Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Amber had a sudden pang of shame; she wondered if Catherine knew that she was pregnant at that moment, with his child. Impulsively she pressed her hand, tried to give her a reassuring smile of sympathy, but she was relieved to see the languid affected Boynton sail up, waving her fan and seeming about to swoon.

  "Oh, Lord, your Majesty! We're all undone! I've just heard the French army is off the coast of Dover making ready to land!"

  "What!" yelped a woman who stood nearby. "The French have landed? Good God!" And she started in a rush for the door. The cry was taken up and instantly the room was a milling swirling mass—men and women shoving and pushing at one another in their wild anxiety, surging toward the door.

  But the rumour, like a hundred others, proved false.

  Drums beat all through that night, calling up the trainbands. Gunfire could be heard from London Bridge. Waves of hysterical alarm and angry pessimism swept the city. Whoever owned anything of the slightest value was busy burying it in the back yard, rushing it out of town in the custody of wife or servant, hectoring the goldsmiths and drawing up his will. They said openly that they had been betrayed by the Court— and most of them expected to die at a point of a French or a Dutch sword. Then news came that the Dutch had broken the boom which had been stretched across the Medway to keep them out, that they had burned six men-of-war and taken the Royal Charles and were pillaging the countryside.

  The King ordered the sinking of several ships at Barking Creek in order to block the river and keep them from coming any higher. Unfortunately, however, in the excitement someone misunderstood a command and several boats laden with the scant precious store of naval supplies were sunk by error. The tenth night after the attack on Sheerness it was possible to see the red glow made by burning vessels. Ripped dead carcasses of sheep had floated up-river to London. And the terrified city was swept again and again by spasms of alarm; business had stopped dead, for no one had any business now but to save himself and his family and possessions.

  At last the Dutch retired to the mouth of the river and peace negotiations were resumed. This time the English were less particular on certain issues and the conference progressed better than it had.

  With the other men who had volunteered Carlton and Almsbury returned to London, bearded and sunburnt and in high spirits after the adventure. But Amber was near nervous collapse from worry and prolonged sleeplessness, and at the sight of a dry and hardened blood-soaked bandage on Bruce's right upper arm she burst into frantic hysterical tears.

  He took her into his arms as though she were a little girl, stroking her hair and kissing her wet cheeks. "Here, darling, what the devil's all this fuss? I've been hurt much worse than this a dozen times."

  She leaned against his chest and sobbed desperately, for she neither could nor wanted to stop crying. "Oh, Bruce! You might've been killed! I've been so s-scared—"

  He picked her up and started up the stairs with her. "Don't you know, you contrary little witch," he murmured, "that I told you to get out of London? If the Dutch had wanted to they could have taken the whole country—we couldn't have stopped them—"

  Amber was sitting on the bed, filing her nails and waiting for Bruce to finish a letter to his overseer.

  Casually he said, "When I go back I want to take Bruce with me."

  She looked across at him with an expression of horrified shock. Now he got up, threw off his robe, and just as he bent to blow out the single candle she caught a glimpse of his shadowed face. He had been looking at her as he spoke and his eyes were narrowed slightly, watching. She moved over and he got into bed beside her.

  For several moments she could not answer. She did not even lie down but continued to sit there, staring into the darkness. Bruce was quiet and waited.

  "Don't you want him to go?" he asked at last.

  "Of course I don't want him to go! He's my child, isn't he? D'you think I want him to go over there and be brought up by another woman and forget all about me? I do not! And I won't let him, either! He's mine and he's going to stay here with me. I won't have him brought up by that—by that woman you married!"

  "Have you any plans for his future?" It was so dark that she could not see his face but his voice sounded low and reasonable.

  "No—" she admitted reluctantly. "No, of course not! Why should I? He's only six years old!"

  "But he won't always be six years old. What will you do when he begins to grow up? Who will you tell him his father was? If I go away and he doesn't see me for several years he'll forget I ever existed. What will you give him for a last name? It's different with Susanna—she's supposed to be Dangerfield's child, and she has his name. But Bruce has no name at all unless I give him mine, and I can't do that if he stays with you. I know that you love him, Amber, and he loves you. You're rich now and you've got the King's favour—perhaps you could get him to confer a title on him sometime. But if he goes with me he'll be my heir: he'll have everything I can give him—and he'll never have to endure the humiliations of an acknowledged bastard—"

  "He's a bastard anyway!" cried Amber, quick to find any excuse she could. "You can't make him a lord just by saying he is one!"

  "He won't live in England. Over there it won't matter. And, at least, he'll be better off than he could be here where everyone will know."

  "What about your wife! Where's she going to think you got him? Out of the parsley-bed?"

  "I've already told her that I'd been married before. She's expecting me to bring him back this time."

  "Oh, she is! You were mighty confident, weren't you? And what's supposed to have become of his mother?" Suddenly she stopped, sickened. "You told her that I was dead!" He did not answer and she cried accusingly, "Didn't you?"

  "Yes, of course. What else could I tell her? That I was a bigamist?" His voice had a sound of angry impatience. "Well, Amber, I won't take him away from you. You can make up your mind for yourself. But try to consider him a little, too, when you're deciding—"

  Amber was so hurt and so angry at the thought of sending her son into the care of another woman, to grow up far away from her with nothing ever to remind him of her existence, that she refused for several days even to think about it. And he did not broach the subject again.

  The Dutch fleet still lay at the mouth of the Thames and no English shipping could enter or leave. Consequently Bruce, though he had been almost ready to sail at the time of the attack, was now forced to wait on the peace negotiations. But he refused to go away with her, for when the treaty was concluded he intended to sail immediately. Much of his time he spent hunting with the King. And there were other hours when he and the little boy rode together or he helped him with his fencing-lessons. Sometimes they sailed a few miles up the Thames in Almsbury's Sapphire, and Amber went along. She could not see them together without feeling a torture of longing and jealousy—for somewhere in her heart she knew that he would go with his father, and forget her. She could surrender him to Bruce, but she could not bear the thought of another woman's having him.

  They were walking, she and the little boy, in the garden one morning, waiting for Bruce who was going to take him sculling. It was mid-July, hot and bright, and the walks steamed where the gardener had been watering. The lime-trees were in bloom and bees hummed incessantly at their sweet yellow-green flowers. Monsieur le Chien ran along ahead of them, nosing everywhere, and his ears were draggled, for he had dipped them into the fountain and then trailed them through the dust.

  A gardener had given each of them a ripe yellow pear to eat. It tasted like wine as she bit into it. "Bruce," she said all at once, "will you miss your father a great deal when he goes?" She had not actually expected to say it but now she found herself waiting, tensely, for his answer.

  She saw it in the wistful little smile he gave her. "Oh, yes, Mother. I will." He hesitated, then: "Won't you?"

  Surprised, the tears started into her eyes; but she looked away, thinking hard about the musk-rose that lay half opened against the wall. She reached o
ver to pluck it. "Yes, of course I will. Suppose, Bruce—suppose—" Suddenly she said it. "Would you like to go with him?"

  He stared up at her with a look of perfect incredulity, and then he grabbed her hand. "Oh, could I, Mother? Could I go?"

  Amber looked down at him, unable to keep the disappointment from her face, but his eyes had such a shine she knew then what would happen. "Yes—you can. If you want to. Do you want to?"

  "Oh, yes, Mother! I do! Please let me go!"

  "You want to go and leave me?" She knew that it was unfair when she said it, but she could not help herself.

  As she had hoped, the look of happiness fled and a kind of bewildered conscience-stricken worry took its place. For a moment he was quiet. "But can't you go too, Mother?" Suddenly he smiled again. "You come with us! Then we can all be together!"

  Amber's eyes brooded over him; lightly her fingers reached out to touch his hair. "I can't go, darling. I've got to stay here." The tears sparkled in her eyes again. "You can't be with both of us—"

  He took her hand with a little gesture of sympathy. "Don't cry, Mother. I won't go and leave you—I'll tell Father that I— can't go."

  All at once Amber hated herself. "Come here," she said. "Sit beside me on this bench. Listen to me, darling. Your father wants you to go with him. He needs you over there— to help him—there's so much to do. I want you to stay with me—but I think he needs you more."

  "Oh, do you, Mother? Do you really think so?" His eyes searched her face anxiously, but there was no concealing the joyous relief.

  "Yes, darling, I really think so."

  Amber looked up over his head and beyond to see Bruce coming toward them along the garden walk. The little boy glanced around, saw his father, and jumped up to run and meet him. His manners were always much more formal with Bruce than with her, not because Bruce insisted but because his tutor did, and he bowed ceremoniously before speaking a word.

  "I've decided to go to America with you, sir," he informed him solemnly. "Mother says that you need me there."

  Bruce glanced down at the boy and then his eyes moved swiftly to meet Amber's. For a moment they looked at each other, unspeaking. His arm went about his son's shoulder and he smiled at him. "I'm glad you've decided to come with me, Bruce." Together they walked toward Amber, and she got to her feet though her eyes had not once left Bruce's face. He said nothing but he bent and kissed her, softly, briefly; and it was, almost a husband's kiss.

  At first Amber felt that she had done a noble and unselfish thing and she was quite willing to have Bruce think so too. But the hope came creeping, and she had to recognize it, that perhaps having her child there with him all the time would keep her alive in his memory as nothing else could do. Perhaps she could defeat Corinna without even seeing her.

  The Treaty of Breda was signed and news of it arrived at Whitehall at the end of the month. Bruce sailed with the next morning-tide. Amber went down to the wharf, determined to preserve the good opinion both of them had of her now if it tore out her heart. But as she half-knelt to kiss her son her throat swelled with unbearable agony. Bruce took her arm to help her up again, for the burden she carried was beginning to make her awkward.

  "Don't let him forget me, Bruce!" she pleaded.

  "I won't forget you, Mother! And we're coming back to see you too! Father said so—didn't you, sir?" He looked up at Bruce for confirmation.

  "Yes, Bruce—we'll come back. I promise you." He was restless, eager to get on the ship, to be away, hating this painful business of parting. "Amber—we're late now,"

  She gave a scared little cry and threw her arms about him; he bent his head and their lips met. Amber clung frantically, perfectly heedless of the crowds who moved around them, who turned to stare with curious interest at the handsome man and woman, the quiet watching child. This was the moment she had not believed—even yesterday, when she had known he was going—would ever really come. Now it was here—it was here and she had a sense of helpless despair.

  All of a sudden his hands took hold of her arms and forced them down. Swiftly he turned and almost before she could realize it had happened Bruce and their son had crossed the gangplank onto the ship. It began to move, very slowly, and the sails snapped out white and full in the wind, catching up the ship as though life had gone through her. The little boy took off his hat and waved.

  "We'll be back, Mother!"

  Amber gave a sharp cry and started forward, along the wharf, but the ship was getting away from her. Bruce was half turned, giving directions to the men, but all at once he walked swiftly back and his hand dropped about the boy's shoulders. He raised one arm in a good-bye salute and though Amber's hand started to go up in reply she instead put her bent forefinger into her mouth and bit down hard. For a long moment she stood there, lost and forlorn, and then she lifted the other arm and gave them a spiritless little wave.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  All around the room men paused in their eating to stare, dumfounded, toward the doorway.

  At twelve o'clock the Sun Tavern, just behind the new-built Royal Exchange in Threadneedle Street, was always crowded, for there the great merchants came to eat dinner, transact part of their business, and discuss the news of the day. Not a few of them had been talking about Buckingham, whose plight was regarded with more sympathy in the City than it was at Court, when the Duke strolled in.

  One white-haired old man looked up, his weak blue eyes popping. "By God! What d'ye know! Speak of the Devil—"

  There was nothing about his Grace to suggest a man in hiding or one whose life had been jeopardized by his own treasonous acts. He wore his usual blond periwig and a splendid suit consisting of black-velvet breeches and gold-brocade coat, with a flash of long green-satin vest showing. He was as cool and casual as any gentleman stopping in at his favourite ordinary before the play.

  But instantly they left their tables and surrounded him on all sides. Buckingham had taken pains to insinuate himself among these men and they were convinced that he was the one friend they had at Court. Like them, he hated Holland and wanted to see it crushed. Like them, he favoured religious toleration—and though this was merely from personal indifference to any religion, they did not know it. Out of all the scratch and rubble of his life Buckingham had saved this much—the good opinion of the nation's most powerful body of men.

  "Welcome back, your Grace! We were speaking of you even now and despairing when we should see you again!"

  "There's been a rumour you'd gone abroad!"

  "My Lord! Is it really you? You're not an apparition?"

  Buckingham strolled through them toward the fireplace, smiling, clasping the hands outstretched to him as he went. The hereditary Villiers charm was a potent weapon when he cared to use it. "It's I, gentlemen. No apparition, I assure you." He gave a nod of his head to summon a waiter, told him what he would have for his dinner and admonished the man to be quick about serving it, since his time might be short. Then he spoke to a young boy who squatted nearby, staring goggle-eyed and turning the spit on which a leg-of-mutton was roasting. "Lad, can you carry a message?"

  The boy jumped to his feet. "Aye, your Grace!"

  "Then mind that you make no mistake. Go with all haste to the Tower and inform the sentry there that the Duke of Buckingham is waiting at the Sun Tavern for his Majesty's officers to place him under arrest." He flipped him a silver coin.

  A murmur of surprised admiration ran through them, for it was no secret the Duke would most likely lose his head if once he were brought to trial. The boy turned and sped out of the room and Buckingham, surrounded by his cortége, strolled to a table next the window where he sat down and began to eat his dinner. An eager curious excited crowd had already begun to gather outside and they clustered in the door, peered through the windows at him. The Duke gave them a wave and a grin, and a great cheer went up.

  "Gentlemen," said Buckingham to the men about him, talking while he took his silver fork from its case and began to tear at his meat.
"Gentlemen, I am willing to give myself up to my enemies—though I know well enough how they may use me—because my conscience will no longer bear my continued absence from public affairs after our most recent disgrace." Their polite cries of approval at these words interrupted him, but only for a few moments. He held up a hand, asking to be heard further. "England has need of some men whose interests are not wholly in the building of a new house or the getting of a full night's sleep, at whatever cost to the nation."

  This brought a loud cheer from everyone in the room, and it was taken up and echoed outside by those who had no idea what his Grace had said. For public resentment was strong against Clarendon's great new house in Piccadilly. And during this past year no one had forgotten that Arlington had been asleep when the order had come for Rupert to return and meet the Dutch, and that his servants had not wakened him to sign it till morning. Next to criticizing the Court themselves, they loved to hear it criticized.

  "Aye, your Grace," agreed one elderly goldsmith. "The country has been too long under the mismanagement of incompetent old men."

  Another leaned forward and hammered his fist on the table. "When Parliament convenes next time he'll be impeached! We'll call the old rascal to task for his crimes!"

  "But, gentlemen," protested Buckingham mildly, gnawing at his mutton-joint, "the Chancellor has handled matters as honestly and capably as his faculties would permit."

  There was a storm of protest at this. "Honest! Why, the old dotard's bled us white! Where else did he get the money for that place he's building!"

  "He's been as great a tyrant as Oliver!"

  "His daughter's marriage to the Duke made him think he was a Stuart!"

  "He hates the Commons!"

  "He's always been in cabal with the bishops!"

  "He's the greatest villain in England! Your Grace is too generous!"

  Buckingham smiled and made a faint deprecatory gesture, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I'm no match for you, gentlemen. It seems I'm outnumbered."