He sat facing her and now he grinned, shutting one eye against the sun. “I’ll admit,” he said, “that I don’t spend the morning in bed reading billets-doux or the afternoon at a play or the evening in taverns. But we have our diversions. We all live on rivers and travel isn’t difficult. We hunt and drink and dance and gamble just as you do here. Most of the planters are gentlemen and they bring their habits and customs with them, along with their furniture and ancestral portraits. An Englishman away from home, you know, clings to the old ways as fiercely as if his life depended upon it.”

“But there aren’t any cities or theatres or palaces! Lord, I couldn’t endure it! I suppose Corinna likes that dull life!” she added crossly.

“I think she will. She’s been very happy on her father’s plantation.”

Amber thought that she had a very good notion of the kind of woman this Corinna was. She pictured her as another Jenny Mortimer or Lady Almsbury, a quiet shy timid creature who cared for nothing in the world but her husband and children. If the English countryside produced such women, how much worse they must be in that empty land across the seas! Her gowns were probably all five years out of the fashion and she wore no paint and not a patch. She’d never seen a play or ridden in Hyde Park, gone to an assignation or taken dinner in a tavern. In fact, she’d never done anything at all to make her interesting.

“Oh, well—of course she’s contented. She’s never known about anything else. Poor wretch. What does she look like—she’s blonde, I suppose?” Her tone implied that no woman with the least pretensions to beauty would have any other colouring.

He shook his head, amused. “No. Her hair’s very dark—darker than mine.”

Amber widened her topaz eyes, politely shocked, as though he had said that she had a hare-lip or bow-legs. Black hair on a lady was not the fashion. “Oh,” she said sympathetically. “Is she Portuguese?” She remembered well enough that he had said she was English, but in England, Portuguese women were considered very unhandsome. Trying to seem nonchalant, she leaned out and made a lazy catch at a passing butterfly.

Now he laughed. “No, she’s English. Her skin’s fair and her eyes are blue.”

Amber did not like the way he spoke of her—there was something in the sound of his voice and the expression in his eyes. She began to feel hot and nervous, sick in the pit of her stomach.

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

She suddenly felt that she had aged a dozen years in the past few seconds. Women were almost tragically conscious of age, and once out of their teens everything conspired to make them feel that they were growing old. Amber, not two months past twenty-three, now felt all at once that she was ancient and decayed. There was five years between them! Why, five years is a century!

“You said she’s pretty,” murmured Amber in a forlorn little voice. “Is she prettier than I am, Bruce?”

“My God, Amber. What a question to put to a man. You know that you’re beautiful. On the other hand, I’m not so bigoted as to think there’s only one good-looking woman on earth.”

“You do think she’s prettier!” she cried resentfully.

Bruce took her hand and kissed it. “No, I don’t, darling. I swear I don’t. You’re nothing alike—but you’re both lovely.”

“And you do love me?”

“And I do love you.”

“Then why did you—Oh, very well!” she said petulantly, but she obeyed his look and changed the subject. “Bruce, I’ve got an idea! When you’ve finished your business let’s take Almsbury’s yacht and sail up the river for a week or so. He says we can have it—I asked him. Oh, please—it’d be wonderful!”

“I’m afraid to leave London. If the Dutch took the notion they could come right up to the Privy Stairs.”

Amber scoffed at him. “Oh, ridiculous! They wouldn’t dare! Anyway, the peace-treaty is all but signed. I heard his Majesty say so last night. They’re only riding our coast to scare us and pay us back for what we did to ’em last summer. Oh, please, Bruce!”

“Perhaps. If the Dutch go home.”


But the Dutch did not go home. For six weeks they hovered just off the coast with a fleet of one hundred ships—to which the French added twenty-five—while England had not one good ship at sea and was forced to call in her bad ones. The French army was at Dunkirk.

Consequently Bruce refused, for all her teasing and coaxing, to leave London. He said that if the Dutch did come he did not intend to be several miles up the river, lying about on a pleasure boat like some irresponsible Turkish sultan. His men, at least, were well paid and could, he hoped, be counted upon to help defend his ships.

And then one night as they lay in bed, Bruce fast asleep and Amber just sliding off, a sound began to penetrate her drowsiness. She listened, wondering, as it grew louder. Suddenly it roared out—drums beating like thunder down in the streets. Her heart seemed to stop, and then it began to pound as hard as the drums. She sat up, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Bruce! Bruce, wake up! The Dutch have landed!”

Her voice had a high hysterical quaver and she was cold with terror. The weeks of suspense, which had affected her more than she had realized, the black night, the sudden ominous roll of drums, made her feel that the Dutch were there in the very city—outside the house at that moment. The sound of the drums grew louder, beating frantically, and there were shouts of men’s and women’s voices, excited and shrill.

Bruce sat up swiftly. Without a word, he flung back the curtains and got out of bed. Amber followed him, picking up her dressing-gown and putting it on. Already Bruce was at the window, his shirt in his hand as he leaned out and shouted across the courtyard.

“Hey! What’s happened? Have the Dutch landed?”

“They’ve taken Sheerness! We’re invaded!”

The drum rolled again and bells had begun to ring from church towers; a coach roared through the streets and just afterward a single horseman went careening by. Bruce swung the window closed and began to get into his breeches.

“Holy Jesus! They’ll be here next—we haven’t got a thing to stop them!”

Amber was beginning to cry with distracted terror and a sense of utter helplessness. Outside, the drums were beating more and more wildly, filling the night with a wild terrifying rhythm full of calamity and fear, and people had begun to shout from their windows and to run down into the street. Nan was hammering at their door, begging to be admitted.

“Come in!” shouted Amber. She turned to Bruce. “What are you going to do? Where are you going?” She felt cold and shaking inside and her teeth chattered, though the night was a warm one. Nan entered, carrying a candle, and hurried to light several others. As the room sprang into light some of Amber’s terror disappeared.

“I’m going to Sheerness!”

Bruce stood knotting his neck-cravat; he told Nan to bring him a pair of boots from his own room. Amber picked up his vest and coat and held them as he jammed his arms into the sleeves.

“Oh, Bruce! Don’t go! They probably have thousands of men! You’d be killed! Bruce! You can’t go!” She grabbed hold of his arm, as though she could force him to stay with her.

He jerked his arm free, went on buttoning his coat and vest and then pulled on the calf-high silver-spurred boots which Nan had brought. He buckled on the sword and Nan gave him his hat and cloak.

“Take the children and leave London,” he said to her, cramming his hat onto his head. “Get out of here as fast as you can!”

Nan went to answer a pounding at the anteroom door and Almsbury and Emily rushed in, the Earl fully dressed, his wife in her night-gown and robe. “Bruce! The Dutch have landed! I’ve got horses saddled in the courtyard!”

“But you can’t go, Bruce! Oh, Almsbury! He can’t go—I’m scared!”

Almsbury gave her a disgusted scowl. “For Christ’s sake, Amber! The country’s invaded!” The two men walked swiftly out of the room, all three women at their heels.

The hall-way was full of servants running up and down distractedly in their night-dress; some of the women were crying; all of them were babbling excitedly. Just as they got outside Amber’s door Lady Stanhope arrived in a breathless rush. A night-cap covered her hair but paper-curlers showed beneath it and there were chicken-skin gloves on her hands; all her flesh quivered hysterically. She grabbed at Bruce as at salvation.

“Oh, Lord Carlton! Thank God you’re here! We’re invaded! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

Bruce answered her shortly, shaking off the hand that had seized his arm, and he and Almsbury started down the staircase. “I suggest that you leave London, madame. Come with me, Amber. I want to talk to you.”

The men hurried down, the heels of their boots clattering on the stairs, and Amber ran along beside him. The first shock of fright was over but the drums, the bells, the screams and shouts heightened her sense of impending disaster. He can’t go! she thought. He can’t go! But he was going.

“Lady Almsbury is leaving right away for Barberry Hill. All the plans have been ready for weeks—take Susanna and Bruce and go with her. If anything happens to me I’ll send you a message.” She opened her mouth to protest at that, but he ignored her and went on, talking rapidly. “If I should be killed, will you promise me to write to my wife?”

By now they had reached the courtyard where two horses were saddled and waiting for them, stamping and snorting with nervous impatience. Torches blazed; there were servants and stable-boys everywhere; black-and-white coach dogs circled about, barking. The drums pounded in their ears, seemed to echo in the beat of their hearts and the pulsing of their blood. Almsbury mounted instantly but Bruce stopped, his hands on the bridle, and looked down into her face.

“Promise me, Amber.”

She nodded her head, her throat choking. Her hands reached out to grab at his coat. “I promise, Bruce. But don’t let anything happen! Don’t get hurt!”

“I don’t think I will.”

He bent his head and one arm went about her. His mouth touched hers briefly. Then he had swung onto the horse’s back and the two men were galloping out of the courtyard. Just as they rode through the gate he turned and gave her a wave of his hand. With a sudden sobbing cry Amber started forward, one arm outstretched, but they had disappeared into the darkness; she heard the thudding of the horses’ hoofs, growing fainter.

The house was in a turmoil. Some of the servants were carrying out pieces of furniture and dumping them into the courtyard, then rushing back for more. Several of the women were wailing and crying, wringing their hands helplessly. Others, now dressed and with bundles over their backs, fled into the streets with no thought but to get away. Amber lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs, knocking into first one and then another, almost blind with her tears. She ran down to the nursery.

The doors stood wide open and inside were twelve or fifteen frantic women, running this way and that, tugging and hauling at the children and babies to get them dressed. Emily stood cool and self-possessed, telling them what to do and helping them herself. Little Bruce, who was already fully dressed, caught sight of Amber and ran to her immediately. She dropped to her knees, crying, and caught him against her, more for her own comfort than his. He did not, in fact, seem to need or want any.

“Don’t cry, Mother. Those damned Dutchmen will never get here! Not with Father gone to fight ’em!”

But Susanna was shrieking at the top of her lungs, kicking at the nurse who was trying to dress her, her plump little hands held over her ears to shut out the hammering of the drums. And now, bouncing about on the table where she had been put, she caught sight of her mother and brother together and gave a resentful howl of protest.

“Mo-ther!”

Amber got up and went to her, little Bruce staying close at her side as though to protect her. “Sweetheart, you must let Harmon dress you. There’s nothing to cry about. Look—I’m not.” She widened her eyes at Susanna but the rims were red and her lids swollen. Susanna flung her arms about her and howled louder than ever. At last Amber gave her an impatient little shake. “Susanna!” Susanna’s head jerked back and she looked at Amber in astonishment, her pink mouth open. “Stop this bellow-weathering! No one’s going to hurt you! Get into your clothes, now. You’re going for a ride.”