Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Amber spent several days exploring Lime Park.

  There were dozens of rooms, all of them filled with furniture and pictures and objects which had come from every part of the world but which, by means of his Lordship's own peculiar alchemy, had been made to harmonize perfectly. The Italian gardens were immense and laid out in great terraces surrounding the south and east sides of the house and connected by marble flights of steps and broad gravelled walks. There were long shaded alleys of cypress and yew, and avenues of clipped, bright-green lime-trees; there were flowers in stone vases lining the stairs or walks or set on the balustrades. There was not a ragged hedge nor a weed to be found anywhere. Even the stables were immaculate, walled inside with Dutch tile and kept freshly whitewashed, and there were an orangerie, greenhouses, and a pretty little summer-house.

  It was no wonder, she thought, that he had been in debt. But now that she saw what her money had been spent for she was less resentful, for she looked at everything with the appraising critical eye of an owner. She passed nothing without making a decision as to whether she would want to keep it or sell it when the time came. For certainly nothing should stay hidden out here in the country where no one of any consequence might see and admire it. These fine things were destined for London: perhaps apartments in Whitehall or some grand new house in St. James's Square or Piccadilly.

  At first Jennifer was shy, but Amber—because she had nothing else to do and also because she was a little sorry for her—made the effort to become friendly. The girl responded with warm gratitude, for she had grown up in a large family and was lonely here, where, even with more than two hundred servants, the house seemed empty and dull.

  It was now the end of April and the days were often warm and pleasant. The nightingales had arrived, cherry and plum trees were in full bloom and the gardens were filled with the sweet scent of potted lilacs. Jennifer and Amber, gaily chatting and laughing, strolled over the green lawns arm in arm, their silk gowns gently blowing, admiring the raucous-tongued peacocks. In no time at all they seemed fast friends.

  Like a woman in love, Amber was forever talking of London, where Jennifer had never been. She told her about the theatres and the taverns, Hyde Park and Pall Mall and Whitehall, the gambling in the Queen's Drawing-Rooms, the balls and the hawking parties. For to her London was the center of the universe and whoever was absent from it might almost as well have been on a distant star.

  "Oh, there's nothing so fine," she cried enthusiastically, "as to see all the Court driving in the Ring! Everyone bows and smiles at everyone else each time they come round and his Majesty lifts his hat to the ladies and sometimes he calls out to them too. Oh, Jenny, you must come to London one day!" She continued to talk as if she were still there.

  Jenny had always listened with great interest and asked innumerable questions, but now she gave an apologetic little smile. "It sounds very fine but—well, I think I'd rather hear about it than see it myself."

  "What?" cried Amber, shocked at this blasphemy. "But London's the only place in the world to be! Why don't you want to go?"

  Jenny made a vague, deprecatory gesture. She was always acutely conscious of the greater strength of Amber's personality, and it made her feel embarrassed and almost guilty to express an opinion of her own. "I don't know. I think I'd feel strange there. It's so big and there are so many people and all the ladies are so handsome and wear such fine clothes—I'd be out of place. Why, I'd be lost." Her voice had a timid and almost desperate sound, as though she were already lost in that great terrifying city.

  Amber laughed and slipped one arm about her daughter-in-law's waist. "Why, Jenny, with paint and patches and a low-necked gown you'd be as pretty as anyone! I'll warrant you the gallants wouldn't let you alone—they'd be after you day and night."

  Jenny giggled, and her face grew pink. "Oh, your Ladyship, you know they wouldn't! My heavens! I wouldn't even know what to say to a gallant!"

  "Of course you would, Jenny. You know what to say to Philip, don't you, and all men are alike: There's just one topic that interests 'em when they're talking to a woman."

  Jenny turned red. "Oh, but I'm married to Philip and he— well—" She changed the subject hastily. "Is it really true what they say about the Court?"

  "What d'ye mean?"

  "Oh, you know. They say such terrible things. They say everyone drinks and swears and that even her Majesty plays cards on Sunday. They say his Majesty sometimes doesn't so much as see the Queen for months at a time, he's so busy with his other—er, ladies."

  "Nonsense! He sees her every day and he's as kind and fond as can be—he says she's the best woman in the world."

  Jenny was relieved. "Then it isn't true that he's unfaithful to her?"

  "Oh, yes, he is. All men are unfaithful to their wives, aren't they, if they get a chance?" But at that Jenny looked so stricken she gave her a little squeeze and added hastily, "Except men who live in the country—they're different."

  And at first she half thought that Philip was different. The instant he had seen her his eyes had lighted with surprise and admiration—but his father was there and the look swiftly passed. After that she met him seldom, usually only at dinner and supper, and then he paid her the same deferential consideration she might have expected had she been at least twenty years older. He very politely tried to pretend that she actually was nearer his father's age than his own. Amber finally decided, correctly, that he was afraid of her.

  Prompted by boredom and mischief and a desire to revenge herself on Radclyffe, she set out to make Philip fall in love with her. But she knew the Earl well enough to realize that she would have to be cautious, and take strictly in private any satisfaction she might find in cuckolding him with his own son. For if he should ever suspect or guess—but she refused to think of that, for nothing violent or cruel seemed beyond him. But Philip was the only young and personable and virile male at Lime Park, and she craved excitement as well as the flattery of a man's adoration.

  One rainy morning she met him in the gallery where they stopped to talk for a moment about the weather. He would have gone on almost immediately but she suggested a game of shovel-board and while he was trying to find an excuse she hurried him off to where the table was set. After that they bowled or played cards occasionally, and a couple times, apparently by accident, they met at the stables and rode together. Jenny was pregnant and could not ride.

  But Philip continued to treat Amber like a step-mother and even seemed to be somewhat in awe of her, which was an emotion she was not accustomed to rousing in men, either young or old. She decided that he must have forgotten everything he had learned on his Tour.

  She saw Radclyffe no oftener now than when they had been in town. He supervised every detail regarding the house which was not attended to by the steward (for he refused to allow a woman to manage his household); he planned new arrangements for the gardens, directed the workmen, and spent hours in his laboratory or in the library. He never rode horseback or played a game or a musical instrument, and though he was sometimes out-of-doors it was never to idle but always for a definite purpose and when it was accomplished he returned to the house. He wrote interminably. When Amber asked him what it was, he told her. He was writing the complete history of every article of value he had acquired so that the family would always know what its possessions were. He also wrote poetry, but never offered to read it to her and she never asked to see it. She thought it a very dull occupation and could not imagine a man wasting his time shut up in a dark close room when outside the white violets were poignantly fragrant, beech-trees were hung with purple clusters of bloom, and clean cool rainswept air washed over the hills.

  When she tried to quarrel with him about returning to London he told her flatly that she had conducted herself like a fool there and was not fit to live where she would be subjected to temptation. He repeated that if she wanted to go back alone he was willing to have her do so, but he reminded her that if she did she would forfeit her money to him�
�all but ten thousand pounds. She shouted at him in a fury that she would never turn that money over to him, not if she had to stay in the country for the rest of her life.

  Consequently, convinced that she might be there a long while, she sent for Nan and Susanna and Big John Waterman. Nan, who had earlier had one miscarriage and one abortion was now pregnant again—this time by Big John—and though it was the fifth month and Amber told her not to come if she thought it might hurt her, she arrived within a fortnight.

  As always, they seemed to have a great deal to talk about, for both women were interested in the same things and they gossiped and chattered and exchanged intimate personal details without hesitation or self-consciousness. Jenny's innocence and inexperience had begun to bore Amber who was relieved to have someone she could talk to frankly, someone who knew her for exactly what she was and who did not care. When she told Nan that she intended seducing her husband's son Nan laughed and said there was no limit to a woman's desperation once she was carried off into the country. For certainly Philip could not bear comparison with Charles II or Lord Carlton.

  But it was the middle of May before he began to seek her out deliberately.

  She was waiting one morning for her pretty little golden mare to be saddled when she heard his voice behind her. "Why, good morrow, your Ladyship! Are you riding so early?" He tried to sound surprised, but she knew the moment she looked at him that he had come purposely to meet her.

  "Good-morning, Philip! Yes, I think I'll gather some May dew. They say it's the most sovereign thing in the world for a woman's complexion."

  Philip blushed, grinning at her, whacking his hat nervously against his knee. "Your Ladyship can't have need of anything like that."

  "What a courtier you are, Philip."

  She looked up at him out of the shadow of her broad hat-brim, smiling a little. He doesn't want to, she thought, but he's falling in love with me all the same.

  The mare, now accoutred with a handsome green-velvet saddle embroidered in gold lace, was led out to where they stood waiting beneath the great trailing pepper-trees. For a moment Amber talked to her, patting her neck and giving her a lump of sugar. Philip then stepped forward to help her mount. She sprang up easily and gracefully.

  "We can ride together," she suggested now. "Unless you were going somewhere to pay a visit."

  He pretended to be surprised at the invitation. "Oh, no. No, I wasn't. I was just going to ride by myself. But thank you, your Ladyship. That's very kind. Thank you very much."

  They set out over the rolling clover-thick meadowland, and were presently beyond sight of the house. The grass was very wet and a slow-moving herd of cattle grazed in the distance. For some time neither of them found anything to say, but at last Philip called, happily: "What a glorious morning it is! Why do people live in cities when there's the country?"

  "Why do they live in the country when there are cities?"

  He looked surprised and then grinned broadly, showing his even white teeth. "But you don't mean that, my lady—or you wouldn't be at Lime Park!"

  "Coming to Lime Park wasn't my idea! It was his Lordship's!"

  She spoke carelessly, and yet something of the contempt and hatred she had for Radclyffe must have been in her tone or in some fleeting facial expression, for Philip replied quickly, as if to a challenge. "My father loves Lime Park—he always has. We never have lived in London. His Majesty, Charles I, visited here once and said that he thought there was no finer country home in England."

  "Oh, it's a mighty fine house, I doubt not," agreed Amber, aware that she had offended his family loyalty—though she did not care very much—and they rode some distance farther without speaking. At last she called to him: "Let's stop here awhile." Without waiting for his answer she began to rein in her horse; but he rode several hundred yards beyond, wheeled, and came back slowly.

  "Perhaps we'd better not, since there's no one about."

  "What of that?" demanded Amber in half-impatient amusement.

  "Well—you see, madame—his Lordship thinks it best not to dismount when we ride. If we were seen someone might misunderstand. Country people love to gossip."

  "People everywhere love to gossip. Well, you do as you like. I'm going to get off."

  And immediately she jumped down, pulled off her hat to which she had pinned two or three fresh red roses, and shook out her hair. He watched her and then, setting his jaw stubbornly, he dismounted too. At his suggestion they started over to see a pretty little stream that ran nearby. The brook was noisy and full, dark-green bulrushes grew along the banks and there were weeping willows that dipped their branches into the water. Through the trees sunlight filtered down onto Amber's head, like the light in a cathedral. She could feel Philip watching her, surreptitiously, out of the corners of his eyes. She looked around suddenly and caught him.

  Slowly she smiled and her eyes slanted, staring at him with bold impudence. "What was your father's last countess like?" she asked him finally. She knew that his own mother, the first Lady Radclyffe, had died at his birth. "Was she pretty?"

  "Yes, a little, I think. At least her portrait is pretty, but she died when I was nine—I don't remember her very well." He seemed uneasy at being alone with her; his face had sobered and his eyes could no longer conceal what he really felt.

  "Did she have any children?"

  "Two. They died very young—of the small-pox. I had it too—" He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "But I lived."

  "I'm glad you did, Philip," she said very softly. She continued to smile at him, half in mockery, but her eyes were weighted with seduction. Nothing had amused her so much in over four weeks.

  Philip, however, was obviously wretched. His emotions pulled him two ways, desire in one, filial loyalty in another. He began to talk again, quickly, on a more impersonal subject. "What is the Court like now? They say it's most magnificent— and that even foreigners are surprised at the state in which his Majesty lives."

  "Yes, it is. It's beautiful. I don't think there can be more handsome men or beautiful women any place else on earth. When were you there last?"

  "Two years ago. I spent several months in London when I returned from my travels. Many of the paintings and hangings had been brought back to Court then, but I understand it's even finer now. The King is much interested in beautiful things." His tongue talked but his mind did not follow it; his eyes were hot and intense, and as he swallowed she saw the bobbing movement of his Adam's apple in his thick corded neck. "I think we'd better start back now," he said suddenly. "It's—it's growing late!"

  Amber shrugged her shoulders, picked up her skirts and began to make her way back through the tall grass. She did not see him at all the next day, for to tease him she pleaded an attack of the vapours and ate dinner and supper in her own chambers. He sent up a bouquet of roses with a formal little note wishing for her rapid recovery.

  She expected to find him at the stables when she went out the following morning, waiting there like a schoolboy hanging about the corner where he hoped his sweetheart might pass— but he was nowhere in sight and she had a brief angry sense of pique, for she had thought him badly smitten. And she had been looking forward herself with some excited anticipation to their next encounter. Nevertheless she set off alone in the same direction they had taken two days before. In only a few moments she had completely forgotten Philip Mortimer and also his father—who was considerably more difficult to force out of her mind—and was wholly engrossed in thoughts of Bruce Carlton.

  He had been gone for almost six months now and once again she was losing hold of him—it was like a pleasant dream recalled vividly in the morning but fading to nothing by noon. She could remember many things: the strange grey-green colour of his eyes; the twist of his mouth that always told better than words what he thought of something she had done; his quietness that carried in it the perpetual promise and threat of suppressed violence. She could remember the last time he had made love to her, and whenever she thought of i
t her head spun dizzily. She had a poignant painful longing for his kisses and the knowing caresses of his hands—but still he seemed to her like someone half imagined and her memories were small comfort for the present. Even Susanna could not, as Amber had expected and hoped, make Bruce seem any nearer or more real to her.

  Amber was so absorbed that when her horse shied suddenly she grabbed at the reins and all but sailed over its head. Recovering herself and looking about for whatever had caused the animal's nervousness she saw Philip—red-faced and guilty-eyed—astride his own horse near the three sentinel poplars that stood alone in the midst of the meadow. Immediately he began to apologize for having startled her.

  "Oh, your Ladyship! Forgive me! I—I didn't mean to frighten you. I'd just stopped here a moment to enjoy the morning when I saw you coming—so I waited." The explanation was made so earnestly that she knew it was a lie and that he had not wanted his father to see them ride off together.

  Amber regained her balance and laughed good-naturedly. "Oh, Philip! It's you! I was just thinking about you!" His eyes shone at that, but she stopped any foolish comment he was about to make. "Come on! I'll race you to the stream!"

  He reached it just ahead of her. When she swung down from the saddle he immediately followed, making no argument this time. "How beautiful it is in England in May," she exclaimed. "Can you imagine why anyone would want to go to America?"

  "Why, no," he agreed, bewildered. "I can't."

  "I think I'll sit down. Will you spread your cloak for me, Philip, so I won't spoil my gown?" She glanced around to find the most pleasant spot. "Over there against that tree, please."

  With a display of great gallantry he swirled off his long riding-cloak and laid it on the damp grass. She dropped down easily with her back against the dainty birch, her legs stretched out straight and crossed at the ankles. She flung her hat aside.