Amethyst (14 page)

AMY SPOONED SOUP,
letting the conversation swirl around her. The buzz was calming, soothing. Like layers of flannel protected jewelry, the family's chatter protected her from her own thoughts.

"Did you pay Charles a visit at Whitehall?" Kendra asked Colin.

The question startled Amy from her trance.

At Whitehall?
she mouthed silently. Was this family on intimate terms with His Majesty? She sneaked Colin an incredulous sidelong glance, then chided herself.

Why should she be surprised? They lived in a castle, after all. Jason was a marquess, Colin an earl, Ford a something-or-other…a viscount, that was it. Titles all granted by Charles, Kendra had told her, explaining the unusual situation.

Colin shifted beside her. "No, Charles rode out to Moorfields. He sat on his horse in the midst of the woebegone crowd, the ruins of St. Paul's in the background, wisps of smoke rising from the rubble of the City. The stories of his heroism during the fire spread quickly, and those who didn't witness it are as loyal as those who did. He vowed, by the grace of God, to take particular care of all Londoners, by means of exciting plans for rebuilding. Great cheers went up…old Charles is a popular man these days."

Painted by Colin's vibrant words, Amy could picture the scene in her head: her king, seated tall atop his horse, addressing his adoring subjects. It was history in the making, and she loved history.

She sighed in satisfaction.

"What are these plans?" Jason asked. "Did he elaborate?"

"He issued a proclamation that all new construction should be done according to a general plan, so that London would—let me see if I can remember his words— 'rather appear to the world as purged with fire to a wonderful beauty and comeliness, than consumed by it' and 'no man whatsoever shall presume to erect any house or building, great or small, but of brick or stone.' I think I got the words right, but that was the gist of it, regardless."

Amy smiled to herself at Colin's precise descriptions; it had been the same when he showed her the castle. Dates, words…a man who paid attention to detail.

But one detail she was certain of was that he didn't want her here. He'd as much as said he couldn't wait to get rid of her. Still, she could swear she felt a warmth emanating from him, a warmth that made her want to throw herself into his arms.

It was confusing, to say the least.

"It sounds like a good plan," Ford remarked.

Colin nodded. "Charles also decreed wider streets so buildings on one side cannot catch fire from the other. He's appointing Christopher Wren as…let's see…'Deputy Surveyor and Principal Architect for Rebuilding the Whole City.'" He smiled at the grandiose title. "Wren is charged with drawing up a plan of boulevards and plazas and straight streets."

"Charles announced all of this?"

"He told me of Wren privately. It's not official yet. Wren was supposed to have the plans ready to submit today, and then an announcement will be made."

"A new London, rising from the ashes," Amy murmured, staring at one of the chamber's enormous tapestries, but imagining instead what this bright new city might look like.

Colin turned to her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, her cheeks flaming.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat and turned back to the others. "Did you know that Wren's plan for restoring St. Paul's was accepted by the Commission just two weeks ago?"

"And now St. Paul's is burned to the ground," Jason said with a mournful shake of his head. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed this much destruction possible."

"Two-thirds of London is gone," Colin lamented, "and more than half the people are homeless. Miraculously, it seems that only eight lives were lost." He put a hand on Amy's arm. "I'm sorry your father had to be one of them."

Colin's touch startled Amy out of her vision, dragged her back into the real world. She nodded, but couldn't meet his eyes.
It wasn't fair!
Only eight dead, and her own father one of them…

Her spoon halfway to her mouth, she paused, swallowed a swiftly rising lump in her throat, and fought to bite back the tears. It was a losing battle. Suddenly, she rose. Her spoon clattered in the bowl where she dropped it.

"Excuse me," she apologized huskily, running from the room.

"YOU LOUT!" KENDRA
threw down her spoon. "This was her first supper in company."

"What did I say?"

"'I'm sorry your father had to be one of them,'" Ford mimicked in a mincing voice. "Hell, Colin,
I'm
the one who's supposed to be tactless."

"I said I was sorry," Colin protested feebly. He twisted his ring, listening to Amy's footsteps fade as she reached the top of the stairs and turned down the corridor.

"Leave Colin alone," Jason said. "He's confused enough as it is."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Colin demanded.

"Just that you're attracted to Mrs. Goldsmith, and you haven't decided what to do about it."

"
What?
" Ford burst out in surprise.

Kendra snorted, rolled her eyes toward the arched stone ceiling, then focused on her twin. "You are so oblivious. If something cannot be weighed or measured, it fails to command your attention."

Colin's hands clenched. "I'm not the least bit attracted to Amethyst Goldsmith—"

"Are you lying only to us, or to yourself as well?" Kendra fixed him with a pointed stare.

"She's a wreck," he stated firmly, pressing his lips together.

"So what?" Kendra asked.

"So I'm leaving in the morning, most likely before she rises, and one of you will see that she gets to France, where she will recover in peace and never see any of us again. That's what."

"Now, Colin—" Kendra began.

"Leave it be, Kendra." Jason looked at each sibling in turn, signaling that the conversation was at an end. Then, food being the typical Chase cure-all for most unpleasant situations, he rang for the servants. "I'm ready for that roast venison. How about the rest of you?"

AMY BIT HER LIP
and added another crumpled ball to the small mountain of paper that was growing on the gilt dressing table in her bedchamber.

Why couldn't she get this right?

She flexed her hand. Though the blisters had healed, sometimes it still hurt if she overused it. One more try. She dipped her quill in the ink.

26 September, 1666

Dear Robert,

Perhaps you already know that I lost Papa and the shop in the fire. I am devastated. I've lost everything. My entire life has changed, and I'm afraid yours as well. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you
—

"May I come in, Lady Amy?" Small fingers tapped on her shoulder.

She looked up to see big blue eyes in an innocent face framed by golden curls. "I think you already have, Mary." Smiling, she set down her quill and pulled the little girl onto her lap. "But I'm not a lady, sweetheart. Plain Amy will do."

"You look like a lady."

"Oh, but that's only because I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress."

When the child hopped off her lap, Amy smoothed the apple-green satin of her borrowed gown. She watched Mary wander to the bed and climb the bed steps, then winced when she stretched out her arms and, with a whoop of delight, flung herself facedown on the costly brocade counterpane.

"I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress, too," Mary declared, the words muffled against the golden fabric.

"And so you are!" The dress hung loose on Mary's small frame and was hopelessly out of style. But she was thrilled with her new wardrobe. Kendra had found an old trunk filled with her childhood gowns, and Mary had worn a different one every day since her arrival. "And a lovely dress it is. Are you a lady then, Mary?"

"Nah." Mary giggled and rolled onto her back. "Are you sure you're not a lady? You live in this pretty place."

"Not really." Amy's gaze swept the gorgeous gilt chamber. "Before the fire, I lived all my life in London."

"Like me?" The child sat up and pointed a thumb to her own chest—a thumb, Amy noticed, that looked recently sucked.

"Just like you. In Cheapside."

"My house was in…" Her little face scrunched up as she thought. "Ludgate."

"Ludgate Hill? Then see, we were almost neighbors."

Mary's feet swung back and forth off the end of the bed. "And your mama and papa are dead like mine."

Amy nodded patiently. An eavesdropper would never guess they'd had this conversation at least a dozen times already. "Yes, my mama and papa are gone as well."

"And they're never coming back."

"No." She bit her lip. "They're never coming back. But I think about them all the time, so their memory lives on."

Mary jumped off the bed. "How many days has it been?" One little hand reached up to the marble-topped dressing table and snagged a silver comb. "How many days since the fire?"

"How many days was it yesterday, Mary?"

"Um…" She tugged the comb through her curls. "Twenty-something?"

"Twenty-one." Amy took the comb from her, and Mary faced away so she could untangle her blond ringlets. "So today, how many days has it been since the fire?"

The girl raised one short finger, then popped up another. "Two. Twenty-two." Her small voice was full of pride.

"Very good, twenty-two days." The comb made a pleasant swishing sound as she drew it through Mary's hair again and again.

"My mama died of the plague. How many days since that?"

"Oh, sweetheart, I couldn't tell you." Amy sighed. "A lot."

"More than a hundred?"

"More than three hundred."

Mary's eyes widened in the mirror. "That
is
a lot."

"Surely it is." Amy turned her around and tucked a golden curl behind one shell-pink ear. "And inside, it hurts a little bit less every day, does it not?"

"Maybe. A little bit." Mary's lower lip trembled for a second, then she picked up Amy's letter and stared at it uncomprehendingly. "Who're you writin' to?"

"A man I knew." Amy set the comb back in place. "In fact, I think I'm finished."

She took the letter from Mary's small hand. It would have to do. It was blunt, but she couldn't seem to get the words right no matter how hard she tried.

Perhaps Robert would be relieved. He might think that her promised value as a bride had been reduced by the loss of the shop. He'd be free to wed elsewhere, free to find someone who could meet his expectations of a wife.

If he could locate another heiress in the trade to marry.

Amy lifted her quill, dipped it in the ink, and put a period after the last word she'd written.
Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you.
Mary's thumb went into her mouth as she watched Amy sign her name:
Amethyst Goldsmith
, very neat and formal.

After blotting the ink with sand, she folded the letter. She wrote Robert's name and his father's address on the back, then set it aside, adding no return address.

There, it was done.

And Robert wouldn't be able to find her.

"How about this one?" The thumb popped out, and Mary waved another letter. "Who is this one to?"

"My aunt in Paris. I'm going to move there and live with her soon. But not too very soon, I'm hoping." Amy pulled the girl tight against her, enjoying her comforting, childish scent. "I like it here with you."

"I like it here, too." A sigh wafted from the child's rosy lips. "But I wish I had a mama."

Amy turned Mary to face her and locked her gaze on the girl's big blue eyes. "Lord Cainewood is going to find you a new mama very soon. He promised, remember?"

The child nodded.

"A Chase promise is not given lightly."

"What?" Her tiny brow creased.

"He always keeps his promises."

Apparently that was good enough for Mary. She waved the letter again. "What did you say to your aunt?"

"I told her how sad I am about my father." Amy rose from the dressing table and wandered to look out the diamond-paned window. Below, a servant hurried across the quadrangle, carrying a basket of laundry, leaving footprints in the damp grass. "Sometimes it helps you feel better to write a letter about your sadness."