Winsor, Kathleen (136 page)

She
saw Gerald but seldom, and never in private. Mrs. Stark had recently borne him
a child, on which occasion Amber sent her six Apostles' spoons. Lucilla had
found herself pregnant
less than three months after her marriage and the gay Sir Frederick had sent
her back to the country. He and Amber sometimes laughed together over his
wife's predicament, for though Lucilla had welcomed the pregnancy she sent a
continuous stream of letters to her husband, imploring him to come to her. But
Sir Frederick had a vast amount of business in London and he made many promises
that were not kept.

Amber
was never bored and considered herself to be the most fortunate woman on earth.
To buy a new gown, to give another supper, to see the latest play were all of
equal consequence. She never missed an intrigue or a ball; she had her part in
every counter-plot and escapade. Nothing passed her by and no one dared ignore
her. She lived like one imprisoned in a drum, who can think of nothing but the noise
on every side.

There
seemed to be only one thing left for her to want, and finally that wish too was
granted. Early in December Almsbury wrote to say that Lord Carlton expected to
arrive in England sometime the following autumn.

Spring
that year was somewhat dry and dusty. There was too little rain. Nevertheless
by May the meadows about London were thick with purple clover, bee-haunted, and
there were great red poppies in the corn-fields. Cries of "Cherries, sweet
cherries, ripe and red!" and "Rosemary and sweet-briar! Who'll buy my
lavender?" were heard once more. Summer gowns, tiffany, sarsenet and
watered moire in all the bright colours—sulphur-yellow, plum, turquoise,
crimson—were seen in the New Exchange and at the theatres or stepping into a
gilt coach that waited in St. Martin's Lane or Pall Mall. The warm windy
delightsome months had come again.

Nothing
in years had caused so much excitement and indignation as the spreading gossip
that York had at last become a confirmed Catholic. No one could be found to
prove it; the Duke would not admit it and Charles, who must know if it actually
was true, shrugged his shoulders and refused to commit himself. All the Duke's
enemies began to scheme more furiously than ever to keep him from getting the
throne while at the same time it was observed that York and Arlington seemed
suddenly to have become good friends. This gave impetus to the rumours of a
pending French-English alliance, for though Arlington had long been partial to
Holland he was thought to be a Catholic himself, or at least to have strong
Catholic sympathies.

As
these rumours began inevitably to seep out into the town Charles found it
difficult to conceal his annoyance and was heard to make some bad-humoured
remarks on the meddlesomeness of the English people. Why couldn't they be
content to leave the government in the hands of those whose business it was to
govern? Ods-fish, being a king these days was of less consequence than being a
baker or a tiler. Perhaps he should have learned a trade.

"You'd
better to begin to study something useful," he said to James. "It's
my opinion you may have to support yourself one day." James pretended to
think that his brother was joking and said he did not consider the jest a funny
one.

But
certainly there could no longer be any doubt that unless the King married again
York, if he lived long enough, would
succeed King Charles. Catherine had had
her fourth miscarriage at the end of May.

A
pet fox frightened her by leaping into her face as she lay asleep and she lost
her child a few hours later. Buckingham bribed her two physicians to deny that
she had been with child at all, but Charles ignored their testimony.
Nevertheless both King and Queen were in despair and Catherine could no longer
make herself believe that she would someday give him a child. She knew now
beyond all doubt that she was the most useless of all earth's creatures: a
barren queen. But Charles continued to resist stubbornly all efforts to get him
to put her aside, though whether from loyalty or laziness it was difficult to
say.

There
were several young women to whom these discussions of a new wife for the King
caused apprehension and almost frantic worry—they had so much to lose.

But
Barbara Palmer, at least, could listen with an amused smile and some degree of
malignant pleasure. For even she knew now that she was no longer his Majesty's
mistress, and the hazards of that position need trouble her no longer. But that
did not mean she had dropped into obscurity. Barbara had never been
inconspicuous. While she had her health and any beauty left, she never would
be.

For
though she was almost thirty and far beyond what were considered to be a
woman's best years she was still so strikingly handsome that beside her the
pretty fifteen-year-olds just come up to Court looked insipid as
milk-and-water. She remained a glittering figure at Whitehall. Her constitution
was too robust, her zest for living too great, for her to resign herself
placidly to a quiet and dull old age after a youth so brilliant.

Very
gradually her relationship with Charles had begun to mellow. They were settling
into the pattern of a husband and wife who, having grown mutually indifferent,
take up a comfortable casual existence fraught no longer with quarrels or
jealousy, passion or hatred or joy. They had their children as a common
interest, and now there was between them a kind of camaraderie which they had
never known during the turbulent years when they had been—if not in
love—lovers. She was no longer jealous of his mistresses; he was relieved to be
out of the range of her temper and found some mild amusement from observing, at
a safe distance, her freaks and foibles.

Amber
waited impatiently for the months to pass and wrote one letter after another to
Almsbury at Barberry Hill, asking if he had heard from Lord Carlton or if he
knew exactly when he would arrive. The Earl answered each one the same. He had
heard nothing more—they expected to reach England sometime in August or
September. How was it possible to be more explicit when the passage was so
variable?"

But
Amber could not think or care about anything else. Once more the old passionate
and painful longing, which ebbed when she knew she could not even hope to see
him, had
revived. Now she remembered with aching clarity all the small separate things
about him: The odd green-grey colour of his eyes, the wave in his dark hair and
the slight point where it grew off his forehead, the smooth texture of his
sun-burnt skin, the warm timbre of his voice which gave her a real sense of
physical pleasure. She remembered the lusty masculine smell of sweat on his
clothes, the feeling of his hands touching her breasts, the taste of his mouth
when they kissed. She remembered everything.

But
still she was tormented, for those piecemeal memories could not make a whole.
Somehow, he eluded her. Did he really exist, somewhere in that vastness of
space outside England, or was he only a being she had imagined, built out of
her dreams and hopes? She would throw her arms about Susanna in a passion of
despair and yearning—but she could not reassure herself that way.

Yet
in spite of her violent desire to see him again she had stoutly made up her
mind that this time she would conduct herself with dignity and decorum. She
must be a little aloof, let him make the first advances, let him come first to
see her. Every woman knew that was the way to prick up a man's interest. I've
always made myself his servant, she chided, but this time it's going to be
different. After all, I'm a person of honour now, a duchess—and he's but a
baron. Anyway—why
shouldn't
he come to me first!

She
knew that his wife would be along but she did not trouble herself too much
about that. For certainly Lord Carlton was not the man to be uxorious. That was
well enough for the citizens, who had no better breeding, but a gentleman would
no more fawn upon his wife than he would appear in public without his sword or
wearing a gnarled periwig.

Lord
and Lady Almsbury were back in London in July to put their house in order, hire
new servants and prepare for the entertainment of their eagerly expected
guests. The Earl came to see Amber and, determined to show him how nonchalant
she was at the prospect of seeing Bruce, she chattered away furiously about her
own affairs—her title, her great house abuilding in St. James's Square, the
people she had invited to supper for that Sunday. From time to time she asked
him what he did in the country and then hurried on without letting him
answer—for everyone knew there was nothing to do in the country but ride and
drink and visit tenants. Almsbury sat and listened to her talk, watched her
vivacious display of mannerisms and hectic charm, smiled and nodded his
head—and never mentioned Bruce at all.

Amber's
conversation began to slow down. She grew perplexed and quieter, and
finally—realizing that he was teasing her—she became angry. "Well!"
she said at last. "What's the news!"

"News?
Why, let me think now. My black mare—the one you used to ride, remember?—foaled
last week and—"

"Blast
you, Almsbury! Why should you use me at this rate, I'd like to know! Tell
me—what have you heard? When will he get here? Is
she
still
coming?"

"I
don't know any more than I did last time I wrote to you —August or September.
And, yes,
she
is coming. Why? You're not afraid of her?"

Amber
shot him a dark venomous glare. "Afraid of her!" she repeated
contemptuously. "Almsbury, I swear you've a droll wit! Why should I be
afraid of her, pray?" She paused a moment and then superciliously informed
him: "I've got an image of her—that Corinna!"

"Have
you?" he asked politely.

"Yes,
I have! I know just what she's like! A plain meek creature who wears all her
gowns five years out of the style and thinks herself fit for nothing but to be
her husband's housekeeper and breed up his brats!" The portrait was a
reasonably accurate one of Almsbury's own wife. "A great show
she'll
make
here in London!"

"You
may be right," he admitted.

"May
be right!" she cried indignantly. "What else could she be
like—brought up over there in that wilderness with a pack of heathen
Indians—"

At
that instant a weird and raucous voice began to screech. "Thieves, God
damn you! Thieves, by God! Make haste!"

Involuntarily
both Amber and the Earl leaped to their feet, Amber overturning the spaniel
which had settled on her skirts for a nap. "It's my parrot!" she
cried. "He's caught a thief in there!" And she dashed toward the
drawing-room with Almsbury beside her and Monsieur le Chien yapping excitedly
at their heels. They flung open the door and burst in, to find that it was only
the King who had strolled in unannounced and picked out an orange from a bowl
of fruit. He was laughing heartily as he watched the parrot prancing on his
perch and teetering back and forth, squawking frantically. It was not the first
time the bird, trained to apprehend intruders, had mistaken his man.

Almsbury
left then and a few days later he went back to Barberry Hill to hunt, while
Emily stayed in town to welcome the guests should they arrive unexpectedly.
Amber had no opportunity to discuss Corinna with him again.

For
the past year she had been going three or four times a week to watch the
progress on Ravenspur House.