Forever Amber

CHAPTER FORTY–SIX

WHEN AMBER RETURNED to London in mid-December, three and a half months after the Fire, she found almost all the ancient walled City gone. The ground was still a heap of rubble and twisted iron, brick debris, molten lead now cooled, and in many cellars fires continued to smoke and burn. Not even the torrential October rains had been able to put them out. Most of the streets had been completely obliterated by fallen buildings and others were blocked off because chimneys and half-walls which still stood made them dangerous. London looked dead and ruined.

The city was infinitely more sad and pitiful now that the cruel gorgeous spectacle of the flames was gone. There were gloomy predictions that she would never rise again, and on that rainy grey December day they seemed to be only inevitable truth. Beaten down by plague and war and fire, her trade fallen off, burdened with the greatest public debt in the history of the nation, full of unrest and misery—men were saying everywhere that the days of England’s glory had passed, her old valour was worn out, she was a nation doomed to perish from the earth. The future had never seemed more hopeless; men had never been more pessimistic or more resentful.

But in spite of everything the indomitable will and hope of the people had already begun to conquer. A mushroom city of mean little shacks and rickety sheds had sprung up where whole families took shelter on the sites of their former homes. Shops were beginning to open and some new houses were a-building.

And not all the town had burned.

For outside the walls there was still left standing that part of the city east of the Tower and north of Moor Fields; on the west there remained the old barristers’ college of Lincoln’s Inn and still farther west Drury Lane and Covent Garden and St. James, where the nobility was moving in steadily increasing numbers. Nothing around the bend of the river had burned. The Strand was still there and the great old houses with their gardens running down to the Thames. The fashionable part of London had not been touched by the Fire.

Amber and Big John had left the city immediately, hired horses when they found their own gone, and ridden straight to Lime Park. She told Jenny that when she had arrived the house had been burnt and she had not been able to find his Lordship anywhere—but nevertheless for the sake of appearances she sent a party of men back to London to search for him. They returned after several days to say he could not be discovered and that according to all evidence he had been trapped in the house and burned to death. Amber, immeasurably relieved that she was evidently not going to be caught, put on mourning—but she did not pretend to be very sorry, for she did not consider that particular piece of hypocrisy essential to her welfare.

But the best news she heard was from Shadrac Newbold—who had a messenger out there two days after she got back to inform her that not one of his depositors had lost a shilling. She found out later that though much money had gone up in the Fire, almost all the goldsmiths had saved what was entrusted to them. And though there was less than half of it left now, twenty-eight thousand pounds, even that was enough to make her one of the richest women in England. Furthermore, it was being added to by interest and by returns on the investments he had made for her, and later she could augment it by renting Lime Park and selling much of the furnishings—though so far she could not bring herself to touch Radclyffe’s effects.

Certainly there was brilliant promise in the future. But the present was a source of fear and anxiety to her—for though Radclyffe was dead she had not been able to get rid of him. He had come there to his home to haunt her. She met him unexpectedly as she rounded a corner in the gallery; he stood behind her when she ate; he accosted her in the night and she lay sweating with terror, jumping at imaginary sounds, or she woke up with a hysterical scream. She wanted to get away, but Nan’s baby had been born just the day before she returned and she intended to wait until Nan could travel. She was staying mostly out of affection for Nan and gratitude for what she had done during the Plague—but also because she had no place to go but Almsbury’s, and did not want to rouse his suspicions by rushing away pell-mell at first news of her husband’s death. She was not willing to entrust her fatal secret to anyone but Big John and Nan.

Jenny’s mother came, and as soon as the child had been born and Jenny recovered she was going home to her own people. Amber felt a little guilty when, at the first of October, she left for Barberry Hill—but she told herself that after all Jenny had no reason to be afraid of staying there. She had never been his Lordship’s enemy; she had had nothing to do with Philip’s death—the walls and ceilings and very trees had nothing to say to her. But for herself—she could stand it no longer. And she went.

At Barberry Hill she felt more comfortable, and it did not take her as long to forget—Radclyffe, Philip and everything that had happened this past year—as she had thought it would. She put it all resolutely out of her mind. She had an uncomfortable feeling that Almsbury guessed she knew more about her husband’s death than she had told—perhaps he thought that she had hired a gang of bullies to murder him—but he never tried to trick her into making an inadvertent admission, and they seldom mentioned his Lordship at all.

Once he said to her, teasingly, “Well, sweetheart—who d’ye suppose you’ll marry next? They say Buckhurst has almost made up his mind to risk matrimony—”

She shot him a sharp indignant glance. “Marry come up, Almsbury! You must think I’m cracked! I’m rich and I’ve got a title now—why the devil should I make myself miserable by marrying again! There never was such a wretched state as matrimony! I’ve tried it three times and—”

“Three times?” he asked, his voice sliding over the words with a sound of amusement.

Amber flushed in spite of herself, for Luke Channell was a secret she had never shared with anyone but Nan. It was one of the few things of which she was ashamed. “Twice, I mean! Well—what are you smirking for? Anyway, smile if you like, but I’ll never get married again—I’ve got better plans for myself than that, I warrant you!” She turned, her black-silk skirts swishing about her, and started to leave the room.

Almsbury was lounging against the fireplace, filling his pipe. He looked after her and grinned, but shrugged his shoulders.

“God knows, sweetheart, it’s nothing to me if you’ve had three husbands or thirteen. And none of my business if you marry again or not. I was just wondering—how d’you think you’ll look in stark black by the time you’re thirty-five?”

Amber stopped in her tracks and turned to stare back at him, over her shoulder; her face looked suddenly white and shocked. Thirty-five! My God—I’ll never be thirty-five! She looked down at herself—at the severe black gown of mourning—the gown she must wear until she died, unless she married again.

“Damn you, Almsbury!” she muttered, and went swiftly out of the room.

It was not long before Amber began to grow impatient. What was the good of money and a title, beauty and youth—if you buried it alive in the country? By the time a couple of months had passed she felt convinced that whatever speculation his Lordship’s sudden death might have aroused would now be abated—scandals at Court were even shorter-lived than love-affairs—and she was eager to return. She coaxed and cajoled and finally she persuaded Lord and Lady Almsbury to go back with her for the winter social season. It would give her a house to live in, and the prestige of John’s and Emily’s families. She might need both, for a while.

Her appearance at Whitehall created a greater sensation than she had hoped. She was surprised to learn that rumours had her dead—poisoned by her husband out of jealousy—but she pretended to laugh at such tales. “What nonsense!” she exclaimed. “There’s never anyone dies nowadays above the rank of chimney-sweep but it’s thought he’s been poisoned!”

There was truth in what she said for poisoning was still a revenge so common among the aristocracy that much apprehension regarding it persisted. Errant wives who fell ill were invariably thought to have died by that means. Lady Chesterfield had died the year before, after displeasing her husband by an affair with York, and everyone had insisted that she was poisoned. Now another of York’s mistresses, Lady Denham, was ill and told her friends that his Lordship had poisoned her—though some thought the Duke had done it himself because he was bored with her constant demands for new honours.

The men gave Amber an enthusiastic welcome.

Life at Court was so narrow, so circumscribed, so monotonous and inbred that any even moderately attractive newcomer was sure of a rush of attention from the gentlemen and a chill neglect from the ladies. When the newness was gone she would settle into whatever position she had been able to wrest for herself, and try to hold it against the next pretty young face. The men would be used to her by then, and the women would finally have accepted her. She would join them in ignoring and criticizing the next beautiful woman who dared appear and cast her gauntlet. The Court suffered from nothing so much as a surfeit of idleness; for most of them had nothing to do that had to be done and it taxed the most lively ingenuity to provide a continuous play of excitement and variety and amusement.

It took no more than a quick glance for Amber to see what was her position.

Because of her title she had access to the Court and could go into her Majesty’s Drawing-Rooms, accompany the royal party on its trips to the theatre, attend any balls or dances or banquets to which there was a general invitation—but unless she could make a friend somewhere among the women she would go to no private suppers or parties. And thus they could force her to remain a virtual outsider, shut off from the intimate life of the Court. Amber did not intend to let that happen.

She therefore sought out Frances Stewart and made such a convincing show of her fondness and admiration that Frances, still naive and trusting after four years at Whitehall, asked her to a little supper she was giving that same evening. The King was there and all the men and women who, by his favour, made up the clique which ruled fashionable London. Buckingham did one of his grotesque, cruel and witty imitations of Chancellor Clarendon. Charles told again the incredible and still exciting story—for all that most of them had it by heart—of his flight and escape to France after the battle of Worcester. The food and the wine were good, the music soft, the ladies lovely. And Amber looked so well in her black-velvet gown that the Countess of Southesk was prompted to say:

“Lord, madame, what a handsome gown that is you’re wearing! D’ye know—it seems to me I’ve seen one like it before somewhere.” She tapped a sharp pink finger-nail reflectively against her teeth, and her eyes went slowly over the dress, though she pretended not to see what was inside. “Why, of course! I remember now! It’s just like one I had after my husband’s cousin died—Whatever became of the thing? Oh, yes—! I gave it to the wardrobe woman at His Majesty’s Theatre. Let me see —that was about three years ago, I think. You were on the boards then, weren’t you, madame?” Her blue eyes had a hard malicious amused sparkle as she looked at Amber, raising one eyebrow, and then she glanced across the room and gave a little shriek. “My God! If there isn’t Winifred Wells—Castlemaine told me she’d gone into the country for an abortion. I vow and swear this is a censorious world! Pardon me, madame—I must go speak to her—poor wretch—” And with a faint curtsy, not even looking at Amber, she brushed off.

Amber scowled a little but then, as she looked up and saw Charles just beside her, she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “If women could somehow learn to tolerate one another,” he said softly, “they might get an advantage over us we’d never put down.”

“And d’you think it’s likely, Sire?”

“Not very. But don’t let them trouble you, my dear. You can well enough shift for yourself, I’ll warrant.”

Amber continued to smile at him; his mouth, scarcely moving, framed a question. She answered it with a slight nod of her head. She could not possibly have been more pleased by her return to Whitehall.

But she was not yet so secure that she could do without Frances Stewart, and she made sure that they were all but inseparable. She visited Frances in her rooms, walked with her in the galleries—for the weather was often too cold to go out-of-doors—and sometimes stayed the night with her when the roads were bad or the hour very late. Amber never talked about herself but seemed tremendously interested in everything Frances said or thought or did and Frances, unable to resist this lure of flattery, soon began to confide in her.

The Duke of Richmond had recently made her her first proposal, a circumstance which had greatly amazed the Court —for Frances was considered nothing less than Crown property. He was a not unhandsome young man of twenty-seven and a distant relative of the King but he was stupid, drunken, and habitually in debt. Charles had accepted the news with his customary aplomb and asked the Duke to turn his financial papers over to Clarendon for an examination.

One night when she and Amber were tucked snugly in bed, one great feather-mattress beneath them and another on top, Amber asked casually if she intended to marry his Grace. Frances’s reply amazed her. “There’s nothing else I can do, now,” she said. “If the Duke hadn’t been so kind as to propose I don’t know what would have become of me.”

“What would have become of you! Why, Frances, what nonsense! Every man at Court is mad in love with you and you know it!”

“Maybe they are,” admitted Frances, “but not one of ’em has ever made me an honest proposal. The truth of it is I’ve ruined my good name by allowing his Majesty so many liberties —without ever letting him take that one which might have been to my benefit.”

“Well,” drawled Amber idly, though actually she had a strong curiosity on the subject, “then why didn’t you? No doubt you could ’ve been a duchess without the trouble of marrying —and a mighty rich woman as well.”

“What!” cried Frances. “Be the King’s whore? Oh, no—not I! I’ll leave that to other ladies. It’s bad enough a woman has to lay with her husband—I’d rather die than lay with some man who wasn’t! Lord! It gives me the vapours to think of it!”

Amber smiled in the close darkness, very much amused and not a little surprised. So that was what Frances’s much vaunted virtue amounted to—not morality at all, but repugnance. She was not chaste, but squeamish.

“But don’t you like the King? There’s no finer man at Court—It isn’t only because he’s King that the ladies all fall in love with him.”

“Oh, yes, of course I like him! But I just can’t—I just couldn’t—Oh, I don’t know! Why do men always have to think about things like that? I know I’ve got to get married one day—I’m nineteen now and my mother says I’m a disgrace to the family—But, Lord! to think of getting in bed with a man and letting him—Oh! I know I’ll die! I’ll never be able to bear it!”

Ye gods! thought Amber, completely nonplussed. She must be cracked in the head. But she felt a little sorry for her too, a kind of contemptuous pity. What did the poor creature think life was about, anyway?

Their friendship was soon over. For Frances was jealous as a wife of the King’s love-affairs, and Barbara had not let her remain long in ignorance when rumours began to spread that the King was secretly visiting Lady Radclyffe at Almsbury House. But Amber thought her position assured and was glad enough to dispense with Frances, whom she had always considered to be silly and boring. She had grown very tired of paying her compliments and pretending to be interested in what happened to her. And Charles, who always showed a quick rush of infatuation at the beginning of any new affair, would not let her be neglected now. At his insistence she was invited everywhere and treated with the same surface respect which Castlemaine had once commanded and Stewart still did. Even the ladies were forced to become her sycophants, and before long Amber began to think that nothing was beyond her.

She was walking along the Stone Gallery early one morning when she saw Chancellor Clarendon coming in her direction. The hall-way was chill and damp and cold and all the numerous men and women who hurried along it were wrapped in heavy woollen or velvet cloaks, their arms folded in great fur muffs. From one end to the other the gallery was a mass of black-hooded figures, for the Court was still in mourning for the Dowager Queen of Portugal—Amber was glad that since she must wear black the other ladies could not bloom publicly in bright colours and jewellery.

Clarendon came toward her with his head down, glaring at the floor, preoccupied with his gout and the innumerable problems which a ruined England expected him to solve. He did not see Amber any more than he saw anyone else and would have gone on by but she put herself in his path.

“Good morning, Chancellor.”

He looked up, nodded his head brusquely and then, as she made him a low curtsy, was forced to pause and bow. “Your servant, madame.”

“What a lucky chance this is! Not ten minutes since I heard something of the greatest importance—something you should know about, Chancellor.”

He scowled unconsciously for he was worried about a great many things, not the least of which was his own precarious position. “I should be glad of any information, madame, which would better enable me to serve the King, my master.” But his eyes looked at her disapprovingly and he was plainly eager to be on his way.

But Amber, full of the self-importance of her early and easy triumph at Court, was determined to succeed with him where every other mistress of the King had failed. She wanted to parade him like a trophy, wear him like a jewel no one else had been rich enough to buy—even though she agreed with everyone else that his political days were numbered.

“As it happens, Chancellor, I’m giving a supper at Almsbury House this Friday evening. His Majesty will be there, of course, and all the others—If you and her Ladyship would care to come—”

He bowed stiffly, angry that he had wasted so much valuable time. The gout in his foot stabbed him painfully. “I’m sorry, madame, but I have no leisure for frivolous amusements these days. The country has need of some men of serious purpose. Thank you, and good-day.” He walked off, followed by his two secretaries, both of them loaded down with papers, and left Amber staring open-mouthed after him.

And then she heard a sudden hearty shout of feminine laughter behind her and spun around to face Lady Castlemaine. “God’s eyeballs!” cried Barbara, still laughing. “But that was a sight to see! What did you expect him to do? Make you an assignation?”

Amber was furious that her humiliation should have been seen by Barbara Palmer, of all people, though there had been onlookers enough that the news would be all over the Palace before nightfall. “That formal old fop!” she muttered. “He’ll be lucky if he lasts out the year at Court!”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara., “and so will you. I’ve been watching women like you come and go for seven years now—but I’m still here.”

Amber stared at her insolently. “Still here, but mightily out of request, they say.”

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 something 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 naïveté 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 antechamber, 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 was 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.

But outside Stewart’s rooms he stopped, his hand on the knob. “You’ve come far enough,” he said curtly. “Go back to your apartments.” And then as she stared with disappointment he flung open the door.

Frances’s pretty little serving-girl was in the entrance room and at the King’s appearance she gave a horrified gasp, leaped to her feet and ran toward him. “Oh, your Majesty! How did you—Don’t go in—please! She’s been so sick since you left—but now she’s sleeping!”

Charles did not even glance at her, but he reached out one arm to ward her off. “That remains to be seen.” He went on, striding through the antechamber and the drawing-room, and without hesitating an instant he flung open the door of the bedroom.

Frances was sitting in bed wearing a white-satin jacket with her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and beside her was a young man who held her hand in his. Both of them looked around in astonishment to find the King looming there in the doorway like a great and angry avenging god. Frances gave a nervous little scream and Richmond gaped, horror-struck, unable even to take off his hat or get to his feet.

Charles walked slowly toward them, his lips drawn tight against his teeth. “I didn’t believe her,” he said softly. “I thought she was lying.”

“Thought who was lying!” cried Frances defensively. She understood his anger and knew what he was thinking and it made her suddenly furious.

“My Lady Castlemaine. It seems she’s known some things about my affairs of which I was ignorant.” His black eyes shifted from Frances to Richmond, who had now got to his feet and stood twisting his hat round and round in his hands, while he looked like a whipped pup. “What are you doing here?” demanded Charles suddenly, his voice strained and harsh.

Richmond gave an unhappy apologetic little laugh. “Heh! I’m paying Mrs. Stewart a visit.”

“So I see! And by what right, pray, do you visit her when she’s too sick to see her other friends?”

Richmond, suddenly aware that he was being made to appear a helpless fool before the woman he loved, answered stoutly: “At least, Sire, I am prepared to marry her. Which is more than your Majesty can do.”

Charles’s eyes blazed in sudden rage and he started toward the Duke with clenched fists. One hand went to Frances’s mouth and she gave a piercing scream as Richmond, who did not want a beating at the competent hands of his sovereign, turned suddenly and leaped out the window. Charles, who had already reached it, saw him land awkwardly not far below in the low-tide river mud, and then scramble to his feet, give one terrified backward glance and rush off into the fog. For a long moment he stood there and stared after him, contempt and hatred on his face; then he turned to Frances.

“I never expected anything like this from you.”

Frances stared at him defiantly. “I’m sure I don’t understand you, Sire! If I can’t receive visits from a man whose intentions toward me are wholly honourable—then I am indeed a slave in a free country!” She passed one tired nervous hand quickly across her throbbing forehead, and without waiting for him to speak again she cried passionately: “If you don’t want me to marry, Sire, it’s your privilege to refuse me permission! But at least you can’t prevent me from crossing to France and entering a nunnery!”

Charles stared at her with sick incredulity. What had happened to the Frances Stewart he had known and loved for four years? What had happened to turn her into this cold brazen woman who flaunted her faithlessness, daring him to object to it, as though pleased to have made him a fool in the eyes of his friends? He found himself learning again at thirty-six what he thought he had learned well enough twenty years ago.

Now he spoke to her slowly, with sadness coming through his anger. “I wouldn’t have believed this of you, Frances, no matter who had told me.”

Frances stared at him defiantly, enraged at his cynicism which drew conclusions out of a refuse heap of past experience. “Your Majesty is very quick to suspect the worst!”

“But not quick enough, it seems! I think I’ve known since the day I was born that only a fool would trust a woman—and yet I’ve trusted you against everything!” He paused a moment, his dark face sardonic. “I’d rather have found out any way but this—”

Frances was close to hysteria, and now she cried in a high trembling voice: “Your Majesty had best go before the person who brought you here begins to suspect the worst of your stay!”

He gave her a long incredulous look and then, without another word, spun about on his heel and left the room. In the hall-way outside her door he met Lawrence Hyde, Clarendon’s son, and shouted at him: “So you were in the plot too! By God, I won’t forget it!” Hyde stared after him, bewildered, but the King rounded the next corner and was gone. Charles the urbane, the easy-humoured, the self-possessed and amiable, was in such a rage as no one had imagined him capable of.

The next day Frances returned to him by messenger every gift she had ever received—the strand of pearls he had given her on St. Valentine’s day three years before, the wonderful bracelets and ear-rings and necklaces which had marked her birthdays and the Christmases or New Years. All of them came back, without even a note. Charles flung them into the fireplace.

That same morning Frances appeared unexpectedly in her Majesty’s apartments. She was covered from head to foot in a black-velvet cloak and she wore a vizard. Catherine and all her ladies looked toward the door in surprise as Frances removed the mask. For a moment she hesitated there and then all at once she ran forward, dropped to her knees, and taking up the hem of Catherine’s garment touched it to her lips. Catherine spoke quickly to her women, asking them to leave. They withdrew, to listen at the keyhole.

Then she reached down to touch the crown of Frances’s gleaming head and unexpectedly Frances burst into tears. She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, your Majesty! You must hate me! Can you ever forgive me?”

“Frances, my dear—you mustn’t cry so—you’ll make your head ache—Here, please—Look at me, poor child—” Catherine’s warm, soft voice still carried a trace of its Portuguese accent, which gave it an even greater tenderness, and now she placed one hand gently beneath Frances’s chin to raise her head.

Reluctantly Frances obeyed and for a moment they looked silently at each other. Then her sobs began again.

“I’m sorry, Frances,” said Catherine. “I’m sorry, for your sake.”

“Oh, it’s not for myself I’m crying!” protested Frances. “It’s for you! It’s for the unhappiness I’ve seen in your eyes sometimes when—” She stopped suddenly, shocked at her boldness, and then the words tumbled on hastily, as though she could undo in two minutes the wrongs her vanity had committed for years against this patient little woman.

“Oh, you must believe me, your Majesty! The only reason I’m going to get married is so that I may leave the Court! I’ve never meant to hurt you—never for a moment! But I’ve been vain and silly and thoughtless! I’ve made a fool of myself—but I’ve never wronged you, I swear I haven’t! He’s never been my lover—Oh, say you believe me—please say you believe me!”

She was holding Catherine’s hand hard against the beating pulse in her throat, and her head was thrown back as her eyes looked up with passionate, begging intensity. She had always liked Catherine, but she had never realized until now how deeply and humbly she admired her, nor how shameful her own behaviour had been. She had considered the Queen’s feelings no more than the crassest of Charles’s mistresses—no more than Barbara Palmer herself.

“I believe you, Frances. Any young girl would have been flattered. And you’ve always been kind and generous. You never used your power as a weapon to hurt others.”

“Oh, your Majesty! I didn’t! Truly I didn’t! I’ve never meant to hurt anyone! And your Majesty—I want you to know—I know you’ll believe me: Richmond had just come in. We were sitting talking. There’s never been anything indecent between us!”

“Of course there hasn’t, my dear.”

Frances slumped suddenly, her head dropped. “He’ll never believe me,” she said softly. “He has no faith—he doesn’t believe in anything.”

There were tears now in Catherine’s eyes and she shook her head slowly. “Perhaps he does, Frances. Perhaps he does, more than we think.”

Frances was tired now and despondent. She pressed her lips to the back of Catherine’s hand once more and got slowly to her feet. “I must go now, your Majesty.” They stood looking at each other, real tenderness and affection on both their faces. “I may never see you again—” Quickly and impulsively she kissed Catherine on the cheek, and then swirling about she rushed from the room. Catherine stood and watched her go, smiling a little, one hand lightly touching her face; the tears spilled off onto her bosom. Three days later Frances had left Whitehall—she eloped with the Duke of Richmond.

CHAPTER FORTY–EIGHT

IT WAS ON one cold rainy windy night in February that Buckingham, disguised in a black wig with his blonde eyebrows and mustache blackened, sat across the table from Dr. Heydon and watched the astrologer’s face as he consulted his charts of stars and moon, intersecting lines and geometrical figures. The room was lighted dimly by smoking tallow candles that smelt of frying fat, and the wind blew in gusts down the chimney, making their eyes burn and sending them into coughing fits.

“Pox on this damned weather!” muttered the Duke angrily, coughing and covering his nose and mouth with the long black riding-cloak he wore. And then as Heydon slowly raised his thin bony face he leaned anxiously across the table. “What is it! What do you find?”

“What I dare not speak of, your Grace.”

“Bah! What do I pay you for? Out with it!”

With an air of being forced against his better judgment, Heydon gave in to the Duke’s determination. “If your Grace insists. I find, then, that he will die very suddenly on the fifteenth day of January, two years hence—” He made a dramatic pause and then, leaning forward, hissed out his next words, while his blue eyes bored into the Duke’s. “And then, by popular demand of the people, your Grace will succeed to the throne of England for a long and glorious reign. The house of Villiers is destined to be the greatest royal house in the history of our nation!”

Buckingham stared at him, completely transfixed. “By Jesus! It’s incredible—and yet—What else do you find?” he demanded suddenly, eager to know everything.

It was as though he stood on the edge of some strange land from which it was possible to look forward into time and discover the shape of things to come. King Charles scorned such chicanery, saying that even if it were possible to see into the future it was inconvenient to know one’s fate, whether for good or ill. Well—there were other and cleverer men who knew how to turn a thing to their own ends.

“How will he—” Villiers checked himself, afraid of his own phraseology. “What will be the cause of so great a tragedy?”

Heydon glanced at his charts once more, as though for reassurance, and when he answered his voice was a mere whisper: “Unfortunately—the stars have it his Majesty will die by poison —secretly administered.”

“Poison!”

The Duke sat back, staring into the flames of the sea-coal fire, drumming his knuckles on the table-top, one eyebrow raised in contemplation. Charles Stuart to die of poison, secretly administered, and he, George Villiers, to succeed by popular demand to the throne of England. The more he thought about it the less incredible it seemed.

He was startled out of his reverie by a sudden sharp impatient rapping at the door. “What’s that! Were you expecting someone?”

“I had forgotten, your Grace,” whispered Heydon. “My Lady Castlemaine had an appointment with me at this hour.”

“Barbara! Has she been here before?”

“Only twice, your Grace. The last time three years since.” The rapping was repeated, loud and insistent, and a little angry too.

Buckingham got up quickly and went toward the door of the next room. “I’ll wait in here until she’s gone. Get rid of her as soon as possible—and as you value your nose don’t let her know I’m here.”

Heydon nodded his head and whisked the many papers and charts which concerned Charles II’s melancholy future off the table and into a drawer. As the Duke disappeared he went to answer the door. Barbara entered the room on a gust of wind; her face was entirely covered by a black-velvet vizard and there was a silver-blonde wig over her red hair.

“God’s eyeballs! What kept you so long? Have you got a wench in here?”

She tossed her black-beaver muff onto a chair, untied the hood she wore and flung off both it and the cloak. Then going to the fire to warm herself she nudged aside with her foot the thin mongrel dog that slept uneasily there, and which now looked up at her with injured resentment.

“God in Heaven!” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands together and shivering. “But I swear it’s the coldest night known to man! It’s blowing a mackerel-gale!”

“May I offer your Ladyship a glass of ale?”

“By all means!”

Heydon went to a dresser and poured out a glassful, saying with a sideways glance at her: “I regret that I cannot offer your Ladyship something more delicate—claret or champagne—but it is my misfortune that too many of my patrons are remiss in their debts.” He shrugged. “They say that comes of serving the rich.”

“Still plucking at the same string, eh?” She took the glass from him and began to swallow thirstily, feeling the sour ale slide down and begin to warm her entrails. “I have a matter of the utmost importance I want you to settle for me. It’s imperative that you make no mistake!”

“Was not my last prognostication correct, your Ladyship?”

He was leaning forward slightly from the waist, his big-jointed hands clasped before him, obsequiousness as well as an unctuous demand for praise in his voice and manner.

Barbara gave him an impatient glance over the rim of her glass. The Queen had been her enemy then. Now she was, without knowing it, as fast an ally as she had. Barbara Palmer, least of all, wanted to see another and possibly handsome and determined woman married to Charles Stuart; if anything should ever happen to Catherine her own days at Whitehall were done and she knew it.

“Don’t trouble yourself to remember so much!” she told him sharply. “In your business it’s a bad habit. I understand you’ve been giving some useful advice to my cousin.”

“Your cousin, madame?” Heydon was blandly innocent.

“Don’t be stupid! You know who I mean! Buckingham, of course!”

Heydon spread his hands in protest. “Oh, but madame—I assure you that you have been misinformed. His Grace was so kind as to release me from Newgate when I was carried there by reason of my debts—which I incurred because of the reluctance of my patrons to meet their charges. But he has done me no further honour since that time.”

“Nonsense!” Barbara drained the glass and set it onto the cluttered mantelpiece. “Buckingham never threw a dog a bone without expecting something for it. I just wanted you to know that I know he comes here, so you’ll not be tempted to tell him of my visit. I have as much evidence on him as he can get on me.”

Heydon, made more adamant by the knowledge that the gentleman under discussion was listening in the next room, refused to surrender. “I protest, madame—someone’s been jesting with your Ladyship. I swear I’ve not laid eyes on his Grace from that time to this.”

“You lie like a son of a whore! Well—I hope you’ll be as chary of my secrets as you are of his. But enough of that. Here’s what I came for: I have reason to think I’m with child again—and I want you to tell me where I may fix the blame. It’s most important that I know.”

Heydon widened his eyes and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively in his skinny neck. Gadzooks! This was beyond anything! When a father had much ado to tell his own child, how could a completely disinterested person be expected to know it?

But Heydon’s wide reputation had not been built on refusal to answer questions. And now he took up the thick-lensed, green eye-glasses which he imagined gave him a more studious air, pinched them on the end of his nose, and both he and Barbara sat down. He began to pore intently over the charts on the table, meanwhile writing some mumbo-jumbo in a sort of bastard Latin and drawing a few moons and stars intersected by several straight lines.

From time to time he cleared his throat and said, “Hmmmm.”

Barbara watched him, leaning forward, and while he worked she nervously twisted a great diamond she wore on her left hand to cover her wedding-band—for she and Roger Palmer had long since agreed to have nothing more to do with each other.

At last Heydon cleared his throat a final time and looked across at her, seeing her white face through the blur of smoke from the tallow candles. “Madame—I must ask your entire confidence in this matter, or I can proceed no farther.”

“Very well. What d’you want to know?”

“I pray your Ladyship not to take offense—but I must have the names of those gentlemen who may be considered as having had a possible share in your misfortune.”

Barbara frowned a little. “You’ll be discreet?”

“Naturally, madame. Discretion is my stock in trade.”

“Well, then—First, there’s the King—whom I hope you’ll find responsible, for if I can convince him it may save me a great deal of trouble. And then—” She hesitated.

“And then?” prompted Heydon.

“Pox on you! Give me leave to think a moment. Then there was James Hamilton, and Charles Hart—but don’t count him for he’s a mean fellow, a mere actor, and—”

At that instant there was a sudden sharp sound halfway between a laugh and a choked cough, and Barbara started to her feet. “’Sdeath! What was that!”

Heydon had likewise jumped. “Only my dog, madame. Dreaming in his sleep.” They both looked at the mongrel, twitching his muscles before the fire in some nocturnal chase.

Barbara gave the Doctor a suspicious glance but sat down again and continued: “There’s my new footman, but he’s of no quality, so don’t mark him down; and Lady Southesk’s page, but he’s likely too young—”

At this there was a loud explosive laugh, as of mirth which would no longer be denied. And before Heydon could get out of his chair Barbara had sprung to her feet and rushed to the closed door from behind which the sound had come, flung it open and given the Duke a solid blow in the stomach with her doubled fist.

Buckingham, who had been bent over and almost helpless in his unrestrained laughter, now recovered himself and put out one hand to grab her about the throat, the while he jumped this way and that to avoid her clawing nails and flying feet. And then, as they struggled, they got hold of each other’s disguising wigs and pulled off both at once. Barbara stepped back with a horrified gasp, holding the Duke’s black wig in her hands, while he dangled hers at his side like some grisly battle trophy.

“Buckingham!”

“Your servant, madame.”

He made her a mock bow and tossed her wig onto the table—beside which Heydon was still standing in stupefied horror at these goings-on, which would surely ruin him—and Barbara snatched it up and clapped it onto her head again, this time somewhat askew.

“You lousy bastard!” she cried furiously, finding her tongue at last. “What d’you mean, spying on me?”

“I was not spying, my dear cousin,” replied Buckingham coolly. “I was here when you came and I merely stepped into the bedroom to wait for you to leave so that I might continue my business with the Doctor.”

“What business!”

“Why, I was trying if I could discover what woman I should next get with child,” replied the Duke, frank amusement on his mouth. “I’m only sorry I laughed so soon. That was a mighty interesting tale you were telling the Doctor. But pray satisfy my curiosity on a point or two: have you lain with your blackamoor of late, or the Chancellor?”

“Filthy wretch! You know I hate that old man!”

“We agree on one thing.”

Barbara began to gather her belongings, mask, fan, cloak and muff, tying the hood once more over her hair. “Well, I’ll go along now and leave you to finish your business, my lord.”

“Oh, but you must let me wait upon you to your lodgings,” protested his Grace quickly, for he suspected her of intending to go immediately to the King and hoped to head her off by some device or other. “It’s dangerous riding through the ruins. Only yesterday I heard of a lady of quality dragged from her coach and beaten and robbed and finally left for dead.” What he said was true enough, for the ruined City swarmed with cutthroats and thieves after dark and it was not always possible to get a hackney to make the trip. “How did you come?”

“In a hell-cart.”

“Well, fortunately I have not only my coach but a dozen footmen waiting below. You’re foolish to go about thus unprotected, my dear—and it’s mighty lucky I’m here to see you get back safe.”

Buckingham took up his wig and set it on his head again, put his feather-loaded hat on top of it, and turning to wink broadly behind her back at the worried Doctor he flung his cloak up over his left shoulder and offered her his arm. He and Barbara started down the black stair-well, where Heydon had finally recovered himself sufficiently to bring a candle to light them.

“And mind you,” called Barbara as she got halfway down, “not a word of this to anyone, or I’ll have you kicked!”

“Yes, my lady. You may trust me, madame.”

Outside it was cold and the wind swept down the narrow, dark little street, carrying pieces of wet paper with it and driving hard needles of rain against their faces. The moon was completely obscured so that the night was black. Buckingham put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. An instant later half-a-dozen men appeared from some nearby hiding-place, emerging like goblins, and after two or three minutes a great rocking coach drawn by eight horses came lumbering noisily down the steep hill toward them and stopped, six more footmen leaping off the back where they had been riding. Buckingham gave the driver his directions, handed her in, and they started out with those who could hanging onto the coach and the others running behind it; a footman on either side held a blazing flambeau.

They rode down Great Tower Hill and turned into Tower Street, which was still lined with ruins, though the ways had now been cleared of debris and were passable. It was a slow ride of some two and a quarter miles over East Cheap and Watling Street, past the twisted iron and the great heaps of boulders that marked the site of old St. Paul’s, along Fleet Street and the Strand to Whitehall.

Barbara was shivering again, huddled in her cloak with her teeth chattering. Buckingham gallantly spread a fur-lined velvet robe over them both. “You’ll soon be warm,” he said consolingly. “If we pass a tavern I’ll send in for a couple of mugs of lamb’s wool.”

But Barbara was not to be diverted by such gallantries. “What’s his Majesty going to think to hear you’ve been paying visits to an astrologer?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Why not? You’ve been mighty strange with me of late, George Villiers. And I know more than you may think.”

Buckingham scowled, wishing that he could see her face. “You’re mistaken, my dear, for there’s nothing to know.”

Barbara laughed, a smug-sounding impudent laugh in the darkness beside him. “Oh, isn’t there? Well, suppose I tell you something then: I know that you’re having a certain horoscope cast—and it isn’t your own, either.”

“Who told you that!” Buckingham reached out suddenly and grabbed her arm, his fingers clenching it so that she winced and tried to jerk away; but he held her, bending his face close to her own. “Answer me! Who told you that!”

“Let go of me, you sot! I won’t tell you! Let me go, I say!” she cried, and all at once she gave him a resounding slap on the face with her free hand.

With a curse he released her, one hand held to his stinging face, mumbling beneath his breath. Pox on the jade! he thought furiously. If she were anyone else I’d give her a kicking for this! But instead he held his temper and began to wheedle.

“Come, Barbara, my dear. We know too much about each other to be enemies. It’s dangerous for both of us. Surely even you are convinced by now that if ever I take the notion to tell his Majesty what’s become of his letters he’d send you hence like a rat with a straw in its arse.”

Barbara flung back her head and laughed. “Poor fool! He doesn’t even guess, does he? Sometimes I think he’s stupid as a woodcock! He won’t even look for ’em!”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, madame. He’s had the Palace searched from top to bottom. But there are only two people in the world who could tell him where they are: you, Barbara—and I.”

“You’re the fly in my ointment, George Villiers. Sometimes I’ve a mind to have you poisoned—if you were out of the way I’d never have anything to worry about.”

“Don’t forget, pray—I know a thing or two about mixing an Italian salad myself. Now, let’s be serious for a moment. Tell me where you got that information, and tell me truly. I’ve an uncommonly keen nose for smelling out lies. They stink like blue-incle to me.”

“And if I do tell you what I know will you tell me something?”

“What?”

“Tell me whose it is?”

“Tell you whose what is?”

“The horoscope, dolt!”

“Then you don’t really know anything at all.”

“Try me and find out—I know enough to have you hanged.”

“Well, then,” said the Duke smoothly, as though he heard that news every morning before breakfast, “I’ll tell you. The truth of it is, my dear, I have an incurable aversion to hemp-rope and slip-knots.”

“It’s a bargain. The horoscope you’re having cast is that of a person of such consequence that if it became known your life wouldn’t be worth a farthing. Now, don’t ask me how I found that out,” she added quickly, shaking a finger at him. “For I won’t tell you.”

“God’s blood!” muttered Buckingham. “How the devil have you got hold of this? What more do you know?”

“Isn’t that enough? Now—tell me: Whose horoscope is it?”

The Duke relaxed, slumping with relief as he sat beside her. “You’ve got me on the hip, I’ll have to tell you. But if one word of this gets out to anyone—believe me, I’ll tell the King about his letters.”

“Yes, yes. What is it? Quick!”

“At his Majesty’s bidding I was having York’s horoscope cast to determine whether or no he will ever be King. Now there are just three of us who know it—his Majesty, you, and me—”

Barbara believed the lie, for it sounded plausible, and though she promised him that she would never speak a word of it to anyone she soon discovered that it was burning a hole in her tongue. It, was such an exciting thing to know, such a fatal secret, so loaded with potential trouble that she was sure it must be of great value to her. Certainly the worth of such knowledge was almost incalculable in pounds sterling and she saw it as the source of great sums to herself over the years to come—no matter what new and younger woman might supplant her in the King’s slippery affections.

She asked Charles for twelve thousand pounds one night, just as he was getting out of her bed.

“If I had twelve thousand pound,” said the King, standing up and reaching for his periwig, then glancing into a mirror to see that it was on straight, “I’d spend part of it to buy myself a new shirt. The footmen have been looting my wardrobe lately to get their back wages. Poor devils—I can’t blame ’em. Some haven’t been paid a shilling since I got back.”

Barbara gave him a pettish glare as she slipped into her dressing-gown. “God’s my life, Sire, but I’m sure you’ve grown miserly as a Jewish pawnbroker.

“I wish I were also rich as one,” said the King, then put his hat on his head and started for the door. Barbara thrust herself in front of him.

“I tell you, I’ve got to have that money!”

“Mr. Jermyn demands it?” asked Charles sarcastically, referring to current tales that she was now paying some of her lovers. He adjusted his lace cravat and walked on by her; but she reached the door first and covered the knob with her own hand.

“I think your Majesty had best reconsider.” She paused significantly, lifted her brows and added, “Or I may tell his Highness a few things.”

He gave her a puzzled scowl, but his mouth was half amused. “Now what the devil are you about?”

“Such a superior air! Well, no doubt you’ll be surprised to hear that I know what it is you’ve been trying to discover?” There! It was out! She had not actually expected to say it, but her tongue—as it often did—had spoken anyway.

He shook his head, uninterested. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.” He turned the knob, opened the door a few inches, and then stopped abruptly as she said:

“Did you know that Buckingham and I are friends again?”

He shut the door. “What has Buckingham to do with this?”

“Oh, what’s the use of pretending! I know all about it! You’ve had York’s horoscope cast to find out if he’ll ever be king.” Look at him! she thought. Poor fool, trying to seem unconcerned. Twelve thousand! What devil put that paltry sum into my head! I should have asked for twenty thousand—or thirty—

“Did Villiers tell you this?”

“Who else?”

“Pox on him! I told him to keep it a strict secret. Well—you’d better not let him know you’ve told me or he’ll be in a fury.”

“Oh, he hasn’t told anyone else. And I wouldn’t let him know I’d told you for anything. Now—what about my twelve thousand pound?”

“Wait a few days. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

The next morning Charles talked privately with Henry Bennet, Baron Arlington, who, though he had once been Buckingham’s friend, now hated him violently. In fact, the Duke had few friends left at Court; he was not a man to wear well under the strain of daily association. Charles told his Secretary of State exactly what Castlemaine had told him, but he did not mention Barbara’s name.

“It’s my opinion,” said the King, “that the person who told me this was deliberately misinformed. I’d be more inclined to think it was my horoscope Villiers had cast.”

Arlington could not have been more pleased if someone had brought him the Duke’s head. His blue eyes glittered and his mouth snapped together like an angry trap; his fist banged down on the table. “By Jesu, your Majesty! That’s treason!”

“Not yet, Harry,” corrected the King. “Not until we have the evidence.”

“We shall have it, Sire, before the week is out. Leave me alone for that.”

Three days later Arlington gave Charles the papers. He had immediately put into operation all the back-stairs facilities of the Palace, and upon arresting and examining Heydon they discovered copies of several letters from him to the Duke and one from Buckingham to him. Charles, thoroughly annoyed at this latest treachery on the part of a man who was literally his foster-brother, issued a warrant for his arrest. But the Duke, in Yorkshire, was warned by his wife and he got out of the house just before the King’s deputies reached it.

For four months the Duke played a cat-and-mouse game with his Majesty’s sergeants, and though sometimes a rumour arose that his Grace had been located and was about to be taken prisoner, it was always the wrong man they captured or the Duke was gone before they got to him. People began to make disparaging remarks about his Majesty’s espionage system, which had always been compared unfavourably to Cromwell’s. But actually it was not strange that the Duke could elude his pursuers.

Fifteen years before, the King himself had travelled halfway across England with a price on his head and posters fixed up everywhere describing him, had even talked to Roundhead soldiers and discussed himself—and then finally escaped to France. The best known noblemen in the country went unrecognized to taverns or brothels. Any gentleman or lady could take off the jewels and fine clothes and go masquerading with the danger not that they would be recognized but that, if need arose, it would be almost impossible to establish identity. And Buckingham was an accomplished mimic into the bargain, able to disguise his face and manners so that even those who knew him best had no idea who he was.

And so it was that at last he even turned up in the Palace itself, dressed in the uniform of a sentry with musket, short black wig and heavy black mustache and eyebrows. He wore built-up boots to increase his height and a coat thickly padded over the shoulders. The sentries were often posted in the corridors to prevent a duel or other anticipated trouble, and no one noticed him—for a couple of hours. He amused himself by watching who came and went through the entrance to his cousin’s apartments.

About mid-morning Barbara herself strolled out with Wilson and a couple of other waiting-women; one little blackamoor carried her train and another her muff, out of which peeked the petulant face of her spaniel. Barbara sailed on by, not even seeing him, but one of the waiting-women did and when he smiled she smiled in return. Sometime later when they came back the maid smiled again, but this time Barbara noticed him too. She gave him a sidelong glance just as she disappeared, her eyes running with quick approval over his handsomely padded torso, and one eyebrow went up slightly.

The next morning she paused, gave him a languishing look through her thick lashes, and unfurled her fan. “Aren’t you the fellow who was here yesterday? Is a duel expected?”

He made her a respectful bow and in a voice and accent quite different from his own replied: “Wherever your Ladyship is, there is danger of men losing their heads.”

Barbara bridled, pleased. “Oh, Lord! I’ll swear you’re impudent!”

“The sight of your Ladyship has made me bold.” His eyes looked down into her bodice, and she gave him a smart rap on the arm with her fan.

“Saucy wretch! I could have you kicked!”

She gave her head a toss and walked away, but the next morning a page came to summon him into her Ladyship’s chamber. He was taken down the corridor and through another door which led back to her apartments by means of a narrow passage he knew well enough, for it opened directly into her warm, luxuriously furnished bedroom, and there he was left alone. Barbara was playing with her spaniel, Jockey, and wearing a half unfastened dressing-gown, her hair falling down her back.

She looked up, straightened, and gave him a careless wave of her hand. “Good morning.”

He bowed, his eyes bolder than ever, and Barbara’s own were going over him as though he were a stud stallion on exhibition at Smithfield. “Good morning, your Ladyship. Indeed it is a good morning when I’m asked to wait upon your Ladyship.” He bowed again.

“Well—I suppose you’re surprised that a person of quality has sent for a mere nobody, aren’t you?”

“I’m grateful, madame, if I can be of service to your Ladyship.”

“Hm,” murmured Barbara, one hand on her hip, half her naked leg showing as the gown fell away. “Perhaps you can. Yes—perhaps you can.” Suddenly she was more brisk. “Tell me, are you a man of discretion?”

“Your Ladyship may trust me with your honour.”

“How d’you know I intend to?” cried Barbara, annoyed that he should understand her so readily.

“I beg your Ladyship’s pardon. I meant no offense, I assure you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have you take me for a whore—just because I live at Court. Whitehall’s got a mighty evil reputation these days—but I’ll have you know, sir, I’m a person of honour.”

“I’m convinced of that, madame.”

Barbara relaxed again, and let the gown fall lower over her breasts. “You know, you’re an uncommonly handsome young fellow. If I took a fancy to you I doubt not that I could see you advanced to a better position.”

“I want nothing but to serve your Ladyship.”

“Ordinarily, you understand, I wouldn’t glance once at a sentry—but the truth of the matter is, I find myself strangely drawn to you.”

He bowed again. “It’s more than I deserve, madame.”

“What’s more than you deserve, you puppy?”

This time Buckingham answered her in his own voice. “Why, your Ladyship’s kind approbation.”

“Well—” began Barbara, and suddenly her eyes opened wide and she stared at him. “Say that again!”

“Say what again, your Ladyship?” asked the sentry.

Barbara blew a sigh of relief. “Whew! For a moment you sounded deucedly like a gentleman of my acquaintance—whom I’m not eager to see just now.”

Buckingham leaned lazily back on his musket. One hand reached up to draw off his wig and his normal voice asked, “Not his Grace of Buckingham, by any chance?”

Barbara’s eyes popped and her face went white, one hand to her mouth and the other pointing at him. “George! It isn’t you!”

“It is, madame. And don’t make any sound, I beg of you. This implement”—he tapped his gun—“is loaded, and I should not like to shoot you just now—for I think you’re still of some value to me.”

“But what are you doing here—of all places! You’re mad! They’ll cut off your head if they find you!”

“They won’t find me. A disguise that was good enough to fool my cousin should be good enough to fool anyone, don’t you agree?” He seemed highly amused.

“But what are you doing here?”

“Don’t you remember? You sent for me.”

“Oh, you impertinent dog! I could kill you for this trick! Anyway—I only meant to raise your blood—I was just passing the time with you—”

“A very pretty pastime for a person of quality, I must agree. But I didn’t take up that post to be seduced by my Lady Castlemaine. You know what I’m here for.”

“Not I, I’m sure. I’ve had no hand in your troubles.”

“Only that you gave my secret away to his Majesty.”

“Gave it away? You lied to me! You told me it was York’s horoscope you were having cast!”

“Even a lie, apparently, was unsafe with you. The King needs only a sentence to guess at the whole plot of a play.” He shook his head, as though in sympathy for her. “How can you be so foolish, Barbara, when it’s only by my good nature that you remain in England at all? However, it will doubtless be easy enough to buy my freedom now. I have an idea he’d forgive a much greater offense than mine to know that those letters are burned—”

“George!” cried Barbara frantically. “My God, you wouldn’t tell him! You can’t tell him! Oh, please, darling! I’ll do anything you say! Command me and I’ll be your slave—only promise me you won’t tell him!”

“Lower your voice or you’ll tell him yourself. Very well then —since you want to bargain. What will you give in exchange for my silence?”

“Anything, George! Anything at all! I’ll give you anything—I’ll do anything you say!”

“There’s just one thing I want at present—and that’s the clearance of my name.”

Barbara sat down suddenly, scared and hopeless, her face turned white. “But you know that’s the one thing I can’t do! No one could do that for you—not Minette herself! Everyone says you’re going to lose your head—the courtiers are already begging your estate! Oh, George, please—” She was beginning to cry, wringing her hands together.

“Stop that! I hate a drivelling woman! Old Rowley can watch you mope and wail if he likes but I’ve got other matters to think of! Look here, Barbara: your influence with him isn’t wholly gone. You can convince him, if you try, that I’m innocent. I’ll leave you to think of your own means—A woman never needs help making up lies.”

He put the black wig onto his head again and picked up his musket. “I’ll make it possible for you to communicate with me.” He bowed. “I wish you success, madame.” Turning then on his high heel he left her apartments and the Palace; the broad-shouldered, black-haired sentry was never again seen at Lady Castlemaine’s door.

CHAPTER FORTY–NINE

EVEN AFTER AMBER was married she continued to remain at Almsbury House, for she hoped soon to be given an appointment at Court and live there.

As for her husband, she suggested that he take lodgings in Covent Garden, and because he had been henpecked from the cradle he did so, though against his better judgment. For despite the fact that it was permissible, even correct form, for husbands and wives to hate each other, to keep mistresses and take lovers, to bicker and quarrel in public and circulate the grossest slander about each other—it was not permissible to occupy separate homes or to sleep in separate beds. Amber was amused to discover that she had started a scandal which swept all the fashionable end of town.

Her husband was named Gerald Stanhope, and the title conveyed upon him by the King was Earl of Danforth. He was just twenty-two, a year younger than she, and to Amber he seemed an arrant fool. Timid and non-assertive, weak and thin, he lived in a habitual froth of worry as to what “Mother” was going to think about everything he or his wife did. Mother, he said, would not approve of them occupying separate lodgings, and finally he brought the news that Mother was coming up to London for a visit.

“Have you room for her in your apartments?” asked Amber.

She sat at her dressing-table having her hair arranged by a Frenchman newly arrived from Paris, over whose services the ladies were clawing one another. In one hand she held a silver-backed mirror, surveying her profile, admiring the lines of her straight forehead and dainty tilted nose, the pouting curves of her mouth and small round chin.

I’m handsomer than Frances Stewart any day, she thought, rather defiantly. But still I’m glad she’s gone and disgraced and will never be back to trouble us more.

Gerald looked unhappy, pale and ineffectual. Travel on the Continent had not polished him; a moderately good education had not given him mental poise; the customary indulgence in whoring and drinking had certainly not made him sophisticated. He seemed still like a confused uncertain lonesome boy and this new turn his life had taken only made him feel more lost than ever.

These people—his wife and the other women and men who frequented Whitehall—were all so brazenly confident, so selfish in their preoccupations, so cruelly unconcerned for the hurts or hopes of another human. He longed for the quiet and peace and sense of security he had had at home. This world of palaces and taverns, theatres and bawdy-houses, scared and baffled him. He almost dreaded to have his mother come, to have her meet his wife, and yet the news that she was coming had relieved him considerably. Mother was not afraid of anyone.

He took out his comb and began to run it through his flaxen periwig. His clothes, at least, were now as fine and fashionable as any that money could buy, though his unprepossessing physique and spindly legs did not set them off to advantage.

“Pas du tout, madame,” said Gerald. All the wits and pretended wits sprinkled their conversation with French phrases as a lady sprinkled her face with black taffeta patches. Gerald did likewise, for it gave him a sense of being in the mode. “As you know, I have a mere three rooms. There’s no place to put her there.” He was living at the Cheval d’Or, a lodging-house popular with the gallants because the landlady had a pretty and obliging daughter.

“Well, where do you propose to put her then? I don’t like that curl, Durand. Pray, do it again.” She was still surveying herself, front face now, observing her teeth, her skin, the smooth red paint on her lips.

Gerald gave a Parisian shrug of his thin shoulders. “Eh bien —I thought she might stay here.”

Amber set the mirror down with a slam, though it lighted on a pile of ribbons and was saved. “Oh, you did! Well, she won’t! D’ye think Lord Almsbury’s running a lodging-house? You’d best send her a letter and tell her to stay where she is. What the devil does she want to come to London for anyway?” She gave a shake of her right wrist to hear the bracelets clink.

“Why, I suppose she wants to see her old acquaintances she hasn’t seen in many years. And also, madame, I may as well speak frankly, she wonders why we keep separate lodgings.”

Because he was afraid of what she might say to that he turned and went across the room, taking a long-stemmed pipe out of the capacious pocket of his coat and filling it with tobacco, using a match-stick from the fireplace to light it.

“Good Lord! Write and tell her you’re of age now and married and able to manage your own affairs!” And then, seeing that he was smoking, she cried: “Get out of here with that filthy thing! D’ye think I want my rooms to stink? Go down and order the coach—I’ll be with you presently. Or go on alone, if you prefer.”

Gerald left hastily, obviously relieved, but Amber sat scowling into the mirror while Monsieur Durand, who was not supposed to make use of his ears, continued to work with passionate intensity upon the curl she had criticized.

“Lord!” muttered Amber crossly at last. “What a dull, insipid thing a husband is!”

Durand smiled unctuously, gave a final twirl of his comb and stepped back to survey her head. Then, satisfied, he took up a tiny vial, filled it with water and slipping in a golden rose tucked it among her curls. “It’s true they’ve grown out of the fashion, madame. I find a lady of quality would no more wear one of ’em on her heart than she’d wear a bouquet of carnations.”

“Why is it only the fools who marry?” she demanded, but went on talking without waiting for an answer. “Well, thank you, Durand, for coming to me. And here’s something for your good work.” She picked up three guineas from the table and dropped them into his hand.

His eyes began to glisten and he bowed again and again. “Oh, merci, madame, merci! It is indeed a pleasure to serve one so generous—and so beautiful. Pray call upon me at any time—and I come though I disappoint Majesty itself!”

“Thanks, Durand. Tell me—what d’you think of this gown? My dressmaker is a Frenchwoman. Has she done well by me, do you think?” She turned slowly about before him while Durand clasped his hands and kissed his fingers.

“C’est exquise, madame! Vraie Parisienne, madame! Exquise!”

Amber gave a little laugh and took up her fan and gloves. “What a flattering rogue you are! Nan, let him out—”

She left the room, beckoning Tansy to follow her, and he carried the long train of her gown in his hands so that it would not be soiled before she got to the ball. Durand was worth the three guineas she had given him—preposterous as the price was—not so much for the work of his clever fingers as for the prestige of having him. It had taken some scheming, but she had gotten him away from Castlemaine for that night, and every woman at the ball would know it.

A week later Amber was in the nursery—where she spent an hour or two every morning—playing trick-track with Bruce. Susanna, in a white linen-and-lace gown with a tiny apron and a starched lace cap that perched far back over her long glossy blonde hair, sat on the floor beside them. Already she was beginning to dominate the nursery and had her heel firmly on the necks of the Almsbury children, but her own brother was a more recalcitrant subject and refused the yoke of the little tyrant.

Amber loved the hours she spent in the nursery, for they were the one sure tie that bound her to Lord Carlton. These children were his children too, his blood was in their veins, they moved and spoke and had their being because of him. Their love for her was, in a sense, his—their kisses his. They were the memories of things past, all that she had for the present, and they offered her hope of the future.

“Mother!” Susanna was perpetually interrupting their game, for though she was too young to play she intended to have a part in it anyway.

“Yes, darling?”

“Wiggle-waggle! ”

“Let me finish this game, Susanna. I just played wiggle-waggle.”

Susanna pouted and made a face at her brother, but Amber saw it and threw one arm about her, hugging her close. “Here, what are you doing, you little witch?”

“Witch? What’s a witch?”

“A witch,” said her brother, somewhat bored, “is a nuisance.”

Amber looked up at a footman who had just entered the room and come to stand beside them. “Yes?”

“You’re wanted, madame.”

“Who is it? Anyone of importance?”

“Your husband, I believe, madame—and his mother.”

“Oh, Lord! Well—thank you. Tell ’em I’ll be in presently.” The man left and Amber got to her feet, though both children immediately began to protest. “I’m sorry, darlings, I’ll come back if I can.”

Bruce bowed to her. “Good-day, Mother. Thank you for coming to see us.”

Amber bent and kissed him and then she picked up Susanna, who kissed her with smacking abandon on the cheeks and mouth. “Here, Susanna!” protested Amber. “You’ll take all my powder off, you little minx.” She kissed her and then put her down, waved them both goodbye and left the room—but her smile faded the instant she closed the door.

For a moment she stood in the hall, staring. Now why the devil did that old woman have to come here? she thought irritably. Pregnancy always made her feel that everything unpleasant which happened was done for the sole purpose of annoying her. And then with a sigh and a little shrug she started back toward her own rooms at the opposite end of the gallery.

Gerald Stanhope and his mother sat on a couch before the fireplace in Amber’s drawing-room. The Dowager Baroness had her back to the door and she was chattering away at Gerald whose face looked worried and anxious. The starkly black-painted eyebrows he affected because they were supposed to be all the mode contrasted shockingly with his white skin and ash-blonde wig. But the moment Amber entered the room the Baroness ceased talking and, after giving herself a moment or two to compose her features, she turned a fixed sweet smile in the direction of her daughter-in-law. Her eyes did not conceal the sudden surprise and displeasure she felt at what she saw.

Amber came toward them walking lazily, her dressing-gown flowing back from the lacy ruffled petticoat she wore beneath it. Gerald, looking as if he expected the roof to blow off the house at any moment, stood up to present his wife to his mother. The two women embraced, carefully, as though each were afraid of soiling her hands and garments on the other. And then each turned her cheek—it was an affectation of great ladies to present their cheeks rather than their lips for a salute. As they stepped back their eyes ran over each other appraisingly, and neither one of them missed a detail. Gerald stood and bobbled his Adam’s apple and took out a comb to occupy his hands.

Lucilla, Lady Stanhope, was just over forty. She had a plump petulant face that made Amber think of one of the King’s spaniels, with a mouth turned down at the corners and shaky round cheeks. Her hair, which had once been blonde, was now caramel-coloured. But her skin was still pink and fresh and she had prominent thrusting breasts. Her clothes were even more out of style than those of most country ladies, and her jewels were insignificant.

“Oh, pray take no notice of my clothes,” said her Ladyship instantly. “They’re nothing but old frippery I was about to give my maid, but the roads were so bad I didn’t dare wear anything else! Heavens, as it was, one cart overturned and flung three of my trunks into the mud!”

“Oh, barbarous!” agreed Amber sympathetically. “Your Ladyship must be jolted to a jelly. Can’t I send for some refreshment?”

“Why, yes, madame. I do believe I’d like a dish of tea.”

She had never drunk any tea, for it was far too expensive, but now she was determined to show everyone that for all she had been twenty years in the country she had never been out of touch with the Town.

“I’ll send for some. Arnold! Drat that man! Where is he? Always kissing the maids when you want him.” Amber walked toward the door of the next room. “Arnold!”

The Baroness watched her, envy and disapproval in her eyes.

She had never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that the days of her own youth and beauty had occurred so unpropitiously. First there had been the Civil War and her husband gone most of the time, then finally killed, leaving her condemned to live out her best years in the country, impoverished by taxes and forced to do part of her own housework like any farmer’s wife. The years had slipped treacherously by. She had not realized until today how many of them were gone.

She had had no opportunity to marry again, for the Wars had left too many poor widows, and she had Gerald and his two sisters to rear. The girls had been fortunate to marry country squires, but Gerald—she had been determined—must have a better opportunity. She sent him on a trip to the Continent and bade him stop in London on his return to see if he might catch the King’s eye and perhaps bring the sacrifices and loyalty of the Stanhopes to his attention. He had succeeded better than she had ever dared hope. One month ago, a letter had come from him saying that the King had not only raised the family to an earldom but had found a great fortune for him to marry, and that he was already both Earl of Danforth and bridegroom.

Overjoyed, she began immediately to make arrangements for closing up Ridgeway Manor and moving to London. She saw herself frequenting the Court, admired and envied for her clothes and jewels, her lavish hospitality, her charm and, yes, her beauty too. For Lady Stanhope had eagerly consulted her mirror and persuaded herself that for all most women of forty-two were considered decayed she was still a fine person and might—with new French gowns, ribbons and curls and jewels—very reasonably be taken for a beauty. She might even marry again, if she found a gentleman to her taste.

The letter from Lady Clifford came as an unpleasant shock.

“My dear Lucilla,” it read. “Pray accept of the good thoughts and best wishes of all of us who are your friends. We were both surprised and pleased that your family should have been given an earldom. For though none has been more deserving it is too well known by us who have been in London these seven years past that nowadays reward is not always conveyed where it is most due or honour shown to those who best deserve it. There is no use dissembling, the old ways have changed; for the worse, I fear.

“We were all quite astonished at the news of Gerald’s marriage, happening so suddenly as it did, and for my part I first knew he was in town when I heard that he had married the former Countess of Radclyffe. No doubt you’ve heard that she’s thought a great beauty, much frequents the Court, and is said to be in some favour with his Majesty. For my part I seldom go to Whitehall nowadays, but prefer the company of our old friends. The young and giddy have taken over the Court and persons of quiet manners are in no request there. But perhaps a time may come again when the old virtues of honesty in a man and modesty in a woman will be more than an excuse for coarse jesting and laughter.

“I hope to have the pleasure of your company soon. No doubt you will be coming to London as soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.

“Your very humble and obedient servant, madame,

”I am,

“Margaret, Lady Clifford.”

There it was. Like a rock dropped in the middle of a quiet pool. “As soon as Gerald and his wife begin to occupy lodgings together.” What did her Ladyship mean?

Were they married and not living together? Where was he living then? Where was she living? She read the letter over again, very carefully, and this time she could pick out several more ominous suggestions. She decided that she could not get there too soon for her son’s welfare.

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 neighbours, 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 be 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 à 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 she 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.

“What the devil is she about?” asked Amber. “She hasn’t got a shilling!”

But she thought that she knew well enough. The old jade was spending her money. If she had not been so intensely preoccupied with Bruce and her interests at Court she would not have let the Baroness continue her spending spree for even two days—but as it was she let her go ahead and was relieved not to be troubled by her. One of these days, she promised herself, I’ll pluck a crow with that woman. But Lady Stanhope sought her out first.

Amber was never awake before nine o’clock—for it was late when she returned from the Palace—and by that time Bruce was always gone. She would sip her morning cup of chocolate, get into a dressing-gown and go to see the children. From ten until noon she spent getting dressed. It took that long, partly because painting her face and having her hair arranged and getting into her clothes was a complicated process, but also because she admitted great numbers of those mercers and jewellers and perfumers who flocked to the anterooms of the rich and noble. No one was ever turned away from her door.

She liked the noise and confusion, the sense of importance it gave her to be great enough that she should be so pestered, and she liked to buy things. If the material was beautiful she could always order a new gown; if the setting was unusual or extravagant she could always find use for a new necklace or bracelet; if it had come from far away or was said to be very rare or if it merely caught her fancy she never refused another vase or table or gold-framed mirror. Her prodigality was well known among the tradesmen and before noon her apartments were almost as crowded as the courtyard of the Royal Exchange.

She would sit at her dressing-table wearing a loose gown, a pair of mules hanging on the tips of her toes, while Monsieur Durand arranged her hair. Nan Britton had advanced quite beyond such tasks. She was now waiting-woman to a countess and had no duties but to dress handsomely, always look her best, and accompany her mistress wherever she went. And, like most waiting-women of fashionable ladies, she had her coterie of lovers—many of them the same lords and fops who circulated among the ladies themselves. Nan enjoyed her life with all the gusto and enthusiasm she brought to everything she did—though it was a triumph and success she had never expected, for which she would have made no effort herself.

The tradesmen and women hovered in a buzzing circle about Amber, thrusting first this and then that beneath her nose. “Pray, look at these gloves, madame—and smell them. But place them to the nose and you’ll never have another scent. Is it not exquisite?”

Amber smelled. “Neroli, isn’t it? My favourite scent. I’ll take a dozen pairs.” She whisked a tiny brush over her curved black brows, smoothing them and taking off the specks of powder.

“I’ve been saving this length for you, madame. Feel that nap, as deep as anything ever woven. And the colour—it becomes your Ladyship to a miracle. See how it matches your eyes!—as near as anything could. And let me add, madame,” leaning close and whispering, “the Countess of Shrewsbury saw it the other day and was mightily taken with it. But I told her it was already gone. I could see it for no one but you, madame.”

“I’ll have to take it now, won’t I, you crafty knave?” She slid a pair of diamond drops into her ears. “But it is beautiful. I’m glad you saved it for me—and don’t forget me when your next shipment comes in. Nan, give him the money, will you?”

“Madame, I beg of you, take this bracelet into your hand. See how it strikes the light—how it flashes like fire? Finer stones were never mined. And let me tell you—though it’s worth five hundred pound and more—I’ll give it to your Ladyship at a great loss to myself, only for the honour of having my work upon your Ladyship’s arm. Though anyone else would demand at the very least five hundred pound—I’ll give it to your Ladyship for but one hundred and fifty.”

Amber laughed, holding the bracelet in her hand and admiring it. “At that price how can I afford not to have it? Leave it then. I’ll buy it.” She tossed it onto the dressing-table amid the heap of boxes and jars and bottles, letters, fans, ribbons. “But send me a bill—I never keep such sums on hand.”

“S’il vous plaît, madame—” It was Monsieur Durand’s agonized voice. “I beg of you, do not move about so much! First this way and then that. I can accomplish nothing! Mort Dieu, madame!”

“I’m sorry, Durand. What’ve you got there, Johnson?”

It went on morning after morning, this daily fair, offering entertainment and profit for all, and Amber gave them at least as good a show as she got. Fiddlers were almost always in the room, playing the latest ballads or the newest tune from a play. Half-a-dozen maids came and went. Tansy strolled among them and sometimes made a request for himself; he had grown inordinately vain of his clothes and Amber dressed him at great expense, though he still refused to put on a shoe which was not worn out. The King had given her a spaniel puppy which she called Monsieur le Chien and he nosed at everyone, snapping and barking at whoever had not been previously identified.

Amber was thus occupied one morning when a little page entered the room and came to her. “Madame, the Baroness Stanhope to wait upon you.”

Amber rolled her eyes impatiently. “Hell and furies!” she muttered, and looked around over her shoulder just as her Ladyship entered the room. Then her eyes opened wide in amazement, and it was a moment before she could gather her wits enough to stand and welcome her mother-in-law.

Lucilla was now so different a woman as to be scarcely recognizable. Her head was as golden as Susanna’s, curled in the latest fashion and decorated with ribbons and flowers and a twisted strand of pearls. Her face was painted like the face of a China doll and there were evidently “plumpers” in her cheeks to keep them firm and round. Her gown—made of pearl-grey satin over a fuchsia-coloured petticoat—looked as though it had been turned out by deft French fingers and the busk she wore beneath it narrowed her waist and thrust her breasts high above the neckline. There was a string of pearls about her neck, diamond pendants swinging from her ears, half a dozen bracelets on her wrists, and rings on three fingers of each hand. All of them had a wicked glitter that looked both genuine and expensive. She had become, in just a fortnight, a very elegant lady of fashion, somewhat over-ripe, but still inviting enough.

My God! thought Amber. Look at that old bawd.

The two women embraced, casually, but Lady Stanhope had seen the surprise on Amber’s face and she looked at her triumphantly as though now demanding, not giving, admiration. But after the first shock of seeing how she had changed, Amber’s horrified thought was that all this had been accomplished on her money. The Stanhopes, she knew, had lost their one small source of income when their tenements had burned in the Fire.

“You must forgive my rudeness, madame,” began Lucilla immediately. “I’d have called sooner but I’ve been so furiously busy!” She paused, somewhat breathless, to fan herself. Though she thought it must be envy in her daughter-in-law’s eyes she could not but be conscious for all her finery and dyed hair and false curls that she would never be three-and-twenty again and that the years between had been long and stubborn.

“Oh, it’s I who should have called on you, madame,” protested Amber politely, trying to count up in her head the number of pounds sterling she saw represented in Lady Stanhope’s ensemble; and the higher the total mounted the angrier she became. But she smiled and asked her to be seated while she finished her toilet and then, as Lady Stanhope caught sight of a length of blue velvet, Amber quickly told the tradespeople that it was time for them to go.

“Come to my apartments tomorrow morning,” said Lucilla with a wave of her hand, and the man took up his velvet and left with the others.

Amber sat down to stick on her patches while Lucilla panted, obviously uncomfortable in her too-tight corset. “Heavens!” said her Ladyship, crossing her small feet and cocking her head on one side to admire them. “You wouldn’t believe how taken up with business I’ve been this fortnight! I’ve a great acquaintance here in town, you know, and everyone must see me at once! Provoking creatures! I’ve been most horribly towsed.” She put one hand to her head, preening. “I’ve scarcely seen Gerry at all. Pray tell me, how has my dear boy been?”

“Very well, I think, madame,” replied Amber, too angry over the thought of her hard-gotten money going to decorate this old woman to be able to pay much attention to what was being said.

Now she got up, crossed the room and went behind a magnificent blue-lacquered Chinese screen, beckoning one of the women to bring her gown. Monsieur le Chien was nosing curiously about Lucilla’s shoes and yapping from time to time, not at all intimidated by the sharp looks she gave him. Only Amber’s head and shoulders could be seen now and while she was not looking Lucilla’s eyes studied her, slightly narrowed, hard and critical and disapproving. But as Amber glanced suddenly across at her she smiled, a quick and guilty smile.

“It’s strange I never see Gerry in the mornings. At home he always called on me each day before he did anything else. He’s always been the most devoted child a mother could want. He must go abroad very early.” She spoke rapidly, looking at Amber as though she expected her to lie.

“Why, as far as I remember,” said Amber, sucking in her stomach while the maid jerked tighter the strings of her busk, “he hasn’t been here at all since the day you arrived.”

“What!” cried Lady Stanhope, as horrified as though she had heard that her son was under arrest for picking pockets. “Doesn’t he sleep with you!”

“Tighter,” muttered Amber to the maid. “It’s got to be tighter.” Her waist was growing larger but she intended to lace it in just as long as she could. Far more than the agony of labour she hated the months of being misshapen, and this time more than ever, for Bruce was here and she wanted desperately to look her best. Then she replied, casually, “Oh, yes. He has.” He had, in fact, just three times, and Amber had permitted that only because the King hoped to make him think that the child was his own.

“Well!” Lady Stanhope fanned herself harder than ever and her face flushed, as it always did at the slightest hint of nervousness or embarrassment or anger. “I never heard of such a thing! A man not sleeping with his wife! It’s—Why, it’s immoral! I’ll take a course with him about this, my dear! I’ll see he doesn’t neglect you any more!”

Amber gave her an amused lazy smile over the top of the screen and bent slightly, stepping into first one petticoat and then another. “Don’t trouble yourself, madame. His Lordship and I like the arrangement as it is. The young men have a great deal of business nowadays, you know—going to theatres and taverns, drinking till midnight and scouring about the streets afterward. It keeps ’em well occupied, I assure you.”

“Oh, but Gerry doesn’t live that kind of life, I’m sure of it! He’s a good quiet boy, you may believe me, madame. If he doesn’t come here it must be he’s of the opinion he isn’t wanted!”

Amber swung about and looked directly at her mother-in-law, her eyes cool and with a malicious slant at the corners. “I’m sure I can’t think where he could have got such a notion as that, madame. What’s o’clock, Nan?”

“Almost half-after-twelve, your Ladyship.”

“Oh, Lord!” Amber stepped out from behind the screen, fully dressed now, and a maid handed her her fan and muff while another came to set the cloak on her shoulders. She picked up her gloves and began pulling them on. “I have a sitting with Mr. Lely at one! I must beg to be excused, madame. Mr. Lely is so furiously in demand he cannot stay a moment for anyone. If I’m late I’ll lose my turn and he has the portrait half done.”

Lady Stanhope got to her feet. “I was just going abroad myself. I’m engaged to dine with Lady Clifford and then we’re going to the play. One never has a moment to oneself in town.” The two countesses started out of the room, walking side by side, followed by Nan and Tansy and Monsieur le Chien. Lucilla gave Amber an arch sidewise glance. “I suppose you knew that Lord Carlton is a guest in the house?”

Amber looked at her sharply. What did she mean by that? Was it possible she had heard gossip about them? But they’d been very discreet—always entering and leaving by their own doors, paying each other no undue attentions in public. Her heart hammering hard, Amber tried to give her an off-hand answer.

“Oh, yes. I know. He’s an old friend of the Earl.”

“I think he’s fascinating! They say every woman at Court is mad in love with him! And have you heard? They say he’s one of my Lady Castlemaine’s lovers—but of course they say that about everyone.” She rambled on, for she always talked as if she had more to say than time would allow, but Amber was conscious only of relief. Evidently she knew nothing—she just wanted to prattle. “But to think of the venturesome life he’s led—soldier-of-fortune, privateer, and now a planter! I’ve heard he’s one of the richest men in England—and of course his family’s most distinguished. It was Marjorie Bruce, you know, who was the mother of the first Stuart King of Scotland, and that’s his family. And his wife, they say, is a great beauty—”

“Everyone’s a great beauty with a portion of ten thousand pound!” snapped Amber.

“Well,” said Lucilla. “He’s a fine person, I vow and swear. He’s everything in the world that I admire.”

Amber bowed to her. “Good-day, madame.”

She walked off, down the stairs, seething inside, furious and hurt. Oh, I can’t stand it! she thought wildly. I can’t stand knowing he’s married to that woman! I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! I hope she dies! Suddenly she stopped, catching her breath. Maybe she will. She began to walk on, her eyes glowing. Maybe she will die, over there with all those sicknesses—maybe she will—She had completely forgotten her grievance against the Baroness for spending her money.

The next night she and Bruce came home from Whitehall together. He had completed the most urgent part of his business and was beginning to go there in the evenings to gamble and talk. They climbed the stairs, laughing over the current story that Buckingham, still in hiding, had been arrested for rioting in the streets and locked up and then released again without being recognized. Outside her rooms they parted.

“Don’t be long, darling,” she whispered.

She came into her own drawing-room still smiling, but the smile froze unpleasantly as she found Gerald and his mother sitting there, before her fireplace.

“Well!” She swung the door shut.

Gerald got to his feet. He looked wretchedly unhappy and Amber knew that coming here had not been his idea. The Dowager Baroness gave her a languid look over her bare shoulder, then stood up and made just the suggestion of a curtsy. Amber did not return it, but she came on into the room, glancing from one to the other.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she said to Gerald, who immediately cleared his throat and stuck a finger into the high close-fitting cravat about his neck. He tried to smile, but nervousness made his face break into little pieces.

“I just came to talk to Gerry while he was waiting for you to return,” interposed his mother hastily. “I’ll be going along now and leave you two young people together. Your servant, madame. Good-night, Gerry dear.” As Gerald obediently kissed his mother’s cheek Amber saw her give him an admonitory but encouraging pat on the arm.

With a triumphant flaunting little smile she left the room, her long train swishing after her, making a definite sound in the stillness, and all at once a clock began to chime. Amber did not watch her go but kept her eyes on Gerald, and as she heard the door close she tossed her muff and gloves to Tansy and waved him off. Monsieur le Chien was prancing and barking at Gerald, for he had seen him but seldom and was not sure he belonged there.

“Well,” repeated Amber again, and walked to the fire to warm her hands.

“Eh bien, madame,” said Gerald. “Here I am. And after all” —suddenly he straightened his shoulders and faced her defiantly —“why shouldn’t I be here? I’m your husband, madame.” It sounded like what Mother had told him to say.

“Of course,” agreed Amber. “Why shouldn’t you?” Then all at once she put one hand to her stomach and, with a little groan, dropped onto the settee.

Gerald started. “Good God, madame! What is it? Is something amiss with you?” He turned and would have run out. “I’ll fetch someone—”

But Amber stopped him. “No, Gerald. It’s nothing. It’s just that I’m with child, I think—I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure—”

He looked delighted, amazed, as though this had happened to no man before him. “Already? My God! I can’t believe it! But; Lord! I hope it’s true!” She had surprised him out of all his airs and French grimaces; he was merely a frightened pleased English country boy.

Amber was amused, thinking him a complete dolt. “I hope so too, my lord. But you know how a woman is in this circumstance.”

“No—I don’t. I—I never thought about it before. Are you better now? Can I get something for you? A pillow for your head?”

“No, Gerald, thanks. I just want to be let alone—I—Well, to tell you truly I’d rather sleep by myself—if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, but of course, madame. I didn’t know—I didn’t realize. I’m sorry—” He started to back away. “If there’s ever anything you want—anything I can do—”

“Thanks, Gerald. I’ll let you know.”

“And I wonder, madame—may I call sometimes—just to see how you’re doing?”

“Of course, my lord. Whenever you like. Good-night.”

“Good-night, madame.” He hesitated, plainly wishing that he could think of something appropriate to say on this occasion, and then with a helpless little laugh he repeated, “Well, good-night,” and was gone.

Amber shook her head and made a face; then got up and went into the bedroom. Nan gave a questioning lift of her eyebrows, to which Amber replied with pantomime gestures that sent them both into hilarious laughter. The two women were alone in the room, chattering and giggling together, Amber now in smock and busk and a froth of lacy petticoats. When Bruce knocked at the door she called out for him to come in.

He had removed his periwig, coat and vest and sword, and his white shirt was opened. “Still undressing?” he asked her with a smile. “I’ve written two letters.” He stopped at a table and poured himself a tall glass of brandy and water. “It’s always seemed to me that women would gain five years of their lives if they’d wear simpler clothes.”

“But what would we do with ’em?” Nan wanted to know, and they all three gave a burst of laughter.

Amber’s hair was now undone—for no lady would lift a hand to her head—and Nan had left the room, herding Tansy and the dog before her. She was standing at the dressing-table, unfastening her necklace, when she saw his face and shoulders appear behind her in the mirror. His green eyes watched her for a moment and then he bent, swept the hair off her neck, and put his lips there. A cold thrill ran over her body; she caught a deep breath and her eyes closed.

He set the glass onto the table and one hand closed over her arm to turn her about. “Oh, Bruce—” she cried. “Bruce—how I love you!”

His arms went around her and they stood close together, thighs pressed hard, bodies straining. When he took his mouth from hers she looked up, wondering, and found him staring across the room. Slowly he released her and slowly she turned. There was Gerald, standing just inside the door, his face white and his jaw fallen.

“Oh!” cried Amber, and her eyes blazed with sudden fury. “What d’you mean—sneaking in here like this! Spying on me! You damned impertinent dog!”

With a sudden unexpected movement she picked up a silver patch-box from the dressing-table and hurled it at him, but her aim was bad and it struck the door-jamb. Gerald jumped. Bruce merely stood quietly and looked at him, surprise in his eyes at first and then a kind of pity as he saw how bewildered and unhappy and scared the boy was.

Amber rushed at him in a shrieking fury, her clenched fists raised. “How dare you sneak into my rooms this way! I’ll have your ears cut off for this!” He moved aside as she struck at him and the blow landed on his shoulder.

He was all but stammering, his face had turned grey, and there was a sick look on his face. “For God’s sake, madame—I had no idea—I didn’t know—”

“Don’t lie to me, you baboon! I’ll show you—”

“Amber!” It was Bruce’s voice. “Give him a chance to speak, why don’t you? This is obviously a mistake.”

Gerald shot him a look of gratitude, but he was clearly somewhat afraid of the woman who stood before him, glowering with rage. “My mother was still in the hall-way. And when I came out she—well—she told me to go back in.”

Amber started to speak again and then she turned and glanced at Bruce, to see what he thought about it. His expression was perfectly serious but his eyes glittered with amusement, even while he had a very obvious sympathy for the unhappy young husband whose duty it now was to challenge him to duel. Honour offered no alternative. And yet it was ridiculous to think of Gerald Stanhope, small and undeveloped with scarcely the courage of an adolescent girl, fighting a man who was not only eight inches taller than he but an accomplished swordsman as well.

Bruce stepped forward, made him an easy bow from the waist, and said politely, “Sir, I regret that you have so much reason to suspect my motives regarding your wife. I offer you my profoundest apologies and hope that you will believe no worse of me than you can help.”

Gerald looked as relieved as a criminal who sees the sheriff come flying with a reprieve just as the noose is being fastened about his neck. He bowed in return. “I assure you, sir, that I am enough a man of the world to know that appearances are often deceiving. I accept your apology, sir, and hope that we may meet again under more congenial circumstances. And now, madame, if you’ll show me the way, I’ll go by your back-staircase—”

Amber stared at him in astonishment. God in heaven! Wasn’t the poor fool even going to fight? And was he going now, to leave his wife’s lover in undisputed possession? Her anger drained away and contempt took its place. She pulled up the bodice of her smock and made him a curtsy.

“This way, sir.”

She crossed the room and opened a door which led down a dark little stair-well. Just before going out Gerald bowed again, very jauntily, first to her and then to Bruce—but Amber could see that the muscles about his mouth quivered nervously. She closed the door behind him and turned to face Bruce; there was a contemptuous smile on her lips which she expected would also be on his.

He was smiling, but in his eyes was a strange expression. What was it? Disapproval of her, pity for the man who had just left, mockery of all three of them? It alarmed her, and for an instant she felt cold and lost and alone. But as she watched, the expression flickered and changed and he made a gesture with one hand, shrugged his shoulders and started toward her.

“Well,” he said, “he wears a pair of horns as well as any man in Europe.”

CHAPTER FIFTY–ONE

LONDON HAD GROWN as hysterical as a girl with the green-sickness. Her life these last years had been too full of excitement and tragedy, too turbulent and too convulsive, and now she was uneasy, nervous, in a constant state of worry and fear. No prospect was too dismal, no possibility too remote—anything might happen, and probably would.

The new year had opened despondently, with thousands of homeless men and women and children living in tiny tar-roofed shacks that had been thrown up on the sites of their former homes. Or they were crowded together in the few streets within the walls which had been spared by the Fire, and forced to pay exorbitant rents. In a winter of unusual coldness and severity sea-coal was so expensive that many could not afford it at all. Most of them believed, not unreasonably, that London would never be rebuilt and they had no faith in the present, saw no hope for the future.

An evil star seemed to be ascendant over England.

The national debt had never been greater, though the government was near bankruptcy. The War, begun so hopefully, was now unpopular, for it had not been successful and was connected in the public mind with the unprecedented disasters of the past two years. The seamen of the Royal Navy were in mutiny and men lay starving in the yard of the naval office. Parliament had refused to vote the money to set out a fleet for that year and merchants would not be coerced again into supplying the ships without cash-in-hand. Hence the Council had decided—though against the judgement of Charles and Albemarle and Prince Rupert—to lay up the fleet for that year and trust to peace negotiations already under way.

But at Court they did not trouble themselves very much with these problems. For despite the desperate state of government finances there was more wealth in the hands of private individuals than ever before—a person of enterprise and some capital might invest his money in stocks and soon increase it many times. And they were not afraid of the Dutch for most of them knew that England had made a secret treaty with France to keep the Dutch fleet from sailing. The French were not and never had been interested in the war, nor did Louis’s ambitions point across the Channel. Let the ignorant people fret and mumble if they liked—ladies and gentlemen had other matters of which to think. They were far more concerned in Buckingham’s escapade and the gossip that Frances Stewart was pregnant, a rumour which circulated exactly one month after her runaway marriage.

Late in April came the shocking news that the Dutch were out with twenty-four ships, sailing along the coast.

The people were frantic. Terror and resentment and suspicion ran through them like a flame. What had gone wrong with the peace negotiations? Someone had betrayed them, sold them over to the enemy. Every night they expected to hear the rolling of drums, to wake to the screams of men and women dying by the sword, to the glare of fire, the blasting of guns—but though the Dutch continued to ride the coast, tantalizingly, they came no nearer.

Amber was not greatly concerned about any of it—the War, the threatening Dutch, Buckingham’s plight, or Stewart’s baby. She had one interest and only one: Lord Carlton.

King Charles had granted him 20,000 acres more. Large tracts were necessary because tobacco exhausted the soil within three years and it was cheaper to clear new land than to fertilize the old. He had kept a fleet of six ships, for it was the common practice of both merchant and planter to underestimate each crop, with the result that ships were usually scarce. His were consequently in much demand and he had sent a great shipment to France the previous October. Though this was against the law, smuggling was common practice and necessary if the planters were to survive, for Virginia was producing in two years as much tobacco as England used in three.

Bruce now spent his days buying provisions, both for himself and for neighbours who had commissioned him to do so. Ordinarily it was necessary to trust such matters to a merchant who might send unsatisfactory goods, or profit at the colonist’s expense.

His home in Virginia was still only partly constructed because he had been too busy the year before clearing land and planting the tobacco crop. Furthermore, it was difficult to hire skilled workmen, for most of those who went to America expected to make a fortune in five or six years and could not readily be induced to work at their old trades. He was going to take back with him several dozen more indentured servants to complete the building and to work on the land. He was buying glass and bricks and nails—all of which were scarce in America—and, as most emigrants did, was taking with him many English plants and flowers for the garden.

He had a passionate enthusiasm for Virginia and his life there.

He described to her the forests with their oak and pine and blossoming laurel—great masses of dogwood, violets, roses, honeysuckle. He told her that fish were so plentiful a man could lean over and scoop a frying-pan full from a running stream. There were shad and sturgeon, oysters a foot long, turtle and crab and tortoise. He told her about the birds that came in September, clouds of them that blackened the sky, to feed on the wild-celery and oats that grew along the river banks. And there were swan, goose, duck, plover, and turkeys which weighed as much as seventy pounds. There had never been such a prodigal land.

Wild horses roamed the forests and catching them was one of the chief sports of the country. Brilliant birds fluttered everywhere—tawny and crimson parakeets, others with yellow heads and green wings. Animals were abundant and mink such a nuisance that traps had to be set for them. Knowing that she admired the fur, he had brought her skins enough to line a cloak and a robe and to make a great muff.

Corinna, his wife, had stayed in Jamaica the year before, but she had named their home from the description he had given her: they called it Summerhill. In a couple of years, Bruce said, they intended to visit England and France and would buy most of their furniture then. Corinna had left England in 1655 and had not seen it since; and like all English who went abroad to live she longed to return to her homeland, if only for a visit.

Amber wanted to hear about these things and pestered him with a thousand questions, but when he answered she was invariably hurt and angry and jealous. “Ye gods! I’m sure I can’t think how you must pass your time in a place like that! Or do you work all day long?” Work was no occupation for a gentleman, and the way she said the word it sounded as if she was accusing him of something unworthy.

One hot bright-skied afternoon in late May they were drifting along the Thames toward Chelsea, some three and a half miles up-river from Almsbury House. She had bought a new barge, a great handsome gilt one filled with gold-embroidered green-velvet cushions, and she had coaxed him to take the maiden trip with her. Amber was stretched out in the shade of the awning, her hair wreathed in white roses, the thin silk of her green gown falling along her legs, and she held a large green fan to shield one side of her face against the sun. The barge-men in their gold-and-green livery were resting, talking among themselves. The barge was a long one and they were not close enough to overhear what Bruce and Amber said.

There were many other little boats on the river carrying sweethearts, families, groups of young men or women on pleasure-cruises and picnics. The first warm spring days brought out everyone who could find leisure to escape—for London and the country were still almost one and every Londoner had an Englishman’s rural heart.

He sat facing her and now he grinned, shutting one eye against the sun. “I’ll admit,” he said, “that I don’t spend the morning in bed reading billets-doux or the afternoon at a play or the evening in taverns. But we have our diversions. We all live on rivers and travel isn’t difficult. We hunt and drink and dance and gamble just as you do here. Most of the planters are gentlemen and they bring their habits and customs with them, along with their furniture and ancestral portraits. An Englishman away from home, you know, clings to the old ways as fiercely as if his life depended upon it.”

“But there aren’t any cities or theatres or palaces! Lord, I couldn’t endure it! I suppose Corinna likes that dull life!” she added crossly.

“I think she will. She’s been very happy on her father’s plantation.”

Amber thought that she had a very good notion of the kind of woman this Corinna was. She pictured her as another Jenny Mortimer or Lady Almsbury, a quiet shy timid creature who cared for nothing in the world but her husband and children. If the English countryside produced such women, how much worse they must be in that empty land across the seas! Her gowns were probably all five years out of the fashion and she wore no paint and not a patch. She’d never seen a play or ridden in Hyde Park, gone to an assignation or taken dinner in a tavern. In fact, she’d never done anything at all to make her interesting.

“Oh, well—of course she’s contented. She’s never known about anything else. Poor wretch. What does she look like—she’s blonde, I suppose?” Her tone implied that no woman with the least pretensions to beauty would have any other colouring.

He shook his head, amused. “No. Her hair’s very dark—darker than mine.”

Amber widened her topaz eyes, politely shocked, as though he had said that she had a hare-lip or bow-legs. Black hair on a lady was not the fashion. “Oh,” she said sympathetically. “Is she Portuguese?” She remembered well enough that he had said she was English, but in England, Portuguese women were considered very unhandsome. Trying to seem nonchalant, she leaned out and made a lazy catch at a passing butterfly.

Now he laughed. “No, she’s English. Her skin’s fair and her eyes are blue.”

Amber did not like the way he spoke of her—there was something in the sound of his voice and the expression in his eyes. She began to feel hot and nervous, sick in the pit of her stomach.

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

She suddenly felt that she had aged a dozen years in the past few seconds. Women were almost tragically conscious of age, and once out of their teens everything conspired to make them feel that they were growing old. Amber, not two months past twenty-three, now felt all at once that she was ancient and decayed. There was five years between them! Why, five years is a century!

“You said she’s pretty,” murmured Amber in a forlorn little voice. “Is she prettier than I am, Bruce?”

“My God, Amber. What a question to put to a man. You know that you’re beautiful. On the other hand, I’m not so bigoted as to think there’s only one good-looking woman on earth.”

“You do think she’s prettier!” she cried resentfully.

Bruce took her hand and kissed it. “No, I don’t, darling. I swear I don’t. You’re nothing alike—but you’re both lovely.”

“And you do love me?”

“And I do love you.”

“Then why did you—Oh, very well!” she said petulantly, but she obeyed his look and changed the subject. “Bruce, I’ve got an idea! When you’ve finished your business let’s take Almsbury’s yacht and sail up the river for a week or so. He says we can have it—I asked him. Oh, please—it’d be wonderful!”

“I’m afraid to leave London. If the Dutch took the notion they could come right up to the Privy Stairs.”

Amber scoffed at him. “Oh, ridiculous! They wouldn’t dare! Anyway, the peace-treaty is all but signed. I heard his Majesty say so last night. They’re only riding our coast to scare us and pay us back for what we did to ’em last summer. Oh, please, Bruce!”

“Perhaps. If the Dutch go home.”

But the Dutch did not go home. For six weeks they hovered just off the coast with a fleet of one hundred ships—to which the French added twenty-five—while England had not one good ship at sea and was forced to call in her bad ones. The French army was at Dunkirk.

Consequently Bruce refused, for all her teasing and coaxing, to leave London. He said that if the Dutch did come he did not intend to be several miles up the river, lying about on a pleasure boat like some irresponsible Turkish sultan. His men, at least, were well paid and could, he hoped, be counted upon to help defend his ships.

And then one night as they lay in bed, Bruce fast asleep and Amber just sliding off, a sound began to penetrate her drowsiness. She listened, wondering, as it grew louder. Suddenly it roared out—drums beating like thunder down in the streets. Her heart seemed to stop, and then it began to pound as hard as the drums. She sat up, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Bruce! Bruce, wake up! The Dutch have landed!”

Her voice had a high hysterical quaver and she was cold with terror. The weeks of suspense, which had affected her more than she had realized, the black night, the sudden ominous roll of drums, made her feel that the Dutch were there in the very city—outside the house at that moment. The sound of the drums grew louder, beating frantically, and there were shouts of men’s and women’s voices, excited and shrill.

Bruce sat up swiftly. Without a word, he flung back the curtains and got out of bed. Amber followed him, picking up her dressing-gown and putting it on. Already Bruce was at the window, his shirt in his hand as he leaned out and shouted across the courtyard.

“Hey! What’s happened? Have the Dutch landed?”

“They’ve taken Sheerness! We’re invaded!”

The drum rolled again and bells had begun to ring from church towers; a coach roared through the streets and just afterward a single horseman went careening by. Bruce swung the window closed and began to get into his breeches.

“Holy Jesus! They’ll be here next—we haven’t got a thing to stop them!”

Amber was beginning to cry with distracted terror and a sense of utter helplessness. Outside, the drums were beating more and more wildly, filling the night with a wild terrifying rhythm full of calamity and fear, and people had begun to shout from their windows and to run down into the street. Nan was hammering at their door, begging to be admitted.

“Come in!” shouted Amber. She turned to Bruce. “What are you going to do? Where are you going?” She felt cold and shaking inside and her teeth chattered, though the night was a warm one. Nan entered, carrying a candle, and hurried to light several others. As the room sprang into light some of Amber’s terror disappeared.

“I’m going to Sheerness!”

Bruce stood knotting his neck-cravat; he told Nan to bring him a pair of boots from his own room. Amber picked up his vest and coat and held them as he jammed his arms into the sleeves.

“Oh, Bruce! Don’t go! They probably have thousands of men! You’d be killed! Bruce! You can’t go!” She grabbed hold of his arm, as though she could force him to stay with her.

He jerked his arm free, went on buttoning his coat and vest and then pulled on the calf-high silver-spurred boots which Nan had brought. He buckled on the sword and Nan gave him his hat and cloak.

“Take the children and leave London,” he said to her, cramming his hat onto his head. “Get out of here as fast as you can!”

Nan went to answer a pounding at the anteroom door and Almsbury and Emily rushed in, the Earl fully dressed, his wife in her night-gown and robe. “Bruce! The Dutch have landed! I’ve got horses saddled in the courtyard!”

“But you can’t go, Bruce! Oh, Almsbury! He can’t go—I’m scared!”

Almsbury gave her a disgusted scowl. “For Christ’s sake, Amber! The country’s invaded!” The two men walked swiftly out of the room, all three women at their heels.

The hall-way was full of servants running up and down distractedly in their night-dress; some of the women were crying; all of them were babbling excitedly. Just as they got outside Amber’s door Lady Stanhope arrived in a breathless rush. A night-cap covered her hair but paper-curlers showed beneath it and there were chicken-skin gloves on her hands; all her flesh quivered hysterically. She grabbed at Bruce as at salvation.

“Oh, Lord Carlton! Thank God you’re here! We’re invaded! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

Bruce answered her shortly, shaking off the hand that had seized his arm, and he and Almsbury started down the staircase. “I suggest that you leave London, madame. Come with me, Amber. I want to talk to you.”

The men hurried down, the heels of their boots clattering on the stairs, and Amber ran along beside him. The first shock of fright was over but the drums, the bells, the screams and shouts heightened her sense of impending disaster. He can’t go! she thought. He can’t go! But he was going.

“Lady Almsbury is leaving right away for Barberry Hill. All the plans have been ready for weeks—take Susanna and Bruce and go with her. If anything happens to me I’ll send you a message.” She opened her mouth to protest at that, but he ignored her and went on, talking rapidly. “If I should be killed, will you promise me to write to my wife?”

By now they had reached the courtyard where two horses were saddled and waiting for them, stamping and snorting with nervous impatience. Torches blazed; there were servants and stable-boys everywhere; black-and-white coach dogs circled about, barking. The drums pounded in their ears, seemed to echo in the beat of their hearts and the pulsing of their blood. Almsbury mounted instantly but Bruce stopped, his hands on the bridle, and looked down into her face.

“Promise me, Amber.”

She nodded her head, her throat choking. Her hands reached out to grab at his coat. “I promise, Bruce. But don’t let anything happen! Don’t get hurt!”

“I don’t think I will.”

He bent his head and one arm went about her. His mouth touched hers briefly. Then he had swung onto the horse’s back and the two men were galloping out of the courtyard. Just as they rode through the gate he turned and gave her a wave of his hand. With a sudden sobbing cry Amber started forward, one arm outstretched, but they had disappeared into the darkness; she heard the thudding of the horses’ hoofs, growing fainter.

The house was in a turmoil. Some of the servants were carrying out pieces of furniture and dumping them into the courtyard, then rushing back for more. Several of the women were wailing and crying, wringing their hands helplessly. Others, now dressed and with bundles over their backs, fled into the streets with no thought but to get away. Amber lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs, knocking into first one and then another, almost blind with her tears. She ran down to the nursery.

The doors stood wide open and inside were twelve or fifteen frantic women, running this way and that, tugging and hauling at the children and babies to get them dressed. Emily stood cool and self-possessed, telling them what to do and helping them herself. Little Bruce, who was already fully dressed, caught sight of Amber and ran to her immediately. She dropped to her knees, crying, and caught him against her, more for her own comfort than his. He did not, in fact, seem to need or want any.

“Don’t cry, Mother. Those damned Dutchmen will never get here! Not with Father gone to fight ’em!”

But Susanna was shrieking at the top of her lungs, kicking at the nurse who was trying to dress her, her plump little hands held over her ears to shut out the hammering of the drums. And now, bouncing about on the table where she had been put, she caught sight of her mother and brother together and gave a resentful howl of protest.

“Mo-ther!”

Amber got up and went to her, little Bruce staying close at her side as though to protect her. “Sweetheart, you must let Harmon dress you. There’s nothing to cry about. Look—I’m not.” She widened her eyes at Susanna but the rims were red and her lids swollen. Susanna flung her arms about her and howled louder than ever. At last Amber gave her an impatient little shake. “Susanna!” Susanna’s head jerked back and she looked at Amber in astonishment, her pink mouth open. “Stop this bellow-weathering! No one’s going to hurt you! Get into your clothes, now. You’re going for a ride.”

“Don’t want to go for a ride! It’s dark!”

Amber turned away. “Never mind! You’re going anyway. Get into your clothes or I’ll spank you!”

She left Susanna and crossed the nursery to where Lady Almsbury was busy with her own four children; she was kneeling beside her six-year-old son, tying his lace cravat for him. “Emily—I’m not going with you.”

Lady Almsbury looked up at her in astonishment and then got to her feet. “You’re not going! Oh, Amber, but you must! What if the Dutch or the French get here!”

“They’re not here now and I’m not going into the country where I wouldn’t be able to hear from Bruce no matter what happens. If he gets hurt he’ll need me.”

“But he told you to go.”

“I don’t care if he did. I’m not going. But I want Bruce and Susanna to go—will you take them with you? And Nan, too?”

“Of course I will, my dear. But I do think it’s dangerous for you to stay. He wanted you to go—they had often discussed it and made the plans in case of an attack—”

“I’ll be safe enough here. If they come I’ll go to Whitehall. They won’t dare attack the Palace. I’ll take care of your things here—let me have the key to the strong-room and I’ll move the valuables down there.”

At that moment Nan came running into the room. “My God, I’ve looked everywhere for you! Come, quick, and get into your clothes! They’re all but upon us—I heard the guns!” Her gown was twisted, her hair not combed and she wore no stockings; she grabbed Amber’s hand and started to pull her away.

The two women walked out into the crowded noisy confused hall-way, and Amber had almost to shout to make herself heard. “I’m not going, Nan. But you can if you want to—I just asked—”

Nan gasped. As far as she was concerned the French army was disembarking at that moment and the Dutch navy lay anchored in the Pool. “Oh, mam! You can’t! You can’t stay here! They’ll put everyone they see to the sword! They’ll rip up your belly and gouge out your eyes and—”

“Holy Mother of God! Isn’t this the most horrifying thing that ever happened?” It was Lady Stanhope, now dressed—though obviously with much haste—followed by two women servants loaded down with bulging sacks and boxes. “I’m leaving for Ridgeway this instant! I knew I should never have left the country! This terrible city—something always happening to it! Where’s Gerry?”

“I don’t know. Go ahead, Nan—Lady Almsbury’s leaving in a few minutes.” She turned back to her mother-in-law. “I haven’t seen him lately.”

“You haven’t seen him! But my God! Where is he then? He told me he spent every night with you!” Suddenly her eyes grew bright and hard and she narrowed them to give Amber a close shrewd look. “And by the way—wasn’t Lord Carlton coming out of your apartments just now?”

Amber turned impatiently away and started down the hall toward her own rooms. “What if he was?”

Lady Stanhope took a few moments to recover from that and then she came after Amber, panting at her heels, jabbering in her ear. “Do you mean to tell me, you brazen creature, that his Lordship was alone with you in there—at an hour when no honest woman should be alone with any man but her husband? Do you mean to tell me you’ve cuckolded my Gerry? Answer me, huswife!” She grabbed Amber by the arm and jerked her around.

Amber stopped perfectly still for just an instant and then suddenly she whirled and faced Lucilla. “Take your hands off me, you overgrown jade! Yes, I was with Lord Carlton and I don’t give a damn who knows it! You’d have been with him yourself if he’d given you so much as a sideways glance! Go find your blasted Gerry now and leave me alone—”

“Why! you impertinent strumpet! Wait until Gerry hears about this! Wait until I tell him what you—”

But Amber had walked away so swiftly that she left her bewildered and sputtering in the middle of the hall. For a moment the Dowager Baroness hesitated, as though she could not decide whether it was more important to follow her daughter-in-law and give her the tongue-lashing she deserved, or to set out for the country and save herself. “Well—I’ll take a course with her later!” She glared after Amber’s hurrying figure, muttered, “Slut!” and then summoning her two women rushed off down the stairs.

Amber, with a cloak thrown over her dressing-gown, went down into the courtyard to see them off. Both Emily and Nan begged her again to come with them but she refused, insisting that she would be perfectly safe there. She was, in fact, no longer afraid—for the excitement of the drums, of horses pounding by along the streets, screams and cries and churchbells ringing, had roused a reckless energy in her.

The children were together in one coach, with two of their nurses, and even Susanna was beginning to think that it was a frolic of some kind. Amber kissed both of them. “Take care of your sister, Bruce. Don’t let her be frightened or lonely.” Susanna began to cry again when she found that her mother was not going along, and she was standing on the seat with her hands plastered to the window when the great carriage rolled out of the yard. Amber waved them goodbye and went back into the house; she had a great deal to do.

She did not sleep at all the rest of the night, but stayed up to oversee the removal of the Earl’s valuables down into the strong-room. His gold and silver plate, the pewter service which Charles I had presented to his father when the old Earl had melted down his plate to make a war contribution, their jewellery and her own, all went into the stone crypt in the cellar. When that was done she got dressed, swallowed a cup of hot chocolate, and set out before six for Shadrac Newbold’s house in Lombard Street where he and many other goldsmiths had removed since the Fire.

It was a long ride from the Strand through the ruined City. Scaffolding was everywhere but many houses had been completed; a few streets, solidly rebuilt, stood perfectly empty. There were cellars still smoking and the smell of dew-wet charcoal was strong in the air. A soil had formed upon the ashes and it was covered with a small, bright-yellow flower, London rocket, which showed cheerily through the gruel-thick fog that hung almost to the ground.

Amber, tired and worried, sat gloomily in the rocking coach. She felt sick at her stomach and her head spun wearily. As they approached Newbold’s house she saw a queue of coaches and of men and women which reached around the corner into Abchurch Lane. Exasperated, she leaned forward and rapped her fan against the wall of the coach, shouting at John Waterman.

“Drive down St. Nicholas Lane and stop!”

There she got out and with Big John and two footmen, walked through a little alley which led to the back entrance of his house. It was fenced in and they found the gate guarded by two sentries with crossed muskets.

“My Lady Danforth to see your master,” said one of the footmen.

“I’m very sorry, your Ladyship. We have orders to admit no one at all by this gate.”

“Let me by,” said Amber shortly, “or I’ll have both your noses slit!”

Intimidated either by her threat or by Big John’s towering bulk they let her go in. A servant went to call Shadrac Newbold, who soon appeared, looking as tired as she felt. He bowed to her, politely.

“I took the liberty of coming in by your back entrance. I’ve been up all night and I couldn’t wait in that line.”

“Certainly, madame. Won’t you come into my office?”

With exhausted relief she dropped into the chair he offered her. The rims of her eyelids felt raw and her legs ached. She gave a sigh and leaned her head against her hand, as though unable to hold it up herself. He poured a glass of wine, which she accepted gratefully; it gave her at least a temporary sense of spurious vitality.

“Ah, madame,” murmured Newbold. “This is a sad day for England.”

“I’ve come for my money. I want all of it—now.”

He gave her a mournful little smile, turning his spectacles thoughtfully in his hand. Finally he sighed. “So do they, madame.” He gestured toward the window through which she could see a part of the waiting queue. “Every one of them. Some have twenty pound deposited with me—some, like you, have a great deal more. In a few minutes I must begin to let them in. I’ve got to tell them all what I tell you—I can’t give it to you.”

“What!” cried Amber, the shock jerking her out of her tiredness. “Do you mean to say—” She was starting to get up from her chair.

“Just one moment, madame, please. Nothing has happened to your money. It is quite safe. But don’t you see, if I and every other goldsmith in London were to try to give back every shilling which has been deposited with us—” He gave a helpless little gesture. “It is impossible, madame, you know that. Your money is safe, but it is not in my possession, but for a small sum. The rest is out at interest, invested in property and in stocks and in the other ventures of which you know. I do not keep your money lying idle, and neither have I kept the money of my other depositors lying idle. That is why we can’t return it to all of you all at once. Give me twenty days—and if you want it then I can have it for you. But we must all ask for that twenty days of grace to bring the money into our possession again. Even that will create a condition of financial anarchy which may upset the entire nation.”

“The entire nation’s upset as it is. Nothing worse than invasion can happen to us. Well—I understand you, Mr. Newbold. You took care of my money during the Plague and the Fire and no doubt you can take care of it as well as I can now... .”

Amber went back home, spent four hours trying to sleep, ate her dinner and then set out for the Palace. Along the Strand went a parade of carts and coaches full of refugees hurrying out of town once more to the comparative safety of the country. In the courts and passages of Whitehall there stood more loaded carts. Everywhere people gathered together, listening for the guns, gabbling of nothing but invasion and of trying to get their money, of hiding their belongings and of making out their wills. Several of the courtiers had been among those volunteers who had gone with Albemarle to Chatham or with Prince Rupert to Woolwich, and upon those few hundred men rested all the hope of England.

Amber was stopped every few feet by some excited courtier or lady who asked her what she was going to do and then without waiting for her answer started to tell his or her own troubles. Everyone was gloomy, acknowledging frankly that all fortifications were decayed, unarmed and unmanned, and that the country lay helpless before the invaders. They were angry with the goldsmiths because they would not return their money and swore never to do business with them again. Some of them intended to go to Bristol or another port and sail for America or the Continent. If England was a sinking vessel they did not intend to go down with her.

The Queen’s apartments were hot and crowded and full of shrill noisy voices. Catherine was fanning herself and trying to look composed, but the quick, darting anxious movements of her black eyes betrayed her own worry and uncertainty. Amber went up to speak to. her.

“What’s the news, your Majesty? Have they come any nearer?”

“They say that the French are in Mounts Bay.”

“But they won’t come here, will they? They wouldn’t dare!”

Catherine smiled faintly and shrugged her shoulders. “We didn’t think that they would dare do this much. Most of the ladies are going out of town, madame. You should go too. I’m afraid the sad truth is we didn’t expect this and we’re not prepared.”

Just then they heard the loud clear voice of Lady Castlemaine, standing only a few feet away talking to Lady Southesk and Bab May. “Someone’s going to smoke for this, you may be sure! The people are in a tearing rage! They’ve been chopping down Clarendon’s trees and breaking his windows and they’ve writ their sentiments plain enough on his gate. They’ve got a sign there that says, ‘Three sights to be seen: Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren Queen!’ ”

Lady Southesk gave her a warning jab and Barbara glanced around, puffed out her cheeks as though in horrified surprise and pressed one hand to her mouth. But the glitter in her eyes said plainly that she had intended to be overheard. While Catherine stared, Barbara gave a careless shrug and signalled to Bab May. They left the room together.

Damn that hard-hearted bitch! thought Amber. I’d like to jerk her bald-headed!

“And a barren Queen,” whispered Catherine, her tiny hands clasping her fan until they trembled. “How they hate me for that!” Suddenly her eyes came up and she looked Amber straight in the face. “How I hate myself!”

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 that rumour, like a hundred others, proved false.

Drums beat all through that night, calling up the train-bands. 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 the 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 over 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 gang-plank 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 goodbye 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 blonde 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 cortege, 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 as 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 palace 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.”

He had not yet finished his meal when the King’s officers arrived—he had sent an earlier messenger than the little boy, whom he had merely used as a dramatic device to arouse their interest and sympathies. Two of them entered the room, out of breath and excited, obviously very much surprised to find his Grace actually sitting there, eating and drinking and talking. They approached to place him under arrest, but he gave them a negligent wave of his hand.

“Give me leave to finish my dinner, sirs. I’ll be with you presently.”

Their eyes consulted one another, dubiously, but after hesitating a moment they backed off and stood meekly waiting. When he was done he wiped his mouth, washed off his fork and put the case back into his pocket, shoved aside his pewter-plate and got up. “Well, gentlemen, I go now—to surrender myself.”

“God go with your Grace!”

As he started for the door the two officers sprang forward and would have taken his arms, but he motioned them aside. “I can walk unassisted, sirs.” Crestfallen, they trailed after him.

There was an explosion of shouts and cheers as Buckingham appeared in the doorway, grinning broadly and raising one hand to them in greeting. The crowd in the street had now grown to monstrous size. It was packed from wall to wall and for a distance of several hundred yards in both directions all traffic had come to a standstill. Coaches were stalled, porters and car-men and sedan-chair carriers waited with more patience than usual; all nearby windows and balconies were full. This man, accused of treason against King and country, had become the nation’s hero: because he was out of favour at Court he was the one courtier they did not blame for all their recent and present troubles.

There was a coach waiting for him at the door and Buckingham climbed into it. It was but little over half-a-mile to the Tower and all along the way he was greeted with clamorous shouts and cries. Hands reached out to touch his coach; little boys ran in his wake; girls flung flowers before him. The King himself had not been greeted more enthusiastically when he had returned to London seven years before.

“Don’t worry yourselves, good people!” shouted Buckingham. “I’ll be out in a trice!”

But at Court they thought otherwise and in the Groom Porter’s lodgings they were betting great odds that the Duke would lose his head. The King had stripped him of his offices and bestowed most of them elsewhere. His enemies, and they were numerous and powerful, had been unceasingly active. He had, however, at least one ardent supporter—his cousin, Castlemaine.

Just three days earlier Barbara and her woman Wilson had been driving along Edgware Road in the early evening, returning from Hyde Park. All at once a lame tattered old beggar appeared from some hiding-place and dragged himself before the coach, forcing it to stop. The coachman, swearing furiously, leaned down to strike him with his whip but before he could do so the beggar had reached the open window and was hanging onto the door, holding a dirty palm toward the Countess.

“Please, your Ladyship,” he whined. “Give alms to the poor!”

“Get out of here, you stinking wretch!” cried Barbara. “Throw him a shilling, Wilson!”

The beggar hung on stubbornly, though the coach had started to move again. “Your Ladyship seems mighty stingy for one who wears thirty thousand pound in pearls to a play-house.”

Barbara glared at him swiftly, her eyes darkened to purple. “How dare you speak to me thus? I’ll have you kicked and beaten!” She gave his wrist a sudden hard rap with her fan. “Get off there, you rogue!” She opened her mouth and let out a furious yell. “Harvey! Harvey, stop this coach, d’ye hear!”

The coachman hauled at his reins and as the wheels were slowing the beggar gave her a grin, displaying two rows of beautiful teeth. “Never mind, my lady. Keep your shilling. Here—I’ll give you something, instead.” He tossed a folded paper into her lap. “Read it, as you value your life.” And then, as the coach stopped and the footmen ran to grab him he dodged swiftly, no longer limping, and was gone. He turned once to thumb his nose at them.

Barbara watched him running away, glanced at the paper in her lap and then suddenly unfolded it and began to read. “Pox on this life I’m leading,” she whispered. “Expect me in two or three days. And see that you do your part. B.” She gave a gasp and a little cry and leaned forward, but he was gone.

Barbara was scared. She had heard the rumours too—his Majesty’s patience was at an end and this time Buckingham must suffer for his treacherous impertinence. Exile was the easiest punishment they saw for him. And she knew her cousin’s malice well enough to realize that if he went down he would drag her with him. Every time she saw Charles she begged him, frantically, to believe that the Duke was innocent, that it was a plot of his enemies to ruin him. But he paid her scant attention, merely asking her with lazy amusement why she should be so concerned for a man who had done her very little good and some harm.

“He’s my cousin, that’s why! I can’t see him abused by scoundrels!”

“I think the Duke can hold his own with any scoundrel that ever wore a head. Don’t trouble yourself for him.”

“Then you will hear him out and forgive him?”

“I’ll hear him out, but what will happen after that I can’t say. I’d like to see how well he can defend himself—and I don’t doubt he’ll entertain us with some very ingenious tale.”

“How can he defend himself? What chance has he got? Every man in your council wants to see him lose his head!”

“And I doubt not he has similar hopes for them.”

The hearing was set for the next day and Barbara was determined to get some kind of promise from him, though she knew that the King regarded promises much as he did women—it should not be too much trouble to keep them. As usual, she sought to gain her ends by the means to which he was least amenable.

“But Buckingham’s innocent, Sire, I know he is! Oh, don’t let them trick you! Don’t let them force you to prosecute him!”

Charles looked at her sharply. He had never, in his life, done anything he actually did not want to do, though he had done many things to which he was indifferent in order to buy his own peace or something else he wanted. But he had endured years of stubborn conflict with a domineering mother and hated the mere suggestion that he was easily led. Barbara knew that.

Now as he answered her his voice was hard and angry. “I don’t know what stake you have in this, madame, but I’ll warrant you it’s a big one. You’d never be so zealous in another person’s cause otherwise. But I’m heartily sick of listening to you. I’ll make my own decisions without the help of a meddlesome jade!”

They were walking along the south-east side of the Privy Garden, where it was flanked by a row of buildings containing apartments of several Court officials. The day was hot and still and many windows were open; several ladies and gentlemen strolled in other nearby walks or lounged on the grass. Nevertheless Barbara, growing angry, raised her voice.

“Meddlesome jade, am I? Very well, then—I’ll tell you what you are! You’re a fool! Yes, that’s what you are, a fool! Because if you weren’t you wouldn’t allow yourself to be ruled by fools!”

Heads turned, faces appeared at windows and then hastily retreated out of sight. All the Palace seemed suddenly to have grown quieter.

“Govern your tongue!” snapped Charles. He turned on his heel and walked off.

Barbara opened her mouth, her first impulse being to order him back—as she might once have done—and then she heard a snicker from somewhere nearby. Swiftly her eyes sought out the mocker, but all faces she met were veiled, innocently smiling. She swept her train about and started off in the opposite direction, rage swelling within her until she knew that she would burst if she did not break something or hurt someone. At that moment she came upon one of her pages, a ten-year-old boy, lying on the grass singing to himself.

“Get up, you lazy lout!” she cried. “What are you doing there!”

He looked at her in amazement, and then hastily scrambled to his feet. “Why, your Ladyship told me—”

“Don’t contradict me, you puppy!” She gave him a box on the ear, and when he began to cry she slapped him again. She felt better, but she was no nearer the solution of her problem.

The council-room was a long narrow chamber, panelled in dark wood and hung with several large gold-framed paintings. There was an empty fireplace at one end, flanked by tall mullioned windows. An oak table extended down the center and surrounding it were several chairs, high-backed and elaborately carved, with turned legs and dark red-velvet cushions. Until the councillors came it looked like a suitable place to do state business.

Chancellor Clarendon arrived first. His gout was bad that day and he had had to leave his bed to attend the trial, but he would not have missed it had his condition been a great deal worse. At the door-way he got out of his wheel-chair and hobbled painfully into the room. Immediately he began to sort over a stack of papers one of his secretaries laid before him, frowning and preoccupied. He took no notice of those who came next.

After a few moments Charles strolled in with York at his side and several busy little spaniels scurrying about his feet. One of them he held in his arms, and as he paused to speak for a moment with Sir William Coventry his hand stroked along the dog’s silken ears; it turned its head to lick at him. The dogs were not affectionate but they seemed to know and love their master, though the courtiers were often bitten for trying to strike up a friendship with them.

Presently Lauderdale, the giant Scotsman, arrived and stopped to tell Charles a funny story he had heard the previous night. He was a very inept raconteur, but Charles’s deep laugh boomed out, amused more by the Earl’s crude eccentricities than by what he was saying. York, however, regarded him with contemptuous dislike. Now he went to sit beside the Chancellor. Instantly they were engaged in earnest low-toned conversation. No two men there today had so much at stake; Buckingham had been an active and dangerous foe of both for many years. The enmity far predated the Restoration, but had become even more virulent since.

If there was one man in England who hated and feared Buckingham more than either York or Chancellor Clarendon it was the Secretary of State, Baron Arlington. They had been friends when Arlington had first arrived at Court, six years before, but conflicting ambitions had since separated them until now each found it difficult to show the other the merest civility.

At last Baron Arlington paced majestically into the council-chamber—he never merely walked into any room.

Several years in Spain had given him an admiration for things Spanish and he assumed an exaggerated Castilian pomposity and arrogance. He wore a blonde wig, his eyes were pale and prominent, almost fish-like, and over the bridge of his nose was a crescent-shaped black plaster which had once been put there to cover a sabre wound and which he had kept because it gave his face a kind of sinister dignity he thought becoming. Charles had always liked him, though York, of course, did not. Now he paused, took a bottle and a spoon from one pocket and into the spoon poured several drops of ground-ivy juice. Placing the spoon to his nose he snuffed hard several times until most of the juice was gone; then he wiped at his nose with a handkerchief and put bottle and spoon away. His Lordship suffered from habitual headache, and that was his treatment for it. The headache was worse than usual today.

Charles sat at the head of the table, facing the door, his back to the fireplace. He lounged in his chair, a pair of spaniels in his lap—a lazy good-humoured man who slept well and had no trouble with his digestion so that he looked tolerantly upon the world and was inclined to be merely amused by many things which infuriated less tranquil men. His fits of anger were brief and he had long since lost interest in punishing the Duke. He knew Buckingham for exactly what he was, had no more illusions about him than he had about anyone else, but he also knew that the Duke’s own frivolity of temperament kept him from being truly dangerous. The trial was necessary because of wide-spread public interest in the case, but Charles no longer wanted vengeance. He would be satisfied if the Duke gave them an entertaining performance that afternoon.

At a signal from the King the door was flung open and there stood his Grace, George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham—dressed as magnificently as though he had been going to be married, or hanged. His handsome face wore an expression which somehow mingled both hauteur and pleasant civility. For a moment he stood there. Then, erect as a guardsman, he crossed the floor and knelt at the King’s feet. Charles nodded his head, but did not give him his hand to kiss.

The others stared hard at him, trying to see into the heart of the man. Was he worried, or was he confident? Did he expect to die, or to be forgiven? But Buckingham’s face did not betray him.

Arlington, who was chief prosecutor, got to his feet and began to read the charges against the Duke. They were many and serious: Being in cabal with the Commons. Opposing the King in the Lower House. Advising both the Commons and the Lords against the King’s interests. Trying to become popular. And finally, the crime for which they hoped to have his blood—treason against King and State, the casting of his Majesty’s horoscope. The incriminating paper was shown the Duke, held up at a safe distance for him to see.

Among these men Buckingham had just two friends, Lauderdale and Ashley, and though the others intended at first to conduct the investigation with dignity and decorum that resolution was soon gone. In their excitement several of them talked at once, they began to shout and to interrupt one another and him. But Buckingham kept his temper, which was notoriously short, and replied with polite submissiveness to every question or accusation. The only man for whom he showed less than respect was his one-time friend, Arlington, and to him he was openly insolent.

When they accused him of trying to make himself popular he looked the Baron straight in the eye: “Whoever is committed to prison by my Lord Chancellor and my Lord Arlington cannot help becoming popular.”

He had a glib answer for the charge of treason. “I do not deny, gentlemen, that that piece of paper is a horoscope. Neither do I deny that you got it from Dr. Heydon, who cast it. But I do deny that it was I who commissioned it or that it concerns his Majesty’s future.”

A murmur rushed round the table. What was the rascal saying? How dare he stand there and lie like that! Charles smiled, very faintly, but as the Duke shot him a hasty glance the smile vanished; his swarthy face set in stern lines again.

“Would your Grace be so good, then, as to tell us who did commission the horoscope?” asked Arlington sarcastically. “Or is that your Grace’s secret?”

“It’s no secret at all. If it will make matters more clear to you gentlemen I am glad to tell you. My sister had the horoscope cast.” This seemed to astonish everyone but the King, who merely lifted one quizzical eyebrow and continued to stroke his dog’s head.

“Your sister had the horoscope cast?” repeated Arlington, with an inflection which said plainly he considered the statement a bald lie. Then, suddenly, “Whose is it?”

Buckingham bowed, contemptuously. “That is my sister’s secret. You must ask her. She has not confided in me.”

His Grace was sent back to the Tower where he was as much visited as a new actress or the reigning courtesan. Charles pretended to examine the papers again and agreed that the signature on them was that of Mary Villiers. This brought furious and impassioned protest from both Arlington and Clarendon, neither of whom was willing to give up the fight for the Duke’s life or, at the very least, his prestige and fortune. He was caught this time, trapped like a stupid woodcock, but if he got away this once they might never have the like opportunity again.

Charles listened to both of them with his usual courteous attention. “I know very well, Chancellor,” he said one day when he had gone to visit the old man in his lodgings at Whitehall, “that I could pursue this charge of treason. But I’ve found a man’s often more use with his head on.” He was seated in a chair beside the couch on which Clarendon lay, for his gout now kept him bed-ridden much of the time.

“What use can he be to you, Sire? To run loose and hatch more plots—one of which may take, and cost your Majesty your life?”

Charles smiled. “I’m not in much awe of Buckingham’s plots. His tongue is hung too loose for him to be any great danger to anyone but himself. Before he could half get a plot under way he’d have made the fatal mistake of letting someone else into the secret. No, Chancellor. His Grace has gone to considerable pains to insinuate himself with the Commons, and there’s no doubt he has a good deal of interest with them. I think he’ll be more use to me this way—chopping off his head would only make a martyr of him.”

Clarendon was angry and worried, though he tried to conceal his feelings. He had never reconciled himself to the King’s stubborn habit of deciding, when the issue interested him, for himself.

“Your Majesty has a nature too fond and too forgiving. If you did not personally like his Grace this would never be allowed to pass.”

“Perhaps, Chancellor, it’s true as you say that I’m too forgiving—” He shrugged his shoulders and got up, gesturing with his hand for Clarendon to stay where he was. “But I don’t think so.”

For an instant Charles’s black eyes rested seriously on the Chancellor. At last he smiled faintly, gave a nod of his head and walked out of the room. Clarendon stared after him with a worried frown. As the King disappeared his eyes shifted and he sat looking at his bandaged foot. The King, he knew, was his only protection against a horde of jealous enemies, of whom Buckingham was merely one of the loudest and most spectacular. Should Charles withdraw his support Clarendon knew that he could not last a fortnight.

Perhaps I’m too forgiving—but I don’t think so.

Suddenly there began to go through the old Chancellor’s mind a parade of those things he had done which had offended Charles: Clarendon had never admitted it but many insisted and no doubt Charles believed that Parliament would have voted him a greater income at the Restoration, but for his opposition. Charles had been furious when he had prevented the passage of his act for religious toleration. There had been the arguments over Lady Castlemaine’s title, which had finally been passed through the Irish peerage because he refused to sign it. There were a hundred other instances, great and small, accumulated over the years.

Perhaps I am too forgiving—Clarendon knew what he had meant by that. Charles forgot nothing and, in the long run, he forgave nothing.

Less than three weeks from the time that Buckingham was sent to the Tower he was released and he appeared once more, arrogant as ever, in all his old haunts. At one of Castlemaine’s suppers the King allowed him to kiss his hand. He began to frequent the taverns again and in a few days he was at the theatre with Rochester and several others. They took one of the fore-boxes and hung over the edge of it, talking to the vizard-masks below and complaining noisily because Nell Gwynne had left the stage to be Lord Buckhurst’s mistress.

Harry Killigrew, who was in an adjoining box, presently began to comment audibly on the Duke’s affairs to a young man who sat beside him: “I have it on the best authority that his Grace will never be reinstated.”

Buckingham gave him a glance of displeasure and turned again to watch the stage, but Harry’s mischievous zeal was merely whetted. He took out his pocket-comb and began grooming his wig. “ ’Sdeath,” he drawled, “but I was somewhat surprised his Grace should be content to take over the cast-off whore of half the men at Court.” Some time since he had been a lover of the languid dangerous sensual Countess of Shrewsbury, and now that she was the Duke’s mistress he babbled incessantly about the affair.

Buckingham scowled angrily at him. “Govern your tongue, you young whelp. I will not hear my Lady Shrewsbury maligned —particularly I hate the sound of her name in a mouth so foul as your own!”

The vizard-masks and beaus in the pit had begun to look up at them, for in the small confines of the theatre their voices carried and it sounded like a quarrel. Ladies and gentlemen in nearby boxes craned their necks, smiling a little in anticipation, and some of the actors were paying more attention to Killigrew and the Duke than to their own business.

Feeling all eyes begin to focus upon him, Harry grew bolder. “Your Grace is strangely fastidious concerning a lady who’s turned her tail to most of your acquaintance.”

Buckingham half rose, and then sat down again. “You impertinent knave—I’ll have you soundly beaten for this!”

Killigrew was indignant. “I’ll have your Grace to understand that I’m no mean fellow to be beaten by lackeys! I’m as worthy of your Grace’s sword as the next man!” It was a fine point of honour. And so saying he left the box, summoning his friend to go with him. “Tell his Grace I’ll meet him behind Montagu House in half an hour.”

The young man refused and began hauling at Harry’s sleeve, trying to reason with him. “Don’t be a fool, Harry! His Grace has been troubling no one! You’re drunk—come on, let’s leave.”

“Pox on you, then!” declared Killigrew. “If you’re an arrant coward, I’m not!”

With that he unbuckled his sword, lifted it high and brought it smashing down, case and all, upon the Duke’s head. He turned instantly and began to run as Buckingham sprang to his feet in white-faced fury and started after him. The two men scrambled along, climbing over seats, hitting off hats, stepping on feet. Women began to scream; the actors on the stage were shouting; and above in the balconies ’prentices and bullies and harlots crowded to the railing, stamping and beating their cudgels.

“Kill ’im, your Grace!”

“Whip ’im through the lungs!”

“Slit the bastard’s nose!”

Someone threw an orange and it smacked Killigrew square in the face. An excited woman grabbed at Buckingham’s wig and pulled it off. Killigrew was heading at furious speed for an exit, looking back with a horrified face to see the Duke gaining on him. Now Buckingham pulled out his naked sword, bellowing, “Stop, you coward!”

Killigrew sent men and women sprawling to the floor in his headlong flight and the Duke, following after, tramped across them. He might have escaped but someone stuck out an ankle to trip him. The next moment Buckingham was upon him and gave him a hearty kick in the ribs with his square-toed shoe.

“Get on your feet and fight, you poltroon!” roared the Duke.

“Please, your Grace! It was all in jest!”

Killigrew writhed about, trying to escape the Duke’s feet, which kicked viciously at him again and again, striking him in the stomach and the chest and about the shins. The theatre roared with excitement, urging him to trample out his guts, to slice his throat. Now Buckingham leaned over, wrenched Harry’s sword away and spat into his face.

“Bah! You snivelling coward, you don’t deserve to wear a sword!” He kicked him again and Killigrew coughed, doubling over. “Get on your knees and ask me for your life—or by God I’ll kill you like the yellow dog you are!”

Harry crawled to his knees. “Good your Grace,” he whined obediently, “spare my life.”

“Keep it then,” muttered Buckingham contemptuously. “If you think it’s any use to you!” and he kicked him again for good measure.

Harry got painfully to his feet and started out, limping, one hand pressed against his aching ribs. He was followed by derisive hoots and jeers as the scornful crowd hurled oranges and wooden cudgels, shoes and apple-cores after him. Harry Killigrew was the most disgraced man of the year.

Buckingham watched him go. Then someone handed him his wig and he took it, slapped the dust out and set it back on his head again. With Harry gone their cries of abuse changed to cheers for his Grace, and Buckingham, smiling and bowing politely, made his way back to his seat. He sat down between Rochester and Etherege, sweating and hot, but pleased in his triumph.

“By God, that’s a piece of business I’ve been intending to do for a long while!”

Rochester gave him an affectionate slap on the back. “His Majesty should be grateful enough to forgive you anything. There’s no man who wears a head needed a public beating so bad as Harry.”

CHAPTER FIFTY–THREE

LORD CARLTON HAD not been gone a month when Amber was appointed a Lady of the Bedchamber and moved into apartments at Whitehall. The suite consisted of twelve rooms, six on a floor, strung out straight along the river front and adjoining the King’s apartments, to which it had access by means of a narrow passage and staircase opening from an alcove in the drawing-room. Many such trap-stairs and passageways had been constructed during Mrs. Cromwell’s stay there, for her ease in spying upon her servants—the King often found them useful too.

And will you look at me now! thought Amber, as she surveyed her new surroundings. What a long way I’ve come!

Sometimes she wondered in idle amusement what Aunt Sarah and Uncle Matt and all her seven cousins would think if they could see her—titled, rich, with a coach-and-eight, satin and velvet gowns by the score, a collection of emeralds to rival Castlemaine’s pearls, bowed to by lords and earls as she passed along the Palace corridors. This, she knew, was to be truly great. But she thought she knew also what Uncle Matt, at least, would think about it. He would say that she was a harlot and a disgrace to the family. But then, Uncle Matt always had been an old dunderhead.

Amber hoped at first that she was rid of both her husband and her mother-in-law, but it was not long after the signing of the peace treaty that Lucilla returned to London, dragging Gerald in her wake. He paid a formal call upon Amber while she was still at Almsbury House, asked her politely how she did, and after a few minutes took his leave. His encounter with Bruce Carlton had scared him enough; he had no wish to interfere with the King. For he knew by now why Charles had created him an earl and married him to a rich woman. If he was humiliated he saw no solution but pretended nonchalance, no remedy but to employ himself in a course of dissipations. He was content to pursue his own life and leave her alone.

But his mother was not. She came to visit Amber the day after she had moved into Whitehall.

Amber waved her into a chair and went on with what she had been doing—directing some workmen in the hanging of her pictures and mirrors. She knew that Lucilla was watching her with a most critical eye on her figure—for she was now in the eighth month of her pregnancy. But she paid little attention to the woman’s chatter and merely nodded occasionally or made some absent-minded remark.

“Lord,” said Lucilla, “to see how captious the world has grown! Everyone, absolutely everyone, my dear, is under suspicion nowadays, don’t you agree? Gossip, gossip, gossip. One hears it on every hand!”

“Um,” said Amber. “Oh, yes, of course. I think we’d better hang this one here, just beside the window. It needs to catch the light from that side—” She had already had several things sent down from Lime Park and she remembered what she had learned from Radclyffe about the most effective place for each.

“Of course Gerry doesn’t believe a word of it.” Amber paid no attention at all to that and she repeated, louder this time, “Of course Gerry doesn’t believe a word of it!”

“What?” said Amber, glancing around over her shoulder. “A word of what? No—a little to the left. Now, down a bit—There, that’s fine. What were you saying, madame?”

“I said, my dear, that Gerry thinks it’s all a horrid lie, and he says he’ll challenge the rascal who started it if once he can catch him.”

“By all means,” agreed Amber, standing back and squinting one eye to see that the painting was where she wanted it. “A gentleman’s nothing here at Whitehall till he’s had his clap and writ his play and killed his man... . Yes, that’s right. When you’re done with that you can go.”

Convinced by now that she would never get rid of Lucilla until she had heard her out, she went to sit down in a chair and scooped up Monsieur le Chien to lay him across her lap. She had been on her feet for several hours and was tired. She wanted to be let alone. But now her mother-in-law leaned forward with the hot-eyed, excited eagerness of a woman, who had unsavoury gossip to tell.

“You’re rather young, my dear,” said Lucilla, “and perhaps you don’t understand the way of the world so well as a more experienced woman. But to tell you the truth on it, there’s a deal of unpleasant talk regarding your appointment at Court.”

Amber was amused and one corner of her mouth curled slightly. “I didn’t think there’d ever yet been an appointment at Court that didn’t cause a deal of unpleasant talk.”

“But this, of course, is different. They’re saying—Well, I may as well speak frankly. They’re saying that you’re more in his Majesty’s favour than a decent woman should be. They’re saying, madame, that that’s the King’s child you’re carrying!” She watched Amber with hard unforgiving eyes, as though she expected her to blush and falter, protest and weep.

“Well,” said Amber, “since Gerald doesn’t believe it, why concern yourself?”

“Why concern myself? Good God, madame, you shock me! Is that the kind of talk you’re willing to have go on about you? I’m sure no decent woman would have such things said about her!” She was growing breathless. “And I don’t believe that you would either, madame, if you were a decent woman! But I don’t think you are—I think it’s true! I think you were with child by his Majesty and knew it when you married my son! Do you know what you’ve done, madame? You’ve made my good honest boy appear a fool in the eyes of the world—you’ve spoiled the honourable name of the Stanhopes—you’ve—”

“You have a great deal to say about my morals, madame,” snapped Amber, “but you seem willing enough to live on my money!”

Lady Stanhope gave a horrified gasp. “Your money! Good Heavens! what is the world coming to! When a woman marries, her money belongs to her husband! Even you must know that! Live on your money! I’ll have you to know, madame, I scorn the mere thought of it!”

Amber spoke sharply, through her teeth. “Then stop doing it!”

Lady Stanhope jumped to her feet. “Why, you hussy! I’ll bring a suit against you for this! We’ll find out whose money it is, I warrant you!”

Amber got up, dropping the dog onto the floor where he stretched and yawned lazily, putting out his long pink tongue. “If you do you’re a greater fool than I think. The marriage-contract gives me control of all my money. Now get out of here and don’t trouble me again—or I’ll make you sorry for it!” She gave a furious wave of her arm and as Lady Stanhope hesitated, glaring, Amber grabbed up a vase and lifted her hand to throw it. The Dowager Baroness picked up her skirts and went out on the run. But Amber did not enjoy her triumph. Slamming away the vase she collapsed into a chair and began to cry, overwhelmed with the dark reasonless morbidity of her pregnancy.

It was Dr. Fraser who delivered Amber’s son, for many of the Court ladies were beginning to employ doctors rather than midwives—though elsewhere the practice was regarded as merely one more evidence of aristocratic decadence. The child was born at three o’clock one hot stormy October morning; he was a long thin baby with splotched red skin and a black fuzz on top of his head.

A few hours later Charles came in softly and alone to see this latest addition to his numerous family. He bent over the elaborate carved and inlaid cradle placed just beside Amber’s bed and very carefully turned back the white satin coverlet which hung to the floor. A slow smile came onto his mouth.

“Ods-fish!” he whispered. “I swear the little devil looks like me.”

Amber, pale and weak and looking as if all the strength had been drained out of her, lay flat on her back and smiled up at him. “Didn’t you expect him to, Charles?”

He gave her a grin. “Of course I did, my dear.” He took the baby’s tiny fist which had closed firmly over his fingers and touched it to his mouth. “But I’m an ugly fellow for a helpless infant to take after.” He turned to her. “I hope you’re feeling well. I saw the doctor just a few minutes since and he said you had an easy labour.”

“Easy for him,” said Amber, who wanted credit and sympathy for having suffered more than she had. “But I suppose I’m well enough.”

“Of course you are, my dear. Two weeks from now you won’t know you ever had a baby.” He kissed her then and went off so that she might rest. A few hours later Gerald arrived, and woke her up.

Though obviously embarrassed, he came swaggering into the room dressed in a suit of pale-yellow satin with a hundred yards of ribbon looped about his sleeves and breeches, and reeking of orange-flower water. From his silver sword to his lace cravat, from his feather-burdened hat to his richly embroidered gloves he was the perfect picture of a fop, a beau gallant, reared in England, polished in France, inhabiting the Royal Exchange and Chatelin’s ordinary, the tiring-rooms of the theatres and Covent Garden. His prototype was to be seen a dozen times by anyone who cared to stroll along Drury Lane or Pall Mall or any other fashionable thoroughfare in London.

He kissed Amber, as any casual caller might have done, and said brightly, “Well, madame! You’re looking mighty spruce for a lady who’s just laid in! Eh bien, where is he—this new sprig of the house of Stanhope?”

Nan had gone downstairs to the nursery to get him and now she returned bearing the baby on a cushion with his long embroidered gown trailing halfway to the floor. Swaddling was no longer the fashion at Court and this child would never be bound up like a mummy until he could scarcely wriggle.

“There!” said Nan, almost defiantly, but she held him herself and did not offer him to Gerald. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Gerald leaned forward to examine him but kept his hands behind his back; he looked puzzled and uneasy, at a loss for the appropriate comment. “Well! Hello there, young sir! Hmmm—Mort Dieu! but he has a red face, hasn’t he!”

“Well!” snapped Nan. “I’ll warrant you did too!”

Gerald jumped nervously. He was almost as much in awe of Nan as of his wife or mother. “Oh, heavens! I meant no offense, let me perish! He’s—oh, indeed, he’s really very handsome! Why, yes—he looks like his mother, let me perish!” The baby opened his mouth and began to squall; Amber gave a wave of her hand and Nan hurried him from the room. Left alone with her, Gerald began to fidget. He took out his snuffbox, the last word in affectation among the fops, and applied a pinch to each nostril. “Well, madame, no doubt you wish to rest. I’ll trouble you no longer. The truth on it is, I’m engaged to go to the play with some gentlemen of my acquaintance.”

“By all means, my lord. Go along. Thanks for waiting on me.”

“Oh, not at all, madame, I protest. Thank you for admitting me. Your servant, madame.” He kissed her again, a frightened hasty peck at the tip of her nose, bowed, and started for the door. As at a sudden afterthought he paused and looked around over one shoulder. “Oh, by the way, madame, what d’ye think we shall name him?”

Amber smiled. “Charles, if it pleases your Lordship.”

“Charles? Oh! Yes—mais oui! Of course! Charles—” He left hastily and just as he went out the door she saw him whip a handkerchief from his pocket and apply it to his forehead.

Amber’s up-sitting was a triumphant occasion.

Her rooms were crowded to capacity with the first lords and ladies of England. She served them wine and cakes and accepted their kisses and effusive compliments most graciously. They were forced to admit to one another that the child was undoubtedly a Stuart, but they also observed with malicious satisfaction that it was as ugly as the King had been when he was first born. Amber did not think he was pretty either; but perhaps he would improve in time, and anyway the important thing was that he looked like Charles. And when the baby was christened, Charles acted as godfather and presented her with a silver dinner-service, simple and beautiful, but also expensive enough; his son received the traditional gift of the twelve silver Apostle spoons.

As Amber recovered she began to consider how she might permanently rid herself of her troublesome mother-in-law.

Lucilla did not intend to return to the country, she was extravagant, and in spite of Amber’s warning she persisted in sending the tradesmen to her for payment. Amber put them off, for she had in mind a scheme which she hoped would compel the Baroness to meet her own obligations. She hoped to find a husband for her. Lucilla still talked a good deal of the strictness and formality which had been in vogue during her youth and professed to be very much shocked by the new manners, but nevertheless she had acquired some of those manners herself. No actress cut her gowns any lower; no Maid of Honour was more flirtatious; no vizard-mask plying her trade in the pit had her face more painted and patched. She was as gay and, she thought, as appealing as a kitten.

She did not care for men her own age but preferred the twenty-five-year-old sparks, merry young fellows who bragged of the maidenheads they had taken and considered it a piece of hilarious wit to break the watchman’s head when he tried to arrest them for disturbing the peace. To the Dowager Baroness they represented all the excitement and liveliness she had missed and since she felt herself no older than they she refused to believe the years had really changed her. But if she was not aware of the difference, they were, and they escaped her whenever they could to seek out a pretty young woman of fifteen or seventeen. The Baroness, in their estimation, was an old jade with no fortune to offset that handicap and they considered that she was making a fool of herself.

There was one of them in particular to whom she seemed most attracted. He was Sir Frederick Fothergill, a brash confident young fop who was seen everywhere it was fashionable to be seen and who did everything it was fashionable to do. He was tall, thin, effeminately handsome, but he was also an ardent duellist and had distinguished himself as a volunteer against the Dutch during the past two years.

Amber inquired into his circumstances and learned that he was the son of a man who had not profited by the Restoration—as most of the Royalists had not—and that he was deep in debt and constantly going deeper. He lived an expensive life, bought fine clothes and kept his coach, gambled without much luck and was often compelled to sneak out of his lodgings or to stay with friends to avoid the dunning of his creditors. Amber guessed that he would be glad to find so apparently simple a solution to his problems.

She sent for him one morning and he came to her apartments. She had dismissed the tradesmen but there were still several others in the room: Nan and half-a-dozen women servants, a dressmaker just gathering up her materials to leave, Tansy and the dog, and Susanna. Susanna stood with her plump elbows on Amber’s crossed knees, her great green eyes staring up solemnly at her mother who was explaining that young ladies should not snatch off the wigs of gentlemen. She had experimented once with the King’s periwig, found that it came off, and had since made a grab at every man who leaned close enough. Now, however, she nodded her head in docile agreement.

“And you won’t ever do that again, will you?” said Amber.

“Never again,” agreed Susanna.

Sir Frederick came in then, made her an elaborate bow from the doorway and another when he stood before her. “Your Ladyship’s servant,” he said soberly, but his eyes swept over her with familiarity and confidence.

Susanna curtsied to him and Sir Frederick bent very low to kiss her hand. Her eyes lighted on his wig, began to sparkle with mischief, and then she gave a quick guilty glance toward her mother whom she found watching her and waiting, with pursed lips and tapping foot. Instantly she put both hands behind her. Amber laughed, gave her daughter a kiss and sent her out of the room with her nurse. She watched her go, her eyes wistful and fond as they followed the dainty little figure in ankle-length crisp white gown and tiny apron, her mass of golden waves caught at one side with a green bow. She was very proud of Susanna who was, she felt sure, the loveliest little girl in England—and England, of course, was the world. The door closed and she turned back immediately to Sir Frederick, asking him to be seated.

Amber went to her dressing-table to finish painting her face. He sat beside her, very smug and pleased with himself to have been invited to her Ladyship’s levée—and in such privacy too, not another man around. He imagined that he knew quite well why she had asked him.

“Your Ladyship does me great honour,” he said, his eyes on her breasts. “I’ve had the greatest admiration for your Ladyship ever since the first day I saw you—in the forefront of the King’s box at the theatre some months ago. I vow and swear, madame, I could not keep my mind or eyes on the stage.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. As it happens I’ve been noticing you, too—in conversation with my mother-in-law—”

“Pshaw!” He screwed up his face and gave a brush of one hand. “She’s nothing to me, I assure you!”

“She speaks mighty well of you, sir. I could almost say I think she’s in love with you.”

“What? Ridiculous! Well, what if she is? That’s nothing to me, is it?”

“You haven’t taken advantage of her tenderness for you, I hope?”

She got up now and crossed the room to stand behind a screen while she dressed. And as she went she let her dressing-gown slide just a little, allowing him a glimpse of one taut full breast just before she disappeared; she still wanted the admiration of every man, however little he might be to her. But she slept with Charles—or alone.

It was a moment before Sir Frederick replied, and then he was emphatic. “Lord, no! I’ve never so much as asked her an indecent question. Though to tell your Ladyship truly I think that if I did I might not be disappointed.”

“But you’re too much the man of honour to make a try?”

“I’m afraid, madame, she’s not quite to my taste.”

“Oh, isn’t she, Sir Frederick? And why not, pray?”

Sir Frederick was becoming baffled. When she had invited him to pay her a call he had told all his friends that the young Countess of Danforth had fallen mightily in love with him and had sent for him to lie with her. Now he began to think that she did not want him for herself after all, that perhaps she was playing bawd to procure him for her mother-in-law. A pretty fool he’d look if she intended to fob him off on that old jade!

“Well, she’s a great deal older than I am, your Ladyship. My God, she must be forty! Old women may like young men, but I’m afraid it can’t be said that the reverse holds true.”

Now fully dressed, Amber walked to the dressing-table, where she began sorting through a boxful of jewels. Nothing in all her new life at Court had pleased her so much as this moment when she found herself so high, so rich, so powerful, that she could arrange the lives of others to suit herself. She held up a diamond-and-emerald bracelet to the light, rolling out her lower lip as she considered it, aware of his eyes watching her and aware too of what he was thinking.

“Well, then, Sir Frederick, I’m sorry to hear that.” She fastened the bracelet. “I had thought I might be able to help your case with her. She’s a great fortune, you know.” She pawed idly through the rest of the jewellery.

He came instantly to life, straightening in his chair, leaning forward. “A fortune, did you say?”

She looked at him with mild surprise. “Why, yes, of course. Didn’t you know that? Lord, she’s got a hundred suitors, all of ’em mad to marry her. She’s considering which one she’ll have—and I thought she had a peculiar fancy to you.”

“A fortune! I didn’t know she had a shilling! Everyone told me—Well, your Ladyship, to tell you truly, this is a mighty great surprise!” He seemed stunned, unable to believe the good luck which had apparently blown his way by accident. “How much—a—that is—”

Amber came to his rescue. “Oh, I should say about five thousand pound.”

“Five thousand! A year!” Five thousand a year was, in fact, a fortune of immense size.

“No,” said Amber. “Five thousand in all. Oh, of course she has some property too.” That was obviously a disappointment to him and as she saw the look on his face she added, “I think she was about to accept young What-d’ye-call—I don’t remember his name just now. The one who always wears the green-satin suit. But if you speak to her quick enough perhaps you can persuade her to give you a hearing.”

It was not two weeks later that Sir Frederick married the Dowager Baroness.

Aware that most pretty young women with money had either sharp-eyed parents or guardians who would never consider him a good match, he began to pay his court to her almost immediately upon quitting Amber’s apartments—and when he proposed she accepted him. Amber gave her five thousand pounds in return for a witnessed statement that she would never again ask or expect money from her.

At first the Baroness was highly indignant, refused absolutely, and said that she would have all the money since it was her son’s by right. Amber soon persuaded her that in such a case the King would take her side and in the end Lucilla was glad to get the five thousand pounds, which would not now do a great deal more than clear her debts. But she was not giving very much thought to money. All her emotions were centered in the exciting prospect of being a wife again, this time to a handsome and young man who did not seem aware that she was old enough to be his mother. The ceremony took place at night and though Gerald was wretchedly embarrassed by his mother’s behaviour Amber was at once amused, relieved and contemptuous.

There’s no more ridiculous creature on earth, she decided, than your virtuous woman who makes herself miserable for years to preserve what the captious world will never credit her with having.

Now that Amber was rid of her mother-in-law she decided to make a similar arrangement with her husband. She knew that he had begun an affair with Mrs. Polly Stark, a pretty fifteen-year-old who had recently taken a small shop in the ’Change, where she sold ribbons and other trinkets. And so one evening in late November when he strolled into her Majesty’s Drawing-Room she left her card-table and went to join him.

As always when he found himself face-to-face with her he had a look of dread expectancy. Now he supposed that she was going to harangue him about Mrs. Stark. “Gad!” he exclaimed. “But it’s damned hot in here. Frightful, let me perish!”

“Why, I don’t find it so,” said Amber sweetly. ‘Lord, what a handsome suit that is you’re wearing. I vow your tailor’s quite beyond compare.”

“Why—thank you, madame.” Bewildered, he looked down at himself, then quickly returned the compliment. “And that’s a mighty fine gown, madame.”

“Thank you, sir. I bought the ribbons of a young woman newly set up in the ‘Change. Her name’s Mrs. Stark, I think—She knows everything in the world about garniture.”

He turned red and swallowed. So it was Mrs. Stark. He wished he had never come to the Palace. He had not wanted to but had been persuaded by some friends who had an intrigue in the fire with a couple of her Majesty’s Maids. “Mrs. Stark?” he repeated. “Mort Dieu, the name’s familiar!”

“Think hard and I believe you’ll recall her. She remembers you very well.”

“You talked to her!”

“Oh, yes. Half an hour or more. We’re great friends.”

“Well.”

She laughed outright now, tapping him on the arm with her fan. “Lord, Gerald, don’t look so sheepish. How could you be in the fashion if you didn’t keep a wench? I swear I wouldn’t have a faithful husband—it’d ruin me among all my acquaintance.”

He looked at her with astonishment and then stared down at his shoes, frowning unhappily. He was not quite sure whether she was serious or was making fun of him; whichever it was he felt like a fool. He could think of nothing to say in reply.

“And what d’you think?” continued Amber. “She complains you’re stingy.”

“What? Stingy—I? Well, gad, madame—She wants to keep a coach and occupy lodgings in Drury Lane and will wear nothing but silk stockings and I can’t think what all. She’s a damned expensive jade. It would cost me less to keep London Bridge in repair than to support her.”

“Still,” said Amber reasonably, “you can’t set up for a beau if you don’t keep a whore, can you?”

He gave her another quick glance of amazement. “Why—I—Well, it’s all the mode, of course, but then—”

“And if you’re going to keep a wench she must be pretty and the pretty ones come at a high figure.” Suddenly she sobered. “Look, sir: Suppose we two strike up a bargain. I’ll give Mrs. Stark two hundred pound a year—while she keeps your good graces—and I’ll give you four hundred. You can sign a paper agreeing to meet your own expenses from that amount and trouble me no further. If you run into debt I’ll not be held responsible. How does that sound to you?”

“Why—of course that’s very generous of you, madame. Only I thought—that is—Mother said—”

“Pox on your mother! I don’t care what she said! Now, does that satisfy you or no? For if it doesn’t I’ll ask his Majesty to speak to the Archbishop about an annulment.”

“An annulment! But, madame—how can you? The marriage has been consummated!”

“Who’s to say whether it has or not? And I think I have more means of bribing a jury than you! Now, what about it, Gerald? I have the paper drawn up and it’s in my chamber. Good Lord, I don’t know what more you can want! It seems to me a mighty generous offer—I don’t have to give you anything at all, you know.”

“Well—very well, then—only—”

“Only what?”

“Don’t tell Mother, will you?”

CHAPTER FIFTY–FOUR

JAMES WAS LEANING on the window-sill watching some women who strolled in the sunny garden below; he gave a soft whistle and as they glanced up he waved. The women were first surprised and then they burst into giggles, beckoning him to come down and join them. He began to pantomime, shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. And then, as a door opened behind him, he straightened instantly, composed his face, and swinging the window shut turned around.

Anne Hyde came out of her brother-in-law’s closet, her ugly mouth working with emotion, snuffing her nose and holding a wadded handkerchief against her face. The years since the Restoration had not improved her appearance. She was now thirty years old; her stomach bulged with her sixth pregnancy and she had a gross accumulation of fat, for over-eating was her comfort; red angry pustules spotted her face, and covering each was a small black patch. Anne had caught syphilis from his Royal Highness. And yet she had about her still a sort of awe-inspiring grandeur, a majesty more defiant and more proud, perhaps, than if she had been of the blood royal. She was not very much liked, but she was respected, and somewhat feared.

Everyone knew that she ruled the Duke, kept him hopelessly in debt with her extravagance, told him what to do and say in council, and that he obeyed her. Only in his amours did he preserve his independence and those went on no matter how she complained. Frequently he had the women brought to a room adjoining their chamber and left Anne’s bed to go out to them. But, for the most part, they understood and respected each other.

Slowly she shut the door. He stood and stared at her, his face questioning, while she tried to gain control of herself. Finally he spoke.

“What did he tell you?”

“What did he tell me!” she repeated bitterly, twisting at her ringed hands. “I don’t know what he told me! He listened—oh, he listened most politely. But he wouldn’t promise anything. Oh, Your Highness—what can I do!”

York shrugged, but his face was morose. “I don’t know.”

She looked up swiftly and her eyes began to glitter. “You don’t know! That’s just like you! You never know what to do no matter what happens—you won’t know what to do when you’re king! God help you if I’m not here to tell you! Listen to me—” She came across the few feet that had separated them and took hold of his coat. As she talked her fist pounded against his chest. “You’re not going to stand by like a simple fool and watch my father put out by a pack of scheming, lying jackals, d’ye hear me? You’ve got to go in there and talk to him —make him understand what they’re trying to do! After all the years my father’s given to serve the Stuarts, after his loyalty and devotion, he can’t do this! He can’t turn him out! Go in there now and talk to him—” She gave him a push.

“I’ll try,” said York, without much conviction. He went through that door and knocked at another, opening it when the King’s voice bade him enter. “I hope I’m not intruding, Sire.”

Charles looked around over his shoulder with a grin. If he knew what his brother had come for he gave no indication of it. “Not at all, James. Come in. You’re just in time to send a message to Minette. What shall I tell her for you?”

The Duke was frowning, occupied with his own thoughts, and he hesitated a moment before answering. “Why—tell her that I hope she’ll be able to pay us a visit soon.”

“That’s what I’m writing about. She hopes to come next year. Well, James—what is it? You’ve got something on your mind.”

James sat down and leaned forward in his chair, thoughtfully rubbing the flat palms of his hands together. “Yes, Sire, I have.” He paused for several moments while his brother waited. “Anne is afraid that you don’t intend to deal kindly with the Chancellor.”

Charles smiled. “Then she’s very much mistaken. I shall deal with him as kindly as I can. But you know as well as I do, James, that this isn’t my doing. I have a Parliament to answer to, and they’re in a mighty critical humour.”

“But your Majesty wouldn’t sacrifice a man who has served you so long and well merely to satisfy Parliament?” James had no very good opinion of the country’s governing body, nor of his brother’s patience and compromises with it. Things will be different, he often told himself, when I come to the throne.

“No one is more appreciative than I of the Chancellor’s service. But the truth of the matter is this: He’s outworn his usefulness, to me and to England. I know he’s blamed for much that hasn’t been his fault, but the fact remains they hate him. They want to be rid of him for good and all. What use can a man be to me once he allows himself to come to that condition?”

“It can be only a temporary condition—if your Majesty will take the trouble to help him out of it.”

“It’s more than that, James. I know he’s loyal and I know he’s able—but nevertheless he’s stuck in a morass of old-fashioned ideas. He won’t realize that the Rebellion changed things here in England. He doesn’t feel with his finger-tips that there are new ways now. What’s worse, he doesn’t want to feel it. No, James, I’m afraid the Chancellor’s day is done.”

“Done? Do you mean, Sire, that you intend putting him aside?”

“I don’t think I have an alternative. He has few enough friends to help him out now—he never took the trouble to buy himself a party of loyal supporters. He was always above such practicalities.”

“Well, then, Sire, since we’re being frank, why don’t you tell me the real reason you intend dismissing him?”

“I have.”

“A different opinion runs through the galleries. There are rumours that your Majesty can forgive him everything but influencing Mrs. Stewart in favour of Richmond.”

Charles’s black eyes snapped. “Rumour is often impertinent, James—and so are you! If you think I’m any such fool as to dismiss a man who could be useful to me because of a woman, you do my intelligence little justice! You must own I’ve been as kind to you as any king has ever been to a brother, and you live as much like a monarch as I do! But in this matter I’m determined. You can’t change my mind, so pray trouble me about it no more.”

James bowed courteously and left the room. Kings, he had always believed, were meant to be obeyed—but the courtiers nevertheless noticed and commented upon a certain coolness between the two brothers.

It was not many days after that that the King summoned Clarendon to meet him at Whitehall, even though the old man had been sick in bed and was living at his house in Piccadilly where Charles and the council often met to save him the journey to the Palace. Charles and the Duke of York went to the Chancellor in his official apartments and there the three of them sat down to talk.

Charles hated this moment, and he might have put it off much longer but that he knew it was necessary. For unrest seethed through all the country and had come to a focus in Parliament; he hoped to lull it again with the promise that all things would be better once the national bogey-man was disposed of. Yet he had known him long and been served by him faithfully. And for all that Clarendon often treated him as though he were an unruly schoolboy, criticizing his friends and his mistresses, telling him that he was not fit to govern, Charles knew that he was the best minister he had had, or was likely to have. Once Clarendon was gone he would be left surrounded by crafty and hostile and selfish men against whose cleverness he must pit his own wits and win—or rule England no longer.

But there was no help for it. Charles looked him straight in the eye. “My lord, as you must be aware there is a general demand for new men in the government. I’m sorry to say this to you, but I shall not be able to hold out against them. They will want you to resign and I think you would serve your own turn best by anticipating them.”

It was a moment before Clarendon answered. “Your Majesty can’t be in earnest?”

“I am, Chancellor. I’m sorry, but I am. As you must know, I’ve not made this decision suddenly—and I’ve not made it alone.” He meant, obviously, that hundreds and thousands of Englishmen were of the same opinion.

But Clarendon chose to misinterpret. “Your Majesty refers, perhaps, to the Lady?” He had never once called Barbara by any other name.

“Truthfully, Chancellor, I do not.” Charles answered softly, refusing to take offense.

“I fear your Majesty’s unworthy companions have had more influence than you are yourself aware.”

“Ods-fish, my lord!” replied Charles with sudden impatience, his eyes flashing. “I hope I’m not wholly deficient in mental capacity!”

Clarendon was once more the school-master. “No one appreciates better than I, Sire, what your natural parts are—and it is for that reason I have long grieved to watch your Majesty losing your time and England’s in the company of such creatures as the Lady and her—”

Charles stood up. “My Lord, I’ve heard you at length on this subject before! You will excuse me if I decline to hear it again! I will send Secretary Morrice to you for the Great Seal! Good-day!” Swiftly and without once glancing back he walked from the room.

Clarendon and York both watched him go. When the door had closed, their eyes slowly veered around to meet. For a long moment they stared at each other, but neither spoke. At last Clarendon bowed and slowly he crossed the room and went out into the sunlight. Clustered there about the doorway, sitting on the grass, lounging against the walls were a score or more of men and some women—the news had spread that the Chancellor was with the King and they had gathered to watch him come out. His eyes narrowed, swept over them, and then as heads turned and mouths smiled he walked between them and on. He heard the murmurs begin to rise.

He had almost crossed the garden when all at once a gay feminine voice cried out to him. “Goodbye, Chancellor!”

It was Lady Castlemaine on the balcony above, surrounded by cages of bright-feathered birds; on one side of her stood Lord Arlington and on the other was Bab May. Though it was almost noon she had jumped out of bed when they told her that he was coming and now she was fastening her dressing-gown as she stood there above him, grinning, her red hair streaming loose.

“Goodbye, Chancellor!” she repeated. “I trust we won’t meet again!”

The young men gathered below laughed, looking from him up to her and then back again. For a moment Clarendon’s eyes met hers in the first direct look he had ever given her. Now very slowly he straightened his shoulders; his face was tired and old, marked by pain and disillusion—something that was both contempt and pity showed there.

“Madame,” he said quietly, but with perfect distinctness. “If you live, you will grow old.” Then he walked on, passing out of sight, but Barbara leaned over the railing above, staring, dismayed.

The young men were calling up their congratulations and compliments to her, Arlington and Bab May were both talking —but she heard none of them. All of a sudden she whirled around, pushing with her hands at the two men, and then she fled back into her chamber and slammed shut the door. Swiftly she snatched up a mirror, rushed with it to the light and stood staring at what she saw, her fingers touching her cheeks, her mouth, trailing down over her breasts.

It isn’t true! she thought desperately. Damn that old bastard —of course it isn’t true! I’ll never be old—I’ll never look any different! Why, I’m only twenty-seven and that isn’t old! It’s young—a woman’s at her best at twenty-seven!

But she remembered a time, perhaps only yesterday, when twenty-seven had seemed very old, when she had dreaded and avoided the thought of it. Oh, drat him! Why did he say that! She felt sick and tired and full of resentful hatred. Somehow, after all their years of despising each other he had had the last word. But then a rebellious determination flared within her. Outside the men were waiting, excited, triumphant—what did it matter what a stupid malicious old man had said? He was gone now and she would never see him again. She flung away the mirror and went to the door, threw it open again and walked out, smiling.

Throughout the Palace there was fear and unrest. Men distrusted one another and those who had seemed friends now scarcely spoke but passed in the corridors as though neither friend nor foe existed. Whispers and murmurs leaped from mouth to mouth, rumours swept along—some like vagrant breezes which merely touched and were gone, others of such force that all seemed to bend and rock before them. No one felt safe. The Chancellor was out, but they were not so well satisfied as they had expected to be. Which one would go down next?

Many said it would be Lady Castlemaine.

Barbara heard the talk herself but shrugged nonchalantly and did not trouble herself about it. She was perfectly confident that when and if that time came she would be able to bully him as she had in the past. She had her comfortable easy life there at Court and did not intend that anyone should put her out of it. And then one morning when she was in bed with Mr. Jermyn, Wilson burst excitedly into the room.

“Your Ladyship! Oh, your Ladyship—here he comes!”

Barbara sat up and gave her hair an angry toss, while Mr. Jermyn peeped inquisitively over the top of the covers. “What the devil d’you mean coming in here? I thought I—”

“But it’s the King! He’s coming down the hall—he’ll be here in just a moment!”

“Oh, my God! Keep ’im off a minute, will you! Jermyn, for Christ’s sake—stop staring like a stupid booby and get out of here!”

Henry Jermyn scrambled out of bed, grabbed up his breeches in one hand and his. periwig in the other and made for the door. Barbara lay down again and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She could hear the spaniels as they came in at a run and, just in the next room, the King’s murmurous laugh and his voice as he paused to speak to Mrs. Wilson. (There was gossip that he had recently begun an affair with her pretty serving-woman, though Barbara had not yet been able to make either of them admit it.) Opening one eye she saw, to her horror, that Jermyn had left behind a shoe and quickly snatching it up she flung it into the bed. Then she jerked the curtains to and lay down, composing her face to pretend that she was sleeping.

She heard the door of the bedroom open and in an instant a couple of the dogs had leaped between the curtains and were prancing on her pillows, licking at her face. Barbara muttered a curse and flung out one hand to ward them off just as Charles pulled back the curtains and stood smiling down at her, not at all fooled by the questioning sleepy look she gave him. He swooped the two dogs off onto the floor.

“Good morning, madame.”

“Why—good morning, Sire.” She sat up, one hand in her hair, the other modestly holding the sheets to her naked breasts. “What’s o’clock? Is it late?”

“Almost noon.”

Now he reached down and took hold of the long blue ribbon on Mr. Jermyn’s shoe and very slowly he drew it out and held it up, looking at it quizzically, as though not quite certain what it was. Barbara watched him with a kind of sullen apprehension. He twirled it slowly about by the string, observing it carefully on all sides.

“Well,” he said finally, “so this as the latest divertisement for ladies of quality—substituting the shoe for the gentleman. I’ve heard some say it improves mightily upon nature. What’s your opinion, madame?”

“My opinion is that someone’s been spying on me and sent you here to catch me! Well—I’m quite alone, as you may see. Look behind the screens and drapes, pray, to satisfy yourself.”

Charles smiled and tossed the shoe to the spaniels who seized upon it eagerly. Then he sat down on the bed, facing her. “Let me give you some advice, Barbara. As one old friend to another, I think that Jacob Hall would give you more satisfaction for your time and money than Mr. Jermyn is likely to do.” Jacob Hall was a handsome muscular acrobat who performed at the fairs and, sometimes, at Court.

Barbara retorted quickly. “I don’t doubt that Jacob Hall is as fine a gentleman as Moll Davis is a lady!” Moll Davis was his Majesty’s newest mistress, an actress in the Duke of York’s Theatre.

“I don’t doubt it, either,” he agreed. For a long moment they looked at each other. “Madame,” he said at last, “I believe that the time has come for you and me to have a talk.”

Something inside her took a plunging drop. Then it hadn’t been just gossip, after all. Instantly her manner became respectful and polite, and almost flirtatious. “Why, certainly, Your Majesty. What about?” Her violet eyes were wide and innocent.

“I think we need pretend no longer. When a man and woman who are married have ceased to love each other there is nothing for them but to find entertainment elsewhere. Fortunately, it’s otherwise with us.”

That was the boldest statement of his feelings he had ever made to her. Sometimes, in anger, he had spoken sharply, but she had always assured herself that he had meant it no more than she meant what she said when angry. And she refused to believe even now that he could actually be serious.

“Do you mean, Sire,” she asked him softly, “that you don’t love me any more?”

He gave her a faint smile. “Why is it a woman will always ask that, no matter how well she knows the answer?”

She stared at him, sick in the pit of her stomach. The very posture of his body showed boredom and weariness, his face had the finality of a man who understands his feelings perfectly. Was it possible? Was he really and truly tired of her? She had had warning enough for the past four years, both from him and from others, but she had ignored it, refusing to believe that he could fall out of love with her as he had fallen out of love with other women.

“What do you intend to do?” Her voice was now just a whisper.

“That’s what I’ve come to discuss with you. Since we don’t love each other any longer—”

“Oh, but Sire!” she protested swiftly. “I love you! It’s just that you—”

He gave her a look of frank disgust. “Barbara, for the love of God spare me that. I suppose you think I’ve pretended to myself that you were in love with me. Well—I haven’t. I was beyond the age of such illusions when I met you. And if I loved you once, which I suppose I did, I don’t any longer. I think it’s time we make a new arrangement.”

“A new—You intend to turn me out?”

He gave a short unpleasant laugh. “That would be rather like turning the rabbit to the hounds, wouldn’t it? They’d tear you to pieces in two minutes.” His black eyes swung over her face, amused and contemptuous. “No, my dear. I’ll deal fairly with you. We’ll come to a settlement of some kind.”

“Oh.” Barbara relaxed visibly. That was another matter again. He was still willing to “deal fairly,” to come to a “settlement.” She thought she knew well enough how to handle that. “I want to please your Majesty. But I hope you’ll give me leave to think this over for a day or two. I’ve got my children to consider. No matter what happens to me I want them to have the things they should—”

“They’ll be taken care of. Study your terms then—I’ll come here Thursday at this hour to discuss them with you.”

He got up, made her a casual bow, snapped his fingers at the dogs and left her without a backward glance. Barbara sat staring at the foot of the bed, puzzled, uneasy, worried. And then she heard him talking softly and there was Wilson’s excited giggle. Suddenly she jumped out of bed and shouted:

“Wilson! Wilson, come in here! I need you!”

Thursday she met him at the door of her chamber, beautifully gowned and painted, and though he had half expected to find her in tears of hysterical anger she was gracious and charming —the old pose he had seen so seldom these past two or three years. The maids were dismissed and they sat down alone, face to face, each taking the other’s measure. Barbara knew at once that he had not changed his mind, as she had hoped he would, during that interval.

She gave him a piece of paper, a neat itemized list written in black ink, and sat drumming her nails on the arm of the chair as he read it; her eyes roamed the room but now and again flickered back to him. He scanned the page hastily, slowly his eyebrows contracted and he gave a low whistle. Without looking up at her he began to read:

“Twenty-five thousand to clear your debts. Ten thousand a year allowance. A duchy for yourself and earldoms for the boys—” He glanced across swiftly, a half humorous scowl on his face. “Ods-fish, Barbara! You must think I’m King Midas. Remember, I’m that pauper, Charles Stuart—whose country has just gone through the worst plague and fire in history and is up to its ears in debt for war. You damned well know I haven’t the means to support all this!” He gave the paper a whack with his hand and tossed it aside.

Barbara shrugged, smiling. “Why, Sire, how should I know? You’ve given me more than that in the past—and now you want to get rid of me, though no fault of my own—Why, Lord, Your Majesty, only in ordinary decency you should give me that much. It takes a deal of money to look a hostile world in the face. You know that as well as anyone. I might as well be dead as try to get along on less once you’ve cast me off—Why, my life wouldn’t be worth the living!”

“I have no intention of making your life miserable to you. But you know I can’t possibly make such an arrangement as this.”

“On the other hand, the mother of five of your children shouldn’t have to beg for her living when you grow tired of her, should she? How would it look for you, Sire, if the world knew you’d turned me off with a stingy settlement?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that in France there are several very comfortable nunneries where a lady of your religion might live well and happily on under five hundred pound a year?”

For an instant Barbara stared at him. All at once she gave a sharp explosive laugh. “Damn me, but you do have the drollest wit! Come, now: Can you imagine me in a nunnery?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Not very well,” he admitted. “Still, I can’t make any such allowance as that.”

“Well, then—perhaps we can agree another way.”

“And what way might that be?”

“Why can’t I stay on here? Perhaps you don’t love me any more, but surely it can’t matter to you if I live in the Palace. I’ll trouble you no farther—you go your way and I’ll go mine. After all, isn’t it unfair to make me wretched because you’ve fallen out of love with me?”

He knew how much sincerity there was in what she said, and yet he had begun to think that perhaps that would be the easiest way, after all. No sudden break to wrench them apart, no unpleasant scenes of tears and recriminations—but a slow and easy drifting. Someday she would go of her own accord. Yes, that might be best. At any rate it would be the least trouble —and immediate expense—to him.

He got to his feet. “Very well then, madame. Trouble me no more and we’ll get along well enough. Live any way you like, but live as quietly as you can. And one thing more: If you tell no one about this, no one will know it—for I’ll not mention it.”

“Oh, thank you, Sire! You are kind!”

She came to stand before him and looked up into his face, her eyes coaxing, inviting him. She still hoped that a kiss and half an hour in bed could change everything—expunge the animosity and distrust which had grown out of the passionate infatuation with which they had begun. He stared at her steadily and then, very faintly, he smiled; his hand made a light gesture and he walked beyond her and out of the room. Barbara turned to watch him, stunned, as though she had had a slap in the face.

A couple of days later she went into the country to have an abortion, for this child, she knew, he would never own. But it had also occurred to her that if she was gone for a few weeks he would forget everything that had been unpleasant between them and begin to miss her—he would send for her to come back, as he had done in the old days. Someday, she told herself, he’ll love me again, I know he will. Next time we meet, things will be different.

CHAPTER FIFTY–FIVE

SHE LIVED AT the top of Maypole Alley, a narrow little street off Drury Lane, in a two-room lodging which looked exactly as she always did—careless and untidy, with nothing in its place. Silk stockings were flung over chair-backs, a soiled smock lay in a heap on the floor just beside the bed, orange-peelings littered the table and empty ale-glasses stood about, unwashed. The fireplace was heaped with ashes and apparently had not been swept out for years. Dust coated the furniture and puffs of it drifted over the floor, for the girl she hired to come in and clean had not been there for several days. Everything suggested an abandonment to chaos, a gay headlong contempt for stodgy tidiness.

In the middle of the floor Nell Gwynne was dancing.

Barefooted, she whirled and spun, twisted her lithe body and flung her skirts high, completely unselfconscious, absorbed and happy. In one chair sprawled Charles Hart, watching her through half-shut lids, and sitting astraddle another was John Lacy, who also acted for the King’s Company and who also had been Nelly’s lover. A fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy, a street-musician they had called in, stood nearby and scraped on his cheap fiddle.

When at last she stopped and made them a curtsy so deep that her bowed head touched her knee, the men broke into hearty applause. Nelly looked up at them, eyes sparkling with eager delight, and still panting from the violent exertion she leaped to her feet.

“Did you like it? Do you think I’m a better dancer than her?”

Hart waved his hand. “Better? Why, you make Moll Davis look clumsy as a pregnant cow!”

Nelly laughed, but her face changed swiftly. She reached for an orange and began to peel it, rolling out her lower lip in exaggerated pique. “Much good it does me! There’s no one there to see me these days. Lord, the pit’s been empty as a Dutchman’s noddle ever since his Majesty gave her that diamond ring! They’ve all got to have a look at the King’s latest whore.”

“You’d think a new royal mistress wouldn’t be such a curiosity any more,” remarked Lacy, knocking out his pipe on the edge of the table, stepping on the ashes as they fell to the floor. “I can count a baker’s dozen from the stage any day I like.”

At that moment there was a loud rapping on the door and Nelly ran to open it. A liveried footman stood there. “Mrs. Knight presents her service to you, madame, and would like a word with you. She waits below in her coach.”

Nelly glanced back at the two men from over her shoulder and screwed up her face to wink. “Speak of the Devil—here’s another one below. You’ll find sack and brandy in the cupboard. Maybe there’s something to eat in the food-hutch. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She disappeared, but an instant later returned to slide her feet into a pair of high-heeled, square-toed pumps, and then picking up her skirts she went swooping down the stairs and out into the street. A gilded coach-and-four stood there, the door held open by a footman. Mary Knight sat inside, her beautiful face painted an almost glistening white, and she reached out one jewelled arm to take hold of Nelly’s wrist.

“Come, sweetheart—get in. I want to talk to you.” Her voice was warm and sweet as a melody, and she smelled of some drowsy perfume.

Nelly obediently climbed in and flounced down beside her. Not at all conscious of her own griminess, she looked at Mary with passionate admiration. “Lord, Mary! I swear you’re prettier every time I see you!”

“Pshaw, child. It’s only that I wear fine clothes nowadays, and a jewel or so. By the way, whatever became of that pearl necklace my Lord Buckhurst gave you?”

Nell shrugged. “I sent it back to ’im.”

“Sent it back? Good God! What for?”

“Oh—I don’t know. What good is a string of pearls to me? My mother would have pawned it to buy brandy or to get Rose’s husband out of Newgate.” Rose was Nelly’s sister.

“Sweetheart, let me tell you something. Never give anything back. Often enough by the time a woman’s thirty she has nothing to live on but the presents made her when she was young.”

But Nelly was just seventeen and thirty was a thousand years away. “I’ve never been hungry. I’ll live somehow. What did you want to see me for, Mary?”

“I want to take you calling. Are you dressed? Is your hair combed?” The light from the torches was too unsteady to see distinctly.

“Well enough, I warrant. Who’re we calling on?”

“A gentleman named Charles Stuart.” She paused a moment, for Nelly sat in silence, not realizing whom she meant. “His Majesty, King Charles II!” The words rolled off her tongue like the flare of trumpets and a chill ran over Nelly’s flesh, along her arms and down her back.

“King Charles!” she whispered. “He wants to see me!”

“He does. And he asked me, as an old friend, to carry the invitation.”

Nelly sat perfectly rigid, staring straight ahead of her. “Holy Mother of God!” she whispered. And then she flew into a sudden tempest of indecision and fright. “But I’m all undone! My hair’s down! I haven’t got any stockings on! Oh, Mary! I can’t go!”

Mary put one hand over hers. “Of course you can, sweetheart. I’ll lend you my cloak. And I’ve got a comb here.”

“Oh, but Mary—I can’t! I just can’t!” She stabbed about for an excuse and suddenly remembered Hart and Lacy waiting upstairs for her. She started to get out. “I’ve got callers myself, I just remembered. I—”

Mary took her arm and firmly pulled her back again. “He’s expecting you.” She leaned forward and rapped on the front wall of the coach. “Drive away!”

It was only a little more than half a mile to Whitehall and Nelly spent that time dragging Mary’s comb through the snarls of her coarse thick blonde hair, her stomach fluttering and the palms of her hands cold and wet. Her throat was so tight she could scarcely speak, though from time to time she murmured, “Oh, Jesus!”

At the Palace she got out, Mary’s cloak flung over her shoulders, and just before she ran off Mary slid the pearl drops from her ears and handed them to her. “Wear these, sweetheart. I’ll wait for you to drive you home.”

Nelly took them, made a step or two away, then turned suddenly and came back to the coach. “I can’t go, Mary! I can’t! He’s the King!”

“Go along, child. He’s waiting for you.”

Nelly closed her eyes hard and murmured a prayer and then crossed the courtyard, went through the door Mary had pointed out and along a winding hall-way, down a flight of stairs to another door; there she knocked. A footman opened it, she gave him her name, and was admitted. She found herself in a handsomely furnished room. There were gold-framed portraits on the walls, a great carved fireplace, embroidered chairs from France. For a long moment she stood just inside the doorway, staring about her in awe, nervously cleaning the dirt from beneath her finger-nails.

After two or three minutes William Chiffinch came in, well-fed and silky, with pouches under his eyes and a sensual mouth, belching gently as though he had just risen from a too rich meal. His appearance put her somewhat at ease, for he was no more fearsome than any other man, even if he was the King’s Page of the Backstairs.

He raised his eyebrows faintly as he saw her standing there. “Madame Gwynne?”

Nelly gave a little curtsy. “Aye.”

“You know, I suppose, madame, that it is not I who sent for you?”

“Lord, I hope not, sir!” said Nelly. And then she added quickly, for fear of having hurt his feelings, “Not that I wouldn’t be pleased if it had been—”

“I understand, madame. And do you feel that you are correctly costumed for an interview with his Majesty?”

Nelly glanced down at her blue woollen gown and found it spotted with food and wine, stained in the armpits from many weeks of wear; there was a rent low in the skirt through which her red linen petticoat showed. She was unconcerned about her dress, as she was about all her appearance, and took her prettiness very much for granted. Though she was paid the good wage of sixty pounds a year she spent it carelessly, entertaining friends who came to see her, buying brandy for her fat sodden mother and gifts for Rose, tossing coins to every beggar who approached her in the streets.

“It’s what I was wearing, sir, when Mrs. Knight called for me. I didn’t know—I can go back and change—I have a very fine gown for special occasions—blue satin, with a silver petticoat and—”

“There isn’t time now. But here—try some of this.”

He crossed the room, picked up a bottle and gave it to her. Nelly took out the stopper, rolling her eyes ecstatically as she smelled the heavy-sweet odour. Then she tipped the bottle against her bodice until the perfume made a wet round circle, dabbing more of it on her breasts and wrists and live curling hair.

“That’s enough!” warned Chiffinch, and took it away from her. He glanced at a clock in a standing walnut case. “It’s time. Come with me.”

He walked out of the room and for an instant Nelly hesitated, gulping hard once, her heart pounding until she felt scarcely able to breathe; then with sudden resolution she lifted her skirts and followed him. They went out into a dim hall-way. Chiffinch lighted a candle from one which was burning there, stuck it into a brass holder and, turning, gave it to her.

“Here, this will light you up the stairs. At the top there’s a door which will be unlocked. Open it and go into the ruelle, but don’t make a sound until his Majesty comes for you. He may be occupied in talking to one of the ministers or writing a letter.”

She stared solemnly at him, nodding her head, and glanced up uncertainly toward the invisible door. In her trembling hand the candle sent shaking shadows across the walls. She looked back to Chiffinch again, as if for moral support, but he merely stood and stared at her, thinking that the King would never send again for this unkempt creature. Slowly she began to mount the stairs, holding up her skirts with her free hand; but her knees felt so weak she was sure she would never be able to reach the top. She kept on and on, feeling as though she mounted some endless flight in a terrifying dream. Chiffinch stood and watched her until he saw the door open, her profile silhouetted as she paused to blow out the candle, and then with a shrug of his shoulders he went back to his supper guests.

But he was mistaken, for not many nights later she was there again, clean this time and dressed in her blue satin and silver-cloth gown. There was about her still, however, a certain joyous carelessness, as though her spirits were too exuberant, too buoyantly full to take time with trifles. And this time Chiffinch greeted her with a smile, caught in her spell.

Nelly could not get over the wonder of this thing that had happened to her; she felt almost as though she were the first mistress Charles had taken. “Oh, Mary!” she cried breathlessly that first night when she came back out to the coach. “He’s wonderful! Why—he treated me just like—just like I was a princess!” And suddenly she had burst into tears, laughing and crying at once. I’ve fallen in love with him! she thought. Nelly Gwynne—daughter of the London streets, common trollop and public performer—in love with the King of England! Oh, what a fool! And yet, who could help it?

Not long after that Charles asked her what yearly allowance she would want and though she laughed and told him that she was ready to serve the Crown for nothing, he insisted that she name a price. The next time she came she asked Chiffinch what she should say.

“You’re worth five hundred a year, sweetheart—just for that smile.”

But when she came downstairs again she seemed sad and subdued and Chiffinch asked her what had happened. Nell looked at him for a moment, her chin began to quiver and suddenly she was crying. “Oh! He laughed at me! He asked me and I said five hundred pound and—and he laughed!” Chiffinch put his arms about her and while she sobbed he stroked the back of her head, telling her that she must be a little patient—that one day soon she would have much more than five hundred pounds from him.

She did not care about the money, but she did care a great deal that he should not consider her to be worth five hundred pounds—when he had spent much more than that on a single ring for Moll Davis.

Nelly and Moll Davis were well acquainted, for all the actors knew one another and knew also everything that happened in that small bohemian world which hung on the fringes of the Court. And because she liked people and was not inclined to be jealous she liked Moll despite their rivalry in the theatre —and now in another sphere—until she heard that Moll had been making fun of her because Charles had refused her the price she had asked.

“Nelly’s a common slut,” said Moll. “She won’t amuse him long.”

Moll herself made great capital of the rumour that she was the illegitimate daughter of the Earl of Berkshire, though actually her father was a blacksmith and she had been a milkmaid before coming to London to try her fortune.

“A common slut, am I?” said Nelly, when she heard that. “Well, perhaps I am. I don’t pretend to be anything else. But we’ll see whether I know how to amuse his Majesty or not!”

And she set out to visit Moll with a large box of homemade candy tucked under her arm. She threaded her way up one narrow crooked little alley and down another, flipping coins to a dozen beggars, waving an arm in greeting at various women hanging out their windows, stopping to talk to a little girl selling a platter of evil-smelling fish—she gave her a guinea to buy shoes and a cloak, for the winter was setting in. The day was sunny but cold and she walked along swiftly, her hair covered with a hood, her long woollen cloak slapping about her.

Moll lived not far from Maypole Alley in a second-floor lodging much like Nell’s own, though she had been bragging that his Majesty was going to take a fine house and furnish it for her. Nelly rapped at the door, greeted Moll with a broad grin, and stepped inside while the girl still stood staring at her. Her eye went quickly round the room, picking out evidences of new luxury: yellow-velvet drapes at the windows, a fine carved chair or two, the silver-backed mirror Moll was holding in her hand.

“Well, Moll!” Nelly tossed back her hood, unfastened the button at her throat. “Aren’t you going to make me welcome? Oh! Maybe you’ve got company!” She pretended surprise, as though she had just noticed that Moll wore only her smock and starched ruffled petticoat, with her feet in mules and her hair down her back.

Moll stared at her suspiciously, searching for the motive of this visit, and her plump dainty-featured little face did not smile. She knew that Nell must have heard the things she had been saying about her. She lifted her chin and pursed her lips, full of airs and newly acquired hauteur. “No,” she said. “I’m all alone. If you must know—I’m dressing to see his Majesty—at ten o’clock.”

“Heavens!” cried Nell, glancing at the clock. “Then you must hurry! It’s nearly six!” Nelly was amused. Imagine taking four hours to dress—even for the King! “Well, come on, then. We can gossip while you’re making ready. Here, Moll—I brought you something. Oh, it’s really nothing very much. Some sweets Rose and I made—with nuts in, the kind you always like.”

Moll, disarmed by this thoughtful gesture, reached for the box as Nell held it toward her, and finally she smiled. “Oh, thank you, Nell! How kind of you to remember how much I love sweets!” She opened it and took up a large piece, popped it into her mouth and began to munch, licked her fingers and extended the box to Nell.

Nelly declined. “No, thanks, Moll. Not just now. I ate some while we were making it.”

“Oh, it’s delicious, Nell! Such an unusual flavour, too! Come on in, my dear—I have some things to show you. Lord, I vow and swear there can’t be a more generous man in Europe than his Majesty! He all but pelts me with fine gifts! Just look at this jewel case. Solid gold, and every jewel on it is real—I know because I had a jeweller appraise it. And these are real sapphires on this patch-box too. And look at this lace fan! Have you ever seen anything to compare? Just think, he had his sister send it from Paris, especially for me.” She thrust two more pieces of candy into her mouth and her eyes ran over the gown Nelly was wearing. It was made of red linsey-woolsey, a material warm and serviceable enough, but certainly neither beautiful nor luxurious. “But then of course you didn’t want to wear your diamond necklace coming through the streets.”

Nell felt like crying or slapping her face, but she merely smiled and said softly, “I haven’t any diamond necklace. He hasn’t given me anything.”

Moll lifted her brows in pretended surprise and sat down to finish painting her face. “Oh, well—don’t fret about it, my dear. Probably he will—if he should take a fancy to you.” She picked up another piece of candy and then began to dust Spanish paper onto her cheeks with a hare’s foot. Nelly sat with her hands clasped over one knee and watched her.

Moll struggled with her hair for at least an hour, asking Nelly to put in a bodkin here or take one out there. “Oh, gad!” she cried at last. “A lady simply can’t do her own head! I vow I must have a woman—I’ll speak to him about it tonight.”

When the royal coach arrived at shortly after nine Moll gave an excited shriek, crammed the last three pieces of candy into her mouth, snatched up mask and fan and muff and gloves and went out of the room in a swirl of satins and scent. Nelly followed her down to the coach, wished her luck and waved her goodbye. But when the coach rattled off she stood and watched it and laughed until tears came to her eyes and her sides began to ache.

Now, Mrs. Davis! We’ll see what airs you give yourself next time we meet!

The following day Nelly went to the Duke’s Theatre with young John Villiers—Buckingham’s distant relation, somewhere in the sprawling Villiers tribe—to see whether her rival dared show herself on the boards after what had happened the night before. And Villiers—because he hoped to have a favour from her after the play—paid out four shillings for each of them and they took their seats in one of the middle-boxes, directly over the stage where Moll could not miss seeing them if she was there.

As they sat down Nell became conscious that there were two men in the box directly adjoining theirs and that both of them had watched her as she came in. She glanced at them, a smile on her lips—and then she gave a little gasp of horrified surprise and one hand went to her throat. It was the King and his brother, both apparently incognito for they were in ordinary dress, and the King wore neither the Star nor the Garter. In fact, their suits were far more conservative than those of most of the gallants buzzing away down in Fop Corner, next the stage.

Charles smiled, nodding his head slightly in greeting, and York gave her an intent stare. Nelly managed to return the smile but she wanted desperately to get up and run and would, in fact, have done so but that she did not care to draw the attention of the entire theatre upon them. And furthermore Betterton, wrapped in the traditional long black cloak, had now come out onto the apron of the stage to speak the prologue.

She stayed, but even after the prologue was over and the curtains had been drawn for the first act she sat rigid and tense, not daring to move her head, scarcely seeing the stage at all. Finally Villiers shook her elbow and whispered in her ear.

“What’s the matter with you, Nell? You look as though you’re in a fit!”

“Shh! I think I am!”

Villiers looked annoyed, not knowing whether to take her seriously or not. “D’you want to go?”

“No. Of course not. Be still.”

She did not even glance at him, but her cheeks had begun to burn for she was aware that Charles was looking at her, and he was so close that by leaning over slightly she could have touched his arm. And then suddenly she turned her head and stared him full in the eyes, questioningly. He grinned, his teeth shining white beneath his black mustache, and Nelly gave a relieved little laugh. Then he wasn’t angry! He had thought it a good joke too.

“What brings you here?” asked Charles, speaking in a low voice so as to attract no more attention than could be helped from those around them.

“Why—a—I came to see if it’s true Moll Davis is a better dancer than I am.”

“And do you imagine she’ll be dancing today?” His eyes sparkled at her obviously painful embarrassment and confusion. “I should think she might be sick at home with the colic.”

In spite of herself Nell blushed and dropped her lashes, unable to face him. “I’m sorry, Sire. I wanted to pay her back for—” Suddenly she looked up at him, eager and serious. “Oh, forgive me, your Majesty! I’ll never do such a thing again!”

At this Charles laughed outright and his familiar deep voice drew several glances. “Give your apologies to her, not to me. I haven’t spent such an entertaining evening in a long while.” He leaned closer, put the back of his hand to his mouth and whispered confidentially, “To tell you truly, madame, I think Mrs. Davis is mightily out of humour with you.”

With sudden boldness Nelly retorted, “Well, she must be mighty simple or she wouldn’t have been taken in with a stale old trick like that! She should have known it was physicked after the first bite!”

At that moment Moll came whirling out onto the stage below them, spinning round and round, a small graceful figure in her close-fitted boy’s breeches and thin white-linen blouse. A spontaneous roar of shouts and applause went up. Charles gave Nelly a brief glance, one eyebrow lifted as much as to say, Well, she did dare to come after all. Then he returned his attention to the stage and it was not long before the girl on it saw him and smiled, as brazenly self-assured as though nothing at all unusual had happened the night before.

But just the next moment she saw Nell sitting there beside him, leaning with her elbows on the railing, grinning down at her. For an instant Moll’s face lost its smile, then immediately she stuck it back on again. Swiftly Nelly raised her thumb to her nose and waggled her fingers, but not so swiftly that his Majesty missed the impudent gesture. When Moll’s dance was over she flung several kisses toward the middle-box; then she was gone and she appeared no more, for she had no part in the play that afternoon.

From time to time as the play progressed Charles and Nelly exchanged opinions on the acting, a song, a bit of stage-business, costuming and scenery, or the rest of the audience. Villiers was beginning to look disgruntled, but York glanced now and again at his brother’s newest mistress with pleased interest, liking her expressive face, her gaiety and the spontaneous happy laugh that crinkled her blue eyes till they all but disappeared.

When at last the play was done and they were getting up to leave Charles casually remarked, “Now that I think on it, I don’t believe I’ve eaten any supper yet. Have you, James?”

“No. No, I can’t say that I have.”

Nelly gave Villiers a swift nudge in the ribs with her elbow and when he did not take his cue quick enough she kicked him sharply on the ankle. He winced at that and promptly said: “Your Majesty, if it would not be too great an impertinence, may I beg the honour of your company, and his Highness’s company, at supper with me?”

Charles and York accepted instantly and all of them left the theatre together, hailed a hackney and set out for the Rose Tavern. It was already dark, though not yet six-thirty, and the rain came in gusts. Charles and York were not recognized at the Rose, for both men had their hats pulled low and cloaks flung across their chins, and Nelly wore a full vizard. The host escorted them upstairs to a private room, which they asked for, with no more ado than if they had been any trio of men bringing a wench to supper.

Villiers was not very gay, for he resented the King’s intrusion, but Charles and James and Nelly enjoyed themselves immensely. They ordered all the most expensive and delicious food the famous kitchen prepared, drank champagne, cracked raw oysters, and ate until they had turned the table into a litter of shells and bones and empty bottles. It was two hours before Charles suddenly snapped his fingers and said that he must be on his way. His wife was expecting him in the Drawing-Room that night to hear a newly arrived Italian eunuch who was supposed to have the sweetest voice in Christendom.

With the first enthusiasm he had shown Villiers jumped to his feet and bellowed downstairs for the bill. The waiter came in as Charles was holding Nelly’s cloak for her and, because he was obviously the eldest, presented the bill to him. Charles, a little drunk, glanced at it and gave a low whistle, experimentally put his fingers into the various pockets of his coat and each time brought them out empty.

“Not a shilling. What about you, James?”

James likewise searched his pockets and wagged his head. Nelly burst into peals of delighted laughter. “Ods-fish!” she cried. “But this is the poorest company that ever I was in at a tavern!”

The royal brothers both looked to Villiers who tried not to show his irritation as he gave his last shilling to pay the bill. Then they went downstairs where both Charles and James kissed Nelly goodbye before they climbed into a hackney and set out for Whitehall, hanging out the coach windows to wave back at her. She flung them enthusiastic kisses.

By the next day the story was all over the Palace and was being told in the tiring-rooms and at the ‘Change, in the coffeehouses and taverns—to the vast amusement of everyone but Moll Davis. And she was angrier than ever when a bouquet arrived for her, a huge cluster of a stinking weed Nelly had found growing somewhere along Drury Lane.

CHAPTER FIFTY–SIX

AMBER LOVED BEING a part of the Court.

Familiarity had not disillusioned her and as far as she was concerned it was still the great world and everything that happened in it more exciting and important than it could possibly have been anywhere else. Buckingham himself was not more convinced than she that they were God’s chosen people, the lords and ladies of all creation. And now she was one of them! With no protest at all she was soon sucked into the maelstrom of Court life and whirled about in a mad darkness.

She went to suppers and plays and balls. She was invited everywhere and her own invitations were never refused, for it was dangerously impolitic to slight one of the King’s mistresses. Her drawing-room was often more crowded than the Queen’s and she kept several gambling-tables going at once: ombre, trente-et-quarante, lanterloo, various dice games. The street-beggars had begun to call upon her by name, a sure sign of importance. Hack poets and playwrights hung about her anterooms and wanted to dedicate a new play or sonnet to her. The first young man to whom she played generous patron—making him a gift of fifty pounds, but not troubling to read the poem before it was published—had written a virile and malevolent satire on the Court and everyone in it, including her.

She spent money as if she had inherited the Privy Purse, and though Shadrac Newbold made investments for her and kept her accounts she paid no attention at all to what was coming in or going out. The fortune which Samuel had left still seemed to her inexhaustible.

And anyway there were a thousand ways to make money at Court—if the King liked you: Once he allowed her to hold a lottery of Crown plate. He leased her six hundred acres of Crown land in Lincolnshire for five years at a low figure and she subleased it at a high one. He granted her the profits for a one-year period from all vessels moored in the Pool. She got the money from the sale of underwood in certain coppices in the New Forest. She engaged in two of the Court’s most lucrative businesses: begging estates and stock-jobbing. Charles gave her gifts from the Irish taxes and all the foreign ambassadors made her presents, which varied in value according to the supposed degree of her influence over the King. She could have lived in fine style from these sources alone.

Just before Christmas she began to have her rooms completely redecorated and furnished and for four months they were filled with workmen painting and hammering and scraping. The furniture was covered over with heavy white canvas to prevent spotting, buckets of gilt and coloured paint stood everywhere, men on tall ladders dabbed at the ceiling and took measurements for a hanging. Tansy followed them from room to room, curious and interested. Monsieur le Chien snapped at their heels and barked all day long and sometimes, if his mistress was not about, he was secretly kicked.

Amber sent to Lime Park for all its furnishings and spent several days going over Radclyffe’s possessions, which she had obtained with the King’s connivance.

Among them she found a long but still unfinished poem: “The Kingdom Come. A Satire.” A quick glance told her that it had been written at Lime Park during the spring and summer months of 1666, from information gathered while he had been in London, just after their marriage. It was obscene, cruel, bitterly malicious, but brilliant in style and perception. Amber read it for the malice and obscenity, recognized those qualities instantly but missed everything else—and threw it contemptuously into the fire. There were other papers: the history of the family possessions, letters (one which had evidently been written by the girl whom he had loved and who had disappeared during the Civil Wars), many alchemical recipes, sheaves of notes, bills for pictures and other objects which he had collected, translations he had made from Latin and Greek, essays on a variety of subjects. With spiteful pleasure she destroyed them all.

She came upon a skull with a recipe attached to it by thin copper wire. It was a cure for impotency and recommended that spring-water be drunk every morning from the skull of a man who had been murdered. Amber considered this to be very funny and it even increased her contempt for the Earl. She kept it to show the King and he appropriated it for his own laboratory, saying that he might have a need for that remedy himself some day.

What she liked of his hangings and pictures and furniture Amber saved for her own apartments; the rest she put up at auction. Radclyffe’s lifelong interest in everything beautiful and rare, the years of collecting, the infinite labour and expense—all were sold now to people he had despised, or used as bric-a-brac by a woman for whom he had had nothing but scornful contempt. Amber’s triumph, complete and terrible, was only the triumph of the living over the helpless dead. But it pleased her a great deal.

Charles and his Court had brought back from France with them a changed taste in furniture, as in everything else. The new style was at once more delicate and more lavish. Walnut replaced the heavy solid pieces of carved oak, tapestry was considered old-fashioned, and rich Persian or Turkish carpets lay on bare floors which were no longer covered with rushes to hide dirt and keep out cold. No extravagance was beyond good taste —and the ladies and courtiers vied with one another as to who could achieve the most spectacular effect. Amber was at no loss among them.

She had some walls knocked out and others put up to change the proportions of the rooms—she wanted everything on a scale of prodigious size and grandeur. Even the anteroom was very large—which was necessary to accommodate all those who attended upon her—but its only furnishings were wall-hangings of green raw silk, a pair of life-sized black-marble Italian statues, and a battery of gilt chairs.

The drawing-room, which fronted directly upon the river, was seventy-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide. Its walls were hung with black-and-gold-striped silk and at night the draperies could be pulled to cover all window-space. Pearl-embroidered rugs were scattered over the floor. The delicate, graceful, deeply carved furniture was coated thickly with gold-leaf, and the cushions were emerald velvet. Because Charles preferred a buffet style of dining-service there were many little tables about and she gave her suppers in that room. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Amber impersonating St. Catherine —all the Court ladies liked to have themselves drawn as saints. Catherine had been a queen and so Amber wore a magnificent gown with a crown upon her head; she carried a book, the martyr’s palm, and beside her lay the symbol of suffering, a broken wheel. Her expression was very thoughtful and sedate.

A small anteroom hung in white—where Radclyffe’s Italian blackamoor stood on a gold table before a mirror—opened from the drawing-room into the bed-chamber, the furnishings of which cost Amber more than all the rest of the apartment together.

The entire room, floor to ceiling, was lined with mirrors—brought from Venice and smuggled through the port officers by his Majesty’s connivance. The floor was laid with black Genoese marble, supposed to be the finest in Europe. On the ceiling an artist named Streater had depicted the loves of Jupiter, and it swarmed with naked full-breasted, round-hipped women in a variety of attitudes with men and beasts.

The bed, an immense four-posted structure with a massive tester, was covered with beaten silver and hung with scarlet velvet. And every other article of furniture in the room was thickly plated with silver; each chair, from the smallest stool to the great settee before the fireplace, was cushioned in scarlet. The window-hangings were silver-embroidered scarlet velvet. Above the fireplace and sunk flush with the wall was a more intimate and considerably more typical portrait of Amber, painted by Peter Lely. She lay on her side on a heap of black cushions, unashamedly naked, staring out with a slant-eyed smile at whoever paused to look.

The room seemed to possess a violent, almost savage personality. No human being had a chance of seeming important in it. And yet it was the envy of the Palace, for it was the most extravagant gesture anyone had yet made. Amber, not at all awed by it, loved it for its arrogance, its uncompromising challenge, its crude and boisterous beauty. It represented to her everything she had ever believed she wanted from life; and all she had got. It was her symbol of success.

But it was not enough, now she had it, to make her happy.

For though her days were perpetually busy, occupied with a never-ceasing round of gossip, new clothes, gambling, play-going, supper-giving, schemes and counter-schemes, she was never able to make herself forget Bruce Carlton. He would not leave her, no matter what she was doing, and though usually her longing for him was a low-keyed minor unhappiness it surged sometimes into tremendous and monumental music which seemed unbearable. When that happened, always when she least expected it, she would think and almost wish that she would die. It would seem impossible then that she could exist for another moment without him, and her yearning, wild and desperate, would reach out blindly—to inevitable disappointment.

About mid-March Almsbury arrived in London alone to attend to some business matters and amuse himself for a few weeks. Amber had not seen him since the previous August and the first question she asked was whether or not he had heard from Bruce.

“No,” said the Earl. “Have you?”

“Have I?” she demanded crossly. “Of course not! He’s never written me a letter in his life! But it’d seem he might at least let you know how he does!”

Almsbury shrugged. “Why should he? He’s busy—and as long as I don’t hear from him I know everything’s well with him. If it wasn’t he’d let me know.”

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes slipped him a stealthy glance. They were in her bedroom, Amber in a dressing-gown lying on a little day-bed with her trim ankles crossed, while Tansy sat on the floor beside her contemplating the frayed toes of his shoes. Though he could be very amusing, usually he did not speak unless spoken to and was quiet in a way which suggested some strange inner tranquillity, an almost animal self-sufficiency.

“What do you mean by that?” Almsbury’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her. “If you’re hoping that something’s happened to Corinna you may as well forget it. Hoping for another woman to die will never get you what you want, you know that as well as I do. He never intended to marry you anyway.”

There were times when some suppressed impatience or cruelty in the Earl crept into his attitude toward her. She took him so much for granted that it never occurred to her to wonder about the cause, though she was always very quick to take offense when it appeared.

“How do you know! He might have, now I’m a countess—if it hadn’t been for her—”

Her eyes hardened as she spoke of Corinna and her upper lip tightened stubbornly. But in a sense, she was almost glad to have Corinna as the reason and excuse for all her troubles—she could never otherwise have explained to herself or anyone else his refusal to marry her.

“Amber, my dear,” he said now, and his eyes and the tone of his voice had softened with a kind of affectionate pity. “There’s no use pretending to yourself, is there? He didn’t marry her because she’s rich and titled. Probably he wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been—no man in his position would—but if that was all he wanted he’d have married long ago. No, sweetheart—you might as well be honest with yourself. He loves her.”

“But he loves me too!” she cried desperately. “Oh, he does, Almsbury! You know he does!” Suddenly her voice and eyes grew wistful. “You think he loves me, don’t you?”

Almsbury smiled and reached across to take her hand. “My poor little darling. Yes, I think he does—and sometimes I almost think you’d have loved him even if he had married you.”

“Oh, of course I would!” she cried and then, half-ashamed: “Stop teasing me, Almsbury.” She glanced nervously away, feeling foolish. But all at once the words burst forth in a rush. “Oh, I do love him, Almsbury! You can’t imagine how much I love him! I’d do anything—anything in the world to get him! And I’d always love him—if I saw him every day and every night for a thousand years! Oh, you know it’s true, Almsbury—I’ve never loved another man—I never could!” Then, seeing some strange look come into his eyes, she was afraid that she had hurt him. “Oh, of course I love you, Almsbury—but in a different way—I—”

“Never mind, Amber. Don’t try to explain yourself—I know more about it than you do, anyway. You’re in love with three of us: the King, and Bruce—and me. And each one of us, I think, loves you. But you won’t get much happiness from any of it—because you want more than we’re willing to give. There’s not one of us you can get hold of the way you got hold of that poor devil of a young captain—what was his name?—or the old dotard who willed you his money. And do you want to know why? I’ll tell you. The King loves you—but no better than he’s loved a dozen other women and will one day love a dozen more. No woman on earth can hurt him, because he depends on them for nothing but physical pleasure. His sister is the only woman he really loves—but that’s neither here nor there so far as we’re concerned. Bruce loves you—but there are other things he loves more. And now there’s another woman he loves more. And last of all, darling—I love you too. But I’ve got no illusions about you. I know what you are and I don’t care—so you’ll never hurt me very much either.”

“Ye gods, Almsbury! Why should I want to hurt you—or anyone else? What the devil put that maggot into your head?”

“No woman’s ever satisfied unless she knows she can hurt the man who loves her. Come, now, be honest—it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve always thought you could make me miserable, if you ever wanted to try, haven’t you?” His eyes watched her steadily.

Amber smiled at him—the smile of a pretty woman who knows she is being admired. “Maybe I have,” she admitted at last. “Are you sure I couldn’t?”

For an instant he sat motionless, and then all at once he got to his feet; his white teeth were showing in a broad grin. “No, sweetheart, you couldn’t.” He stood and looked at her, his face serious again. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—if there’s any man on earth you could have married and been happy—it’s me.”

Amber stared at him, amazed, and then, with a little laugh, she stood up. “Almsbury! What in the devil are you talking about? If there’s one man I could have married and been happy it’s Bruce, and you know it—”

“You’re wrong about that.” But as she started to protest he began walking toward the door and she strolled along beside him. “I’ll see you in the Drawing-Room tonight—and we’ll raffle for that hundred pound you won from me yesterday.”

She laughed. “We can’t, Almsbury! I spent it this morning—for a new gown!” And then, just as he went out the door, she laughed again. “Imagine us married!”

He gave her a wave of his hand, without turning, but as he disappeared a thoughtful puzzled frown drew at her eyebrows. Almsbury and me—married. The idea had never occurred to her before. She had never wanted to be married to anyone but Bruce Carlton and it still seemed incredible that she could have been married happily to anyone else—even Almsbury. But how strange he should have said that—Almsbury, who thought no better of matrimony than did any other man of sense and wit.

Oh, well—she shrugged her shoulders and went back to complete her toilet. What use was it thinking about that now?

Besides, she had matters of importance to attend to. Durand would be there soon to dress her hair, and Madame Rouvière was coming to consult about her gown for the King’s birthday ball. She must decide whom to invite to her next supper—whether she should ask the French or the Spanish ambassador, and which one was likely to prove more generous in his gratitude. Should she ask Castlemaine, and let her steam all evening with jealous envy, or should she merely ignore her? Charles certainly would not care—nor would he leave the party at Barbara’s behest as he had been known to do, several years ago. It pleased Amber immeasurably to have in her own hands the settling of such issues—virtual life and death for the great or small of the Palace.

And now, since the day was evidently going to be a fine one, she decided to go driving in Hyde Park in her new caleche—a tiny two-seated carriage, precarious to sit in, but nevertheless showing the rider at great advantage from head to foot. She had a new suit of gold velvet and mink-tails and she intended to handle the reins herself—the prospect was exciting, for there was no doubt she would create a great sensation.

When Frances Stewart, now Duchess of Richmond, arrived back in town there was wild excitement at Court. Once more the whole pattern of existence was broken into pieces and must be put together again—politicians, mistresses, even lackeys and footmen began to wonder and to scheme and juggle, hoping to save themselves no matter what happened. At the Groom Porter’s Lodge they were betting that now Frances was a married woman she would have better sense than when she had been a virgin—they expected that she would soon occupy the place which had always been hers for the taking. And so, when she established herself at Somerset House and began to give vast entertainments, everyone went—not for Frances’s sake, but for their own. The King, however, much to their surprise, was never present and seemed unaware even that she had returned.

If Frances was troubled by this show of indifference she concealed it well. But she was by no means the only woman whose position depended upon the King’s favour who had cause for worry.

When Barbara came back from the country at the end of the year she had found the Countess of Danforth occupying her old place and two actresses flaunting his Majesty’s infatuation before all the Town. Moll Davis had left the stage and was occupying a handsome house he had furnished for her, and Nell Gwynne was not secretive about her frequent backstairs visits to the Palace. Barbara let it be known that the King begged her every day to take him back again, but that she scorned him as a man and would have nothing from him but money. In her heart, though, she was sick and afraid; she began to pay her young men great sums.

Charles, hearing of it, smiled a little sadly and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Poor Barbara. She’s growing old.”

But it was not only the women who furnished fodder for gossip. The Duke of Buckingham, too, continued to make himself conspicuous. Early in the new year the Earl of Shrewsbury was finally persuaded by his relatives that he must fight Buckingham and so he did, and was killed. After that the Duke took Lady Shrewsbury home with him to live, and when his patient little wife objected that such an arrangement was intolerable, he called a coach and sent her off to her father.

This amused Charles who said that his Grace could not possibly have devised a scheme to ruin him quicker with the Commons. But Buckingham had temporarily lost interest in the Commons and did not care what they thought of him—he could be faithful to his own plans no longer than to a woman.

Other events, less sensational but of more importance, were happening at the same time. Clarendon, though much against his will, had finally been forced by the King to flee the country, and all his daughter’s enemies took gleeful advantage of his disgrace to slight her. But Anne bore their envious contempt with hauteur and indifference, and managed to hold her own court together by a superior cleverness and determination. She told herself that these fools and their jealous pettifogging could mean nothing to her, for one day a child of hers would sit upon England’s throne—with every passing year the Queen’s barrenness made it more sure that she was right.

When Clarendon had gone his government was replaced by the Cabal, so called because the first letters of their five names spelled the word. It was made up of Sir Thomas Clifford, the one honest gentleman among them and hence suspected of wearing a false front; Arlington, who was his friend but jealous of him; Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. They shared a common hatred of Clarendon and fear of his possible return to power, and an almost equal hatred of York. Otherwise they were divided among themselves. Each distrusted and was afraid of every other—and the King trusted none of them, but was satisfied that at last he had a government which was completely his tool. He was cleverer than any one of them, or all of them together.

And so they set out to govern the nation.

England signed an alliance with Holland, by means of which Charles succeeded in compromising the Dutch so that when he was ready to fight them again they would have no chance of getting France to help them out. He intended, in fact, to have France on his side in the next war and his correspondence with his sister was now directed toward that end. The Dutch pact, together with secret treaties signed recently with both France and Holland, had given England the balance of power in Europe—and though accomplished by the grossest political chicanery it was typical of the King’s methods. For his charm and easy-going nature were a convenient shield, hiding from all but the most astute the fact that he was a cynical, selfish, and ruthlessly practical opportunist.

It was the Earl of Rochester who said that the three businesses of the age were politics, women, and drinking—and the first two, at least, were never quite separate.

Charles intensely disliked having a woman meddle in state affairs, but he found it impossible to keep them out. Accordingly he accepted, as he usually did, what he could not change. For as soon as a woman had attracted his attention or was known to be his mistress she was besieged on all sides—as the Queen never was—by petitions for help, offers of money in return for bespeaking a favour, proposals to ally herself with one or another of the Court factions. Amber had been involved in a dozen different projects before she was at Whitehall a fortnight. And as the months went by she wound herself tighter and closer into the web.

Buckingham, from the night of her presentation at Court, had seemed friendly—at least he always sided with her against Lady Castlemaine. Amber still mistrusted and despised him, but she took care he should not know it, for though he would make only a dubious friend he was sure to be a dangerous enemy. And she thought it less to her disadvantage to have him as the former. But for several months they made no demands upon each other, and neither made any test of the other’s good faith.

Then, one morning in late March, he paid her an unexpected call. “Well, my lord?” said Amber, somewhat surprised. “What brings you abroad so early?” It was not quite nine, and his Grace was seldom to be seen out of bed before midday.

“Early? This isn’t early for me—it’s late. I’ve not yet been abed. Have you a glass of sack? I’m damned dry.”

Amber sent for some sharp white wine and anchovies and while they waited for it to be brought the Duke flung himself into a chair next the fireplace and began to talk.

“I’ve just come from Moor Fields. Gad, you never saw anything like it! The ’prentices have pulled down a couple of houses, Mother Cresswell is yowling like a woman run mad, and the whores are throwing chamber-pots at the ’prentices’ heads. They say they’re coming next to pull down the biggest whorehouse of ’em all.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Whitehall.”

Amber laughed and poured out a glass of wine for each of them. “And I doubt not they’ll uncover more strumpets here than they’d ever find in Moor Fields.”

Buckingham reached into a coat-pocket and took out a wrinkled sheet of paper. It was printed in careless uneven lines, the fresh black ink was smeared and several thumb-prints showed. He handed it to her.

“Have you seen this?”

Amber read it over hastily.

It bore the title, “Petition of the Poor Whores to my Lady Castlemaine”; and that was what it pretended to be, though judging by the spelling and satirical content it was almost certainly the work of some person living close to the Court. In coarse broad terms it called upon Barbara, as the chief whore in England, to come to the aid of the beleaguered profession she had helped to glorify. Amber realized at once that this must be another of the Duke’s whimsical inventions to plague his cousin, for she knew that they had been quarrelling again, and she was both pleased to have Barbara humiliated and relieved that she herself had escaped.

She smiled at him, handing it back. “Has she seen it yet?”

“If she hasn’t, she soon will. They’re all over London. Vendors are hawking ‘em outside the ’Change and on every street corner. I saw a tiler laugh to read it till he almost fell off the roof he was laying. Now, what kind of sorry devil would plague her Ladyship with such a libel as that?”

Amber gave him a wide-eyed look. “Lord, your Grace! Who, indeed? I can’t think—can you?” She sipped her wine, savouring the salt taste of the anchovies.

For a moment they looked at each other, and then both of them grinned. “Well,” said his Grace, “it’s no matter, now it’s been done. I suppose it’s come to your ears his Majesty is making her a present of Berkshire House?”

Amber’s black eyebrows twisted. “Yes, of course. She makes mighty sure it comes to everyone’s ears, I’ll warrant you. And what’s more, she says he’s going to create a duchy for her.”

“Your Ladyship seems annoyed.”

“Me—annoyed? Oh, no, my lord,” protested Amber with polite sarcasm. “Why should I be annoyed, pray?”

“No reason at all, madame. No reason at all.” He looked expansive and pleased with himself, enjoying the warmth from the fire, the good wine in his stomach, and some private knowledge of his own.

“I’d be much less annoyed if he was giving Berkshire House to me! And as for a duchy—there’s nothing on earth I want so much!”

“Don’t worry. One day you’ll have it—when he wants to get rid of you, as someday he will.”

She looked at him for a moment in silence. “Do you mean to say, my lord—” she began at last.

“I do, madame. She’s through here at Whitehall. She’s done for good and all. I wouldn’t give a fig for the interest she’s got left at Court.”

But Amber was still skeptical. For eight years Barbara had ruled the Palace, interfered in state business, bullied her friends and tormented her enemies. She seemed as permanent and inalterable as the very bricks of the buildings.

“Well,” said Amber. “I hope you’re right. But only last night I saw her in the Drawing-Room and she said that Berkshire House should be proof to all the world his Majesty still loves her.”

Buckingham gave a snort. “Still loves her! He doesn’t even lie with her any more. But of course she hopes we’ll all believe her tale. For if the world thinks the King still loves her—why, that’s as good as if he did, isn’t it? But I know better. I know a thing or two the rest of you don’t.”

Amber did not doubt that, for his Grace had incalculable means of keeping himself well-posted. Little passed at Whitehall, of small or great importance, which escaped his drag-net of spies and informers.

“Whatever your Grace knows,” said Amber, “I hope is true.”

“True? Of course it’s true! Let me tell you something, madame—I’ m the means by which her Ladyship’s complete and final downfall was accomplished.” He seemed smug now and satisfied with himself, as though he had performed an act of unselfish service to the nation.

Amber looked at him narrowly. “I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Then I’ll speak more plainly. I knew Old Rowley’s wish to be rid of her—but I knew also the kind of bargain she’d try to drive. It was very simple: I merely told him that the love-letters she’s been threatening to publish were burnt many years ago.”

“And he believed you?” Amber was now inclined to think that he had ruined Barbara, duped the King, and was maneuvering to take some advantage of her.

“He not only believed me—it’s the truth. I saw ’em burnt myself. In fact, I advised her to do it!” Suddenly he slapped his knee and laughed, but Amber continued to watch him carefully, not at all convinced. “She’s in a blazing fury. She says she’ll have my head for that one day. Well, she can have it if she can get it—but Old Rowley’s mighty well pleased with me just now—and I’ve got a mind to die with my head on. Let her scheme and plan how she may—her fangs have been drawn and she’s helpless. You’re looking somewhat cynical, madame. It can’t be you think I’m lying?”

“I can believe you told him about the letters—but I can’t believe he won’t take her back again; he always has before. Why should he give her that house and promise her a duchy if he had done with her? It runs through the galleries he even had to borrow money to buy Berkshire.”

“I’ll tell you why, madame. He did it because he’s softhearted. When he’s had all he wants of a woman he can never bring himself to throw her aside. Oh, no. He must always deal fairly with each of ‘em, recognize their brats whether they’re his or not, pay ’em off with great sums of money to keep ’em from being slighted by the malicious world. Well, madame—I should think this would be good news to you. It was never my opinion you and Barbara Palmer had overmuch fondness for each-other.”

“I hate her! But after all the years she’s been in power—I can scarce believe it—”

“She can scarce believe it herself. But she’ll get accustomed to it before long. I was tired of her vapourings—and so I took steps to be rid of her. She’ll hang on here at Whitehall, perhaps for years, but she’ll never count for anything again. For once Old Rowley is thoroughly tired of anyone, whether man or woman, he has no further use for ’em. It’s our best protection against the Chancellor. Now, madame, it’s occurred to me that this leaves a place wide open for some clever woman to step into—”

Amber returned his steady stare. No ally of Buckingham’s was much to be envied. The Duke engaged in politics for nothing but his own amusement. He had no principles and no serious purpose but followed only his temporary whims, rejecting friendship, honour, and morality. He was bound to no one and to nothing. But in spite of all that he had a great name, a fortune still one of the largest in England, and high popularity with the rich merchants, the Commons, and the people of London. Even more persuasive, he had a streak of vindictive malice which, though not always persistent, could do vast damage at one impulsive stroke. Amber had long ago made up her mind about him.

“And suppose someone does take her Ladyship’s place?” she inquired softly.

“Someone will, I’ll pass my word for that. Old Rowley’s been governed by a woman since he first took suck from his wet-nurse. And this time, madame, the woman might be you. There’s no one in England just now with so happy an opportunity. Those gentlemen who are keeping company with the Duchess of Richmond these days are but washing the blackamoor. She’ll never please his Majesty long—that empty-headed giggling baggage. I’ll venture my neck on it. Now, I’m an old dog at this, madame, and understand these matters very well—and I’ve come to offer my services in your behalf.”

“Your Grace does me too much honour. I’m sure it’s more than I deserve.”

The Duke was suddenly brisk again. “We’ll dispense with the bowing and nodding. As you know, madame, if I like I can help you—in your turn, you may be of some use to me. My cousin made the mistake of thinking that all her business was done for her in bed and that it made no difference how she carried herself otherwise. That was a serious error, as no doubt she understands by now—if she has wit enough to see it. But that’s all water under the bridge and need not concern us. I admit to you freely, madame, I’ve made a lifelong study of his Majesty’s character and flatter myself I know it as well as any man who wears a head. If you will be guided by me I think that we might go near to molding England in our own design.”

Amber had no design for molding England and no wish to invent one. Politics, national or international, did not concern her except in so far as they affected the course of her personal wants or ambitions. Her intrigues did not extend—intentionally, at least, beyond the people she knew and the events she could observe. She was inclined to agree with Charles that his Grace had windmills in the head—but if it pleased the Duke to imagine himself engaged upon great projects she saw no reason to argue with him about it.

“Nothing could please me more, your Grace, than to be your friend and share your interests. Believe me for that—” She lifted her glass to him, and they drank together.

CHAPTER FIFTY–SEVEN

FRANCES STEWART WAS not long satisfied with her life in the country. She had always lived where there were many people, balls and supper-parties, hunting and plays, gossip and laughter and a continual rush of petty excitements. The country was quiet, days passed with monotonous similarity, and compared with the Palace her great house seemed lonely and deserted. There were no gallants to amuse her, flatter her, run to pick up a fan or help her down from horseback.

Her husband spent much of his time in the field and when he was home he was too often drunk. The steward managed the house—which she had never been trained to do anyway—and the idle hours bored her desperately, for no one had ever encouraged her to learn to be happy alone. She did not like being married, either, but of course she had not expected to like it.

She had married because it had seemed the only way that she could be an honest and respected woman—and that had been the wish of her life. No doubt the Duke really loved her and was grateful she had married him, but he seemed to her dull and uncouth compared with the well-bred gentlemen of Whitehall who had a thousand amusing tricks to make a lady laugh.

And love-making revolted her. She dreaded each night as it began to grow dark, and invented many small illnesses to keep him away. She had a horror of pregnancy which sometimes made her actually sick, and more than once she experienced all the symptoms without the actuality.

Constantly she thought of the Town and Court and the fine life she had had there—which she had not valued at a great price then but which now seemed to her the most pleasant and desirable existence on earth. She spent endless hours dreaming of the balls she had attended, the clothes she had worn, the men who had gathered around her wherever she went to fawn upon and compliment her; she lived over again and again each small remembered episode, feeding her loneliness on them.

But more than anything else, she thought of King Charles. She considered now that he was the handsomest and most fascinating man she had ever known, and she had found to her dismay that she was in love with him. She wondered why she had not been wise enough to know it sooner. How different her life might have been! For now that she had her respectability it seemed much less important than her mother had assured her it was. What else could a woman need—if she had the King’s protection?

She longed to return to London; but what if he was not ready to forgive her? What if he had forgotten he had ever loved her at all? She had heard of his most recent mistresses: the Countess of Northumberland, the Countess of Danforth, Mary Knight, Moll Davis, Nell Gwynne. Perhaps he had lost all interest in her by now. Frances remembered well enough that once people were out of his sight—no matter how well he might like them—he promptly forgot their existence.

She tried to take an interest in painting or in playing her guitar or in working a tapestry. But those things did not seem entertaining to her, done alone. She was thoroughly, wretchedly bored.

Finally she coaxed the Duke to return to London, and at first her hopes ran exuberantly high. Everyone came to her supper-parties and balls. She was as much courted and sought-out as she had been after her first triumphant appearance at Whitehall. She knew perfectly well that everyone now expected the King would soon relent and make her his mistress, and for the first time she was almost ready to accept that position with its advantages and hazards. But Charles, apparently, did not even know that she was in town.

That went on for four months.

At first Frances was surprised, then she became angry, and finally hurt and frightened. What if he intended never to forgive her? The mere thought terrified her, for she knew the Court too well not to understand that once they were convinced he had lost interest they would flock away, like daws leaving a plague-stricken city. With horror she faced the prospect of being forced to return to her life of idle seclusion in the country—the years seemed to spin out in an endless dreary prospect before her.

And then, not quite a year from the day she had eloped, Frances became seriously ill. At first the doctors thought it might be pregnancy or an ague or a severe attack of the vapours —but after a few days they knew for certain that it was small-pox. Immediately Dr. Fraser sent a note to the King. The resentment Charles had felt against her, his cynical conviction that she had deliberately played him for a fool, vanished in a flood of horror and pity.

Small-pox! Her beauty might be ruined! He thought of that even before he thought of the threat to her life—for it seemed to him that such beauty as Frances had was a thing almost sacred, and should be inviolable to the touch of God or man. To mar or destroy it would be vandalism, in his eyes almost a blasphemy. And she still meant more to him than he had been willing to admit these past months, for she had a kind of freshness and purity which he did not discover in many women he knew and which appealed strongly to the disillusion of his tired and bitter heart.

He would have gone immediately to visit her but the doctors advised against it for fear he might carry the infection and spread it to others. He wrote instead. But though he tried to make his letter sound confident and unworried it had a false flat sound to him, for he did not believe it himself. He had scant faith left in anything, certainly not in the duty of God to preserve a woman’s beauty for men’s eyes. He had found God a negligent debtor who cared little to keep His accounts straight. But he sent her his own best physicians and pestered them constantly for news of her.

How was she feeling? Was she better today? Good! Was she cheerful? And—would she be marred? They always told him what he wanted to hear, but he knew when they were lying.

It was the end of the first week in May—more than a month later—before they would let him see her. And then when his coach rolled into the courtyard of Somerset House he found it jammed full with a score or more of others. Evidently word had spread that he was coming, and they had wanted to be there to see the meeting between them. Charles muttered a curse beneath his breath and his face turned hard and sombre.

Damn them all for their ghoulish curiosity, their cheap petty minds and malignant poking into the sorrows of others.

He got out of his coach and went inside. Mrs. Stewart, Frances’s mother, had been expecting him. He saw at a glance that she was nervous and excited, close to tears, and he knew then for certain that the doctors had been lying to him.

“Oh, your Majesty! I’m so glad you’ve come! She’s been longing to see you! Believe me, Sire, she’s never forgiven herself for that wretched trick she played on you!”

“How is she?”

“Oh, she’s much better! Very much better! She’s dressed and sitting up—though she’s weak yet, of course.”

Charles stood looking down at her, his black eyes reading what was behind her odd fluttering gestures, her quick breathless way of speaking, the anguish in her eyes and the new lines beneath them.

“May I see her now?”

“Oh, yes, your Majesty! Please come with me.”

“From the look of the courtyard, I’d say I’m not the only visitor she has today.”

Mrs. Stewart was mounting the stairs beside him. “It’s the first day she’s been allowed visitors, you see. The room’s quite full—all the town’s in there.”

“Then I think I’ll step into this anteroom until they leave.”

She went to send them away with the plea that Frances had had excitement enough for one day. Charles stood behind the closed door listening to them troop by, chattering and giggling with irresponsible malice. When at last they were gone Mrs. Stewart came for him. They walked down the gallery and into Frances’s own apartments, then through several more rooms until finally they reached the bedchamber where she sat waiting.

She half lay on a couch that faced the door and she was wearing a lovely silken gown which hung in folds to the floor. The draperies had been pulled across all windows to darken the room —it was only two o’clock—and though several candles burned all of them were placed at a distance from her. Charles swept off his hat and bowed, then immediately crossed the room to stand before her. He bowed again, deeply, and reluctantly he raised his eyes to look at her. What he saw sickened him.

She had changed. Oh, even in this dim light she had changed. The disease had spared her nothing. There were ugly red splotches and deep pock-marks on the skin that had been smooth and white as a water-lily, and one eye was partly closed. All that pure and perfect beauty was gone. But it was the misery in Frances’s own upraised begging eyes that struck him hardest.

Mrs. Stewart was still in the room—for Charles had asked her to stay—and she stood with her hands clasped before her, anxious and worried as she watched them. But Charles and Frances had forgotten she was there.

“My dear,” he said softly, forcing himself to speak after too long a silence. “Thank God you’re well again.”

Frances stared at him, struggling for self-control but afraid to trust her voice. At last she managed a pitiful little smile, but the corners of her mouth began to quiver. “Yes, your Majesty. I’m well again.” Her soft low voice dropped to a mere whisper. “If it’s anything to be grateful for.”

There was a sudden bitter twist of her mouth, her eyes went down and she looked quickly away. All at once she covered her face with her hands and began to cry, shoulders and body shaken with the violence of her sobs. It was, he knew, not only the agony of having him see what had happened to her, but the culmination of all she had endured this afternoon—the curious cruel spiteful eyes of the men and women who had been there, all elaborately polite, sympathetic, falsely cheerful. They had taken their revenge on her for every moment of grudging admiration she had ever had, for each fawning compliment, each hypocritical friendship.

Instantly Charles dropped to one knee beside her. His hand touched her arm lightly, the deep tones of his voice began to plead with her. “I’ve been so worried for you, Frances! Oh, my dear—forgive me for acting like a jealous fool!”

“Forgive you? Oh, Sire!” She looked at him, her hands still covering all her face but her eyes, as though she could hide from him behind them. “It’s I who must ask your forgiveness! That’s why this happened to me—I know it is!—to punish me for what I did to you!”

A wave of almost unbearable pity and tenderness swept over him. He felt that he would have given everything he possessed on earth to have her beautiful again, to see her look at him with her old teasing confident coquetry. But it had all gone forever, the sparkling expressions of her face, the happy laughter of a lovely woman who knows that her beauty will buy forgiveness for anything. Savage anger filled him. God in heaven! Does the world spoil everything it touches?

“Don’t talk like that, Frances. Please. I don’t know what made me act like such a fool—But when I heard you were sick I was out of my mind. If anything had happened to you—But thank God you’re well again! I’m not going to lose you.”

She looked at him for a long serious moment, as though wondering whether or not he could see the change in her—pathetically hoping—But it was no use. Of course he could see it. Everyone else had—why shouldn’t he?

“I’m well again, yes,” she murmured. “But I wish I weren’t. I wish I were dead. Look at me—!” Her hands came down, her voice was a lonely cry, anguished and full of desperation; behind them they heard a sudden hard sob from her mother. “Oh, look at me! I’m ugly now!”

He grabbed her hand. “Oh, but you’re not, Frances! This won’t last, I promise you it won’t! Why, you should have seen me after I’d had it. I was enough to frighten the devil himself. But now—look—you can’t see a mark.” He looked up eagerly into her face, smiling, holding both her hands against his heavy beating heart. He felt a passionate longing to help her, to make her believe again in the future, though he did not believe in it himself. And as he talked her eyes began to lighten, something like hope came back into her face. “Why, in no time at all it won’t be possible to tell you’ve ever had the small-pox. You’ll come to the balls and they’ll all say that you’re more beautiful than ever. You’ll be more beautiful than you were that first night I saw you. Remember, darling, that black-and-white lace gown you were wearing, with the diamonds in your hair—”

Frances watched him, fascinated, listening intently. His words had the sound of some old and half-intentionally forgotten melody. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I remember—and you asked me to dance with you—”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you—I’d never seen such a beautiful woman—”

She smiled at him, passionately grateful for his kindness, but the game was a sorry one and she knew as well as he did that they were only pretending. With all the effort of will she could summon she held back the tears while he sat with her and talked, trying desperately to take her mind off herself. But all her thoughts were wholly of her own tragedy; and Charles, too, could think of nothing else.

Oh, why did it happen to her? he thought, furious with resentment. Why should it have happened to Frances, who had been gay and sweet and friendly, when there were other women who better deserved a fate like that—

But Charles was a stubborn man.

Once, he had said that he hoped someday to find her ugly and willing. He had forgotten the thoughtless words, but he had not forgotten the years of waiting and pleading and promising, the ache of desire, the longing for possession and fulfillment. And now, all at once, it was she who had become the supplicant.

Late one afternoon they were in the garden that ran down to the river behind Somerset House, strolling arm in arm between a tall row of clipped limes. Frances was dressed in a lovely blue-satin gown with flounces of black lace on the skirt; a veil of black lace was flung over her hair and fell across her face to her chin. With her feeling for beauty, she had instinctively begun to try to compensate for what the disease had done to her. She used her fan for concealment, veils to shield her skin, and now when she paused beside the river it was in the shadow of a great elm.

Silently they stood looking out over the water, and then her hand in the bend of his arm tightened slowly and he turned to find her staring up at him. For a moment Charles made no move but stood watching her, and he saw that she was asking him to kiss her. His arms went about her and this time there was no holding him off with her finger-tips, no giggle of protest as his body pressed close. Instead she clung to him, her arms drawing him to her, and he could feel in her mouth not real passion but eagerness to please—a frightened premonition that he would no longer find her desirable.

Charles, his pity for her over-riding his inevitable reaction to a woman’s body and lips, released her gently. But she did not want to let him go. Her hands caught at his upper arms.

“Oh, you were right all along! I was a fool—You should never have been so patient with me!”

Surprised at her frankness, he said softly, “My dear, I hope that I shall never be any such bungler as to take a woman against her will.”

“But I—” she began, and then stopped suddenly, blushing. All at once she turned and went running up the path, and he knew that she was crying.

The next night, however, as he was getting alone into a scull at the Palace stairs to take a short evening ride on the river he made a sudden decision, turned the boat around, and started toward Somerset House. The little craft went skimming over the water’s surface; he beached it and jumped out. The water-gate was locked but in a moment he had vaulted the wall and was off on a run through the gardens toward the house.

I’ve waited five years and a half for this, he thought. I hope to God it hasn’t been too long!

CHAPTER FIFTY–EIGHT

CHARLES AND THE Duke of Buckingham sat across the table from each other examining a small but perfect model for a new man-of-war, both of them absorbed and eagerly excited in the discussion. Charles had always loved ships and the sea. He knew so much about both, in fact, that many considered such a command of technical knowledge to be quite beneath a king’s dignity. Nevertheless, the navy was his pride and he still smarted from the humiliation of having the Dutch sail into his rivers, plunder his countryside, burn and sink his finest ships. He intended one day to repay that insult—meanwhile he was building a stronger and bigger navy. It was the plan and hope of his life that England should someday sail the seas, supreme unchallenged mistress of all the waters on earth—for that way and that alone, he knew, lay greatness for his little kingdom.

At last Charles got to his feet. “Well—I can’t stay admiring this any longer. I’m engaged to play tennis with Rupert at two.” He picked his wig from where it was perched on the back of a chair, set it on his head and glancing into a mirror clapped his wide hat down over it.

Buckingham stood up, his own hat under his arm. “On a day hot as this? I marvel at your Majesty’s industry.”

Charles smiled. “It’s my daily physic. I need my health so that I may keep up with my amusements.”

The two men went out the door, Charles closed and locked it behind him and dropped the key into his coat-pocket. They crossed through several more rooms, mounted a narrow flight of stairs, and came at last into the great Stone Gallery. There, coming toward them with her woman beside her and a little blackamoor to carry her train, was Frances Stewart. She waved to attract their attention and as they paused to wait for her, she hastened her steps.

Buckingham bowed, Charles smiled, and as she reached them he gave her a light careless friendly salute on the lips. But as Frances looked up at him her eyes were pathetic and anxious; she could never for an instant forget the terrible fact that her beauty was gone. All her manner had changed, as if to compensate for the thing she had lost. Now she was eager, nervously vivacious, wistful.

“Oh, your Majesty! I’m so glad we chanced to meet! It’s been a week and more since I’ve seen you—”

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a great deal to do—council-meetings and ambassadors—”

She had heard him make similar excuses, many times before, to other women. Then she had teased him for lying and laughed about it, because in those days she had laughed joyously at everything.

“I wish you’d come to supper. Can’t you come tonight? I’ve invited ever so many others—” she added quickly.

“Thank you very much, Frances, but I’m engaged for tonight, and have been for so long I dare not break it.” Her disappointment was painful to see, and because it made him uncomfortable he added: “But I’ll be free tomorrow night. I can come then if you like.”

“Oh, can you, sir!” Instantly her face brightened. “I’ll order everything you like best to eat—and I’ll bespeak Moll Davis to give us a performance!” She turned to Buckingham. “I’d like to have you come too, your Grace—with my Lady Shrewsbury, of course.”

“Thank you, madame. If I can, I’ll be there.”

Frances curtsied, the men bowed, and then continued on their way down the corridor. For several moments Charles was silent. “Poor Frances,” he said at last. “It makes my heart sick to see her.”

“She’s considerably impaired,” admitted the Duke. “But at least it stopped her infernal giggling. I haven’t heard her giggle once these two months past.” Then, very casually, he said: “Oh, yes—Lauderdale was telling me about her Majesty’s escapade last night.”

Charles laughed. “I think everyone has heard of it by now. I didn’t guess she had so much mettle.”

Catherine had put on a disguise and left the Palace with Mrs. Boynton to attend a betrothal party in the City—to which, of course, neither had been invited. Masked and wigged they had gone in boldly, mingled with the other guests, but had become separated in the crowd so that the Queen had been forced to return home alone in a hackney. It was the kind of prank the ladies and gentlemen were always playing—but Catherine had never dared go on such an adventure before and the Palace buzzed with shock and amusement to learn their mousey little Queen had finally braved the great forbidding world outside her castle-walls.

“They said she was trembling all over when she first came in,” continued Charles. “But after a few minutes she began to laugh and told it all as a good frolic. The chair-men who carried her there were devilish rude fellows, she said, and the hackney-driver so drunk she expected he would tumble her into the streets!” He seemed highly amused. “All the citizens were grumbling I’d led the country straight to hell! She makes a good intelligence-agent, don’t you agree? I’ve a notion to send her out often.”

Buckingham’s face had a look of sour reproval. “It was mighty indecorous. And worse yet—mighty dangerous.”

Now they emerged into the hot July sunshine and had to squint their eyes till they had accustomed themselves to the glare. They started off across the Privy Gardens toward the Tennis Court, passing several men and women who were strolling there or standing talking, and the King greeted many of them with a smile or a wave of the hand. Sometimes he paused to talk for a moment or called out a friendly greeting. Buckingham did not like these interruptions.

“Oh, I don’t imagine she was in any great danger,” said Charles. “Anyway, she’s safely back now.”

“But another time, Sire, she might not return safely.”

Charles gave a burst of laughter. “Sure, now, George—you don’t think anyone considers me rich enough to make it worth their while to kidnap my wife?”

“It wasn’t ransom I had in mind. Has it never occurred to you, Sire, that her Majesty might be kidnapped and sent to a desert island and never heard from again?”

“I must confess, I haven’t worried a great deal at the prospect.” Charles waved his arm at a couple of pretty women sitting several yards away on the lawn, and they laughed and nudged each other, fluttering their fans at him in return.

“There are many such islands,” continued Buckingham, ignoring the interruption, “located in the West Indies. There is no reason why one of them could not be supplied with every possible comfort. A woman might live out the rest of her days at ease in such a place.”

A quick scowl crossed Charles’s face and he looked sharply at the Duke. “Do I misunderstand you, Villiers, or are you suggesting that I get rid of my wife by having her kidnapped?”

“The idea is by no means impracticable, your Majesty. I had given it considerable thought, in fact—even to the point of locating a suitable island on the map—long before her Majesty took to this indiscreet new pastime of masquerading.”

Charles made a sound of disgust. “You’re a scoundrel, George Villiers! I don’t deny that I desperately need an heir—but I’ll never get one by any such means as that! And let me tell you one thing more: If her Majesty is ever harmed or molested—if she ever disappears—I’ll know where to lay the blame. And you won’t wear a head so long as an hour! Good-day!”

He gave Buckingham a brief dark look of anger and then walked swiftly away from him into the building which housed the tennis-courts. The Duke turned on his heel and went off in the other direction, muttering beneath his breath.

But that had by no means been the first, nor was it to be the last, of the schemes presented to Charles for getting Catherine out of the way so that he could marry again and produce a legitimate heir. Half the men at Court were busy plotting schemes, giving them to the King, then starting out to plot another as each in turn was rejected. The only persons of any influence who did not want Catherine to be replaced were York, Anne Hyde, their few adherents—and the King’s mistresses.

Annoyed with the King, Buckingham avoided Whitehall for several days and spent his time with the rich City men he knew. But he soon grew bored with that too. He had nothing but contempt for these fat credulous men who believed whatever he told them, and because it was almost second nature to him he began to hatch another plot.

For the past few years the Duke had been hiring several different lodgings scattered about in various parts of the town, and he went to one or another as the mood took him. It was for greater convenience and secrecy in his political machinations, that he kept a trunkful of disguises and rented a dozen different apartments.

In Idle Lane, just off Thames Street and hard by the Tower, a lodging-house had been left standing after the Fire had swept through. It now had for company three others, still in the process of building, another completed the year before and rented out to an ale-house keeper to entertain the workmen, and one other which had collapsed when half built because of bad mortar and bricks. (This was a common occurrence all over the City where new houses were going up.) The busy Thames ran nearby, close enough that the shouts of the bargemen and the girls hawking oysters in the street could be heard. Buckingham had rented three rooms on the fourth floor, using one of the fictitious names which it amused him to invent; this time he was Er Illingworth.

The Duke, wearing a Turkish dressing-gown and turban, a pair of slippers with turned-up toes, lay stretched out sound asleep on the long straight-backed settle near the fireplace where sea-coals had burnt down to a glowing red. There was no air in the room and very little light, for it was after dark and he had been asleep since mid-day.

A knock sounded at the door and then was repeated as Buckingham’s snore continued to rattle through the room. At the fourth knock he sat up with a start, his face flushed and swollen with sleep, gave his head a shake and got up. But he did not throw back the bolt before he had asked who it was.

A fat short red-faced priest stood in the doorway, dressed in robe and sandals, a cowl over his tonsured head, a prayerbook in his hands.

“Good evening to you, Father Scroope.”

“Good evening, sir.” The priest was out of breath from hurrying up the stairs. “I came with all haste—but I was at her Majesty’s evening devotions when I got the message.” His eyes looked over the Duke’s shoulder and into the half-lighted bedroom beyond. “Where is the patient? There is no time to be lost—”

Behind him Buckingham closed the door, quietly turned the key in the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. “There is no one sick here, Father Scroope.”

The priest turned and looked at him in surprise. “No one sick? But I was told—the messenger told me that a man was dying—”

He sat down in a high-backed chair while the Duke poured two glassfuls of canary wine, handed one to his guest, and then pulled up another chair so that they sat face to face.

“I wanted you to come as quickly as possible—so I sent a message that there was sickness. Don’t you know me now, Father?”

Father Scroope, who had already drunk down his wine and was holding the glass in his pudgy pink hands, peered closely at Buckingham, and slow recognition came to his face.

“Why—your Grace!”

“None other.”

“Forgive me, sir! I vow you’re so altered by your undress I didn’t recognize you—and the light, of course, is dim—” he added apologetically.

Buckingham smiled, reached for the wine-bottle and filled both their glasses again. “You say you’ve just come from her Majesty’s devotions?”

“Yes, your Grace. Her Majesty has learnt a great many new habits, but never to retire without evening prayers—for which God be thanked,” he added, with a pious roll of his eyes.

“You hear her Majesty’s confessions, as well, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Sometimes, yes, your Grace.”

Buckingham laughed shortly. “Much she can have to confess, I imagine! What could her sins be—coveting a new gown or gambling on Sunday? Or perhaps wishing that his Majesty’s child was in her own belly and not in some other woman’s?”

“Ah, well, my lord—poor lady. That’s but a venial sin. And I fear we all of us commit it with her.” Father Scroope drained his glass again, and again the Duke filled it.

“But wishing won’t cure the matter. The fact remains she’s barren—and always will be.”

“She’s been with child, I’m convinced. But there’s somewhat amiss keeps her from carrying to term.”

“And always will. His Majesty will never have a legitimate heir by Catherine of Braganza. And if the throne goes to York the country’s ruined.” Father Scroope widened his popped blue eyes at this, for York’s Catholic sympathies were notorious, and Buckingham was well known for his hatred of the Church. But the Duke said quickly, “Not because of his religion, Father. The case is more serious far than that. His Highness has not the means to govern the country. It would fall into civil war again within six months if he came to the throne.” The Duke’s face was passionately serious. He leaned forward, the hand holding his wine-glass clutched on his knee, pointing with the forefinger of the other at Father Scroope’s bewildered round face. “It’s your duty, Father, as you love England and the Stuarts, to lend me aid in what I propose—and I may as well tell you frankly that his Majesty is behind me in this but prefers, for obvious reasons, to remain out of it altogether.”

“You’ve mistaken your man, your Grace! I can’t take action against her Majesty—no matter who’s behind it!” Father Scroope was scared; even his plump cheeks quivered. He began to get out of his seat but Buckingham, with a gentle but persuasive hand, pressed him back again.

“Not so hasty, Father, I pray you! Hear me out first. And remember this—you owe your first allegiance to your King!” As he spoke Buckingham looked like all the magnificent selfless patriots of history, and Father Scroope, thoroughly impressed, sat down again. “We do not intend to harm her Majesty in any way at all—make yourself easy on that score. But for the sake of England, the King, my master, and I have devised a plan for getting him another wife. This he can do and have an heir for England in a year’s time if her Majesty will agree to return to the life she once lived and enjoyed—the life of the cloister.”

“I don’t think I quite understand your Grace’s meaning—”

“Very well, then, this is it: You’re her confessor. You talk to her in private. If you can persuade her to make a voluntary retirement from the world, go back to Portugal and enter a nunnery, his Majesty will be free to marry again. And if you succeed,” continued Buckingham hastily, as Father Scroope opened his mouth again to speak, “his Majesty will endow you with a fortune great enough to support you in any style whatever throughout the rest of your life. And to begin—” Buckingham got up and once more he went to take a leather bag from the mantelpiece and handed it to Father Scroope. “You’ll find a thousand pound in there—and that’s only a beginning.” Father Scroope took it, feeling the weight of the money, but politely restrained himself from opening it. “Well, Father—what’s your answer?”

For a long moment the priest hesitated, thoughtful, worried, unable to make up his mind. “His Majesty wants this done?” he repeated, dubiously.

“He does. Sure, now, Father, you don’t think I’d dare act in so important a matter without his Majesty’s instructions?”

“Certainly not, your Grace.” Father Scroope got to his feet, placing the wine-glass on a nearby table-top. “Well—I’ll try what influence I can have, your Grace.” He frowned, shot a quick glance across at the Duke. “But suppose I fail? These gentle little women are sometimes stubborn.”

Buckingham smiled. “You won’t fail, Father Scroope. I’m sure you won’t. For if you do you’ll get no more money—and you’ll give all of that back. And needless to say, if this conversation is ever repeated it will go hard with you.” The relentless glitter in his eyes suggested more than he said.

“Oh, I’m altogether discreet, your Grace!” protested Father Scroope. “You may trust me!”

“Good! Well—go along now. And when you have information send it to me by some random boy you find on the street. Write in it that my new cloth-of-silver suit is finished and sign it—Let me see—” The Duke paused, stroking his mustache. Finally he smiled. “Sign it Israel Whoremaster.”

“Israel! Whoremaster! Your Grace has a nimble wit!”

“Come now, you old villain,” said the Duke, strolling beside him toward the door. “Don’t try to wheedle me. I’ve heard tales aplenty about you and your girls.”

But Father Scroope did not think the jest funny. He looked both angry and worried. “I protest, your Grace! They’re all lies! Damned lies! I’d be ruined if such a tale gained general credit! Her Majesty wouldn’t retain me an hour’s time!”

“Very well, then,” drawled the Duke, bored. “Keep your virginity if you like. Only don’t miscarry in this business. I’ll expect word from you within the week.”

“A little longer, your Grace—”

“Ten days, then.”

He closed the door on Father Scroope and slammed the bolt.

Amber stood listening to Father Scroope.

At the price of fifteen hundred pounds he had just sold her Buckingham’s plot against the Queen. For, whether his Majesty was in it or wasn’t, he had no intention of talking himself out of a comfortable place at Court—if the Queen went into a nunnery he would be left drifting and unprotected in an England hostile to the Catholics. Charles, it was true, had tried repeatedly to gain toleration for all religions, but Parliament hated that policy and Parliament could force obedience by refusing to grant money.

“Good Lord!” she whispered in horror. “That devil’s going to be the ruin of us all! Have you talked to her?”

Father Scroope closed his fat lips smugly, crossed his hands on his stomach and slowly shook his head. “Not one word, your Ladyship. Not so much as one word. And I was alone with her Majesty in the confessional booth today, too.”

“And you’d better not speak one word, either! You know what would happen to you if her Majesty left! Oh, damn that varlet! I wish someone would slit his throat!”

“Will you tell her Majesty?”

“Tell her? Of course I’ll tell her! Maybe he’s paid someone else to talk to her already!”

“I don’t think so, madame. Though I doubt not he will if he finds he’s failed with me.”

At that moment Nan entered softly and beckoned to Amber. Amber started out. “Come on,” she said to him. “The way’s clear. You can go now.”

They left the room and went into a very narrow dark corridor. The two women knew their way but Father Scroope had to feel with his hands along the wall until they came to a door. There Amber and the Father waited back out of sight while Nan opened the door, peeked, and then motioned for them to follow her. Outside they could hear the quiet washing of the river as it came up into the reeds and rushes which grew along the banks. Amber had the same trouble everyone else did who lived on the side of the Palace next the water; the lower floor of her apartments was sometimes invaded by the overflowing Thames.

But Father Scroope had scarcely set one foot out the door when there was a sudden splashing and—so close that it seemed to be almost upon them—the sound of heavy breathing and struggling and men’s voices in low muttered curses. Quick as a jackrabbit, the Father jumped back inside and Amber froze where she was, reaching out to grab hold of Nan’s hand.

“What was that!”

“John must have caught someone snooping,” whispered Nan. She spoke a little louder, just enough to be heard a few feet away. “John—”

He answered, his voice also low and cautious. “I’m here—Caught a fellow hiding in the reeds. He’s alone—”

“Go on,” whispered Amber to Father Scroope, and he streaked out the door and disappeared; they could hear the loud sucking noises of his feet as he hurried away through the mud. “Bring him in here,” she said to Big John, and went back herself into the small room out of which she and Father Scroope had just come.

There she and Nan turned to see Big John come in dragging by the nape of the neck a thin angry little man who still kicked and flailed out with his arms, though each time he did so Big John gave him a rough shake that quieted him. Both of them were muddy almost to the knees and splashed with water. John tossed him into a heap in one corner. He began to shake himself and to straighten his clothes, ignoring all of them with an elaborate pretense of being alone.

“What were you doing out there?” demanded Amber.

He neither looked at her nor made an answer.

She repeated the question and this time he gave her merely a sullen glare as he pulled at his coat-sleeve.

“You insolent wretch! I think I know a way to make you find your tongue!”

She gave a nod of her head to Big John and he stepped to a table, opened one of the drawers and took out a short whip having several narrow leather thongs, each of them tipped with lead.

“Now will you answer me!” cried Amber.

He continued silent and Big John raised the whip and slashed it down over his chest and shoulders, one leaden tip biting into his cheek and drawing blood. While Amber and Nan stood coolly watching he lashed at him again and then again, striking him ruthlessly, though the man writhed and drew up his legs, trying to protect his face and head with his hands. At last he gave a sobbing moan.

“Stop! for the love of God—stop! I’ll tell you—”

Big John let the whip fall to his side and stepped back; drops of blood splashed off the leaden ends onto the floor.

“You’re a fool!” said Amber. “What did it get you to hold your peace? Now tell me—what were you doing out there, and who sent you?”

“I dare not tell. Please—your Ladyship.” His voice took on an ingratiating whine. “Don’t make me tell, your Ladyship. If I do my master will have me beaten.”

“And if you don’t, I will,” retorted Amber, with a significant glance at Big John who stood with both fists on his hips, alert and waiting.

The man glanced up, frowned, gave a sigh and then licked at his lips. “I was sent by his Grace—the Duke of Buckingham.”

That was what she had expected. She knew that Buckingham watched her closely but this was the first time she had actually caught one of his spies, though she had discharged four serving-girls she had suspected of being in his pay.

“What for?”

The man talked readily now, but in a sullen monotone, his eyes on the floor. “I was to watch Father Scroope—everywhere he went—and report to his Grace.”

“And where will you report that you saw him tonight?” Her eyes stared at him, slanting, bright and hard and pitiless.

“Why—uh—he didn’t leave his quarters at all tonight, your Ladyship.”

“Good. Remember that, now. Next time my man won’t be so gentle with you. And don’t come back here to prowl again, unless you want your nose slit. Take ’im out, John.”

CHAPTER FIFTY–NINE

AMBER HAD ALWAYS been friendly and respectful in her association with the Queen, partly because it seemed politic, partly because she was sorry for her. But her pity was casual and her half-affection cynical—it was the same feeling she had for Jenny Mortimer and Lady Almsbury, or any other woman from whom it seemed she had little to fear. And yet she knew that Catherine, when given the opportunity, was a good and diligent friend; she was so generally ignored by the self-seekers who swarmed Whitehall that she had come to be almost grateful to whoever sought her favour. It had occurred to Amber that this would be a very good opportunity to gain her Majesty’s goodwill—which might be put to use in her own behalf.

Her talk with the Queen had the effect she wanted. Catherine —though struck with horror and bewilderment to learn that her enemies were again plotting to get rid of her—was easily persuaded that King Charles knew nothing of the plan and would have been furious if he had. Her wish to believe that he saved some part of his squandered affections for her, that he continued to think that one day she could give him the heir they both so passionately desired, was pathetic even to Amber. And though Amber did not just then mention her wish for a duchy she spoke of it a few days later; and Catherine immediately, though with a certain shyness, for she was aware of her limited influence, offered to help her if she could. Amber congratulated herself that she had made a friend—not the most powerful one, perhaps; but a friend who could be of any use at all was not to be scorned.

At Court there was a saying that an unprofitable friend was equal to an insignificant enemy. Amber did not trouble herself with either.

She had soon learned that in the Palace opportunities never came to those who sat and waited—patience and innocence were two useless commodities there. It was necessary to be ceaselessly active, to be informed about each great and small event which passed above or belowstairs, to take advantage of everyone and everything. It was a kind of life to which she adjusted herself rapidly and with ease—nothing inside her rebelled against it.

By now she had surrounded herself with a system of espionage which spread in every direction, from the Bowling Green to Scotland Yard and from the Park Gate to the Privy Stairs. Whatever complaints might be made about his Majesty’s secret-service could certainly not be applied to the courtiers, for vast sums were continuously being paid out to keep each man and woman there informed about his neighbours’ doings, whether in love, religion, or politics.

Amber employed a strange assortment of persons. There were two or three of Buckingham’s footmen; a man whom he used for confidential business of his own but who was glad to make a few hundred pounds more by reporting on his master; the Duke’s tailor; the Duchess’s dressmaker and Lady Shrewsbury’s hair-dresser. Madame Bennet kept her informed about the extra-marital activities of many gentlemen, including his Grace, and amused her with stories of Buckingham’s weird devices for stirring up his worn and weary emotions. She received further information on others about the Court from a miscellaneous collection of whores, tavern-waiters, pages, barge-men, sentries.

Many of these spies she never saw at all and most of them had no idea as to who their employer might be. For it was Nan—wearing a blonde or black wig over her golden-red hair, a full-face vizard together with hood and flowing cloak, who went about her mistress’s business after nightfall. Big John Waterman went along to take care of her, dressed now as a porter, now as footman for a great lady, or sometimes merely as a plain citizen. Nan took the news and delivered the money, haggling for a good bargain and proud of herself if she saved Amber a pound, for she had a better memory of the lean days than her mistress.

Amber knew where and with whom the King spent his nights when she did not see him. She knew every time Castlemaine took a new lover or ordered a new gown. She knew when the Queen seemed to have symptoms of pregnancy, what was said in the Council room, which Maid of Honour had just had a secret abortion, what lord or lady was being treated in a Leather Lane powdering-tub for the pox. It cost her a great deal but she knew almost everything which passed at Whitehall—though much of it was of no value to her save for the pleasure of having other people’s secrets. Still she dared not be ignorant of the Palace gossip, for it would only have earned her the scorn of those who knew.

And often, of course, she could turn her knowledge to some practical use—as she did the secret bought from Father Scroope.

It was yet early the next morning when Buckingham came up Amber’s back-staircase, his wig mussed and clothes dishevelled. He rattled across the marble floor on his high-heeled shoes and as he bent to give her a salute his breath had the stale sour smell of brandy drunk several hours before. Amber was propped up against pillows sleepily drinking a mugful of hot chocolate, but at sight of him she was instantly wide awake, on her guard.

“Well, your Grace! You look as if you’ve made a merry night of it!”

He grinned disarmingly. “I think I did, though damn me if I can remember!” Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her. “Well, madame—you’d never think what news I’ve got of you!”

Their eyes swung quickly together, stared hard for the briefest instant; then he smiled and she looked down at Monsieur le Chien where he lay sprawled at the foot of the bed. “Lord, your Grace, I can’t imagine,” she said, growing nervous. “What’s the newest libel? That I’ve got a mole on my stomach or prefer the Dragon upon St. George?”

“No, no. I heard all that last week. Don’t you know the latest gossip about yourself? Tut, tut, madame. They’re saying—” Here he gave a slight and, she thought, a sinister pause. “They’re saying,” he finished briskly, “that Colbert just made you a gift of a diamond necklace valued at two thousand pound.”

Amber had a quick sense of relief, for she had feared that he was there to talk about Father Scroope. She finished her chocolate and set the mug onto the table beside the bed. “Well—if that’s what they’re saying, it’s true. Or true enough, anyhow—my jeweller says it’s worth six hundred pound. Still, it’s pretty enough, I think.”

“Perhaps you like Spanish jewels better.”

Now Amber laughed. “Your Grace knows everything. I wish I had such an intelligence-net myself. I swear all the news comes to me cold as porridge, no matter how high I pay for it. But I’ll tell you truth—the Spanish ambassador gave me an emerald bracelet—and it was handsomer than the French necklace.”

“Then your Ladyship intends to cast in with the Spaniards?”

“Not at all, your Grace. I’ll cast in with the Dutch or the Devil, at a price. After all, isn’t that the way we do business here at Court?”

“If it is you shouldn’t admit it. The news might carry—then what would your price be?”

“Oh, but surely one may be allowed to speak frankly among friends.” Her voice gave him a light flick of sarcasm.

“You’ve grown mighty high, haven’t you, madame, since the days you trod the boards wearing some Maid of Honour’s cast-off gown? Even the Pope, they say, begins to court your favour.”

“The Pope!” cried Amber, horrified. “Good Lord, sir, I protest! I’ve had no traffic with the Pope, let me tell you!”

Amber had little use for her own religion—except when she was alarmed or worried or wanted something—but she shared the popular hatred of Catholicism, without any idea as to why she hated it.

“No traffic with the Pope? But I’ve got it on very good authority your Ladyship sometimes entertains Father Scroope in the dead of the—Oh! I beg your Ladyship’s pardon!” he cried with mock concern. “Have I said something to startle your Ladyship?”

“No, of course not! But where the devil did you get an idea like that? Me, entertaining Father Scroope! What for, pray? I’ve got no taste for bald fat old men, not I!” She tossed back her hair and started to get out of bed, pulling her dressing-gown around her as she did so.

“Just a moment, madame!” Buckingham caught hold of her arm and she looked at him defiantly. “I think you know well enough what I’m talking about!”

“And what, then, are you talking about, sir?”

Amber was growing angry. Something insolent in his Grace’s manner always brought her temper to the surface with a rush.

“I’m talking, madame, about the fact that you are interfering in my business. To be quite plain with you, madame, I know that you discovered my arrangement with Father Scroope and took steps to forestall the plan.” His arrogant handsome face had settled into hard lines and he stared at her with threatening violence. “I thought that we had agreed to play the game together—you and I.”

She gave a swift jerk of her arm to free herself and jumped to her feet. “I’ll play the game with you, your Grace—but damn me if I’ll play it against myself! It could scarce be much to my advantage, d’ye think, if her Majesty left the Court and—”

Just at that moment the King’s spaniels rushed scraping and clawing into the room and before Amber and the Duke could compose themselves Charles had strolled in, followed by several of the courtiers.

Buckingham instantly smoothed out his face and went to kiss the King’s hand—it was the first time he had seen him since the day in the garden when Charles had called him a scoundrel. The Duke lingered several minutes longer, affable and talkative, pretending to Amber and all of them that they had merely been having a friendly chat; but she was considerably relieved when he left. News of the quarrel spread rapidly. When she met Barbara in her Majesty’s apartments before noon the Lady had already heard of it and undertook to let her know that her cousin had sworn to all his acquaintance he would ruin Lady Danforth if it took the rest of his life. Amber laughed at that and said Let Buckingham do his worst, she did not doubt to hold her own. And she knew that she could, too, while the King liked her. After all, she had been at Whitehall only one year and any possible loss of Charles’s affections still seemed to her, like old age, a distant and unlikely misfortune.

And certainly the first result of their broil seemed a very favourable one. Baron Arlington came to pay his first secret call upon her.

The Baron had always been polite to Amber, with his own cold aloof Castilian courtesy, but he had never troubled himself to show her any undue attention. For if Charles thought that ladies were better suited to other occupations than politics, his Secretary of State was convinced that all women were a damned nuisance and should be shipped away to let men run the country in peace. Still, Arlington was a politician and he never allowed prejudice or emotion to interfere with important business. Serving his King was the important business of his life, though he hoped and intended to serve himself at the same time. Evidently he had decided that because of the rupture with Buckingham she might be of some use to him.

Amber came in one night, late and very gay—for she and Charles and a dozen or more lords and ladies had put on cloaks and masks and driven out to visit the Beggars’ Bush, a disreputable tavern in High Holborn where the beggars, both men and women, held weekly carousals. Arlington and King Charles were good and close friends, but the stiff solemn Baron seldom made one of such a frivolous party. Amber was astonished when Nan told her that he was downstairs and had been waiting there for almost an hour.

“Ye gods! Send ’im up then—post-haste!”

She tossed her mask and gloves and muff aside and dropped her cloak over Tansy who, completely enveloped, went groping his way across the room. Amber laughed as she watched him, then turned about to face her portrait above the fireplace, frowning critically and with displeasure as she examined it. Now, why had he made her so plump? Certainly she had no Roman nose, and that wasn’t anything like the colour of her hair. She was annoyed every time she saw it for Lely insisted on painting each sitter, not as she really was, but after some pattern of his own to which he tried to fit the entire sex.

But then, he was the fashion.

She turned back as Nan ushered Lord Arlington into the room. He bowed from the doorway while she made him a curtsy.

“Madame, my humble service to you.”

“Your servant, sir. Pray come in—I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Not at all, madame. I occupied the time with writing some letters.”

He was wrapped from head to foot in a great swirling black cloak and in his hand was a vizard. And now as he smiled he put on like a garment the charm which he held in reserve for necessary occasions, and wore only where it would show to advantage. There was no sincerity in the man, but there was a good deal of craft and guile as well as shrewdness and, what was rare in Charles’s easy-going Court, a methodical application to business.

“You’re alone, madame?”

“Quite, my lord. Won’t you be seated and may I offer you something to drink?”

“Thank you, madame. It’s kind of your Ladyship to receive me at this inconvenient hour.”

“Oh, never speak of it, my lord,” protested Amber. “It’s I that am grateful for your Lordship’s condescension in paying me a visit.”

A servant came in then carrying a tray, with glasses and decanters, and set it down on a low table. Amber poured brandy for the Baron, clary-water for herself and he proposed her health. They sat there a few moments longer—in her great scarlet-and-silver and black-marble chamber where a hundred reflections of them showed in the Venetian mirrors—bandying compliments.

But at last the Baron got to the business of his visit. “All this privacy, madame, is merely a precaution against his Grace of Buckingham’s jealousy. Don’t misunderstand me, pray, for the Duke and I are good friends—”

They were, of course, desperate enemies, but Arlington was too cautious to admit it though Buckingham was usually ready to tell whoever would listen. Only a short while before he had snorted at Amber, when she had referred to the Baron as a dangerous foe: “Madame, I scorn to have a fool for an enemy!”

“It seems,” continued Arlington, “he doesn’t want you friendly with anyone but himself. The truth on it is, madame, it came to my ears today on very good authority that his Grace has told Colbert it’s useless to make you further gifts because you are already committed to the cause of Spain.”

“The devil he did!” cried Amber indignantly, for she was convinced that she had no more use for Buckingham or his tricky friendship. “He’s as meddlesome as an old bawd! The way he uses his friends it’s no wonder they soon wear out!”

“Oh, please, madame—not so hard on his Grace, I beg of you! It was never my intention to make you suspect his Grace’s friendship for you. But it seems he wants to keep you for himself, and I had hoped that you and I might be friends also.”

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t, my lord. Sure a woman may be allowed two friends—even at Whitehall.”

The Baron smiled. “You seem to be a woman of wit, madame —than which I admire nothing more.” She poured him another glass of brandy. He sat for a moment, staring into it reflectively, saying nothing. Then, finally: “I understand that your Ladyship is to be congratulated.”

“For what, pray?”

“It runs through the galleries your young son will inherit a dukedom.”

Amber suddenly sat forward in her chair, her eyes glittering and eager. “Did the King tell you—”

“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 her 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 lowbred 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 Raven-spur, 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.