Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  The prologue was done, the curtains had swung back, and Charles Hart and Michael Mohun had started to speak their lines. The theatre was settling down, quieting as much as it ever did, though the buzzing and murmuring went on and there were occasional laughs or loud-spoken comments. Amber, who knew most of the lines by heart, now discovered that she was not able even to follow the dialogue, and the ladies-in-waiting had already started out when Kynaston gave her a little shove.

  "Go on!"

  For an instant she hung back, unable to move, and then, with her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst, she lifted her head high and walked out. During the rehearsals the other women had always maneuvered to keep her in the background, despite the fact that Killigrew said he wanted the audience to see her, but now because of her late entrance she stood in the front, closer to the audience than any of them.

  She heard a man's voice from nearby, in the pit. "Who's that glorious creature, Orange Moll?"

  Another one spoke up. "That must be the new wench. By Jesus, but she's handsome, I swear she is!"

  And from the gallery the 'prentices sent up a low appreciative hum.

  Amber felt her cheeks begin to burn and sweat start in her armpits, but at last she forced herself to sneak a glance out of the corner of one eye. She saw several upturned faces beneath her, grinning, and all at once she realized that these were only men like any other men. Just before the ladies-in-waiting went off the stage she threw them a dazzling smile, and heard another rising hum of approval. After that she stood in the wings and fretted because her part was done. By the time the play was over she was incurably stagestruck.

  Beck Marshall spoke to her as they were going into the tiring-room. "Look here, Mrs. What-d'ye-call," she said, pretending to have forgotten Amber's name. "You needn't strut up and down like a crow in the gutter. Those gentlemen will have a swing at anything new—"

  Amber smiled at her, superior, very well satisfied with herself. "Don't concern yourself for me, madame. I'll have a care of my own interests, I warrant you."

  But she was more than a little disappointed when Michael and three of his friends appeared promptly, surrounding her and shutting her off from any possible outside interference, for several of the young men were watching her, asking about her, curious and interested and admiring.

  Oh, well, she thought, I won't always be troubled with Michael.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next day Amber was given the part of the first Court lady, and had four short lines to say. Not very long after that she was taking important roles, singing songs and, dressed in a tight pair of breeches and thin white blouse, performing the dance at the end of the play. It was her chief qualification as an actress that she could easily achieve an accurate and only piquantly exaggerated imitation of almost any kind of woman, whether great lady or serving-wench. And little more was expected, for the audience had no interest in the subtleties of character delineation. The taste was for crude gorgeous exciting effects, whether in women, scenery, or melodrama.

  They liked the bloody noisy terrifying tragedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, considered Ben Jonson the greatest playwright of all time, thought Shakespeare too realistic and hence deficient in poetic justice. He required considerable altering before he could qualify for presentation. A great deal of singing and dancing, frequent changes of scenery and costume, battles and deaths and ghosts, profanity and smut and seminudity was what they liked and what they got. At every murder or suicide sheep's blood spurted from concealed bladders and covered the actor with gore; ghosts rose and sank on trapdoors; scenes of torture by rack, wheel and fire filled the theatre with anguished screams and groans. But through it all the fops in the pit kept up a stream of banter with the actors and prostitutes and orange-girls, and the ladies in the boxes waved their fans and cast lazy smiles at the gallants below.

  Amber's popularity was considerable—because she was new, the women insisted—and every day after the performance she was surrounded by a flock of gallants who kissed her, tied her garters, watched her dress, and invited her to spend the night with one or all of them. She listened and laughed, flirted with everyone, but went home with Michael Godfrey.

  She was afraid of arousing his jealousy, for he knew all her secrets and could ruin her if he chose. But even had she been free of him, she had not yet heard the offer which could interest her. She was looking for a man of both importance and wealth, who would keep her according to the manner in which she intended to live—clothes and jewels and a coach, a generous annual allowance, handsomely furnished lodgings, a serving-woman, and a footman. The man who could supply those things was not to be found every day, even among the tiring-room gallants, and when found he was not likely to be a ready dupe. Amber was impatient, eager to better her status, but determined to make no rash change which might precipitate her down the steep narrow road leading to common prostitution. Penelope Hill's advice meant more to her now than when she had first heard it—and she intended to turn some man's weakness to her own advantage.

  More than a month went by and still Amber was on no better terms with the other actresses than she had been at first. They missed no opportunity to confuse or embarrass her, either on the stage or in the tiring-room, circulating rumours that she had the French-pox and that she was living incestuously with her brother—Michael—and were more annoyed than ever when she treated them all with cool, superior contempt. But nothing they said seemed to discourage the men, who brushed it all aside as mere jealous female slander.

  "Well," said Beck Marshall to her one day, "they may poach after you here in the tiring-room, but I don't notice one of 'em's made you an offer of more than half-a-crown."

  Amber sat on one of the tables, legs crossed and carefully drew a black line along the edge of her eyelid. "And what about you, madame? Who's your stallion? The Duke of York, I doubt not?"

  Beck gave her a smug, complacent smile. "Not his Highness, perhaps. But then, Captain Morgan's a man of no mean consequence."

  "And who the devil's Captain Morgan? That straight-haired nincompoop I saw you with at Chatelin's the other night?" She got up and turned her back, beckoning Scroggs to come help her into her gown.

  "Captain Morgan, Mrs. Double-tripe, is an officer in his Majesty's Horse Guard—and a mighty handsome fellow into the bargain. And he's so mad in love with me he's going to make me a settlement and take me off the stage. I don't doubt he'd marry me quick enough—if I could make up my mind to endure matrimony," she added, examining her nails.

  Amber stepped into her gown and stooped over to pull it up. "You'd better make up your mind to endure it before long," she said, "or you'll be leading apes in hell." Leading apes in hell was supposedly the destiny of an old maid, and Amber liked to taunt Beck with the fact that she was two or three years her senior. "But where d'you keep this wonder? Under lock and key?"

  "He's been out of town these two months past—his family's got a great estate in Wales, and his father's just died. But he wrote me he expects to return within the week and then—"

  "Oh, I don't doubt I'll be in a green-sickness of jealousy at the very sight of 'im."

  At that moment a boy stuck his head in the door calling, "Third music, ladies! Third music!" and they all began to troop out, for the third music meant that it was time for the curtains to be drawn. Amber thought no more of Beck's Captain Morgan and several days went by. But late one afternoon as she was dressing after the performance, surrounded by her circle of impudent gallants, a man appeared in the doorway who instantly arrested her attention.

  He was well over six feet tall with wide, square shoulders, lean hips, and magnificent legs. Powerful and virile, in his red and blue uniform he was an exciting contrast to the pale effeminate young fops who talked incessantly of their claps and poxes and carried a box of turpentine-pills wherever they went. His face was crudely handsome, with well-defined features; he had waving brown hair and skin tanned to a tawny-gold. Amber stared at him in surprise and admirati
on, wondering who he was, and then as he smiled slowly the corners of her eyes went up and she gave him a faint answering smile.

  At that moment there was a scream from Beck.

  "Rex!"

  And she rushed over to throw herself into his arms, took his hand, and led him to the opposite side of the room. She dressed hastily then and hurried him out, but as he went he gave Amber a backward glance.

  "Well!" said Beck the next morning, as they sat in the pit watching a rehearsal. "What d'ye make of him?" But her eyes were slightly narrowed and she was more defiant than triumphant.

  Amber smiled innocently and gave a little shrug. "Oh, no doubt he's a very fine person. I don't wonder you rushed 'im out as fast as if you were going for a midwife." Her eyes took on a malicious sparkle. "It'd never do to let a fellow like that make the acquaintance of other ladies, would it?"

  Beck flared. "I smoke your design, madame! But let me tell you this—if I find you spreading your nets for him I'll make you sorry for it! I'll carbonado you, I swear I will!"

  "Pooh!" said Amber, and got up to leave her. "Your bellow-weathering doesn't scare me!"

  Still, Captain Morgan did not appear backstage again for several days, and when Amber gibed at her for not daring to show her prize not only Beck but her older sister Anne flew in to a rage and threatened her with the wrath of God, as well as their own. "Just you dare meddling with Captain Morgan!" cried Anne dramatically, for she was the tragedienne of the company. "You'll wish you hadn't!"

  But Amber was so little impressed by their threats that whenever she saw him in the pit, as she often did, she flirted openly with him. It would have pleased her a great deal to steal Beck Marshall's admirer, even if he had been much less attractive than he was.

  She was going into the theatre early one afternoon when a ragged little urchin came limping up, glanced hastily around, and thrust a wax-sealed paper into her hands. Curious, Amber tore it open. "For Madame St. Clare," she read. ("Madame" was the title applied to all actresses.) "I must confess I am hopelessly smitten by you, for all that a lady known to us both has warned me you're not to be trusted and already belong to another man. Still, I have made so bold as to reserve a table for us at the Fox-Under-the-Hill at Ivy Bridge. I shall hope to see you there tomorrow evening at seven. Your most humble obliged servant, madame, I am, Captain Rex Morgan." And he added a postscript: "May I ask you, madame, to have the kindness for me as not to mention this note to anyone?"

  Amber smiled slyly to herself, and after a moment tore the paper into little bits, tossed them up over her head and went on into the theatre. She had no intention of telling Beck about the note. Not, at least, until she was sure that he was captured; but she could not resist giving her a fleeting little smile that annoyed the other girl even if it told her nothing.

  She had no performance the next afternoon and spent the day washing her hair—in spite of the almanac, which said that the time was astrologically unfavourable—deciding what she would wear, and trying to think of an excuse to give Michael. She was still undecided when she took a hackney and rode to the Royal Exchange to buy some ribbons and gloves and a bottle of scent. Coming back with her arms full of parcels, her cloak and hood covered with raindrops, she opened the door and found Michael standing in conversation with another man.

  He was much older than Michael and as he turned to look at her there was a stern scowl on his face. She knew instantly who he was: Michael's father. For some time past Michael had been getting letters from his father, demanding to know why he had been expelled from the Middle Temple, insisting that he return home at once. Michael had read each one to her, laughing, saying gaily that his father was a formal old coxcomb, and had thrown them into the fire without ever sending an answer. Now, however, he wore a hang-dog expression and a look of cowed helplessness.

  "Amber," he said at last, "this is my father. Sir, may I present Mrs. St. Clare?"

  Sir Michael Godfrey merely stared at her without speaking, and after a moment she crossed the room, laid down her packages, and spread her cloak on a chair before the fire. That done she turned to find both men still watching her, and Sir Michael's hostile eyes made her aware that her neckline was cut very low and her face obviously painted. He turned away.

  "Is this the woman you kept in the Temple?" As he said it Amber had an uncomfortable feeling that she was the commonest kind of whore.

  "Yes, sir."

  Michael was not flippant with his father as he had been with Mr. Gripenstraw. The wild gay boy who had delighted in getting drunk every night and breaking the windows of sleeping citizens had quite disappeared in the chagrined, embarrassed dutiful son.

  Sir Michael Godfrey turned to Amber. "Madame, I fear you shall have to cast about elsewhere for a young fool to meet your expenses. My son is returning with me into the country and you shall get not a farthing more by his misplaced generosity."

  Amber merely stared at him coolly and curbed her impulse to give him a tart answer because she remembered all that Michael had done for her, and all that he could still do, if he chose, to injure her. With a gesture of his hand Sir Michael signalled his son from the room. And though he hesitated for a moment he went, turning back once to give Amber a wistful pleading look of goodbye, which Sir Michael cut short by thrusting him sharply out and banging the door after them. Amber was sorry for Michael; evidently his life would now be sadly changed, but her pity soon gave way to relief—and then to eagerness for the night.

  My stars are lucky! she thought exuberantly. Just when I had no more use for 'im—he's gone!

  Amber was only a little late, but as she was ushered upstairs to the private dining-room, Captain Morgan flung open the door and greeted her with happy enthusiasm. "At last you're here! How kind of you to come!" His eyes glistened with pleasure as they looked down at her and he took her muff and cloak, tossed them over a chair, and turned her about by one hand. "You look wonderful! By God, you're the most glorious creature I've ever seen!"

  Amber laughed. "Come now, Captain Morgan! Beck Marshall tells me you've said kinder things to her by far."

  But she luxuriated in his admiration, feeling a warm glow of pleasure go through all her body at the expression on his face. It had been a long while since she had seen a man so infatuated—not, in fact, since she had left Marygreen. And she was glad that he had the sense to appreciate a pretty gown, for she had worn her best and newest one; too many of the young fops were so concerned with their own "garnitures" and "petite-oie" they scarcely knew what a woman was wearing. The dress was made of bright green velvet, with the skirt slit down the front and draped up over a black-satin sequin-spattered petticoat, and she had one pert black-satin bow tied at either temple.

  He snapped his fingers. "The devil with Beck Marshall. She's nothing to me, I assure you."

  "That's what every man says about his old doxy when he has a mind to a new one."

  Rex Morgan laughed. "I see you have wit as well as beauty, madame. That makes you perfect."

  At that moment there was a loud rap at the door. Morgan called out for them to enter, and in marched the host and three waiters, loaded down with covered pewter dishes, knives and spoons, napkins, glasses and salt-dishes, and two bottles of wine. They set the places, removed all covers with a flourish so that Captain Morgan might inspect the contents, and then marched out again. Amber and Rex sat down to eat.

  There was a great steaming bowlful of crayfish bisque, a well-seasoned leg-of-mutton stuffed with oysters and chopped onion, a chicken-pie covered with a flaky golden crust, and a pudding made of thick pure cream and pounded chestnuts. They sat side by side, facing the fireplace where sea-coals burnt brightly, and as they ate they fell into easy comfortable talk, enjoying the good meal and admiring each other.

  He told her that she had the most fascinating eyes in the world, the loveliest hair he had ever seen, the most beautiful breasts, and the prettiest legs. His voice had an authentic sincerity she did not even care to question, and he looked at her wi
th frank adoration and desire. Why, he's mad in love with me already! thought Amber delightedly, and had an image of herself parading him into the tiring-room tomorrow like a tame monkey on a chain.

  "Is it true," he asked her at last as they were beginning to eat the hot baked chestnut pudding, "that you're in the keeping of someone from the Middle Temple?"

  "Lord Almighty! Who told you that?"

  "Everyone I asked about you. Is it true?"

  "Certainly not! Lord, I swear a woman can be raped here in London without losing her maidenhead! I'll admit I was occupying lodgings with a gentleman for a time—but he was my cousin, and he's gone back to Yorkshire now. Heavens, I can't think what my father would say, to hear the bawdy talk that goes on here—about nothing at all!" She gave him a look of wide-eyed indignation.

  "Lucky for him he's only your cousin. I'd have had to send him a challenge to get him out of my way. But I'm glad he's gone anyway. Tell me, who are you? Where'd you come from? Everyone told me a different story."

  "I'm Mrs. St. Clare and I came from Essex. What else d'you want to know?"

  "What are you doing on the stage? You don't look as though you belong there."

  "Oh, don't I? I've been told different."

  "That isn't what I mean. You look like a person of quality."

  "Oh. Well—" She gave him a sidelong glance as he began to pour the champagne. "To tell you truly, I am."

  She took the glass as he handed it to her, leaned back in her chair and began to spin for him the story upon which she had been embroidering almost since she had first come to London, improving upon it whenever she got a new idea. "My family's old and honourable and they had a good estate in Essex— but they sold everything to help his Majesty in the Wars. So, when an old ugly earl wanted to marry me my father was going to insist, to help repair his loss. I wouldn't have the stinking old goat—-my father said I should have him, and he locked me into the house. I broke out and came to London— Of course I changed my name—I'm not really Mrs. St. Clare." She smiled at him over the rim of her glass, pleased to see that he apparently believed her.