Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

“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.

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!”