Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

Ordinarily Barberry Hill was overflowing with guests at that time of year for both the Earl and her Ladyship had vast numbers of relatives, but the plague was keeping everyone at home and only occasionally some neighbour came to call. More encouraging news, however, had begun to come from London. The number of deaths was decreasing, though it was still over a thousand a week. Many who had left town when fewer than a hundred died in one week were now going back. The streets were full of beggars covered with plague sores, but no more corpses were to be seen and the dead-carts came only at night. A feeling of optimism was beginning to prevail again for they thought that the worst was over.

Bruce was growing restless. He was worried about what had happened to his ships and the prizes he had brought; he wanted to go back to London and, as soon as possible, to sail again for America. Amber asked when he thought that he would leave.

“As soon as I can. Whenever it seems likely that men will be willing to sign on again.”

“I want to go back with you.”

“I don’t think you’d better, Amber. I’m going to Oxford first—the Court’s there now and I want to see the King about a grant of land. The weather’s terrible and I can’t take the time to travel by coach—and once I get to London I’ll be so busy I wouldn’t be able to see you. Stay here with Almsbury another month or two—the city isn’t safe yet.”

“I don’t care,” she insisted stubbornly, “whether it’s safe or not. If I can see you at all I’m going. And it won’t hurt me to ride horseback that far, I’ll warrant you.”

But one noon as she stood at her windows looking out over the grey-skied rolling hills that swept away south, watching a party of horsemen approach the house, a strange feeling of dread and suspicion began to take hold of her. Before it was possible actually to distinguish the individual horses or their riders she was sure that Bruce was not among them. Suddenly she turned, swooping up her skirts, and rushed out of the room, along the hallway and down the great staircase. She arrived at the bottom and confronted Almsbury just as he entered the hall.

“Where’s Bruce!”

Almsbury, who wore a long riding-cloak and high leather boots, his brown hair wet and the feathers on his hat soaking and draggled, looked at her uneasily. “He’s gone, Amber. Back to London.” He took off his hat and knocked it against his knee.

“Gone? Without me!” She stared at him, first in surprise and then with growing anger. “But I was going, too! I told him I was going!”

“He said that he told you he was going alone.”

“Blast him!” she muttered, and then all at once she turned and started off. “Well, he’s not! I’m going too!”

Almsbury shouted her name but she paid no attention and ran on, back up the stairs again. Half-way up she passed someone she had not seen before, a well-dressed elderly man, but though he turned and looked after her she ignored him and ran on. “Nan!” she cried violently, bursting into her rooms again. “Pack some clothes for me! I’m going to London!”

Nan stared at her and then looked toward the windows where the rain was furiously beating and splashing and the upper branches of an elm tree could be seen writhing with the wind. “To London, mam? In this weather?”

“Damn the weather! Pack my clothes I tell you! Anything, I don’t care! Throw it in!”

She was yanking loose the bows that fastened the front of her bodice and now she tore the gown down and stepped out of it, kicking it to one side as she went to the dressing-table and began to slam her bracelets onto its polished wood surface. Her face was glowering and her teeth clenched furiously.

Damn him! she thought. At least he could let me have that much! I’ll show him! I’ll show him!

Nan scurried about, pulling gowns and smocks and shoes off hooks and out of drawers. Both women were so occupied they did not see Almsbury open the door and come in until he spoke.

“Amber! What in the devil are you doing?”

“Going to London! What d’ye think?”

She did not even glance at him but was jerking the bodkins out of her hair, which tumbled down her back. He crossed over swiftly and his face appeared behind her in the mirror. She gave him a truculent glare, daring him to try to stop her.

“Leave the room, Britton! Do as I say!” he added, as Nan hesitated, looking at Amber. “Now listen to me! Do you want to make a fool of yourself? He doesn’t want you in London. He doesn’t think it’s safe and he doesn’t care to be troubled with you—he’s going to be busy.”

“I don’t care what he wants. I’m going anyway. Nan!” She whirled about, shouting the girl’s name, but Almsbury caught her wrist and brought her up shortly.

“You’re not going—if I have to tie you to a bedpost! It is possible to have plague twice, you know. If you had any sense you wouldn’t want to go back—for nothing. Bruce left because he had to. His ships may be ruined or plundered by now and if they haven’t been they would be soon after the town began to fill again. Now, darling, for God’s sake—be sensible. He’ll be back again some day; he said he would.”

Amber looked up at him, her lower lip still rolled out stubbornly, but tears were in her eyes and beginning to slide over her cheeks. She sniffled but did not protest when he put his arms about her. “But why,” she asked him at last, and caught her breath on a sob, “why didn’t he even say ‘goodbye’ to me? Last night—why, last night was just like always—”

He pressed her head to his chest and stroked her hair. “Just maybe, sweetheart—it was because he didn’t want to quarrel.”

Amber gave a mournful little wail and burst into tears at that, her arms going about his neck for comfort. “I—I wouldn’t have quarrelled! Oh, Almsbury! I love him so much!”

He let her cry, holding her close, until at last she began to grow quiet again. Then he took out a handkerchief and gave it to her. “Did you notice the gentleman coming downstairs as you were going up?”

She blew her nose, wiped at her red eyes and tear-stained face. “No. I didn’t. Why?”

“He asked me who you were. He thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Vanity crept through her grief. “Does he?” She sniffled a few times, looking down at the handkerchief as she twisted it in her hands, and then blew her nose again. “Who is he?”

“He’s Edmund Mortimer, Earl of Radclyffe—one of the oldest and most honoured families in England. Come on, darling, it’s time for dinner. Let’s go down—he wants to be presented.”

Amber sighed, turning away. “Oh, I don’t care if he does. I don’t want to know anyone else.”

Almsbury gave her an ingratiating smile. “You’d rather stay in your room and mope, is that it? Well, do as you like, but he’ll be mighty disappointed. To tell you the truth, I think he might make you a proposal.”

“A proposal! What the devil would I want with another husband? I’m never going to get married again!”

“Not even to an earl—” said his Lordship thoughtfully. “Well, my dear, do as you like. But I thought I heard you say something to Bruce the other night like: ‘Just wait till I’m Countess of Puddle-dock.’ Now here’s your chance—are you going to throw it away?”

“I suppose you told the old dotard how rich I am.”

“Well, now—perhaps I did. I don’t remember.”

“Oh, well, then, I’ll come down. But I’m not going to marry him. I don’t care whether I ever get to be a countess or not!”

But she was already thinking: If the next time Bruce saw me I was her Ladyship, Countess of Radclyffe, he’d take some notice of that, I’ll warrant you!

He’s only a baron!

DINNER WAS POSTPONED a half-hour, while Amber dressed again and removed the traces of tears from her face. Then, throwing a fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, she went to the dining-parlour. It was always necessary to wear cloaks when passing from one room to another during the winter, but this year it was so cold that they must be worn all the time.

Almsbury and his guest stood before the fireplace. Lady Almsbury sat near them, working on a piece of needlepoint. The two men turned, Almsbury made the introductions, and as Amber curtsied her eyes swept critically over the Earl of Radclyffe. Her first reaction was quick: How ugly he is! She decided immediately that she would not marry him, and they sat down to dinner.

Edmund Mortimer was fifty-seven and looked at least five years older. He was perhaps three inches taller than Amber, but because she had on high-heeled shoes they were exactly of a height. Slight and delicate, with narrow shoulders and thin legs, his head seemed too large for his fragile frame and the luxuriant periwig he wore increased the effect of disproportion. His face was severe and ascetic in expression and as he spoke decaying yellow teeth showed between his tight-pressed lips. Only his clothes met with her approval, for they were the most exquisite, the most perfect in every detail, that she had ever seen. And his manners, though cold and not engaging, were likewise impeccable.

“His Lordship,” said Almsbury, as they began to eat, “has been travelling on the Continent these three years past.”

“Oh?” said Amber politely. She was not hungry and she wished that she had stayed in her own room. She had to swallow food to force down the aching lump that rose in her throat. “But why come back now, of all times—with the plague among us?”

His voice, as he answered her, was precisely clipped, as though the man who spoke would tolerate no carelessness. “I am no longer young, madame. Sickness and death do not frighten me any more. And my son is to be married within the fortnight—I came back for the ceremony.”