Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  She wanted to be the wife of Charles Stuart; she wanted to be Queen of England. She refused to believe that such an idea was absurd.

  Barbara and Charles had met at the Hague a few weeks before the Restoration, when her husband was sent there to take a gift of money to the King. Charles, who was invariably attracted to beautiful women, was instantly and strongly attracted to her. And Barbara, both flattered to be sought by a king and glad of an opportunity to revenge herself on a jilting lover—the Earl of Chesterfield—quickly became his mistress. Everyone agreed that Charles, not surprisingly, was more deeply infatuated than he had ever been during the many years of his gallantry, and Barbara began to be a woman of considerable importance.

  The Roger Palmers, who had been married less than two years, lived in one of the great houses on King Street, a narrow muddy but highly fashionable thoroughfare which ran through the Palace grounds and served to connect the villages of Charing and Westminster. Inns massed the west side of the street, but on the east were great mansions, whose gardens led down to the unembanked Thames. It was in her husband's home, at the end of the year, that Barbara began to give suppers which were attended by the King and most of the gay young men and pretty women of the Court, his Majesty's closest companions.

  For a while Roger obediently appeared and pretended to be host. But at last he balked at the ridiculous role he was expected to play.

  He came one January evening and knocked, as he had been told to do, at the door of his wife's bedroom. He was a medium-sized man of no pretentious appearance or manner but there was a look of good-breeding on his face and intelligence in his eyes. Barbara called out to him to enter and then, as he did so, merely glanced around carelessly over her shoulder.

  "Oh. Good-evening, sir."

  She was sitting before a table above which hung a mirror with candles affixed, and a maid was brushing her long mahogany-coloured hair while she tried several different pairs ol dangling ear-rings to see which effect she liked best. Her elaborate gown was made of stiff black satin so that by contrast the skin of her arms and shoulders and breasts looked chalk-white, and there were diamonds at her throat and about her wrists. She was in the eighth month of her first pregnancy but seemed scarcely conscious of her unusual bulk, and she looked robustly healthy.

  Now, as he entered and crossed the room the maid curtsied and went on with her brushing while Barbara turned her head from one side to the other, making the diamond pendants dance and catch the candle-light. At his appearance a subtle boredom, a kind of polite contempt, had come upon her face. And as he stood looking down at her in obvious perplexity she paid him no further attention, though she knew that he was trying to speak and wanted her help.

  "Madame," he began at last, after taking a deep swallow into his dry throat. "I find that it will be impossible for me to have supper with you this evening."

  "Ridiculous, Roger! His Majesty will be here. He'll expect you."

  She had finally satisfied herself as to the ear-rings and now began to stick on several small black patches, hearts and diamonds and half-moons; one went beside her right eye, another on the left side of her mouth, a third high on her left temple. She had not glanced at him again after the first careless greeting.

  "I think his Majesty will understand well enough, if I'm not present."

  Barbara rolled her eyes, heaving a pained but patient sigh. "Heigh ho! Are we to go through this again?" He bowed. "We are not, madame. Good-night." As he turned and went to the door Barbara sat drumming her nails on the edge of the table, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, and then all at once she pulled away from the maid and got to her feet, raising her arm to secure the last bodkin herself.

  "Roger! I want to speak to you!"

  His hand on the knob, he turned and faced her. "Madame?"

  "Get out of here, Wharton." She gave a wave of her hand at the maid but started to talk before the girl had had time to leave. "I think you'd better come tonight, Roger. If you don't his Majesty will think it damned peculiar."

  "I don't agree, madame. I think his Majesty must find it more peculiar that a man should be content to go tamely and parade his wife's whoredom before half the Court."

  Barbara gave an unpleasant laugh. "The mistress of a King is not a whore, Roger!" Her eyes suddenly narrowed and hardened and her voice rose. "How often must I tell you that!" Then it fell again to become soft, purring, sarcastic. "Or can it be you haven't noticed I'm treated with twice as much respect now as I got when I was only the wife of an honourable gentleman?" The inflection she gave the last two words showed her contempt of him and of her own insignificant station as his wife.

  He looked at her coldly. "I think there's a better word for it than respect."

  "Oh? And what's that pray?"

  "Self-interest."

  "Oh, a pox on you and your damned jealousy! I'm sick of your bellow-weathering! But you'll come to the supper tonight and act as host or by Jesus you'll smoke for it!"

  Suddenly he crossed to her, his pose of indifference gone, his face flushed and contorted with anger. He caught hold of her fore-arm. "Be quiet, madame! You sound like a fish-wife! I was a fool not to have taken you to the country when I first married you—my father warned me you'd disgrace us all! But I've learned since then, and I've discovered that to some women freedom means license. It seems that you're one of those women."

  Her eyes, almost on a level with his, stared at him tauntingly. "And if I am," she said slowly, "what of it?"

  All the uncertainty he had shown before her at first had now vanished completely, leaving him poised and determined. "Tomorrow we shall leave for Cornwall. I don't doubt that two or three years of country quiet will do much to restore your perspective."

  With a sudden swift wrench she jerked away from him. "You damned noddy! Just you try spiriting me away to the country and we'll make a trial of what good it does me to have the King's favour!" They were standing silently, both breathing hard, staring fiercely into each other's eyes, when there was a knock on the door and a voice called:

  "His Majesty, King Charles II!"

  Barbara looked around. "He's here!" Automatically her hands went to her head to make sure that every hair was in place, her eyes moving swiftly and excitedly, and though her face still showed traces of anger it had cleared considerably. She went to pick up her black-spangled fan and then returned. "Now! Are you coming down to act as host, or no!"

  "I am not."

  "Oh, you fool!"

  Her hand lashed out and slapped him stingingly across the face and then she picked up her skirts and hurried across the room, pausing a moment to compose her features before she opened the door. Then she went out and down the broad portrait-lined hallway to the staircase.

  Below her stood the King in conversation with her cousin, Buckingham, but as she appeared both men stopped talking and turned to give her their attention. She came down slowly, partly because the precarious unbalance of pregnancy made her cautious, partly to let them admire her. And then as she reached the bottom she curtsied while both men bowed and the King, who alone might remain covered in his own presence, swept off his hat.

  Barbara and Charles exchanged lingering smiles, deep intimate looks charged with memories and anticipation. And then she turned to the Duke who had been watching them with cynical amusement on his face.

  "Well, George. I didn't expect you back so soon from France."

  "I didn't expect to be back so soon. But—" He gave a shrug of his heavy shoulders, glancing at the King.

  Charles laughed. "But Philippe flew into a jealous rage. I think he was afraid his Grace intended to follow in his father's footsteps."

  It was notorious gossip in both kingdoms that the first Buckingham had been the lover of beautiful Anne of Austria, who was now Louis XIV's fat and old and ill-tempered mother. And his son had made no secret of his violent admiration for Minette.

  "It would have been a pleasure," said Buckingham, and made the King a half-mocking bow.

/>   "Shall we go into the drawing-room?" asked Barbara then, and as they walked toward it she looked up at Charles, her face appealing, soft and almost childish. "Your Majesty, I'm in a most embarrassing position. There's no host for the supper tonight."

  "No host? Where's— You mean he didn't care to come?"

  Barbara nodded and dropped her black lashes, as though deeply ashamed of her husband's bad manners. But Charles had another view of the matter.

  "Well, I can't say that I blame him, poor devil. Ods-fish, it seems a man with a beautiful wife is more to be pitied than envied."

  "If he lives in England, he is," said the Duke.

  Charles laughed good-humouredly. He could not be offended on the subject of his own habits for he did not try to fool himself about them.

  "Still, every party needs a host. If you'll permit me, ma-dame—"

  Barbara's purple eyes gleamed with triumph. "Oh, your Majesty! If you would!"

  Now, as they entered the doorway and paused for a moment, the roomful of people swung to face them as though magnetized. The hat of every man came off in a sweeping bow and the ladies bent gracefully to the ground, like full-blown flowers grown too heavy for their stems. Barbara had already become so successful and important a hostess that she did not find it necessary to welcome her guests as they arrived. Everyone of any ambition, whether social or political, was delighted to receive an invitation from Mrs. Palmer and would not have complained whatever her manners might be. For many were convinced she would one day, perhaps soon, be Queen of England.

  A year ago Barbara would have thought it incredible that she would ever have in her home all at one time these men and women she now used so carelessly.

  There was Anthony Ashley Cooper, small, emaciated and sick, related to many of the most powerful families in the nation. By some sleight-of-hand performance he had contrived to transmute himself into a loyal Cavalier at just about the time of the Restoration. The feat however, was no very unusual one. Sympathizers with or active workers in the old regime had by no means all been hanged and quartered or harried into exile— many of them now supported the Monarchy and, in fact, formed the basis of the new Government. Charles was too practical and too well-versed in politics to have imagined that his Restoration could mean a complete overthrow of everything that had been done these past twenty years; the recent change had been mostly superficial. Cooper, like many another, had adopted a new set of manners which matched better with Charles's Court, but he had relinquished neither principles nor fundamental intentions.

  There was Cooper's good friend, the Earl of Lauderdale, a huge red-faced red-haired Scotsman whose brogue was thick even though most of his forty-five years had been spent in England. He was ugly and coarse and boisterous, but he had an amazing education in Latin, Hebrew, French, and Italian which he had laboriously acquired during his years of imprisonment under the Commonwealth. Charles found him amusing and the Earl had a deep affection for his King.

  George Digby, Earl of Bristol, was a good-looking man of almost fifty, vain and unreliable, but he had in common with Cooper and Lauderdale a violent hatred of the Chancellor. That hatred, founded on envy and jealousy, served to unite most of the ambitious men at Court. To put Chancellor Hyde out of the way was their highest aim, their greatest hope. Barbara's house gave them a rallying-ground, for here they might meet the King when he was at his leisure and most accessible.

  But many of them were merely gay young people interested in nothing more serious than their love-affairs and gambling, in learning the latest dance or keeping apace with the French fashions.

  Lord Buckhurst, only twenty-three, lived at Court but had no use for it, and refused to exert himself to become a man of power. Henry Jermyn was a big-headed spindle-shanked fop who was enjoying a considerable amatory success because many persons believed he had been married to the dead Princess Mary. Among the ladies was the voluptuous cat-like Countess of Shrewsbury; Anne, Lady Carnegie, flagrantly over-painted, now famous because she had shared Barbara's first lover with her; Elizabeth Hamilton, a tall gracious cool young woman, newly arrived at Court, whom it was the fashion to admire. They were all about Barbara's age, twenty or younger, for the men were outspoken in their opinion that a woman had begun to decay at twenty-two.

  The immense drawing-room was furnished well, hung with heavy draperies of gold-green, lighted by dozens of candles burning in wall-sconces and in brass chandeliers overhead. The floor was uncovered and the high heels made a melodious tapping upon it. Laughter seemed to fill the air to the very ceiling; a band of musicians played in one corner; silverware and dishes rattled together.

  An adjoining room was set with a buffet-table, in the French style which Charles preferred, and footmen swarmed everywhere. The dishes piled upon it might have done justice to a cathedral builder: pompous confections decorated with candied roses and violets; little dolls in full Court dress spinning about on cake tops; great silver porringers containing steaming ragouts of mushrooms, sweetbreads, and oysters. Bottles of the new drink, champagne, crowded the tables. No more was an Englishman to be satisfied with boiled-mutton and pease and ale. He had learnt better in France and would never be reconciled to the old fare again.

  The King's role as host created a sensation, for many of them were sure that it was a subtle way of showing his future intentions. Barbara was sure too and she moved about the room like a flame, charming, amazingly beautiful, full of the confidence of her power. Their eyes followed her and their whispers discussed her. But Barbara was not fooled, for she knew well enough that obsequious though they all were now it would take no more than a hint that the King was losing interest and out would come the sheathed claws, every honeyed word would turn to acid, and she would find herself more alone than she had ever been in the days before her dangerous glory.

  It had happened before. But it won't happen to me, she told herself. To all the others, perhaps, but not to me.

  Gambling-tables were set up in a third room and there they were soon congregated. Charles sat down to play for a short time, but in less than half an hour he had lost a couple of hundred pounds. He glanced up at Lauderdale who hung over his shoulder.

  "Take my place, will you, John. I always lose and I'm a bad loser— What's worse, I can't afford it."

  Lauderdale guffawed appreciatively, splattering the King as he did so for his tongue was too big for his mouth, but he took his seat and Charles strolled into the next room to listen to the music. Barbara promptly left her own table and met him just as he was going out the door. Her arm linked with his and he bent to kiss her lightly on the temple, while behind them significant glances were exchanged and some wagers laid.

  "It's my opinion Mrs. Palmer is mad enough to think she might be Queen," said Dr. Fraser. He was a personal favourite of the King and, since he could with equal dexterity perform an abortion, cure a clap, or administer a physic, his services were much in demand at Whitehall.

  "The lady has a husband, you know," murmured Elizabeth Hamilton, not glancing away from her cards.

  "A husband is no obstacle where a king has set his heart."

  "He'll never marry her," said Cooper positively. "His Majesty is no such fool as that." Cooper had acquired a considerable reputation for sagacity by guessing far ahead of anyone else that York was married to Anne Hyde.

  Barbara's old chum, Anne, gave him a malicious smile. "Why, whatever do you mean by that, sir? Sure, now, you don't think she'd be an unlucky choice?"

  "I do not, madame," he assured her coldly. "But I think that the King will marry where political expediency dictates—as kings have always done."

  By the time they had left, Barbara was thoroughly relieved. She was tired. The muscles in her legs ached and trembled. But she was happier than she had ever been and perfectly convinced that her hopes and expectation—wild as they might have seemed—would soon be fulfilled.

  As she and Charles entered the bedroom together Wharton, asleep in a chair by the fire, jumped to her feet and
curtsied, looking at her mistress with frightened apprehension. But Barbara smiled and spoke to her kindly.

  "You may go, Wharton. I won't need you again tonight." Then, just as the girl was leaving, she called after her, "Wake me by half-after-eight. There's a 'Change woman coming to show me some lace and if I don't get it first, Carnegie will." Barbara smiled at Charles as though she were a naughty little girl. "Isn't that selfish of me?"

  He answered the smile but not the question, and took a chair. "That was good food, Barbara. Haven't you a new head-cook?"

  She had gone to the dressing-table and was beginning to unfasten her hair. "Isn't he a marvel? Guess where I got him. I took him away from Mrs. Hyde—she brought him from France with her. D'you know, Charles, that woman hasn't once paid me a call?" She shook out her hair and it tumbled in long ripples like dark-fire running down her back; over her shoulder she threw him a quick, petulant glance. "I don't think the Chancellor likes me—or his wife would have called long since."

  "Well," said Charles easily, "suppose he doesn't."

  "Well! Why shouldn't he! What harm have I done him, pray?" Barbara thought that her new position should command not only the deference but the liking of every man and woman at Court, and she intended to get it, one way or another.

  "The Chancellor belongs to the old school of statesmen, my dear. He'll neither pimp nor bribe, but thinks it's possible to get along in this world by honest hard work. I'm afraid there's a new model politician likely to prove too hard for him."

  "I don't care what his morals are! He was good friends with my father and I think it's damned bad manners his wife doesn't make me a call! Why, I've heard he even tells you you shouldn't waste your time on a jade like me!"