Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

"No, madame—not the King. But it's current gossip."

  She slumped back then and made a face. "Gossip. Gossip won't get me a duchy."

  "It is what you want then?"

  "What I want? My God! There's nothing I want so much! I'd do anything to get it!"

  "If that's true, madame, and you wished to do something for me—why, I might be able to help your case somehow." He modestly lowered his eyes. "I think I may say without vanity that I have some small influence here at Whitehall."

  He had, of course, great influence. And what seemed even more important, he had a well-established reputation for always bettering the condition of those he took into favour.

  "If you can help me to a duchy I swear I'll do anything you ask!"

  He told her what he wanted.

  It was generally known in the Palace that Buckingham often met with a group of old Commonwealth men who had as their object the overthrow of Charles II's government and the seizure of power into their own hands. Because the kingdom had so recently been split and disorganized it gave hope to others of inordinate ambition that the like could be accomplished again. Arlington wanted her to learn the time and place of their meetings, what occurred there and what steps were taken, and to report the information to him. There was no doubt he could have learned these things himself but it was a costly process involving numerous very large bribes, and in persuading her to pay them, he saved himself that much money and gave in return nothing but what he could very well spare—a few words in her behalf to the King. Amber understood all this but the money had no value to her, and Arlington's support was worth a great deal.

  Amber had already bought four acres of land in St. James's Square, the town's most aristocratic and exclusive district, and for several months she and Captain Wynne—who was designing many of the finest new homes in England—had been discussing plans for the house and gardens. She knew exactly what she wanted: the biggest and newest and most expensive of everything. Her house must be modern, lavish, spectacular; money was of no importance.

  So long as they can't send me to Newgate, what do I care? she thought, and her recklessness increased apace.

  After her conversation with Arlington she was convinced that the duchy was all but in her lap, and she told Captain Wynne to begin construction. It would take almost two years to complete and would cost about sixty thousand pounds—far more even than Clarendon House. This vast new extravagance set all tongues gabbling at Court, whether with awe, indignation or envy, for everyone agreed that no one beneath the rank of duchess could or should live in such state. And most of them decided that the King had finally promised her a duchy. Charles, no doubt amused, neither confirmed nor denied that he had and Amber optimistically took his silence for consent. But the weeks went by and she was still only a countess.

  There was no doubt Charles seemed as fond of her as of anyone else just then, but he had nothing to gain by giving a duchy, and the King's generosity was usually at least half self-interest. Furthermore, there were so many demands constantly made upon him that he had developed a habit of automatic procrastination. Discouraged though she became at times, Amber was determined to get the duchy someway—and by now she had convinced herself that by one means or another it would always be possible to get anything she wanted.

  She made use of everyone she could, no matter how little influence he might have, and though she busied herself eternally doing favours for others, she saw to it that she always got a return. Barbara Palmer was furious to see her rival making headway and told everyone that if Charles dared give that low-bred slut such an honour she would make him sorry he had ever been born. Finally she got into a public argument with him about it and threatened to dash out his children's brains before his face and set the Palace on fire.

  Less than a fortnight later Charles, in a spirit of malicious vindictiveness, passed a patent creating Gerald Duke of Ravenspur, with the honour to devolve upon his wife's son, Charles. And the look on Barbara's face the first time she had to leave an arm-chair and take a stool because the new duchess had entered the room was something Amber expected to remember with satisfaction all the rest of her life.

  Immediately her position at Whitehall took on greater importance.

  She set the fashions. When she had a tiny pistol made to carry in her muff, most of the other Court ladies did likewise. Several apartments were being redecorated with mirrored walls, and a great deal of walnut furniture was sent out to be silver-plated. She pinned up the brim of her Cavalier's hat at an angle one day and next day half the ladies in his Majesty's hawking-party had done the same. She appeared at a ball with her hair undone and hanging down her back covered with a thick sprinkling of gold-dust, and for a week that was the rage. Everyone copied her beauty patches—little cupids drawing a bow, the initials CR (Charles Rex) intertwined, a prancing long-horned goat.

  Amber racked her brain to think of something new, for it tickled her vanity to lead them about like so many pet monkeys fastened to a stick. Everything she did was talked about. Yet she pretended to be bored with the imitations and resentful she could never keep a fashion to herself.

  One unexpectedly warm October night she and several of the gayest ladies and gentlemen took off their clothes and dove from the barge on which they had been supping and dancing to swim in the Thames. Almost nothing that had occurred since the Restoration so aroused the indignation of the sedate as this prank—for heretofore men and women had not gone swimming together and it had seemed the one steadfast decency still respected by a wicked decadent age. Her private entertainments for the King were, it was said, scandalous and lewd. Her numberless reputed lovers, her beauty-rites and her extravagances were discussed everywhere. There was nothing of which she had not been accused; no action was considered beyond or beneath her.

  Amber, by no means resenting all this vicious and spiteful talk, paid out large sums to start new rumours and to keep them going. Her life, though comparatively chaste, became in reputation a model of license and iniquity. Once, when Charles repeated some gross tale he had heard of her, she laughed and said that rather than not be known at all she'd be known for what she was.

  The people liked her. When she drove through the streets in her calèche, handling the reins herself and surrounded by six or eight running footmen to clear the way, they stopped to stare and give her a cheer. She was remembered for her days in the theatre; and her frequent spectacular public appearances as well as her open-handed almsgiving had made her both well-known and popular. She loved the attention now as much as she ever had and was still eager to be liked by those she would never know.

  She saw Gerald but seldom, and never in private. Mrs. Stark had recently borne him a child, on which occasion Amber sent her six Apostles' spoons. Lucilla had found herself pregnant less than three months after her marriage and the gay Sir Frederick had sent her back to the country. He and Amber sometimes laughed together over his wife's predicament, for though Lucilla had welcomed the pregnancy she sent a continuous stream of letters to her husband, imploring him to come to her. But Sir Frederick had a vast amount of business in London and he made many promises that were not kept.

  Amber was never bored and considered herself to be the most fortunate woman on earth. To buy a new gown, to give another supper, to see the latest play were all of equal consequence. She never missed an intrigue or a ball; she had her part in every counter-plot and escapade. Nothing passed her by and no one dared ignore her. She lived like one imprisoned in a drum, who can think of nothing but the noise on every side.

  There seemed to be only one thing left for her to want, and finally that wish too was granted. Early in December Almsbury wrote to say that Lord Carlton expected to arrive in England sometime the following autumn.

  PART SIX

  Chapter Sixty

  Spring that year was somewhat dry and dusty. There was too little rain. Nevertheless by May the meadows about London were thick with purple clover, bee-haunted, and there were great red poppies in the
corn-fields. Cries of "Cherries, sweet cherries, ripe and red!" and "Rosemary and sweet-briar! Who'll buy my lavender?" were heard once more. Summer gowns, tiffany, sarsenet and watered moire in all the bright colours—sulphur-yellow, plum, turquoise, crimson—were seen in the New Exchange and at the theatres or stepping into a gilt coach that waited in St. Martin's Lane or Pall Mall. The warm windy delightsome months had come again.

  Nothing in years had caused so much excitement and indignation as the spreading gossip that York had at last become a confirmed Catholic. No one could be found to prove it; the Duke would not admit it and Charles, who must know if it actually was true, shrugged his shoulders and refused to commit himself. All the Duke's enemies began to scheme more furiously than ever to keep him from getting the throne while at the same time it was observed that York and Arlington seemed suddenly to have become good friends. This gave impetus to the rumours of a pending French-English alliance, for though Arlington had long been partial to Holland he was thought to be a Catholic himself, or at least to have strong Catholic sympathies.

  As these rumours began inevitably to seep out into the town Charles found it difficult to conceal his annoyance and was heard to make some bad-humoured remarks on the meddlesomeness of the English people. Why couldn't they be content to leave the government in the hands of those whose business it was to govern? Ods-fish, being a king these days was of less consequence than being a baker or a tiler. Perhaps he should have learned a trade.

  "You'd better to begin to study something useful," he said to James. "It's my opinion you may have to support yourself one day." James pretended to think that his brother was joking and said he did not consider the jest a funny one.

  But certainly there could no longer be any doubt that unless the King married again York, if he lived long enough, would succeed King Charles. Catherine had had her fourth miscarriage at the end of May.

  A pet fox frightened her by leaping into her face as she lay asleep and she lost her child a few hours later. Buckingham bribed her two physicians to deny that she had been with child at all, but Charles ignored their testimony. Nevertheless both King and Queen were in despair and Catherine could no longer make herself believe that she would someday give him a child. She knew now beyond all doubt that she was the most useless of all earth's creatures: a barren queen. But Charles continued to resist stubbornly all efforts to get him to put her aside, though whether from loyalty or laziness it was difficult to say.

  There were several young women to whom these discussions of a new wife for the King caused apprehension and almost frantic worry—they had so much to lose.

  But Barbara Palmer, at least, could listen with an amused smile and some degree of malignant pleasure. For even she knew now that she was no longer his Majesty's mistress, and the hazards of that position need trouble her no longer. But that did not mean she had dropped into obscurity. Barbara had never been inconspicuous. While she had her health and any beauty left, she never would be.

  For though she was almost thirty and far beyond what were considered to be a woman's best years she was still so strikingly handsome that beside her the pretty fifteen-year-olds just come up to Court looked insipid as milk-and-water. She remained a glittering figure at Whitehall. Her constitution was too robust, her zest for living too great, for her to resign herself placidly to a quiet and dull old age after a youth so brilliant.

  Very gradually her relationship with Charles had begun to mellow. They were settling into the pattern of a husband and wife who, having grown mutually indifferent, take up a comfortable casual existence fraught no longer with quarrels or jealousy, passion or hatred or joy. They had their children as a common interest, and now there was between them a kind of camaraderie which they had never known during the turbulent years when they had been—if not in love—lovers. She was no longer jealous of his mistresses; he was relieved to be out of the range of her temper and found some mild amusement from observing, at a safe distance, her freaks and foibles.

  Amber waited impatiently for the months to pass and wrote one letter after another to Almsbury at Barberry Hill, asking if he had heard from Lord Carlton or if he knew exactly when he would arrive. The Earl answered each one the same. He had heard nothing more—they expected to reach England sometime in August or September. How was it possible to be more explicit when the passage was so variable?"

  But Amber could not think or care about anything else. Once more the old passionate and painful longing, which ebbed when she knew she could not even hope to see him, had revived. Now she remembered with aching clarity all the small separate things about him: The odd green-grey colour of his eyes, the wave in his dark hair and the slight point where it grew off his forehead, the smooth texture of his sun-burnt skin, the warm timbre of his voice which gave her a real sense of physical pleasure. She remembered the lusty masculine smell of sweat on his clothes, the feeling of his hands touching her breasts, the taste of his mouth when they kissed. She remembered everything.

  But still she was tormented, for those piecemeal memories could not make a whole. Somehow, he eluded her. Did he really exist, somewhere in that vastness of space outside England, or was he only a being she had imagined, built out of her dreams and hopes? She would throw her arms about Susanna in a passion of despair and yearning—but she could not reassure herself that way.

  Yet in spite of her violent desire to see him again she had stoutly made up her mind that this time she would conduct herself with dignity and decorum. She must be a little aloof, let him make the first advances, let him come first to see her. Every woman knew that was the way to prick up a man's interest. I've always made myself his servant, she chided, but this time it's going to be different. After all, I'm a person of honour now, a duchess—and he's but a baron. Anyway—why shouldn't he come to me first!

  She knew that his wife would be along but she did not trouble herself too much about that. For certainly Lord Carlton was not the man to be uxorious. That was well enough for the citizens, who had no better breeding, but a gentleman would no more fawn upon his wife than he would appear in public without his sword or wearing a gnarled periwig.

  Lord and Lady Almsbury were back in London in July to put their house in order, hire new servants and prepare for the entertainment of their eagerly expected guests. The Earl came to see Amber and, determined to show him how nonchalant she was at the prospect of seeing Bruce, she chattered away furiously about her own affairs—her title, her great house abuilding in St. James's Square, the people she had invited to supper for that Sunday. From time to time she asked him what he did in the country and then hurried on without letting him answer—for everyone knew there was nothing to do in the country but ride and drink and visit tenants. Almsbury sat and listened to her talk, watched her vivacious display of mannerisms and hectic charm, smiled and nodded his head—and never mentioned Bruce at all.

  Amber's conversation began to slow down. She grew perplexed and quieter, and finally—realizing that he was teasing her—she became angry. "Well!" she said at last. "What's the news!"

  "News? Why, let me think now. My black mare—the one you used to ride, remember?—foaled last week and—"

  "Blast you, Almsbury! Why should you use me at this rate, I'd like to know! Tell me—what have you heard? When will he get here? Is she still coming?"

  "I don't know any more than I did last time I wrote to you —August or September. And, yes, she is coming. Why? You're not afraid of her?"

  Amber shot him a dark venomous glare. "Afraid of her!" she repeated contemptuously. "Almsbury, I swear you've a droll wit! Why should I be afraid of her, pray?" She paused a moment and then superciliously informed him: "I've got an image of her—that Corinna!"

  "Have you?" he asked politely.

  "Yes, I have! I know just what she's like! A plain meek creature who wears all her gowns five years out of the style and thinks herself fit for nothing but to be her husband's housekeeper and breed up his brats!" The portrait was a reasonably accurate one
of Almsbury's own wife. "A great show she'll make here in London!"

  "You may be right," he admitted.

  "May be right!" she cried indignantly. "What else could she be like—brought up over there in that wilderness with a pack of heathen Indians—"

  At that instant a weird and raucous voice began to screech. "Thieves, God damn you! Thieves, by God! Make haste!"

  Involuntarily both Amber and the Earl leaped to their feet, Amber overturning the spaniel which had settled on her skirts for a nap. "It's my parrot!" she cried. "He's caught a thief in there!" And she dashed toward the drawing-room with Almsbury beside her and Monsieur le Chien yapping excitedly at their heels. They flung open the door and burst in, to find that it was only the King who had strolled in unannounced and picked out an orange from a bowl of fruit. He was laughing heartily as he watched the parrot prancing on his perch and teetering back and forth, squawking frantically. It was not the first time the bird, trained to apprehend intruders, had mistaken his man.

  Almsbury left then and a few days later he went back to Barberry Hill to hunt, while Emily stayed in town to welcome the guests should they arrive unexpectedly. Amber had no opportunity to discuss Corinna with him again.

  For the past year she had been going three or four times a week to watch the progress on Ravenspur House.

  Planned in the new style without those courtyards which had evolved from the enclosing castle-walls, it was a perfectly symmetrical four-and-a-half-storied cherry-brick building with windows made of several hundred small square glass panes. It fronted on Pall Mall, which was lined with elm trees, and the gardens in back were adjacent to St. James's Square—now become merely a sordid receptacle for refuse, dead cats and dogs,

  the garbage and offal carted from the great houses and dumped there.

  Neither Captain Wynne nor his patron had overlooked any possibility for making the house the newest and most sumptuous in London. Coloured paint on wood-work was ho longer the mode, and so instead there were several rooms decorated with large panels of allegorical figures, mostly from Greek or Roman mythology. The floors in every important room were parquet, all laid in intricate designs. Glass chandeliers, looking like great diamond ear-drops, were very uncommon, but Ravenspur House had several; all others, including the sconces, were of silver. She had one room panelled in fragrant pale-orange Javanese mahogany. The letter C, entwined with crowns and cupids, were a recurring motif everywhere—to Amber that C meant Carlton, as well as Charles.