Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

He took her hand with a little gesture of sympathy. “Don’t cry, Mother. I won’t go and leave you—I’ll tell Father that I—can’t go.”

All at once Amber hated herself. “Come here,” she said. “Sit beside me on this bench. Listen to me, darling. Your father wants you to go with him. He needs you over there—to help him—there’s so much to do. I want you to stay with me—but I think he needs you more.”

“Oh, do you, Mother? Do you really think so?” His eyes searched her face anxiously, but there was no concealing the joyous relief.

“Yes, darling. I really think so.”

Amber looked up over his head and beyond to see Bruce coming toward them along the garden walk. The little boy glanced around, saw his father, and jumped up to run and meet him. His manners were always much more formal with Bruce than with her, not because Bruce insisted but because his tutor did, and he bowed ceremoniously before speaking a word.

“I’ve decided to go to America with you, sir,” he informed him solemnly. “Mother says that you need me there.”

Bruce glanced down at the boy and then his eyes moved swiftly to meet Amber’s. For a moment they looked at each other, unspeaking. His arm went about his son’s shoulder and he smiled at him. “I’m glad you’ve decided to come with me, Bruce.” Together they walked toward Amber, and she got to her feet though her eyes had not once left Bruce’s face. He said nothing but he bent and kissed her, softly, briefly; and it was, almost, a husband’s kiss.

At first Amber felt that she had done a noble and unselfish thing and she was quite willing to have Bruce think so too. But the hope came creeping, and she had to recognize it, that perhaps having her child there with him all the time would keep her alive in his memory as nothing else could do. Perhaps she could defeat Corinna without even seeing her.

The Treaty of Breda was signed and news of it arrived at Whitehall at the end of the month. Bruce sailed with the next morning-tide. Amber went down to the wharf, determined to preserve the good opinion both of them had of her now if it tore out her heart. But as she half-knelt to kiss her son her throat swelled with unbearable agony. Bruce took her arm to help her up again, for the burden she carried was beginning to make her awkward.

“Don’t let him forget me, Bruce!” she pleaded.

“I won’t forget you, Mother! And we’re coming back to see you, too! Father said so—didn’t you, sir?” He looked up at Bruce for confirmation.

“Yes, Bruce—we’ll come back. I promise you.” He was restless, eager to get on the ship, to be away, hating this painful business of parting. “Amber—we’re late now.”

She gave a scared little cry and threw her arms about him; he bent his head and their lips met. Amber clung frantically, perfectly heedless of the crowds who moved around them, who turned to stare with curious interest at the handsome man and woman, the quiet watching child. This was the moment she had not believed—even yesterday, when she had known he was going—would ever really come. Now it was here—it was here and she had a sense of helpless despair.

All of a sudden his hands took hold of her arms and forced them down. Swiftly he turned and almost before she could realize it had happened Bruce and their son had crossed the gang-plank onto the ship. It began to move, very slowly, and the sails snapped out white and full in the wind, catching up the ship as though life had gone through her. The little boy took off his hat and waved.

“We’ll be back, Mother!”

Amber gave a sharp cry and started forward, along the wharf, but the ship was getting away from her. Bruce was half turned, giving directions to the men, but all at once he walked swiftly back and his hand dropped about the boy’s shoulders. He raised one arm in a goodbye salute and though Amber’s hand started to go up in reply she instead put her bent forefinger into her mouth and bit down hard. For a long moment she stood there, lost and forlorn, and then she lifted the other arm and gave them a spiritless little wave.

ALL AROUND THE room men paused in their eating to stare, dumfounded, toward the doorway.

At twelve o’clock the Sun Tavern, just behind the new-built Royal Exchange in Threadneedle Street, was always crowded, for there the great merchants came to eat dinner, transact part of their business, and discuss the news of the day. Not a few of them had been talking about Buckingham, whose plight was regarded with more sympathy in the City than it was at Court, when the Duke strolled in.

One white-haired old man looked up, his weak blue eyes popping. “By God! What d’ye know! Speak of the Devil—”

There was nothing about his Grace to suggest a man in hiding, or one whose life had been jeopardized by his own treasonous acts. He wore his usual blonde periwig and a splendid suit consisting of black-velvet breeches and gold-brocade coat, with a flash of long green-satin vest showing. He was as cool and casual as any gentleman stopping in at his favourite ordinary before the play.

But instantly they left their tables and surrounded him on all sides. Buckingham had taken pains to insinuate himself among these men and they were convinced that he was the one friend they had at Court. Like them, he hated Holland and wanted to see it crushed. Like them, he favoured religious toleration—and though this was merely from personal indifference to any religion, they did not know it. Out of all the scratch and rubble of his life Buckingham had saved this much—the good opinion of the nation’s most powerful body of men.

“Welcome back, your Grace! We were speaking of you even now and despairing when we should see you again!”

“There’s been a rumour you’d gone abroad!”

“My Lord! Is it really you? You’re not an apparition?”

Buckingham strolled through them toward the fireplace, smiling, clasping the hands outstretched to him as he went. The hereditary Villiers charm was a potent weapon when he cared to use it. “It’s I, gentlemen. No apparition, I assure you.” He gave a nod of his head to summon a waiter, told him what he would have for his dinner and admonished the man to be quick about serving it, since his time might be short. Then he spoke to a young boy who squatted nearby, staring goggle-eyed and turning the spit on which a leg-of-mutton was roasting. “Lad, can you carry a message?”

The boy jumped to his feet. “Aye, your Grace!”

“Then mind that you make no mistake. Go with all haste to the Tower and inform the sentry there that the Duke of Buckingham is waiting at the Sun Tavern for his Majesty’s officers to place him under arrest.” He flipped him a silver coin.

A murmur of surprised admiration ran through them, for it was no secret the Duke would most likely lose his head if once he were brought to trial. The boy turned and sped out of the room and Buckingham, surrounded by his cortege, strolled to a table next the window where he sat down and began to eat his dinner. An eager curious excited crowd had already begun to gather outside and they clustered in the door, peered through the windows at him. The Duke gave them a wave and a grin, and a great cheer went up.

“Gentlemen,” said Buckingham to the men about him, talking while he took his silver fork from its case and began to tear at his meat. “Gentlemen, I am willing to give myself up to my enemies—though I know well enough how they may use me—because my conscience will no longer bear my continued absence from public affairs after our most recent disgrace.” Their polite cries of approval at these words interrupted him, but only for a few moments. He held up a hand, asking to be heard further. “England has need of some men whose interests are not wholly in the building of a new house or the getting of a full night’s sleep, at whatever cost to the nation.”

This brought a loud cheer from everyone in the room, and it was taken up and echoed outside by those who had no idea what his Grace had said. For public resentment was strong against Clarendon’s great new house in Piccadilly. And during this past year no one had forgotten that Arlington had been asleep when the order had come for Rupert to return and meet the Dutch, and that his servants had not wakened him to sign it till morning. Next to criticizing the Court themselves, they loved to hear it criticized.

“Aye, your Grace,” agreed one elderly goldsmith. “The country has been too long under the mismanagement of incompetent old men.”

Another leaned forward and hammered his fist on the table. “When Parliament convenes next time he’ll be impeached! We’ll call the old rascal to task for his crimes!”

“But, gentlemen,” protested Buckingham mildly, gnawing at his mutton-joint, “the Chancellor has handled matters as honestly and as capably as his faculties would permit.”

There was a storm of protest at this. “Honest! Why, the old dotard’s bled us white! Where else did he get the money for that palace he’s building!”

“He’s been as great a tyrant as Oliver!”

“His daughter’s marriage to the Duke made him think he was a Stuart!”

“He hates the Commons!”

“He’s always been in cabal with the bishops!”

“He’s the greatest villain in England! Your Grace is too generous!”

Buckingham smiled and made a faint deprecatory gesture, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I’m no match for you, gentlemen. It seems I’m outnumbered.”

He had not yet finished his meal when the King’s officers arrived—he had sent an earlier messenger than the little boy, whom he had merely used as a dramatic device to arouse their interest and sympathies. Two of them entered the room, out of breath and excited, obviously very much surprised to find his Grace actually sitting there, eating and drinking and talking. They approached to place him under arrest, but he gave them a negligent wave of his hand.