Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  And now here she was, in the very presence of the hussy, all her outraged virtue seething within her—and she found that in spite of herself she was embarrassed and uneasy. Twenty years of living secluded, of seeing only her children and the villagers and near neighbors, of scraping to keep them in food and clothes and trying to save money enough so that Gerald could cut a figure at Oxford and abroad, watching her good looks grow overblown and begin to fade, had not prepared her for this moment.

  Because, for all her awareness that behind her stood generations of haughty ancestors—while this creature was a reputed upstart from the theatres or some place even worse—she was bewildered and overawed by the other woman's cool self-possession, her fine clothes, her casual confident beauty. Above all, by her youth. Still, Lady Stanhope was of sterner stuff than her shy awkward son. Now she smiled at her daughter-in-law who sat facing her while they waited for the tea to he brought, and she fluttered her fan as if the room were too hot, tipping her head archly to one side.

  "And so you are my new daughter-in-law? How pretty you are, too. Gerry must be very proud of you. I assure you I've been hearing a great deal about you."

  "So soon? I thought your Ladyship had only just arrived in town."

  "Oh, by letter, my dear! Lady Clifford is my very dear friend and has kept me as intimately informed as if I were living on the Piazza. It's been a great diversion to me, I assure you, through these last years when I've been too sadly stricken by the death of my dear husband to venture into company. Oh, I'm as competent a gossip as if I'd been here all along, I warrant you."

  She gave a little laugh, glancing brightly at the uncomfortable Gerry and then at her daughter-in-law, wondering if the wench had wit enough to understand her meaning. But either she did not or she did not care.

  "Well," said Amber, "there's nothing so plentiful as gossip these days. That's one thing we don't have to depend upon the French for."

  Lady Stanhope cleared her throat slightly and turned to lay one hand over Gerald's, giving him a fond maternal beam. "How my Gerry has changed! I haven't seen him since he set out for the Continent—two years ago this coming June. I vow he looks as modish as a French count. Well, madame, I hope you'll be happy together. I'm sure Gerry can make a woman as happy as any man in Europe— And there's nothing so important to a woman as a happy marriage—for all that some lewd persons like to ridicule matrimony nowadays."

  Amber smiled faintly but did not answer. And at that moment the footman appeared, followed by two others, who laid before them an elaborate silver tea-table and service with little China porcelain tea-bowls and small crystal glasses for the brandy which always followed.

  Lady Stanhope feigned enthusiasm. "How extraordinary good this tea is! Pray, where did you get it? Mine was never so fine, I assure you."

  "Lady Almsbury's steward got this—at the East India House, I suppose."

  "Hmm—delicious." She took another sip. "I suppose that you and Gerry will be moving soon into your own home?"

  Amber smiled over the rim of her dish at her, her eyes seeming to slant, shining and hard as a cat's. "Perhaps we'll build a house one day—when workmen are easier to find. Just now they're all engaged in the City, putting up taverns."

  "But what will you do in the meantime, my dear?" The Baroness looked innocent and amazed.

  "Why, I suppose we'll continue as we are. It seems a comfortable arrangement, don't you agree, sir?"

  Gerald, thus appealed to, with his wife's and his mother's eyes suddenly upon him, started a little and spilled some tea on his white lace cravat. "Why—a—yes. I suppose so. It seems well enough, at least for now."

  "Nonsense, Gerald!" sharply contradicted his mother. "It's shocking! I may as well tell you bluntly, my dear," she said, turning back to Amber, "it's all the talk."

  "Don't you mean, madame, it was all the talk? Frances Stewart's elopement is a la mode now."

  The Baroness was becoming exasperated. This was not the kind of resistance to which her years of ruling a pliable son and two meek daughters had accustomed her, and she found it both insulting and annoying. Didn't the jade realize that she was her mother-in-law, a person of some importance, as well as of far higher quality than herself?

  "Have your jest, my dear. But nevertheless it's an unheard-of thing that a husband and wife should live apart. The world is censorious, you know, and such an arrangement calls into question the integrity of both—but most especially of the wife. I know the age is different from the one I was married in but let me assure you, madame, that even present-day manners will not condone a thing of that sort." The longer she talked the more excited she became; at the end she was like an outraged pouter-pigeon.

  Amber was beginning to grow angry too. But she saw Gerald's miserable pleading face and restrained herself, taking pity on him. She set down her tea-dish and poured the brandy. "Well, I'm sorry if the arrangement is not to your liking, madame, but since it suits both of us I think we'll leave it as it is."

  The Baroness's mouth flew open again but her protest was cut off, for at that moment Lady Almsbury entered the room. Amber presented the two women to each other and this time Gerald's mother embraced her new acquaintance with enthusiasm, kissing her on the mouth, making a very obvious contrast between the honour she was prepared to show a plain and good woman and what was due an impertinent strumpet, even if she was her daughter-in-law.

  "I heard you'd come, madame," said Emily, taking another chair beside the fireplace and accepting the dish of tea which Amber gave her, "and I wanted to bid you welcome. You must find London sadly changed."

  "Indeed I do, madame," agreed Lady Stanhope quickly. "It was not thus when I was last here in '43, let me tell you!"

  "Well, it looks almost hopeless now. But they've already made some very fine plans and building has begun in various parts of the City. They say that one day London will rise again, more glorious than ever—though of course it made us all sad to see the old London go. But pray, my lady, was your trip pleasant?"

  "Heavens, no! It was wretched! I was telling her Ladyship only a few moments since that I dared not wear any fine clothes for fear of spoiling them! But it had been two years since I'd seen Gerry—and I knew he wouldn't think of leaving London when he'd just been married, so I came in spite of everything."

  "That was generous of you. Tell me, madame, have you a place to stay? Since the Fire it's become very difficult to find lodging anywhere. If you've made no arrangements, my husband and I would be very glad to have you here until such time as you may wish to make a change."

  Good Lord! thought Amber in irritation. Must I put up with that prattling old jade in the same house?

  Lady Stanhope did not hesitate. "Why, that's most kind of your Ladyship! For the truth on it is I had no place—I came in such a hurry. I should be very happy to stay here for a few days."

  Amber swallowed her brandy and stood up. "Will you ladies excuse me now? I'm expected at the Palace before noon and I must get dressed."

  "Oh!" cried Lady Stanhope, turning to her son. "Then you'll be going too, Gerry. Well, sweetheart, run along. I warrant you a young man would rather wait upon his bride than his mother."

  Amber glanced at Gerald who now, as if he had been prompted, said: "As it happens, madame, I'm engaged to dine with some gentlemen at Locket's today."

  "Engaged to dine with some gentlemen and not with your wife? Bless me! What a strange age this is!"

  Gerald, emboldened by his own daring, gave a nonchalant brush at his blue and gold brocaded sleeve. "It's the mode, your Ladyship. Devoted husbands and wives are démodé—no one'll have 'em any more." He turned to Amber and bowed as elegantly as he could. "Your Ladyship's servant."

  "Your servant, sir." She curtsied, amused and a little surprised that he had had the courage to defy his mother.

  Then he bowed to his mother and Lady Almsbury and made his escape while Lady Stanhope seemed unable to decide whether to let him go for the time being or to tell him outright what s
he thought of such behaviour. She let him go. As Amber was leaving the room she heard her say: "Heaven! How he's changed! Every inch the young gentleman of fashion, I vow!"

  It was nearly midnight when Amber returned from Whitehall, tired almost to exhaustion and eager to get into bed. Twelve hours at the Palace was a considerable strain on her, the more so because of her pregnancy. Every instant she was there she must be alert and gay; there was never a moment to relax, to look or act as tired as she sometimes felt. And now there was a nervous ache in the back of her neck, the muscles of her legs jumped, and everything inside her seemed to quiver.

  She had just started up the stairs when Almsbury came running out of a lighted room which opened from the hall-way. "Amber!" She turned and looked at him. "I thought you were never coming!"

  "So did I. They had some damned puppets there and no one could be satisfied till they'd played 'Romeo and Juliet' four times!"

  "I've got a surprise for you." He was just below her on the stairs, grinning. "Guess who's here."

  Amber shrugged, uninterested. "How would I know?"

  She looked over his head to the door-way where someone was standing—a tall dark-haired man who smiled at her. Amber caught her breath. "Bruce!" She saw him start toward her, running, and then Almsbury's arms went about her as she fainted, crumpling helplessly.

  Chapter Fifty

  The thin April sun came through the casemented windows and made patches of brightness on the bare floor. It struck light from the spurs on a pair of man's boots that lay there, touched the pale-blue ostrich feathers piled on the brim of a hat, glittered on the worked gold-and-silver hilt of a sheathed sword—all heaped beside the canopied bed. Within, sunk deep into a feather mattress, Amber lay half drowsing, just on the verge of coming fully awake. Slowly her arm slid over the empty bed, an expression of puzzlement and vague worry crossing her face. She opened her eyes, found herself alone and sat up with a sudden frightened cry.

  "Bruce!"

  He jerked back the curtains and stood there, grinning down at her. He wore his breeches but no shirt or periwig and was apparently just done shaving, for he was still wiping his face. "What's the matter, darling?"

  "Oh! Thank God! I was afraid you'd gone—or that I'd only been dreaming and you were never here at all. But you are here, aren't you? You're really here. Oh, Bruce, it's wonderful to have you back!"

  She held out her arms to him, smiling broadly, her eyes filled with brilliance. "Come here, darling. I want to touch you—" He sat down beside her and her finger-tips moved over his face, wonderingly, as though she could not believe even now that he actually was there. "How fine you're looking," she whispered. "Handsomer than ever—" Her hands moved down over his broad muscular shoulders and chest, pressing hard against the warm brown flesh. Then all at once her eyes returned to his and she found him staring at her.

  "Amber—"

  "Yes?"

  Their mouths came together with sudden devouring violence. Unexpectedly she began to cry and her fists beat against him, passionate, demanding. Swiftly he pushed her back upon the bed and her arms strained him to her. When the storm was spent, he lay with his head on her breast, relaxed against her. Now their faces were still and peaceful, content. Tenderly her fingers stroked through his coarse black hair.

  At last he began to move away and stood up. Amber opened her eyes and smiled drowsily.

  "Come back, darling, and lie here beside me."

  He bent and kissed her lips. "I can't—Almsbury's waiting."

  "What if he is? Let him wait."

  He shook his head. "We're going to Whitehall—his Majesty expects me. Perhaps I'll see you there later—" He paused and stood looking down at her. There was a lazy half-amused smile on his face. "I understand that you're a countess now. And married again, too," he added.

  Amber's head turned suddenly and her eyes looked at him almost in astonishment. Married again! Good Lord, she thought. I am! When Gerald was not around she totally forgot his existence.

  He grinned. "What's the matter, darling? Forget which one it is? Almsbury says his name is Stanhope—I think that was it—and the one before was—"

  "Oh, Bruce! Don't make fun of me! I'd never have married him in a thousand years if I'd known that you were coming back! I hate him—he's a stupid addle-pated booby! I only married him because—" She stopped at that and hastily corrected herself. "I don't know why I married him! I don't know why I ever married anyone! I've never wanted to be married to anyone but you, Bruce! Oh, darling, we could have had such a happy life together if only you—"

  Her eyes saw the changing expression on his face—a look that at once seemed to warn her and to shut her out. She stared at him, the old dread stealing up again, and then at last, very softly, she said: "You're married—" She shook her head slowly even as she spoke.

  He drew a deep breath. "Yes. I'm married."

  There it was. She had heard it at last—what she had expected and dreaded for seven years. Now it seemed to her that it had been there between them always, inevitable as death. Sick and weak, she could do nothing but look at him. He sat down on a chair and tied the laces of his shoes. For a moment he continued to sit there, elbows resting on his knees and his hands hanging between his legs, but at last he turned to face her.

  "I'm sorry, Amber," he said softly.

  "Sorry you're married?"

  "Sorry that I've hurt you."

  "When were you married? I thought—"

  "I was married a year ago last February, just after I got back to Jamaica."

  "Then you knew you were going to get married when you left me! You—"

  "No, I didn't," he interrupted. "I met her the day I arrived in Jamaica. We were married a month later."

  "A month later!" she whispered, and then suddenly all her muscles and bones seemed to collapse. "Oh, my God!"

  "Amber, darling—please—I've never lied to you. I told you from the first I'd get married someday—"

  "Oh, but so soon!" she protested irrationally, her voice a plaintive wail. And then suddenly she lifted her head and looked at him; there was a glitter of malice in her eyes. "Who is she! Some black wench you—"

  Bruce's face turned hard. "She's English. Her father is an earl and went to Jamaica after the Wars—he has a sugar plantation there." He got up to continue his dressing.

  "She's rich, I suppose."

  "Rich enough."

  "And beautiful too?"

  "Yes—I think so."

  This time she paused a moment, but then she drove out the question: "Do you love her?"

  He turned and looked at her strangely, his eyes slightly narrowed. For a moment he made no answer and then, softly he said, "Yes, I love her."

  She snatched up her dressing-gown, slid her arms into it, and flounced off the bed. The words she said next were the same as might have occurred to any Court-bred lady faced with the same situation. "Oh, damn you, Bruce Carlton!" she muttered. "Why should you be the only man in England to marry for love!"

  But the veneer was too thin; under any real pressure it was sure to crack. Suddenly she turned On him. "I hate her!" she cried furiously. "I despise her! Where is she!"

  He answered gently. "In Jamaica. She had a child in November and didn't want to leave."

  "She must be mighty fond of you!"

  Bruce made no reply to that sarcastic sneer and she added savagely, "So now you've got married to a lady and you'll have someone to breed up your brats whose ancestors have spent two thousand years sitting on their arses in the House of Lords! I congratulate you, Lord Carlton! What a calamity if you'd had to let any ordinary human raise your children!"

  He looked at her with anxiety and a kind of pity. His hat was in his hand. "I've got to go now, Amber. I'm half an hour late already—"

  She gave him a sullen glare and turned her head away, as though expecting him to apologize for having offended her. But then, against her will, she watched him as he walked across the room—his body moving with the familiar
remembered rhythm that seemed to have in it something of all the reasons why she loved him. "Bruce!" she cried suddenly. He paused and slowly turned to face her. "I don't care if you are married! I'll never give you up—never as long as I live, d'ye hear! You're as much mine as you are hers! She can never have all of you!"

  She started toward him but he turned again. In a moment he had opened the door and gone out, closing it quietly. Amber stopped where she was, one hand reaching out, the other catching at her throat to stifle a sob. "Bruce!" she cried again. And then, wearily, she turned about and went back to the bed. For several seconds she stood and stared at it, and then she dropped onto her knees beside it. "He's gone—" she whispered. "He's gone— I've lost him—"

  During the first two weeks that he was there Amber saw Lord Carlton but infrequently. He was busy at the wharves and interviewing merchants, disposing of the tobacco he had brought with him and drawing up new contracts, making purchases for himself and the other plantation owners. Whenever he went to Whitehall it was to see King Charles, for he wanted another land grant—this one for twenty thousand acres to give him a total of thirty thousand. But he spent no time at all in the Drawing-Rooms or at the theatre.

  At Amber's suggestion Lady Almsbury had given him apartments adjoining hers, and though he said nothing about seeing her the second night—assuming that her husband would be there—she knocked at his door when she heard him come in. They met every night after that. There was no doubt that he knew she sometimes came home late because she had been with the King, but he never mentioned it. Her casual relationship with Gerald seemed to amuse him, but he did not speak of that either.

  It did not, however, amuse Gerald's mother.

  During that fortnight Amber saw her only a time or two, at Whitehall, and then she hurried off the other direction to avoid an encounter. But the Dowager Baroness seemed to be very busy and Nan said that she was in constant cabal with hair-dressers and jewellers, sempstresses and tailors and a dozen different kinds of tradesmen, that her rooms were littered with satins and velvets, taffetas and laces, ribbons and silks by the dozen-yard.