Winsor, Kathleen (106 page)

Amber
stopped in her tracks and turned to stare back at him, over her shoulder; her
face looked suddenly white and shocked. Thirty-five! My God—I'll
never
be
thirty-five! She looked down at herself—at the severe black gown of
mourning—the gown she must wear until she died, unless she married again.

"Damn
you, Almsbury!" she muttered, and went swiftly out of the room.

It
was not long before Amber began to grow impatient. What was the good of money
and a title, beauty and youth—if you buried it alive in the country? By the
time a couple of months had passed she felt convinced that whatever speculation
his Lordship's sudden death might have aroused would now be abated—scandals at
Court were even shorter-lived than love-affairs—and she was eager to return.
She coaxed and cajoled and finally she persuaded Lord and Lady Almsbury to go
back with her for the winter social season. It would give her a house to live
in, and the prestige of John's and Emily's families. She might need both, for a
while.

Her
appearance at Whitehall created a greater sensation than
she had hoped.
She was surprised to learn that rumours had her dead—poisoned by her husband
out of jealousy—but she pretended to laugh at such tales. "What
nonsense!" she exclaimed. "There's never anyone dies nowadays above
the rank of chimney-sweep but it's thought he's been poisoned!"

There
was truth in what she said for poisoning was still a revenge so common among
the aristocracy that much apprehension regarding it persisted. Errant wives who
fell ill were invariably thought to have died by that means. Lady Chesterfield
had died the year before, after displeasing her husband by an affair with York,
and everyone had insisted that she was poisoned. Now another of York's
mistresses, Lady Denham, was ill and told her friends that his Lordship had poisoned
her —though some thought the Duke had done it himself because he was bored with
her constant demands for new honours.

The
men gave Amber an enthusiastic welcome.

Life
at Court was so narrow, so circumscribed, so monotonous and inbred that any
even moderately attractive newcomer was sure of a rush of attention from the
gentlemen and a chill neglect from the ladies. When the newness was gone she
would settle into whatever position she had been able to wrest for herself, and
try to hold it against the next pretty young face. The men would be used to her
by then, and the women would finally have accepted her. She would join them in
ignoring and criticizing the next beautiful woman who dared appear and cast her
gauntlet. The Court suffered from nothing so much as a surfeit of idleness; for
most of them had nothing to do that had to be done and it taxed the most lively
ingenuity to provide a continuous play of excitement and variety and amusement.

It
took no more than a quick glance for Amber to see what was her position.

Because
of her title she had access to the Court and could go into her Majesty's
Drawing-Rooms, accompany the royal party on its trips to the theatre, attend
any balls or dances or banquets to which there was a general invitation—but
unless she could make a friend somewhere among the women she would go to no
private suppers or parties. And thus they could force her to remain a virtual
outsider, shut off from the intimate life of the Court. Amber did not intend to
let that happen.

She
therefore sought out Frances Stewart and made such a convincing show of her
fondness and admiration that Frances, still naïve and trusting after four years
at Whitehall, asked her to a little supper she was giving that same evening.
The King was there and all the men and women who, by his favour, made up the
clique which ruled fashionable London. Buckingham did one of his grotesque,
cruel and witty imitations of Chancellor Clarendon. Charles told again the
incredible and still exciting story—for all that most of them had it by heart—
of his flight and escape to France after the battle of Worcester. The food and
the wine were good, the music soft, the ladies
lovely. And Amber looked so well
in her black-velvet gown that the Countess of Southesk was prompted to say:

"Lord,
madame, what a handsome gown that is you're wearing! D'ye know—it seems to me
I've seen one like it before somewhere." She tapped a sharp pink
finger-nail reflectively against her teeth, and her eyes went slowly over the
dress, though she pretended not to see what was inside. "Why, of course! I
remember now! It's just like one I had after my husband's cousin died—Whatever
became of the thing? Oh, yes —! I gave it to the wardrobe woman at His
Majesty's Theatre. Let me see—that was about three years ago, I think. You were
on the boards then, weren't you, madame?" Her blue eyes had a hard
malicious amused sparkle as she looked at Amber, raising one eyebrow, and then
she glanced across the room and gave a little shriek. "My God! If there
isn't Winifred Wells—Castlemaine told me she'd gone into the country for an
abortion. I vow and swear this is a censorious world! Pardon me, madame—I must
go speak to her—poor wretch—" And with a faint curtsy, not even looking at
Amber, she brushed off.

Amber
scowled a little but then, as she looked up and saw Charles just beside her,
she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "If women could somehow learn to
tolerate one another," he said softly, "they might get an advantage
over us we'd never put down."

"And
d'you think it's likely, Sire?"

"Not
very. But don't let them trouble you, my dear. You can well enough shift for
yourself, I'll warrant."

Amber
continued to smile at him; his mouth, scarcely moving, framed a question. She
answered it with a slight nod of her head. She could not possibly have been
more pleased by her return to Whitehall.

But
she was not yet so secure that she could do without Frances Stewart, and she
made sure that they were all but inseparable. She visited Frances in her rooms,
walked with her in the galleries—for the weather was often too cold to go
out-of-doors—and sometimes stayed the night with her when the roads were bad or
the hour very late. Amber never talked about herself but seemed tremendously
interested in everything Frances said or thought or did and Frances, unable to
resist this lure of flattery, soon began to confide in her.

The
Duke of Richmond had recently made her her first proposal, a circumstance which
had greatly amazed the Court— for Frances was considered nothing less than
Crown property. He was a not unhandsome young man of twenty-seven and a distant
relative of the King but he was stupid, drunken, and habitually in debt.
Charles had accepted the news with his customary aplomb and asked the Duke to
turn his financial papers over to Clarendon for an examination.

One
night when she and Amber were tucked snugly in bed, one great feather-mattress
beneath them and another on top, Amber asked casually if she intended to marry
his Grace. Frances's
reply amazed her. "There's nothing else I can do, now," she said.
"If the Duke hadn't been so kind as to propose I don't know what would
have become of me."

"What
would have become of you! Why, Frances, what nonsense! Every man at Court is
mad in love with you and you know it!"

"Maybe
they are," admitted Frances, "but not one of 'em has ever made me an
honest proposal. The truth of it is I've ruined my good name by allowing his
Majesty so many liberties—without ever letting him take that one which might
have been to my benefit."

"Well,"
drawled Amber idly, though actually she had a strong curiosity on the subject,
"then why didn't you? No doubt you could've been a duchess without the
trouble of marrying— and a mighty rich woman as well."

"What!"
cried Frances. "Be the King's whore? Oh, no— not I! I'll leave that to
other ladies. It's bad enough a woman has to lay with her husband—I'd rather
die than lay with some man who wasn't! Lord! It gives me the vapours to think
of it!"

Amber
smiled in the close darkness, very much amused and not a little surprised. So
that was what Frances's much vaunted virtue amounted to—not morality at all,
but repugnance. She was not chaste, but squeamish.

"But
don't you like the King? There's no finer man at Court — It isn't only because
he's King that the ladies all fall in love with him."

"Oh,
yes, of course I like him! But I just can't—I just couldn't— Oh, I don't know!
Why do men always have to think about things like that? I know I've got to get
married one day— I'm nineteen now and my mother says I'm a disgrace to the
family— But, Lord! to think of getting in bed with a man and letting him— Oh, I
know I'll die! I'll never be able to bear it!"

Ye
gods! thought Amber, completely nonplussed. She must be cracked in the head.
But she felt a little sorry for her too, a kind of contemptuous pity. What did
the poor creature think life was about, anyway?

Their
friendship was soon over. For Frances was jealous as a wife of the King's
love-affairs, and Barbara had not let her remain long in ignorance when rumours
began to spread that the King was secretly visiting Lady Radclyffe at Almsbury
House. But Amber thought her position assured and was glad enough to dispense
with Frances, whom she had always considered to be silly and boring. She had
grown very tired of paying her compliments and pretending to be interested in
what happened to her. And Charles, who always showed a quick rush of
infatuation at the beginning of any new affair, would not let her be neglected
now. At his insistence she was invited everywhere and treated with the same surface
respect which Castlemaine had once commanded and Stewart still did. Even the
ladies were forced to become her sycophants, and before long Amber began to
think that nothing was beyond her.

She
was walking along the Stone Gallery early one morning when she saw Chancellor
Clarendon coming in her direction. The hall-way was chill and damp and cold and
all the numerous men and women who hurried along it were wrapped in heavy
woollen or velvet cloaks, their arms folded in great fur muffs. From one end to
the other the gallery was a mass of black-hooded figures, for the Court was
still in mourning for the Dowager Queen of Portugal—Amber was glad that since
she must wear black the other ladies could not bloom publicly in bright colours
and jewellery.

Clarendon
came toward her with his head down, glaring at the floor, preoccupied with his
gout and the innumerable problems which a ruined England expected him to solve.
He did not see Amber any more than he saw anyone else and would have gone on by
but she put herself in his path.

"Good
morning, Chancellor."

He
looked up, nodded his head brusquely and then, as she made him a low curtsy,
was forced to pause and bow. "Your servant, madame."

"What
a lucky chance this is! Not ten minutes since I heard something of the greatest
importance—something you should know about, Chancellor."

He
scowled unconsciously for he was worried about a great many things, not the
least of which was his own precarious position. "I should be glad of any
information, madame, which would better enable me to serve the King, my
master." But his eyes looked at her disapprovingly and he was plainly
eager to be on his way.

But
Amber, full of the self-importance of her early and easy triumph at Court, was
determined to succeed with him where every other mistress of the King had
failed. She wanted to parade him like a trophy, wear him like a jewel no one
else had been rich enough to buy—even though she agreed with everyone else that
his political days were numbered.

"As
it happens, Chancellor, I'm giving a supper at Almsbury House this Friday
evening. His Majesty will be there, of course, and all the others— If you and
her Ladyship would care to come—"

He
bowed stiffly, angry that he had wasted so much valuable time. The gout in his
foot stabbed him painfully. "I'm sorry, madame, but I have no leisure for
frivolous amusements these days. The country has need of some men of serious
purpose. Thank you, and good-day." He walked off, followed by his two
secretaries, both of them loaded down with papers, and left Amber staring
open-mouthed after him.

And
then she heard a sudden hearty shout of feminine laughter behind her and spun
around to face Lady Castlemaine. "God's eyeballs!" cried Barbara,
still laughing. "But
that
was a sight to see! What did you expect
him to do? Make you an assignation?"