Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

Suddenly there was a sound of commotion from outside. A little page spoke, quietly, and an angry feminine voice answered; the door of the bedroom burst open and there stood Barbara Palmer. For an instant she glared at Frances and then she slammed it closed, with such violence that the noise seemed to reverberate in Frances’s brain, making her wince.

“I have a crow to pluck with you, Madame Stewart!” declared the Countess.

Frances’s pride rose, ready to do combat, and sweeping the weariness from her face she stood up, lifting her chin. “Your servant, madame. And what can I do for you, pray?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do for me!” replied Barbara, and she crossed the room swiftly, until she stood just three or four feet from her. Barry was glaring pugnaciously from over Frances’s shoulder and the parrot had begun to squawk his resentment, but Barbara ignored them both. “You can stop trying to make me appear a fool in public, madame! That’s what you can do!”

Frances looked at her with obvious distaste, wondering how she had ever been so stupid as to consider this wild uncontrolled harpy her best friend. And then she sat down again, motioning Barry to continue undressing her hair.

“I’m sure I don’t know how I can make you look a fool, madame—in public or anywhere else. If you do, you have only yourself to thank.”

Barbara stood with her hands on her hips, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’re a cunny gypsy, Mrs. Stewart—but let me tell you this: I can be a mighty dangerous enemy. You may find you’ve got the bear by the nose. If I set my mind to it, I could have you out of Whitehall like that!” She gave a quick sharp snap of her fingers.

Frances smiled coolly. “Could you, madame? You’re welcome to try—But I think I please his Majesty quite as well as you—even though my methods may not be the same—”

Barbara made a sound of disgust. “Bah! You squeamish virgins make me sick! You’re no good to any man, once he’s had you! I’ll wager you my right eye that once his Majesty lays with you he’ll—”

Frances gave her a bored look and as Barbara chattered on, the door behind her swung slowly open. His Majesty appeared in it. He motioned her to silence and stood lounging against the door-jamb, watching Barbara, his dark face moody, displeased and glowering.

Barbara was beginning to shout. “There’s one place where you can never get the better of me, Madame Stewart! Whatever my faults, there’s never a man got out of my bed—”

“Madame!”

The King’s voice spoke, sharply, from the doorway, and Barbara swung about with a horrified gasp. Both women watched him come into the room.

“Sire!” Barbara swept him a deep curtsy.

“That’s enough of your bawdy talk.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to have heard a great deal which was unpleasant. Frankly, madame, at times you exhibit the worst imaginable taste.”

“But I didn’t know you were there!” she protested. And then suddenly her eyes narrowed, she looked from Charles to Frances and back again. “Oho!” she said softly. “Now I begin to see something. How cleverly the two of you have hoodwinked us all—”

“Unfortunately, you’re mistaken. As it happened you passed me in the hall without seeing me, and when I found where you were going I turned around and followed you back. You looked as though you were about some mischief.” He smiled faintly, amused at her discomposure, but instantly his face sobered again. “I thought we had agreed, madame, that your behaviour toward Mrs. Stewart was to be both polite and friendly. What I heard just now sounded neither.”

“How can you expect me to be polite to a woman who slanders me!” demanded Barbara, quick to her own defense.

Charles gave a short laugh. “Slanders you! Ods-fish, Barbara, you don’t imagine it’s still possible? Now, Mrs. Stewart is tired, I believe, and would like to rest. If you’ll make her an apology we’ll both go and leave her alone.”

“An apology!” Barbara stared at him with horrified indignation, and turning she swept Frances contemptuously from head to foot. “I’ll be damned if I do!”

All good humour was gone from his face now, replaced by that sombre bitterness which lurked there at all times. “You refuse, madame?”

“I do!” She faced him defiantly, and both of them had forgotten Frances who stood looking on, tired and nervous, wishing that they would quarrel elsewhere. “Nothing under God’s sky can make me apologize to that meek simpering milk-sop!”

“The choice is your own. But may I suggest that you retire from Hampton Court while you consider the matter? A few weeks of quiet reflection may give you another view of good manners.

“You’re sending me from the Court?”

“Put it that way if you like.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Barbara was in tears. “So this is what it’s come to! After the years I’ve given up to you! It’s a shame before all the world that a king should turn away the mother of his children!”

He lifted one eyebrow, skeptically. “My children?” he repeated softly. “Well, some of them, perhaps. But there’s nothing more to be said. Either make Mrs. Stewart an apology—or go elsewhere.”

“But where can I go? The plague’s everywhere else!”

“For the matter of that, the plague’s here too.”

Even Frances snapped out of her weary lethargy and both women repeated at once: “Here!”

“The wife of a groom died of it today. Tomorrow we move to Salisbury.”

“Oh, my God!” wailed Barbara. “Now we’ll all get it! We’ll all die!”

“I don’t think so. The woman has been buried and everyone who was with her is shut up. So far there’ve been no new cases. Come, madame, make your choice. Will you be going with us tomorrow?”

Barbara looked at Frances who, feeling her eyes shift to her, suddenly straightened and raised her head—meeting her glance with cold hostility. Suddenly Barbara slammed her fan to the floor.

“I will not! I’ll go to Richmond and be damned to you!”

AMBER WENT BACK into the kitchen and continued getting Bruce’s meal. She wanted to do as much as she could for him, while she was still able to do anything at all. For by tomorrow she would be helpless and a new nurse would be there—someone perhaps much worse than Spong had been. She was more worried about him than about herself. He was still weak and in need of competent care, and the thought of a stranger coming in, someone who would not know him or care what happened to him, filled her with desperation. If she’d only come in time, she thought, maybe I could bribe her.

Once the first horror of discovery was gone she accepted with resignation and almost with apathy the fact that she was sick. She did not, actually, expect to die. If one person fell ill of the plague in a house and lived, it was thought a good omen for all others in that same house. (Spong’s death she ignored and had almost forgotten; it seemed to have occurred in some distant past unconnected with either her or Bruce.) But apart from superstition she had strong faith in her own temporary immortality. She wanted so much to go on living, it was impossible for her to believe that she could die now, so young and with all her hopes still to be realized.

She had the same symptoms Bruce had had, but they came in swifter succession.

By the time she started into the bedroom with the tray her head was aching violently, as though a tight steel band had been bound about her temples and was drawing steadily tighter. She was sweating and there were stabbing pains throughout her stomach and along her legs and arms. Her throat was as dry as if she had swallowed dust, but though she drank several dipperfuls of water it did no good. The thirst increased.

Bruce was awake, sitting propped up as he could often do now, and though there was a book in his hands he was watching the door anxiously. “You’ve been gone so long, Amber. Is anything wrong?”

She did not look at him but kept her eyes on the tray. Dizziness swept over her in waves, and when it came she had a weird sensation of standing in the midst of a whirling sphere; she could not tell where the floors or walls were. Now she paused for a moment, trying to orient herself and then, setting her teeth, she came determinedly forward.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she repeated, but even to her her voice had a strange fuzzy sound. She hoped that he would not notice.

Slowly, for she felt very tired and her muscles seemed heavy, she set the tray on the bedside table and reached down to pick up the bowlful of syllabub. She saw his hand reach out and close over her wrist and when at last she forced her eyes to lift and meet his, she found on his face the look of self-condemning horror she had been dreading.

“Amber—” He continued to stare at her for a moment, his green eyes narrowed, searching. “You’re not—sick?” The words came out with slow forced reluctance.

She gave a little sigh. “Yes, Bruce. I am—I guess I am. But don’t—”

“Don’t what!”

She tried to remember what she had started to say. “Don’t—worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it! Good God! Oh, Amber! Amber! You’re sick and it’s my fault! It’s because you stayed here to take care of me! Oh, my darling—if only you’d gone! If only you’d—Oh, Jesus!” He let go of her wrist and distractedly ran one hand through his hair.

She reached down to touch his forehead. “Don’t torture yourself, Bruce. It’s not your fault. I stayed because I wanted to. I knew it was a chance—but I couldn’t go. And I’m not sorry—I won’t die, Bruce—”