“You know where I got it! It was lying on the floor in the master-cabin of the Dragon!”

“Well, what if it was? I hope I can visit a man who’s gone to sea to fight the Dutch!”

“Visit him! Don’t try to put that upon me! I know what kind of visiting you do! I know what you are! You’re a harlot—! You’ve cuckolded my father!”

Amber stood and stared at Jemima and her flesh began to crawl with loathing and hatred. “You whining little bitch,” she said slowly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? You’re jealous because I got what you wanted.” She began to mimic her, repeating exactly the words and tone Jemima had used scarcely an hour before, but giving to them a savage twist that mocked and ridiculed. “Then now! Oh, Bruce, please! Just this once more—” She laughed, enjoying the horror and humiliation that came onto Jemima’s face.

“Oh,” said Jemima softly. “I never knew what you were like before—”

“Well, now you do but it won’t do you any good.” Amber was brisk and confident, thinking that she would settle Jemima’s business for her now, once and forever. “Because if you’re thinking to tell your father what you know about me, just stop long enough to consider what he’d say if he knew that his daughter had been sneaking out of the house to meet a man at public taverns! He’d be stark staring mad!”

“How do you know that!”

“Lord Carlton told me.”

“You couldn’t prove it—”

“Oh, couldn’t I? I could call in a midwife and have you examined, remember!”

Amber had been about to order Jemima triumphantly from the room, when her next words came with the unexpected shock of a mid-summer thunderclap. “Call in anyone you like! I don’t care what you do! But I can tell you this much—either you make Father stop my-wedding to Joseph Cuttle or I’ll tell him about you and Lord Carlton!”

“You wouldn’t dare! Why it—it might kill him!”

“It might kill him! Much you’d care! That’s what you want and you know it! Oh, the rest of them were right about you all along! What a fool I was not to see it! But I know what you are now—you’re nothing but a whore.”

“And so are you. The only difference between us is that I got what I went for—and you didn’t.”

Jemima gasped and the next instant lashed out with the palm of her right hand and smacked Amber on the cheek. So swiftly that it seemed to be part of the same movement Amber returned the slap, and with her other hand she grabbed a fistful of hair and gave a jerk that snapped Jemima’s head back like a chicken’s. Jemima screamed in sudden fright and viciously Amber slapped her again. Her self-control had slipped away and she was not even wholly conscious of what she was doing. Jemima began to struggle to free herself, now genuinely terrified and screeching for help. The sight of her scared eyes and the sound of her cries infuriated Amber; she had a sudden savage determination to kill her. It was Nan, who rushed into the room and threw herself between them, who saved Jemima from a serious mauling.

“Mam!” she was shouting. “Mam! For God’s sake! Are you mad!”

Amber’s hands dropped to her sides and she gave an angry shake of her head to toss the hair back from her face. “Get out of here!” she cried. “Get out and don’t trouble me again, d’ye hear?” The last words were a hysterical shriek, but Jemima had already fled, sobbing.


It was not easy to convince Samuel that Jemima’s wedding must be postponed. But she did, at last, succeed in making him agree to put it off for a few more weeks to let the poor child recover from her grief at Lord Carlton’s departure. Amber, nervous and worried and lonely for Bruce, was made even more morose and irritable by pregnancy. But she had to conceal her ill-humour from everyone but Nan, who listened patiently and with sympathetic concern to her mistress’s perpetual grumbling and sighing.

“I’m so damned sick and tired of being virtuous,” she said wearily one day as she came in from having paid several afternoon calls.

She spent a great deal of time visiting the wives and daughters of Samuel’s friends, sitting about and discussing babies and servants and sickness with them until she wanted to yell. She worked hard at being a respectable woman. Now all at once she arranged her mouth into a smug smile and began to mimic the elderly aunt upon whom she had just called. No one—not even the immediate family—had yet been told that she was pregnant, though Samuel knew it and was almost absurdly delighted.

“My dear, I do hope you’ll soon prove with child. Believe me, no woman can know what it is to be truly happy until she holds her first little one in her arms and feels its tiny mouth at her breast.” Amber screwed up her face and gave a noisy rattle with her tongue: “I’ll be damned if I can see where the pleasure is to throw-up every morning and look like a stuffed pig and blow and puff like an old nag going up Snow Hill!” She slammed her fan onto the floor. “Crimini! I’m sick of this business!”

To make matters worse, when Bruce had been gone four weeks Samuel firmly announced that the wedding-date was definitely set for October 15th. Nothing at all, he assured her, would induce him to change his mind again. The Cuttles were growing impatient, people were beginning to wonder at the delay, and it was high time Jemima stop her foolishness and behave like a grown woman. Amber was frantic with worry and though she mulled over her problem most of the day and half the night she could discover no solution. Jemima warned her again that if she did not do something to stop it she would tell her Father, even though he threw both of them into the streets.

“Oh, Lord, Nan! After everything I’ve been through to get that money I’m going to lose it! I’ll never get a shilling! Oh, I always knew something would happen! I knew I’d never really be that rich!”

“Something ’ll save you, mam,” insisted Nan cheerfully. “I know it will. Your stars are lucky.”

“Something?” demanded Amber, her voice sliding up an octave. “But what! And when?”

By the tenth Amber was half-wild with worry and remorse. She wished that she had never seen Bruce Carlton. She wished that she was back home in Marygreen and married to Jack Clarke or Bob Starling. She paced the floor and beat her hands together and bit her knuckles.

Oh, my God, my God, my God, what am I to do!

Thus she was one morning, still in her dressing-gown and walking distractedly about the bedroom, when Nan came rushing in. Her cheeks were pink and her blue eyes sparkled triumphantly. “Mam! What d’ye think? I just saw one of Mrs. Jemima’s women and she told me Mrs. Jemima’s been in a green-sickness all this past fortnight—but no one’s supposed to know it!”

Amber stared at her. “Why, Nan!” she said softly.

And then all at once she ran out of the bedroom, down the long hallway toward the opposite wing of the house, and into Jemima’s chamber. She found it crowded with dressmakers, maids, several mercers and other tradesmen. Amber had told her that if she would go ahead and pretend she was going to be married, she would somehow find another excuse at the last moment—if she had to throw herself out the window. And Jemima, not because she wished to oblige her step-mother, but because she really was confused and helpless, had done so.

There were gowns heaped on every chair and stool, lengths of brocade and satin and sheer tiffany ran like rivers over the floor, fur-skins lay in soft shining piles. Jemima stood in the midst of the crowded, noisy room, her back turned to the door, having her wedding-gown fitted; it was made of the gold cloth Lord Carlton had given her.

Amber came in breezily. “Oh, Jemima!” she cried. “Such a marvellous gown! How I envy you—getting married in that!”

Jemima gave her a sullen, warning glance from over her shoulder. But Amber saw to her satisfaction that the girl was pale and seemed tired.

“Are you almost done now?”

Jemima spoke wearily to two of the dressmakers who were kneeling about her on the floor, pins in their mouths, arranging each smallest fold and crease with the most meticulous care.

“In a moment, madame. Can’t you bear it just a little longer?”

Jemima sighed. “Very well. But hurry—please.”

Amber went to stand before Jemima, her head cocked to one side as she examined the dress, and her eyes ran tauntingly up and down the girl’s figure. She saw Jemima begin to fidget nervously, a faint shine of sweat came to her forehead; and then all at once her arms dropped and she sank to the floor, her head falling back, her eyes rolling. The dressmakers and maids gave excited squeaks and the men stepped aside in alarm.

Amber took charge. “Pick her up and lay her on the bed. Carter, bring some cold water. You—run for some brandy.”

With the help of two of the maids she got Jemima out of her gown, took the pillow from under her head and began to unlace her busk. When Carter brought the cold water she sent them all out of the room—though Carter was obviously reluctant to leave Jemima in the care of her step-mother—and wrung out a cloth to lay on Jemima’s forehead.

It was not more than a minute before Jemima regained consciousness and looked up at Amber, who leaned above her. “What did I do?” she asked softly, her eyes going uncertainly about the empty room.

“You fainted. Take a sip of this brandy and you’ll feel better.” Amber put her hand behind Jemima’s head and tipped it forward. Both of them were silent for a moment, and Jemima made a face as she tasted the brandy.

“The dizzy feeling’s gone,” she said at last. “You can call the others back in now.” She started to sit up.