Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

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!”

“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.