Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

She drew a quick breath of indignation and then suddenly rushed back to face him across the table. “You’re the most unreasonable damned man on earth! I won’t stay here alone, d’ye hear me? I won’t!” She banged the handle of her riding-whip on the table-top, marring its surface.

He got up slowly, bowed to her—though she could see the muscles about his mouth twitch and squirm with the effort to control his rage—and walked out of the room. Amber banged the whip down again, furiously, and yelled after him: “I won’t stay! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” As the door closed behind him, she slammed the riding-whip through the window and rushed into the adjoining room where she found Nan gossiping with Susanna’s dry-nurse. “Nan! Pack my things! I’m going to London in my own coach! That bastard—”

Susanna ran to her mother, stamped her foot, and repeated with a shake of her curls: “That bas-tard!”

When dinner was announced Amber did not go down. She was busy getting ready to leave and was so angry and excited that she had no appetite. And when Radclyffe sent again, demanding that she join them, she refused point-blank, shut the outer door to their apartments, locked it and flung aside the key.

“He’s told me one time too many what I can do and what I can’t!” she hotly informed Nan. “I’ll be damned if that stinking old scoundrel can lead me like a bear by the nose any longer!”

But when she had changed her clothes and was ready to go she discovered that the doors leading into the gallery had been locked from the other side and that her own key was not to be found. There was no other outside entrance, for the rooms opened one into another, and though she hammered and pounded and kicked she got no answer. At last in a passionate temper she flung back into the bedchamber and began smashing everything she could lay her hands on. Nan ran out, arms up over her head. By the time Amber had exhausted herself the room was a shambles.

After a while someone opened the door into the entrance hall and slid a trayful of food in, rapped to call her attention, and then ran off down the gallery. The Earl had evidently informed the servants that his wife was having another fit. A maid brought the tray in and placed it on a table beside the bed where her mistress lay. Amber turned, grabbed up the cold fowl and flung it across the room; then shoved away the tray and dishes, which crashed onto the floor.

After three hours had gone by Nan ventured back into the room. Amber sat up cross-legged on the bed to talk to her. She was determined to go to London anyway, if she had to climb out the window, but Nan tried to convince her that if she disobeyed his Lordship he might bring an action against her, obtain a separation and get control of all her money.

“Remember,” cautioned Nan, “his Majesty may like you—but his Majesty likes all pretty ladies. And you know his nature—he doesn’t love to meddle where it’s any trouble to him. You’d be wise to stay here, mam, I think.”

Amber had thrown off her shoes and undone her hair and she sat with elbows propped on her knees, glowering. She was beginning to grow very hungry, for she had had nothing but a glass of fruit syrup since seven o’clock that morning, and it was now four-thirty. Her eye went to the cold roast fowl, which someone had picked up, dusted, and set back on the tray.

“But what am I to do? Moult out here in the country for the rest of my life? I tell you I won’t do it!”

Suddenly they became aware of a muffled pounding and a woman’s faint frantic cries. They looked at each other, both of them held taut in an attitude of listening and surprise. It was Jenny, hammering at the outer door—and with a leap Amber was off the bed and running through the intervening rooms toward her.

“Your Ladyship!” screamed Jenny, and there were hysterical tears in her voice. “Your Ladyship! Your Ladyship!”

“Here I am, Jenny! What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

“It’s Philip! He’s sick! He’s desperately sick! I’m afraid he’s dying! Oh, your Ladyship—you’ve got to come!”

A chill of horror ran over Amber. Philip sick—dying? Only that morning before the ride they had been in the summer-house, and he had been perfectly well then.

“What’s the matter with him? I can’t get out, Jenny! I’m locked in! Where’s the Earl?”

“He’s gone! He left three hours ago! Oh, Amber—you’ve got to get out! He’s calling for you!” Jenny began to sob.

Amber looked around helplessly. “I can’t get out! Oh, damn! Go get a footman! Make them break open the door!”

Nan was beside her now and as Jenny’s heels pounded off down the hallway the two women picked up brass shovels from the fireplace and began to beat at the lock. In only a minute or two Jenny was back.

“They say his Lordship left orders not to let you out no matter what happened!”

“Where’s the footman!”

“He’s here—but he says he doesn’t dare unlock the door! Oh, Amber, tell him he’s got to! Philip—”

“Open this door, you varlet!” shouted Amber. “Open it or I’ll set fire to the house!” She smashed furiously against the lock with the brass shovel.

There was a long moment of hesitation after which the man began to pound at the door from the outside while Amber stood waiting, wet with sweat. Nan had brought her shoes and she pulled them on, jumping up and down, first on one foot and then the other, as she did so. At last the lock broke and she burst out, flung an arm around Jenny’s waist and started down toward the opposite end of the gallery where Philip’s apartments were located.

Philip was lying on the bed, still fully dressed but with a blanket thrown over him; his head was forced back upon the pillows and his face contorted almost beyond recognition. He was writhing and turning, clutching at his stomach, his teeth ground together until the veins in his neck seemed ready to burst.

Amber hesitated for only an instant on the threshold and then ran forward. “Philip! Philip, what’s the matter? What happened to you?”

He looked at her for a moment without recognition. Then he grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her toward him. “I’ve been poisoned—” His voice was a harsh whisper. Amber gasped in horror, starting backward, but he held onto her wrist with a clutch so strong she thought it would break. “Have you eaten anything today—”

Suddenly she realized what had happened. The Earl had found out about them and had tried to poison them both. The food sent up on her tray must have been poisoned. She felt sick, dizzy and cold, swept with selfish anxiety.

Maybe it was in the fruit-syrup this morning—Maybe I’m poisoned too!

“I had some fruit-syrup,” she said softly, her eyes staring like glass, “early this morning—”

There was an explosive spitting sound from beneath the blankets and Philip’s body leaped upward in convulsion; he threw himself furiously from side to side, as though trying to escape the pain. Agonized paroxysms jerked at his face, and it was several moments before he was able to speak again. Then each word as it came out was a forced and painful grunt.

“No. I got it at dinner, I think—Pains began half-an-hour ago. The summer-house—there’s a hollowed eye in that stone mask on the wall—”

He could say nothing more for Jenny was close beside them, but Amber understood his meaning. Radclyffe could have been there that morning, watching them. He could have been there many mornings—watching them. Disgust and loathing and helpless rage filled her. But there was relief too—because she was not poisoned; she was not going to die.

Jenny now helped Philip to sit up, holding a mugful of warm milk to his mouth. After he had taken several greedy swallows he gave a groan and flung himself backward again. Amber turned away, her hands over her face.

Suddenly she picked up her skirts and started to run as fast as she could—out of the room and down the gallery, down the stairs and onto the terrace. She fled down the steps and through the gardens and did not stop once until she was forced to by the splitting pain in her side and the dryness of her lungs. Then she stood there for a minute or so, one hand pressed to her chest and the other hard against her side, struggling to breathe. But gradually it became easier for her and at last she turned her head, slowly, to look back up at the bedroom window that faced from the south-east end of the house. Then with a wail of animal terror she threw herself onto the ground and buried her face in the grass, shutting her eyes as tight as she could and closing her ears with her fingers. But still she could see Philip’s face in its agony and hear the hoarse desperate sound of his voice.

PHILIP WAS BURIED that same night as the dusk settled through a brilliant sunset sky. The family chaplain who had baptized him administered the last sacraments and conducted the services in the little Catholic chapel where Jenny and Amber and Radclyffe’s many servants knelt in silence. Poison was suspected in almost any sudden death, and because there was a general belief that a poisoned body decomposed rapidly they had not dared to wait upon formality. Philip’s constant request had been to keep it secret, to let no one know what had caused his death. He wanted it told that he had accidentally shot himself while cleaning a gun.

Amber was so hungry that her stomach ached, but she refused to eat or drink anything at all. She was terrified for fear Radclyffe had instructed one of the servants to kill her if he failed. For there could be no doubt he had intended to kill them both: she fed a few slices of the fowl to a dog, and it died swiftly and in great pain.