Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Barbara had fallen so far since the days when she had been violently jealous of her, and she had herself risen so high, that now they were face to face she hated her less than she had thought she did. Now she could afford to be scornful and even condescending.

  Barbara lifted her brows. "Out of request? Well, now—I don't know what the devil you call out of request! At least he thinks well enough of me to have paid off my debts not many days since to the tune of thirty thousand pound."

  "You mean he bribed you, don't you—to get rid of that brat you were starting?"

  Barbara smiled. "Well? Even so—that's a mighty good price for an abortion, don't you agree?"

  At that moment Frances Stewart passed them, going along the corridor in fluttering blue-silk robes with a black-velvet cloak flung over her shoulders, her feet in gilt sandals and all her bright brown hair caught into a gold filet and streaming loose down her back. She had been sitting for her portrait to Rotier—a portrait commissioned by the King who intended to use her image as Britannia on the new coins. Frances did not pause but nodded coolly to Amber and barely glanced at Castlemaine. She suspected that they were talking about her.

  "There," said Barbara, as Frances went on, followed by three waiting-women and a little blackamoor, "goes the punk who could put all our noses out of joint. A duchy in exchange for a maidenhead. That seems a fair enough bargain to me. I assure you mine didn't go as high—"

  "Nor mine," said Amber, still watching Frances as she swept off down the hall, taking every eye with her as she went. "Though I doubt if he'd value it so high once he had it."

  "Oh, he might—for the novelty of it."

  "What d'you suppose makes her so stubborn?" asked Amber, curious to hear what Barbara would say.

  "Don't you know?" Laughter and malice glittered in Barbara's eyes.

  "Well—I've got at least one mighty good idea—"

  At that moment the King with his courtiers and dogs rounded a corner and came suddenly upon them; his deep voice boomed with laughter. "Ods-fish, what's this! My two handsomest countesses in conversation? Whose reputation are you spoiling now?"

  The brief camaraderie was gone; the two women were once more intense rivals, each passionately determined to outdo the other. "We were wishing, your Majesty," said Amber, "that the war would end so we could get the fashions from Paris again."

  Charles laughed, slipped a casual arm about both their waists, and they walked slowly along the gallery. "If this war is inconveniencing the ladies, then I promise you I'll negotiate a peace."

  When they came to her Majesty's apartments Charles glanced at Buckingham, the Duke stepped forward to offer Barbara his arm—and Amber went in with the King. To both women it seemed a more significant triumph than it was. Barbara, however, had her revenge when Stewart appeared— beautiful as ever in spite of the plain black mourning into which she had changed—and was immediately taken off into a corner by the King.

  It was not long before Amber found herself pregnant.

  She had no enthusiasm for spoiling her figure, even temporarily, but she understood that unless she gave him a child she would have nothing at all to hold him by once the exciting newness was gone from her bed. For though he might lose interest in their mothers, Charles was never indifferent to children he believed his. When she told him, at the end of February, he was sympathetic and tender, apparently pleased—as though he was hearing the happy news for the first time. And Amber thought that her place at Court was now fixed as the stars.

  He startled her out of her complacency two days later by pointing to a young man who stood across from them in the Drawing-Room and asking her if he seemed a likely prospect for a husband.

  "A husband for who?" demanded Amber.

  "Why, for you, my dear, of course."

  "But I don't want to get married!"

  "I can't say I blame you—and yet a child's somewhat embarrassed without a surname, don't you think?" He looked amused, his mouth beneath the narrow black mustache gave her a somewhat crooked smile.

  Amber turned white. "Then you think it isn't yours!"

  "No, my dear, I don't think that at all. I think it very probably is. I've an uncommon knack, it seems, for getting children—all but where I need 'em most. But the child couldn't possibly be your last husband's and unless you marry again before long it's going to have the bend sinister in its coat-of-arms. That's a hardship for any young man, no matter what his parentage. And to be altogether honest with you if you married it would help stop the gossiping—outside Whitehall at least. The year's going to be difficult enough as it is since I see no way we can set out the fleet—and the people will be grumbling more than ever about the little things we do. Do you understand my dear? It would mightily oblige me—"

  Amber was prepared to understand anything. She thought that chronic bad-temper and forever keeping an easy-natured man uneasy had been Barbara Palmer's undoing, and she did not intend to follow the Lady's unfortunate example. She guessed, however, at a reason the King had not named: Frances Stewart. For each time he took a new mistress Frances was peevish and sullen and insisted that she had herself been on the verge of surrender when he had destroyed her confidence.

  "Well," said Amber, "my only ambition is to please your Majesty. I'll marry again if you want—but for Heaven's sake, get me a husband I can ignore!"

  Charles laughed. "It wouldn't be difficult to ignore him, I should say."

  The young man across the room looked not a day older than she and his youthful appearance was heightened by a pallid skin and rather delicate features. He was perhaps five feet seven or eight and his slender body wore a cheap and undistinguished suit. There was no doubt he felt ill at ease, though he was making an effort to seem gay and laughed excitedly even while his eyes darted anxiously about. Amber would not have noticed him of her own accord if he had been there all evening.

  "Lord, but he looks a silly jackanapes!"

  "But docile," reminded Charles, smiling down at her with easy good-humour.

  "What's his rank?"

  "Baron."

  "Baron!" cried Amber, horrified. "But I'm a countess!" She could not have been more shocked if he had suggested she marry a porter or street-vendor.

  Charles shrugged. "Well, then, suppose I make him an earl? His family deserves it. It should have been done long ago, in fact, but somehow it slipped my mind."

  "I suppose that would help," said Amber dubiously, her eyes still frankly appraising the young man who had now become conscious that she was watching him and had begun to fidget. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

  "No. But I will, and it can be easily arranged. His family lost a great deal in the Wars—"

  "Oh, my God!" groaned Amber. "Somebody else to spend my money! Well, this time things are going to be different! This time I'll wear the breeches!"

  Chapter Forty-seven

  "Do you find yourself attracted to Richmond?"

  The question had been in Charles's mind since the Duke had first made his proposal. To him the young man seemed dull and sottish, too much given up to the bottle, and his money affairs were so bad that he could scarcely be considered a good match for a serving-woman, much less a girl like Frances accustomed to luxury since birth.

  She looked at him with some surprise. "Attracted to him? Why do you ask that?"

  Charles shrugged. "I thought it was possible. There's no doubt he's in love with you."

  Frances was instantly the coquette again, closing her fan and then opening it swiftly, telling the sticks with her right forefinger. "Well," she said, looking at the fan and not at him, "suppose I am?"

  The King's face hardened suddenly. His black eyes anxiously searched her features and the two lines on either side of his mouth grew deep as the muscles tightened.

  "Are you?"

  Frances glanced up at him, still with that faint simpering smile on her face, but her expression changed swiftly to surprise as she met his angry stare. "Why, your Majesty! How grum you look! Has someth
ing vexed you?"

  "Answer me, Frances! I'm in no humour for jokes! And answer me truly."

  Frances gave a little sigh. "No, your Majesty, I'm not. Does that make it more honourable for me to marry him?" Sometimes she surprised him, for it was impossible to tell whether she spoke from naivete or a shrewdness she was not generally believed to own.

  Charles gave her a slow, sad smile. "No, Frances, not more honourable—but I confess I'm glad to hear it. I'm not very much inclined to jealousy—but this time—" He shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes brooding thoughtfully over her. "I've been looking at his accounts, and his finances are in the worst possible condition. Without his title he'd have been snapped up by a constable long ago. Truthfully, Frances, I don't think he's a good match for you."

  "Do you know a better, Sire?" she asked tartly.

  "Not just now—but perhaps a little later—"

  Frances interrupted him. "Perhaps a little later! Sire, you don't know what you're saying! Do you realize that I'm nineteen years old and my reputation is all but ruined through my own foolishness? This is the first honest proposal I've ever had—and it'll likely be the last one! There's just one thing in life I want—and that's to be a respectable woman! I don't want my family to be ashamed of me!"

  They were in her Majesty's ante-chamber, waiting while the Queen dressed, and now as Catherine Boynton passed the door and heard Frances's raised voice she glanced out, wondering what was going on between them. Charles noticed her pausing there.

  "Walk this way with me, Frances." They strolled toward the other end of the room. "I'm going to tell you something," he said quickly; his voice was very low. "Will you promise to keep it a secret? Don't even tell your mother—"

  "Of course, your Majesty."

  Frances could, in fact, hold a confidence better than most of those whose tongues clacked in the corridors and bedchambers and drawing-rooms of Whitehall and Covent Garden.

  He took a deep breath. "I've consulted the Archbishop of Canterbury about a divorce."

  "A divorce!" She whispered the Word, shock and almost horror on her face.

  Charles began to talk rapidly, glancing around first to make sure that no one was near: they were alone in the room. "This isn't the first time I've thought of it. The doctors tell me they don't believe the Queen can ever carry a child nine months. York isn't popular now—and he'll be less so when the people discover his religious intentions. If I marry again and have a male heir it may change the whole course of my family's future —Canterbury says it can be arranged."

  Frances's thoughts and emotions ran over her face. Surprise dissolved into a kind of slyness and pleased vanity as she began to contemplate what this could mean to her. Frances Stewart, Queen of England! She had always been as proud of her distant connection with the royal family as of anything—almost more proud than she was of her beauty. But then, as she remembered the Queen, came a look of doubt and hopelessness.

  "It would break her heart. She loves you so."

  Charles, who had been watching her face, a sort of morose longing and tenderness on his own, now gave a sigh and his eyes shifted beyond her to stare out the windows at the barren scarlet-oak growing in the Queen's garden. "I'm afraid of hurting her more—she's been hurt so much already." A dark scowl swept over his face and his teeth clenched suddenly; he made a quick impatient gesture. "I don't know what to do!" he muttered angrily.

  They stood there together for a moment, silent, not looking at each other. And then Catherine appeared in the doorway with Mrs. Boynton on one side and Winifred Wells on the other. Her head was tipped slightly to one side, there was an eager little smile on her face and bare adoration showed in her eyes as she looked at Charles. Briefly she hesitated and then started forward, her dainty hands clasped before her.

  "I'm sorry to have been so long a-dressing, Sire—"

  As she entered the room he turned, instantly recovering his poise. Now he smiled and started toward her. "My dear; if you took all morning to dress I'd not mind if you could look half so charming as you do now."

  Catherine blushed slightly. The pinkness was very becoming to her sallow complexion; her lashes moved like hesitant black butterflies, and then she looked him full in the eyes. For all her sheltered and stiff upbringing she was learning some of the tricks of a coquette herself, and they became her very well.

  "It's kind of you to flatter me," she murmured, "when I'm condemned to this unbecoming black."

  The ladies were trooping into the room after her, most of them chattering and unconcerned—though one or two quick pairs of eyes had caught the wistful look on Frances's face as she watched their Majesties together. Then with a little toss of her head Frances came toward the Queen and one hand reached out impulsively to touch hers.

  "It isn't flattery, madame. You've truly never looked handsomer in your life."

  Her voice and eyes were almost passionately sincere. Behind them Boynton whispered to Wells that something must be a-brewing between Stewart and the King—they were both so uncommonly kind to her Majesty. Winifred retorted that she was a prattling gossip and that his Majesty was always kind to his wife.

  The weather was cold and the roads even worse than usual, but the Court was going to a play. Charles offered his arm to Catherine and she took it, giving him one of her quick shy smiles, grateful for the attention. They started off and for one swift passing instant Frances's eyes met the King's. She knew then, without a doubt, that while Catherine lived she, Frances Stewart, would never be Queen of England.

  It was late in the afternoon, nearly six o'clock, and the overcast sky had long since made it necessary to light candles. Charles, in his private closet, the one room to which he could retire for some measure of seclusion, sat at his writing-table scrawling off a rapid letter to Minette. Her own most recent one was opened before him and from time to time he glanced at it. Beside him on the floor two long-eared little spaniels sat and chewed at each other's fleas, and farther away there were others at play, romping and growling.

  From the next room came the murmuring voices of men— Buckhurst and Sedley, James Hamilton, half a dozen others— waiting for him to come out and change his clothes before they went to supper. They were discussing the afternoon's play— finding fault with the author's wit, the scenery and costumes and actors—and comparing the prostitutes who had been in the pit. From time to time someone laughed loudly, all their voices went up at once, and then they grew quieter again. But Charles, absorbed in his letter, scarcely heard them at all.

  All of a sudden a commotion rose outside and he heard a familiar feminine voice cry out, breathlessly. "Where's his Majesty! I've got important news for him!" It was Barbara.

  Charles scowled and flung down his pen, then got to his feet. Ods-fish! Did the woman's impertinence know no bounds at all? Coming to his chamber at this hour of the day, when she knew there would be a roomful of men!

  He heard Buckhurst answering her. "His Majesty is in his closet, madame, writing a letter."

  "Well," said Barbara briskly, "the letter can keep. What I have to say can't." And promptly she began rapping at the door.

  Charles opened it and there was obvious displeasure and annoyance on his face as he leaned against the door-jamb, looking down at her. "Well, madame?"

  "Your Majesty! I must speak with you in private!" Her eyes glanced suggestively into the room behind him. "It's a matter of the greatest importance!"

  Charles gave a slight shrug and stepped back, admitting her, while the gentlemen exchanged amused glances. Ye gods, what next? Even when she had been most in favour she had not dared be so bold. The door swung shut.

  "Now—what is this great business that can't keep?" His voice was frankly skeptical, and impatient—for he thought it only another scheme of hers to create an impression of being in high favour.

  "I understand that your Majesty has just paid a visit to Mrs. Stewart."

  "I have."

  "And that she sent you away with the plea her head w
as aching furiously."

  "Your information seems indisputable."

  Charles's tone was sarcastic and his whole expression betrayed cynicism and the unbelief in his fellow-beings which had characterized him almost since boyhood, growing steadily stronger as the years passed. He was wondering what sort of trick she was trying to play on him, waiting to discover the inevitable flaw in her scheme.

  But all at once Barbara's face took on a look of mock coquetry and her voice dropped to a soft low pitch. "Well, Sire, I've come to console you for her coldness."

  He lifted his eyebrows in frank surprise and then scowled quickly. "Madame, you have become insufferable."

  Barbara flung back her head and began to laugh, a wild high abandoned laugh that was peculiarly her own, full of contempt and mocking cruelty. When she spoke her voice was low again, but intense, and excitement showed in the straining cords of her throat, the bright glitter of her eyes, the poise of her muscles as she leaned slightly toward him, like a cat set to spring.

  "You're a fool, Charles Stuart! You're a stupid ridiculous credulous fool and everyone in your Court is laughing at you! And do you know why? Because Frances Stewart has been carrying on an intrigue with Richmond right under your nose? He's with her at this moment—while you think she's in bed with a headache—" She paused breathless, triumph shining from her face and showing in every line of her body, triumph and satisfied vengeance.

  Charles answered her swiftly, without thinking, his habitual easy self-possession deserting him. "You're lying!"

  "Lying, am I? You are a fool! Come with me then and see if I'm lying!" And while he hesitated, as though half afraid of finding that she was telling the truth, she seized hold of his wrist. "Come with me and see for yourself how chaste she is— your precious Frances Stewart!"

  With sudden resolution Charles jerked his hand free and started from the room, Barbara—grinning broadly now—hurrying at his heels. He wore only his white linen shirt and breeches. He had left his periwig in his closet hanging on a chair-back. Two courtiers leaped abruptly back from the door and all faces looked solemn and guilty, trying to pretend they had not listened. Charles ignored them and rushed on, half running along the maze of rooms and hall-ways that led to Frances's apartments, leaving a trail of staring eyes and open mouths behind him. Barbara's heels pounded at his side.