Winsor, Kathleen (38 page)

At
that moment a boy stuck his head in the door calling, "Third music,
ladies! Third music!" and they all began to troop out, for the third music
meant that it was time for the curtains to be drawn. Amber thought no more of
Beck's Captain Morgan and several days went by. But late one afternoon as she
was dressing after the performance, surrounded by her circle of impudent
gallants, a man appeared in the doorway who instantly arrested her attention.

He
was well over six feet tall with wide, square shoulders, lean hips, and
magnificent legs. Powerful and virile, in his red and blue uniform he was an
exciting contrast to the pale effeminate young fops who talked incessantly of
their claps and poxes and carried a box of turpentine-pills wherever they went.
His face was crudely handsome, with well-defined features; he had waving brown
hair and skin tanned to a tawny-gold. Amber stared at him in surprise and
admiration, wondering who he was, and then as he smiled slowly the corners of
her eyes went up and she gave him a faint answering smile.

At
that moment there was a scream from Beck.

"Rex!"

And
she rushed over to throw herself into his arms, took his hand, and led him to
the opposite side of the room. She dressed hastily then and hurried him out,
but as he went he gave Amber a backward glance.

"Well!"
said Beck the next morning, as they sat in the pit watching a rehearsal.
"What d'ye make of him?" But her eyes were slightly narrowed and she
was more defiant than triumphant.

Amber
smiled innocently and gave a little shrug. "Oh, no doubt he's a very fine
person. I don't wonder you rushed 'im out as fast as if you were going for a
midwife." Her eyes took on a malicious sparkle. "It'd never do to let
a fellow like that make the acquaintance of other ladies, would it?"

Beck
flared. "I smoke your design, madame! But let me tell you this—if I find
you spreading your nets for him I'll make you sorry for it! I'll carbonado you,
I swear I will!"

"Pooh!"
said Amber, and got up to leave her. "Your bellow-weathering doesn't scare
me!"

Still,
Captain Morgan did not appear backstage again for several days, and when Amber
gibed at her for not daring to show her prize not only Beck but her older
sister Anne flew in to a rage and threatened her with the wrath of God, as well
as their own. "Just you dare meddling with Captain Morgan!" cried
Anne dramatically, for she was the tragedienne of the company. "You'll
wish you hadn't!"

But
Amber was so little impressed by their threats that whenever she saw him in the
pit, as she often did, she flirted openly with him. It would have pleased her a
great deal to steal Beck Marshall's admirer, even if he had been much less
attractive than he was.

She
was going into the theatre early one afternoon when a ragged little urchin came
limping up, glanced hastily around, and thrust a wax-sealed paper into her
hands. Curious, Amber tore it open. "For Madame St. Clare," she read.
("Madame" was the title applied to all actresses.) "I must
confess I am hopelessly smitten by you, for all that a lady known to us both
has warned me you're not to be trusted and already belong to another man.
Still, I have made so bold as to reserve a table for us at the
Fox-Under-the-Hill at Ivy Bridge. I shall hope to see you there tomorrow
evening at seven. Your most humble obliged servant, madame, I am, Captain Rex
Morgan." And he added a postscript: "May I ask you, madame, to have
the kindness for me as not to mention this note to anyone?"

Amber
smiled slyly to herself, and after a moment tore the paper into little bits,
tossed them up over her head and went on into the theatre. She had no intention
of telling Beck about the note. Not, at least, until she was sure that he was
captured; but she could not resist giving her a fleeting little smile that
annoyed the other girl even if it told her nothing.

She
had no performance the next afternoon and spent the day washing her hair—in
spite of the almanac, which said that the time was astrologically unfavourable—deciding
what she would wear, and trying to think of an excuse to give Michael. She was
still undecided when she took a hackney and rode to the Royal Exchange to buy
some ribbons and gloves and a bottle of scent. Coming back with her arms full
of parcels, her cloak and hood covered with raindrops, she opened the door and
found Michael standing in conversation with another man.

He
was much older than Michael and as he turned to look at her there was a stern
scowl on his face. She knew instantly who he was: Michael's father. For some
time past Michael had been getting letters from his father, demanding to know
why he had been expelled from the Middle Temple, insisting that he return home
at once. Michael had read each one to her, laughing, saying gaily that his
father was a formal old coxcomb, and had thrown them into the fire without ever
sending
an answer. Now, however, he wore a hang-dog expression and a look of cowed
helplessness.

"Amber,"
he said at last, "this is my father. Sir, may I present Mrs. St. Clare?"

Sir
Michael Godfrey merely stared at her without speaking, and after a moment she
crossed the room, laid down
her packages, and spread her cloak on a chair before
the fire. That done she turned to find both men still watching her, and Sir
Michael's hostile eyes made her aware that her neckline was cut very low and
her face obviously painted. He turned away.

"Is
this the woman you kept in the Temple?" As
he said it Amber had an
uncomfortable feeling that she was the commonest kind of whore.

"Yes,
sir."

Michael
was not flippant with his father as he had been with Mr. Gripenstraw. The wild
gay boy who had delighted in getting drunk every night and breaking the windows
of sleeping citizens had quite disappeared in the chagrined, embarrassed
dutiful son.

Sir
Michael Godfrey turned to Amber. "Madame, I fear you shall have to cast
about elsewhere for a young fool to meet your expenses. My son is returning
with me into the country and you shall get not a farthing more by his misplaced
generosity."

Amber
merely stared at him coolly and curbed her impulse to give him a tart answer
because she remembered all that Michael had done for her, and all that he could
still do, if he chose, to injure her. With a gesture of his hand Sir Michael
signalled his son from the room. And though he hesitated for a moment he went,
turning back once to give Amber a wistful pleading look of goodbye, which Sir
Michael cut short by thrusting him sharply out and banging the door after them.
Amber was sorry for Michael; evidently his life would now be sadly changed, but
her pity soon gave way to relief—and then to eagerness for the night.

My
stars are lucky! she thought exuberantly. Just when I had no more use for
'im—he's gone!

Amber
was only a little late, but as she was ushered upstairs to the private
dining-room, Captain Morgan flung open the door and greeted her with happy
enthusiasm. "At last you're here! How kind of you to come!" His eyes
glistened with pleasure as they looked down at her and he took her muff and
cloak, tossed them over a chair, and turned her about by one hand. "You
look wonderful! By God, you're the most glorious creature I've ever seen!"

Amber
laughed. "Come now, Captain Morgan! Beck Marshall tells me you've said
kinder things to her by far."

But
she luxuriated in his admiration, feeling a warm glow of pleasure go through
all her body at the expression on his face. It had been a long while since she
had seen a man so infatuated—not,
in fact, since she had left Marygreen.
And she was glad that he had the sense to appreciate a pretty gown, for she had
worn her best and newest one; too many of the young fops were so concerned with
their own "garnitures" and "petite-oie" they scarcely knew
what a woman was wearing. The dress was made of bright green velvet, with the
skirt slit down the front and draped up over a black-satin sequin-spattered
petticoat, and she had one pert black-satin bow tied at either temple.

He
snapped his fingers. "The devil with Beck Marshall. She's nothing to me, I
assure you."

"That's
what every man says about his old doxy when he has a mind to a new one."

Rex
Morgan laughed. "I see you have wit as well as beauty, madame. That makes
you perfect."

At
that moment there was a loud rap at the door. Morgan called out for them to
enter, and in marched the host and three waiters, loaded down with covered
pewter dishes, knives and spoons, napkins, glasses and salt-dishes, and two
bottles of wine. They set the places, removed all covers with a flourish so
that Captain Morgan might inspect the contents, and then marched out again.
Amber and Rex sat down to eat.

There
was a great steaming bowlful of crayfish bisque, a well-seasoned leg-of-mutton
stuffed with oysters and chopped onion, a chicken-pie covered with a flaky
golden crust, and a pudding made of thick pure cream and pounded chestnuts.
They sat side by side, facing the fireplace where sea-coals burnt brightly, and
as they ate they fell into easy comfortable talk, enjoying the good meal and
admiring each other.

He
told her that she had the most fascinating eyes in the world, the loveliest
hair he had ever seen, the most beautiful breasts, and the prettiest legs. His
voice had an authentic sincerity she did not even care to question, and he
looked at her with frank adoration and desire. Why, he's mad in love with me
already! thought Amber delightedly, and had an image of herself parading him
into the tiring-room tomorrow like a tame monkey on a chain.

"Is
it true," he asked her at last as they were beginning to eat the hot baked
chestnut pudding, "that you're in the keeping of someone from the Middle
Temple?"

"Lord
Almighty! Who told you that?"

"Everyone
I asked about you. Is it true?"

"Certainly
not! Lord, I swear a woman can be raped here in London without losing her
maidenhead! I'll admit I was occupying lodgings with a gentleman for a time—but
he was my cousin, and he's gone back to Yorkshire now. Heavens, I can't think
what my father would say, to hear the bawdy talk that goes on here—about
nothing at all!" She gave him a look of wide-eyed indignation.

"Lucky
for him he's only your cousin. I'd have had to send him a challenge to get him
out of my way. But I'm glad he's
gone anyway. Tell me, who are you?
Where'd you come from? Everyone told me a different story."

"I'm
Mrs. St. Clare and I came from Essex. What else d'you want to
know?"

"What
are you doing on the stage? You don't look as though you belong there."

"Oh,
don't I? I've been told different."

"That
isn't what I mean. You look like a person of quality."

"Oh.
Well—" She gave him a sidelong glance as he began to pour the champagne.
"To tell you truly, I am."

She
took the glass as he handed it to her,
leaned back in her chair and began to
spin for him the story upon which she had been embroidering almost since she
had first come to London, improving upon it whenever she got a new idea.
"My family's old and honourable and they had a good estate in Essex— but
they sold everything to help his Majesty in the Wars. So, when an old ugly earl
wanted to marry me my father was going to insist, to help repair his loss. I
wouldn't have the stinking old goat—-my father said I should have him, and he
locked me into the house. I broke out and came to London— Of course I changed
my name—I'm not
really
Mrs. St. Clare." She smiled at him over the
rim of her glass, pleased to see that he apparently believed her.

He
got up then, moved their chairs closer to the dying fire, and they sat down
side by side. Amber lifted her legs, bracing her feet
on one side of
the narrow fireplace so that her skirts fell back above her knees and showed
her legs in black silk stockings and lacy garters. He reached over to take her
hand in his and they sat for several moments, perfectly still and silent, but
with the tension mounting between them.

What
shall
I
do? she was thinking. If I do, he'll take me for a harlot—and if I don't, maybe
he won't ever come back again.