very old polished oak, chintz curtains, and an array of shining brass and copper utensils. For four days she did not get out of bed but lay sleeping and resting, and by the end of that time her vitality and energy began to return. She started worrying again about what was to become of her.

“Well, I can’t go back to London, that’s sure as the small-pox,” she told Nan as she sat morosely in bed, propped against pillows and plucking at her brows with a silver-plated tweezer.

“I’m sure I don’t see why, mam.”

“Don’t see why! D’you think I’d ever go back to that scurvy theatre again, and have every town-fop laughing in his fist at me? I will not!”

“Well, after all, mam, you can go back to London without going back to the stage, can’t you? It’s a sorry mouse that has but one hole.” Nan liked well-worn aphorisms.

“I don’t know where else I’d go,” muttered Amber.

Nan drew in a deep breath to prepare for her next speech, but kept her eyes on her deftly stitching needle. “I still think, mam, that if you’d take lodgings in the City and set yourself up for a rich widow you’d not be long a-catching a husband. Maybe you don’t want to—but beggars should be no choosers.”

Amber looked at her sharply. Then suddenly she flung the tweezers away, tossed the mirror aside and slumped back against the pillows with her arms folded. For several moments both women remained silent and Nan did not even glance at her glowering mistress. But at last Amber smoothed out her face and gave a sigh.

“I wonder,” she said, “if Mr. What-d’ye-call—who had his horses stolen—is rich enough to bother with.” Mr. Dangerfield had sent two days earlier to inquire if her ague was improving; she had returned a careless ungracious reply and had thought nothing of him since then.

“He might be, mam. He’s got a mighty handsome young footman I could go talk to for a while.”

Nan came back a couple of hours later flushed and excited—not altogether, Amber suspected, by the news she had heard. “Well?” asked Amber, who was lying out flat with her arms braced behind her head. She had spent the time since Nan’s departure gloomily mulling over her past errors and disliking the men she considered to have been responsible for them. “What did you find out?”

Nan swept into the room, bringing with her a gust of cool fresh air from the outside and a buoyant energy. “I found out everything!” she declared triumphantly, untying the strings of her hood and throwing it into a chair. With her cloak still on she rushed to the bed and sat down beside Amber, who stubbornly refused to catch her enthusiasm. “I found out that Mr. Samuel Dangerfield is one of the richest men in England!”

“One of the richest men in—England!” repeated Amber slowly, still incredulous.

“Yes! He’s got a fortune! Oh, I can’t remember! Two hundred thousand pound or something like that! John says everybody knows how rich he is! He’s a merchant and he’s—”

“Two hundred thous—Is he married?” demanded Amber suddenly, as her wits began to revive.

“No, he isn’t! He was but his wife died—six years ago I think John said. But he’s got fourteen children; some other ones are dead—I forget how many. He comes up here every year to drink the waters for his health—he had a stroke. And he’s just getting ready now to go down to the wells—Big John’s going with ’im!”

Suddenly Amber flung back the covers and began to get out of bed. “I think I’ll go drink some waters myself. Get out my green velvet gown with the gold braid and the green cloak. Is it muddy enough to wear chopins?”

“I think it is, mam.” Nan was scurrying busily about, searching through unfamiliar drawers for smocks and petticoats, ransacking the still half-unpacked trunk for garters and ribbons, chattering all the while. “Only to think, mam! What luck we’re in! I vow and swear you must have been born with a caul on your head!” Both women were gayer and in better spirits than they had been for some weeks past.

It had stopped raining the day before and the night had been cold, so that there was a crust on the mud. A pale sun sifted down through the grey-blue sky and there were whiffs of clouds overhead, too white and thin to threaten more immediate rain. Country girls in straw hats and short skirts, with baskets over their arms, appeared in the street crying their wares of poultry and fresh butter, milk and vegetables. And when Amber, with Nan and Tansy, strolled to the well two young men in ribboned suits and plumed hats, with long curling wigs and elaborate swords, bowed ceremoniously and begged leave to present themselves. It was the custom of such resort-places, where a man might with propriety introduce himself.

They were Frank Kifflin and Will Wigglesworth and they told her that they had come down from London to avoid a lady who was beginning to insist that Will marry her. Amber had never seen either of them at the theatre and decided that they were most likely a pair of rooks who posed as men of quality, or perhaps younger sons who had to live like gentlemen without being given the means to do so. Card-sharpers, pick-pockets, forgers, they preyed upon the naive and unsuspecting—young country squires and heiresses were their easiest dupes. Luke Channell had been a crude specimen of the breed; Dick Robbins who had lived at Mother Red-Cap’s a subtler and more clever one. Probably, since Tunbridge could not be a very fertile field for such activities at that time of the year, they had been run out of London or some other city and were in temporary retirement here.