Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  "Just one thing, sweetheart, before I go. Contrary to what your Aunt Sarah may have told you—a man's not insulting you when he invites you to bed. And if you'd be honest you'd admit yourself you're flattered that I did. For if there's one thing a woman will never forgive a man—it's not wanting to lie with her. Now I'll trouble you no more. Good-night." He made her a bow and opened the door.

  Amber stood and looked at him like a little girl getting a lesson in etiquette from her grown-up uncle. She was beginning to find that her suit of country morals was as much out of fashion here in London as her cotton petticoat and green woolen skirt had been. Now she held out her hand in an impulsive but still uncertain gesture, and took two or three steps toward him.

  "My lord—don't go. I'm sorry— Only—"

  "Only you're in love with Bruce."

  "Yes."

  "And so you think you shouldn't lie with another man. Well, my dear, perhaps someday you'll discover that it doesn't make so very much difference after all. And if you do— Your servant, madame." He made her another bow.

  She stood and looked at him, not knowing what to do next. For though she had to admit to herself that she really was, in a sense, flattered by his proposal, she could not agree with him that fidelity to the man you loved was of no importance. It seemed incredible she could ever so much as think of lying with another man. She never would, not as long as she lived.

  And then there came again the sound of a coach rattling over the cobblestones; she whirled around and ran once more to the window. The coach came careening down the street, rocking from side to side, the driver hauled on the reins and it stopped just beneath. Nimbly as a monkey the footman got down from his perch and ran to open the door, and after a moment Lord Carlton got out, turning then to speak to someone inside. Another footman held a flaring torch which lighted one side of his Lordship's face and threw stark shadows up the street and upon the walls of the houses.

  Amber was about to lean out and call a greeting when, to her horror, a woman thrust her head from the coach-window and she caught a glimpse of a beautiful white face, laughing, and a tumbling mass of red hair. Bruce's head bent above her and she heard their voices murmuring. After a moment he stepped back, bowing and removing his hat, the footman closed the door and the coach rolled away. He turned and disappeared through the arch below.

  Amber stood clutching at the sill, almost sick enough to faint. And then, by a great physical effort, she straightened again and turned slowly about The colour had washed out of her face and her heart was beating violently. For several moments she stood and stared before her—not even seeing Almsbury who was watching her with a kind of compassionate sympathy on his face. She let her eyes close and one hand went up slowly to her forehead. At that moment the door opened and Bruce came in.

  Chapter Five

  He paused as if in surprise, glancing from one of them to the other, but before he had time to say a word Amber burst into tears and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and flinging herself onto the bed.

  The sobs wrenched and tore at her and she gave herself up to them with complete abandon. This was the most miserable moment in all her life and she had no wish to be brave and restrained. Suffering in silence was not her way. And, when he did not come in immediately, running after her as she had expected, she grew increasingly hysterical—until finally she began to retch.

  But finally she heard the door open and then the sound of his footsteps crossing the floor. Her sobs became louder than ever. Oh! she thought vehemently, I wish I'd die! Right now! Then he'd be sorry!

  The room began to glow as he lighted a couple of candles. She heard him toss his cloak and hat aside and unbuckle his sword, but still he said nothing. At last she lifted her head from her arms and looked at him; her face was streaked and her eyes red and swollen.

  "Well!" she cried, challenging him.

  "Good evening."

  "Is that all you have to say?"

  "What else should I say?"

  "You might at least tell me where you've been—and who you've been with!"

  He was untying his cravat now, and taking off his doublet. "Don't you think that that's my business?"

  She gasped, as hurt as if he had struck her. She had given herself to him so wholeheartedly, with not a single reservation, that she had made herself believe he had done the same. Now she realized all at once that he had not. His life had not changed, his habits had not changed, she had scarcely touched him at all.

  "Oh," she said softly, and looked away.

  For a moment he stood watching her, and then he came suddenly and sat down on the bed. "I'm sorry, Amber, I didn't mean to be rude. And I'm sorry I had to leave you—spoil your evening that you've been counting on for so long. But it really was business that called me away—"

  She looked at him skeptically, the tears brimming over her eyes again and falling in drops onto her satin gown. "Business indeed! What kind of business does a man do with a woman!"

  He smiled, his eyes tender and yet amused. She always had the feeling, and it made her uncomfortable, that he did not quite take her seriously.

  "More than you might imagine, darling, and I'll tell you why:. The King can't possibly satisfy or repay everyone who was loyal to him—he's got to make a choice from among a thousand claims, one as good as another. I don't think his Majesty could ever be persuaded by a woman—or anyone else—to do something he didn't want to, but when it comes to choosing between several things he'd like to do—why then the right woman can be very useful in helping him to make up his mind. Just now there's no one who can do more to persuade the King than a young woman named Barbara Palmer—who's been kind enough to use her influence in my behalf—"

  Barbara Palmer!

  So that was the woman she had seen!

  She had a sudden horrified sense of defeat, for certainly the woman who could charm a king must have some almost unearthly allure. Her confidence plunged, beaten and overwhelmed by her own superstitious belief that a King and everything which surrounded him was more than half divine. Her head dropped into her hands.

  "Oh, Amber, my dear—please. It's not as serious as that. She happened to be driving by and saw my coach and sent up to ask if I was there. I'd have been a damned fool to refuse. She's helped me get what I wanted more than anything on earth—"

  "What? Your lands?"

  "No. Those were sold. I won't get them back again unless I can buy out the present owner, and I don't think I will. She helped me persuade the King and his brother to go into a privateering venture with me; they both contributed several thousand pounds. I got my letter-of-marque yesterday."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a letter from the King authorizing the bearer to seize the vessels and cargo of other nations. In this case I can take Spanish ships sailing off the Americas—"

  Her fear and jealousy of Barbara Palmer vanished.

  "You're not going to sea?"

  "Yes, Amber, I am. I've bought two ships of my own, and with the money I'll get from the King and York I can buy three more. As soon as they're provisioned and the men are signed we'll sail."

  "Oh, Bruce, you can't go away! You can't!"

  A flicker of impatience crossed his face. "I told you that day in Heathstone I wouldn't stay long. It'll be two months yet, or perhaps a little longer, but as soon as I can, I'm going."

  "But why? Why don't you get a—a—I forget what Almsbury called 'em—where you get money for helping his Majesty put on his drawers?"

  He laughed, though her face was passionately serious. "As it happens I don't want a what-d'you-call-'em. I need money, but I'll get it my own way. Crawling on my belly for the rest of my days isn't the way I want to do it."

  "Then take me with you! Oh, please, Bruce! I won't be any trouble—let me go along, please!"

  "I can't, Amber. Life on ship-board is hard enough for a man —the food's rotten, it's cold and it's uncomfortable, and there's no getting off when you get tired of it. And if
you think you wouldn't cause any trouble—" He smiled, running his eyes over her significantly. "No, my dear—it's no use talking about it."

  "But what about me? What'll I do when you go? Oh, Bruce, I'll die without you!" She looked at him pitifully and reached over to put her hands on his arms, already forlorn as a lost puppy.

  "That's what I asked you when you wanted to come to London with me. Or have you forgotten? Listen to me, Amber. There's only one thing for you to do—go back to Marygreen right now. I'll give you as much money as I can. We'll think of some tale or other to tell your aunt and uncle—I know it won't be easy for you, but even in a village a large sum of money doesn't go unrespected. After a while the gossip will run down, and you can get married— Wait a minute, let me finish. I know I'm to blame for having brought you here, and I won't pretend my motives were noble. I wasn't thinking about you or what would happen to you, and to tell the truth I didn't very much care. But I care now; I don't want to see you hurt any more than I can help. You're young and you're innocent and you're beautiful, and all that with your enthusiasm for living can easily ruin you. I wasn't joking when I said that London eats up pretty girls—the town's aswarm with rogues and adventurers of every conceivable breed. You'd be snapped up in a minute. Believe that I know what I'm saying and go back home, where you belong."

  Amber's eyes sparkled angrily, and she lifted her chin as she answered him. "I a'nt so innocent, my lord! I warrant you I can look to my own interests as well as the next one! And don't think I can't see what you're about, either! You've grown tired of me now the King's mistress has caught your eye, and think to fob me off with some lame story that I should go back for my own good! Well, you don't know what you're talking about! My Uncle Matt wouldn't so much as let me in the house —money or no! And the constable would likely set me up in the stocks! Every man in the parish would laugh in his fist at me and-—" She stopped suddenly and burst into tears again. "I won't do it! I won't go home!"

  He reached over and took her into his arms. "Amber, my darling, don't cry. I swear it, I don't give a damn about Barbara Palmer. And I was telling the truth when I said I thought you should go back for your own sake. I still do. But it isn't because I've grown tired of you. You're lovely—you're more desirable than you can know. My God, no man could grow tired of you—"

  Under his stroking fingers her sobs grew quieter, a warmth began to come over her and she purred like a kitten. "You aren't tired of me, Bruce? I can stay with you?"

  "If you want—But I still think—"

  "Oh, don't say it! I don't care! I don't care what happens to me—I'm going to stay with you!"

  He gave her a light kiss and got up to finish undressing while she sat on her knees watching him, glowing admiration in her eyes. His body was magnificent—with a splendid breadth through chest and shoulders, sleek narrow hips, and handsome muscular legs. His flesh was hard-surfaced, the skin of his torso browned by exposure. Every movement he made had the easy gracefulness of an animal, seemingly unhurried, yet lithe and quick.

  He crossed the room to snuff out the candles. And suddenly Amber could restrain herself no longer.

  "Bruce! Did you make love to her?"

  He did not answer but gave her a glance, half-scowling, that intimated he considered the question a superfluous one, and then his head bent and he blew out the last candle.

  From the beginning Amber had both half-hoped and half-feared that she would become pregnant. She hoped because her love for him yearned to be fulfilled in every way. But she feared, too, because she knew that he would not marry her, and it was her vivid memory that a woman who gave birth to a bastard child had no very tender treatment at the hands of the community. Two years before in Marygreen a daughter of one of the cottagers had become pregnant and had either not known or refused to tell the father's name, so that sheer force of public antagonism drove her to leave the town. Amber remembered the circumstance well, for it had been the subject of chatter among the delighted and scandalized girls for weeks on end, and she had been as contemptuous, as jeering as any of them.

  Now, that might happen to her.

  She was well enough acquainted with the early symptoms of pregnancy for she had often discussed the subject with those of her friends who were married, and she had watched Sarah carry four children during the years since she had been old enough to notice such things. But by the end of June, when they had been in London almost two months, she still had no reason to think herself with child. And so, to settle her own suspense, she went to consult an astrologer.

  It was no very difficult matter to find one for they were all over the city, thick as flies in a cook-shop, and she set out one day in Bruce's coach-and-four to learn her fortune from a certain Mr. Chout. She watched as they rode along and when she saw a sign marked with a moon, six stars, and a hand, she called to the driver to stop and sent the footman to knock at the door. The astrologer, who had peeked out the window and seen her crested coach, came forth himself to invite her in.

  He did not look to her like a mystic. He had a large red face, dirt-clogged pores covered his nose, and there was a rank odour about him. But he greeted her so obsequiously, bowing as though she were a duchess of the blood royal, that her confidence in him increased.

  The footman followed her into the house and waited while she and Mr. Chout retired to a private parlour. The room was filthy and smelt no better than its owner, and Amber glanced dubiously at the chair before she sat down in it. He took a stool opposite her and began talking about the King's return and his own invincible loyalty to the Stuarts. While he talked he rubbed his dirty hands together and his eyes looked at her as though they could penetrate her cloak. Finally, like a doctor who has humoured his patient long enough by gossiping of other things, he asked her what she wanted to know.

  "I want to know what's going to happen to me."

  "Very well, madame. You've come to the right man. But first there are some things you must tell me."

  Amber was afraid that he would ask her some embarrassingly personal questions, but all he wanted was the date and hour of her birth and where she was born. When she had told him he consulted several charts, gazed into a round crystal ball he had on the table, peered occasionally at both her palms— holding her hands in his own moist and grimy ones—and nodded his head gravely. All the while she watched him with anxious eagerness, now and then giving an absent-minded caress to the large grey cat that came and nudged against her skirts.

  "Madame," he said finally, "your future is of singular interest. You were born with Venus in separating square aspect to Mars in the Fifth House." Amber solemnly absorbed that, too impressed at first even to wonder what it meant. Then, as she was about to ask, he continued, having reached his conclusions as much by looking at her as at his charts: "Hence you are inclined, madame, to over-ardent affections and to rash impulsive attractions to the opposite sex. This can cause you serious trouble, madame. You are also too much inclined to indulge yourself in pleasure—and hence must suffer the attendant difficulties."

  Amber gave a wistful little sigh. "Don't you see something good, too?"

  "Oh, indeed, madame, indeed. I was coming to that. I see you in possession of a great fortune." By the appearance of her clothes and smart coach he had surmised that she must already have access to a large amount of money.

  "You do?" cried Amber, delighted. "What else do you see?"

  "I see jealousy and discord. But also," he added hastily at a protesting frown from Amber, "I see that the sextiles of Venus to Neptune and Uranus give you considerable magnetism— no man may resist you."

  "Ohhh—" breathed Amber. "Gemini! What else do you see? Will I have children?"

  "Let me see your palm again, madame. Yes, indeed, a very fair table—the line of riches well extended. The wheels of fortune are large. These intersparsings betoken children. You will have—let me see—several. Seven, I should say, more or less."

  "When will I have the first one? Soon?"

  "Yes
, I think so. Very soon—" His eyes went down over her cloak, but nothing was revealed there. "That is, of course," he added cautiously, "within a reasonable time. You understand, madame."

  "And when will I get married—soon, too?" Her voice and eyes were hopeful, almost pleading with him.

  "Let me see. Hmmm—let me see. Now, what did you dream last night? I've found there's nothing to compare with a dream for telling a woman when she'll marry."

  Amber frowned, trying to remember. She could recall nothing but that she had dreamed of pounding spices, which she had often done for Sarah—particularly after the two annual fairs, when they were purchased in bulk. That fragment, however, was enough for Mr. Chout's purpose.

  "That's very important, madame. Very important. To dream of pounding spices always foretells matrimony."

  "Will I marry the man I love?"

  "Why, truly, madame, that I can't say for certain." But at Amber's stricken expression he again hastened to amend his statement. "Of course, madame, you will marry him one day —perhaps not today or tomorrow—but someday. These lines here betoken husbands. You will have, let me see, some half-a-dozen, more or less."

  "Half-a-dozen! I don't want half-a-dozen! I just want one!" She pulled her hand away from him, for he seemed sticky and repulsive to her, and he had been holding on somewhat too tightly. But he was not done yet.

  "And one thing more I see—if I may be frank with you?— I see that someday you will have, madame, a hundred lovers." His greedy eyes watched her with obscene calculation, taking vicarious pleasure from her look of surprise and the faint pink blush that spread over her face and neck. "More or less, that is."

  Amber gave an excited little laugh. He was making her feel ill-at-ease and she wished that she was out of there; it was difficult to breathe, and though he had moved no nearer he seemed to be oppressively close. "A hundred lovers!" she cried, trying to sound city-bred and casual. "Marry come up! One's enough for me! Is that all, Mr. Chout?" She got to her feet.