Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

Amber was amused, thinking him a complete dolt. “I hope so too, my lord. But you know how a woman is in this circumstance.”

“No—I don’t. I—I never thought about it before. Are you better now? Can I get something for you? A pillow for your head?”

“No, Gerald, thanks. I just want to be let alone—I—Well, to tell you truly I’d rather sleep by myself—if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, but of course, madame. I didn’t know—I didn’t realize. I’m sorry—” He started to back away. “If there’s ever anything you want—anything I can do—”

“Thanks, Gerald. I’ll let you know.”

“And I wonder, madame—may I call sometimes—just to see how you’re doing?”

“Of course, my lord. Whenever you like. Good-night.”

“Good-night, madame.” He hesitated, plainly wishing that he could think of something appropriate to say on this occasion, and then with a helpless little laugh he repeated, “Well, good-night,” and was gone.

Amber shook her head and made a face; then got up and went into the bedroom. Nan gave a questioning lift of her eyebrows, to which Amber replied with pantomime gestures that sent them both into hilarious laughter. The two women were alone in the room, chattering and giggling together, Amber now in smock and busk and a froth of lacy petticoats. When Bruce knocked at the door she called out for him to come in.

He had removed his periwig, coat and vest and sword, and his white shirt was opened. “Still undressing?” he asked her with a smile. “I’ve written two letters.” He stopped at a table and poured himself a tall glass of brandy and water. “It’s always seemed to me that women would gain five years of their lives if they’d wear simpler clothes.”

“But what would we do with ’em?” Nan wanted to know, and they all three gave a burst of laughter.

Amber’s hair was now undone—for no lady would lift a hand to her head—and Nan had left the room, herding Tansy and the dog before her. She was standing at the dressing-table, unfastening her necklace, when she saw his face and shoulders appear behind her in the mirror. His green eyes watched her for a moment and then he bent, swept the hair off her neck, and put his lips there. A cold thrill ran over her body; she caught a deep breath and her eyes closed.

He set the glass onto the table and one hand closed over her arm to turn her about. “Oh, Bruce—” she cried. “Bruce—how I love you!”

His arms went around her and they stood close together, thighs pressed hard, bodies straining. When he took his mouth from hers she looked up, wondering, and found him staring across the room. Slowly he released her and slowly she turned. There was Gerald, standing just inside the door, his face white and his jaw fallen.

“Oh!” cried Amber, and her eyes blazed with sudden fury. “What d’you mean—sneaking in here like this! Spying on me! You damned impertinent dog!”

With a sudden unexpected movement she picked up a silver patch-box from the dressing-table and hurled it at him, but her aim was bad and it struck the door-jamb. Gerald jumped. Bruce merely stood quietly and looked at him, surprise in his eyes at first and then a kind of pity as he saw how bewildered and unhappy and scared the boy was.

Amber rushed at him in a shrieking fury, her clenched fists raised. “How dare you sneak into my rooms this way! I’ll have your ears cut off for this!” He moved aside as she struck at him and the blow landed on his shoulder.

He was all but stammering, his face had turned grey, and there was a sick look on his face. “For God’s sake, madame—I had no idea—I didn’t know—”

“Don’t lie to me, you baboon! I’ll show you—”

“Amber!” It was Bruce’s voice. “Give him a chance to speak, why don’t you? This is obviously a mistake.”

Gerald shot him a look of gratitude, but he was clearly somewhat afraid of the woman who stood before him, glowering with rage. “My mother was still in the hall-way. And when I came out she—well—she told me to go back in.”

Amber started to speak again and then she turned and glanced at Bruce, to see what he thought about it. His expression was perfectly serious but his eyes glittered with amusement, even while he had a very obvious sympathy for the unhappy young husband whose duty it now was to challenge him to duel. Honour offered no alternative. And yet it was ridiculous to think of Gerald Stanhope, small and undeveloped with scarcely the courage of an adolescent girl, fighting a man who was not only eight inches taller than he but an accomplished swordsman as well.

Bruce stepped forward, made him an easy bow from the waist, and said politely, “Sir, I regret that you have so much reason to suspect my motives regarding your wife. I offer you my profoundest apologies and hope that you will believe no worse of me than you can help.”

Gerald looked as relieved as a criminal who sees the sheriff come flying with a reprieve just as the noose is being fastened about his neck. He bowed in return. “I assure you, sir, that I am enough a man of the world to know that appearances are often deceiving. I accept your apology, sir, and hope that we may meet again under more congenial circumstances. And now, madame, if you’ll show me the way, I’ll go by your back-staircase—”

Amber stared at him in astonishment. God in heaven! Wasn’t the poor fool even going to fight? And was he going now, to leave his wife’s lover in undisputed possession? Her anger drained away and contempt took its place. She pulled up the bodice of her smock and made him a curtsy.

“This way, sir.”

She crossed the room and opened a door which led down a dark little stair-well. Just before going out Gerald bowed again, very jauntily, first to her and then to Bruce—but Amber could see that the muscles about his mouth quivered nervously. She closed the door behind him and turned to face Bruce; there was a contemptuous smile on her lips which she expected would also be on his.

He was smiling, but in his eyes was a strange expression. What was it? Disapproval of her, pity for the man who had just left, mockery of all three of them? It alarmed her, and for an instant she felt cold and lost and alone. But as she watched, the expression flickered and changed and he made a gesture with one hand, shrugged his shoulders and started toward her.

“Well,” he said, “he wears a pair of horns as well as any man in Europe.”

LONDON HAD GROWN as hysterical as a girl with the green-sickness. Her life these last years had been too full of excitement and tragedy, too turbulent and too convulsive, and now she was uneasy, nervous, in a constant state of worry and fear. No prospect was too dismal, no possibility too remote—anything might happen, and probably would.

The new year had opened despondently, with thousands of homeless men and women and children living in tiny tar-roofed shacks that had been thrown up on the sites of their former homes. Or they were crowded together in the few streets within the walls which had been spared by the Fire, and forced to pay exorbitant rents. In a winter of unusual coldness and severity sea-coal was so expensive that many could not afford it at all. Most of them believed, not unreasonably, that London would never be rebuilt and they had no faith in the present, saw no hope for the future.

An evil star seemed to be ascendant over England.

The national debt had never been greater, though the government was near bankruptcy. The War, begun so hopefully, was now unpopular, for it had not been successful and was connected in the public mind with the unprecedented disasters of the past two years. The seamen of the Royal Navy were in mutiny and men lay starving in the yard of the naval office. Parliament had refused to vote the money to set out a fleet for that year and merchants would not be coerced again into supplying the ships without cash-in-hand. Hence the Council had decided—though against the judgement of Charles and Albemarle and Prince Rupert—to lay up the fleet for that year and trust to peace negotiations already under way.

But at Court they did not trouble themselves very much with these problems. For despite the desperate state of government finances there was more wealth in the hands of private individuals than ever before—a person of enterprise and some capital might invest his money in stocks and soon increase it many times. And they were not afraid of the Dutch for most of them knew that England had made a secret treaty with France to keep the Dutch fleet from sailing. The French were not and never had been interested in the war, nor did Louis’s ambitions point across the Channel. Let the ignorant people fret and mumble if they liked—ladies and gentlemen had other matters of which to think. They were far more concerned in Buckingham’s escapade and the gossip that Frances Stewart was pregnant, a rumour which circulated exactly one month after her runaway marriage.

Late in April came the shocking news that the Dutch were out with twenty-four ships, sailing along the coast.

The people were frantic. Terror and resentment and suspicion ran through them like a flame. What had gone wrong with the peace negotiations? Someone had betrayed them, sold them over to the enemy. Every night they expected to hear the rolling of drums, to wake to the screams of men and women dying by the sword, to the glare of fire, the blasting of guns—but though the Dutch continued to ride the coast, tantalizingly, they came no nearer.

Amber was not greatly concerned about any of it—the War, the threatening Dutch, Buckingham’s plight, or Stewart’s baby. She had one interest and only one: Lord Carlton.