Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

Late one afternoon they were in the garden that ran down to the river behind Somerset House, strolling arm in arm between a tall row of clipped limes. Frances was dressed in a lovely blue-satin gown with flounces of black lace on the skirt; a veil of black lace was flung over her hair and fell across her face to her chin. With her feeling for beauty, she had instinctively begun to try to compensate for what the disease had done to her. She used her fan for concealment, veils to shield her skin, and now when she paused beside the river it was in the shadow of a great elm.

Silently they stood looking out over the water, and then her hand in the bend of his arm tightened slowly and he turned to find her staring up at him. For a moment Charles made no move but stood watching her, and he saw that she was asking him to kiss her. His arms went about her and this time there was no holding him off with her finger-tips, no giggle of protest as his body pressed close. Instead she clung to him, her arms drawing him to her, and he could feel in her mouth not real passion but eagerness to please—a frightened premonition that he would no longer find her desirable.

Charles, his pity for her over-riding his inevitable reaction to a woman’s body and lips, released her gently. But she did not want to let him go. Her hands caught at his upper arms.

“Oh, you were right all along! I was a fool—You should never have been so patient with me!”

Surprised at her frankness, he said softly, “My dear, I hope that I shall never be any such bungler as to take a woman against her will.”

“But I—” she began, and then stopped suddenly, blushing. All at once she turned and went running up the path, and he knew that she was crying.

The next night, however, as he was getting alone into a scull at the Palace stairs to take a short evening ride on the river he made a sudden decision, turned the boat around, and started toward Somerset House. The little craft went skimming over the water’s surface; he beached it and jumped out. The water-gate was locked but in a moment he had vaulted the wall and was off on a run through the gardens toward the house.

I’ve waited five years and a half for this, he thought. I hope to God it hasn’t been too long!

CHARLES AND THE Duke of Buckingham sat across the table from each other examining a small but perfect model for a new man-of-war, both of them absorbed and eagerly excited in the discussion. Charles had always loved ships and the sea. He knew so much about both, in fact, that many considered such a command of technical knowledge to be quite beneath a king’s dignity. Nevertheless, the navy was his pride and he still smarted from the humiliation of having the Dutch sail into his rivers, plunder his countryside, burn and sink his finest ships. He intended one day to repay that insult—meanwhile he was building a stronger and bigger navy. It was the plan and hope of his life that England should someday sail the seas, supreme unchallenged mistress of all the waters on earth—for that way and that alone, he knew, lay greatness for his little kingdom.

At last Charles got to his feet. “Well—I can’t stay admiring this any longer. I’m engaged to play tennis with Rupert at two.” He picked his wig from where it was perched on the back of a chair, set it on his head and glancing into a mirror clapped his wide hat down over it.

Buckingham stood up, his own hat under his arm. “On a day hot as this? I marvel at your Majesty’s industry.”

Charles smiled. “It’s my daily physic. I need my health so that I may keep up with my amusements.”

The two men went out the door, Charles closed and locked it behind him and dropped the key into his coat-pocket. They crossed through several more rooms, mounted a narrow flight of stairs, and came at last into the great Stone Gallery. There, coming toward them with her woman beside her and a little blackamoor to carry her train, was Frances Stewart. She waved to attract their attention and as they paused to wait for her, she hastened her steps.

Buckingham bowed, Charles smiled, and as she reached them he gave her a light careless friendly salute on the lips. But as Frances looked up at him her eyes were pathetic and anxious; she could never for an instant forget the terrible fact that her beauty was gone. All her manner had changed, as if to compensate for the thing she had lost. Now she was eager, nervously vivacious, wistful.

“Oh, your Majesty! I’m so glad we chanced to meet! It’s been a week and more since I’ve seen you—”

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a great deal to do—council-meetings and ambassadors—”

She had heard him make similar excuses, many times before, to other women. Then she had teased him for lying and laughed about it, because in those days she had laughed joyously at everything.

“I wish you’d come to supper. Can’t you come tonight? I’ve invited ever so many others—” she added quickly.

“Thank you very much, Frances, but I’m engaged for tonight, and have been for so long I dare not break it.” Her disappointment was painful to see, and because it made him uncomfortable he added: “But I’ll be free tomorrow night. I can come then if you like.”

“Oh, can you, sir!” Instantly her face brightened. “I’ll order everything you like best to eat—and I’ll bespeak Moll Davis to give us a performance!” She turned to Buckingham. “I’d like to have you come too, your Grace—with my Lady Shrewsbury, of course.”

“Thank you, madame. If I can, I’ll be there.”

Frances curtsied, the men bowed, and then continued on their way down the corridor. For several moments Charles was silent. “Poor Frances,” he said at last. “It makes my heart sick to see her.”

“She’s considerably impaired,” admitted the Duke. “But at least it stopped her infernal giggling. I haven’t heard her giggle once these two months past.” Then, very casually, he said: “Oh, yes—Lauderdale was telling me about her Majesty’s escapade last night.”

Charles laughed. “I think everyone has heard of it by now. I didn’t guess she had so much mettle.”

Catherine had put on a disguise and left the Palace with Mrs. Boynton to attend a betrothal party in the City—to which, of course, neither had been invited. Masked and wigged they had gone in boldly, mingled with the other guests, but had become separated in the crowd so that the Queen had been forced to return home alone in a hackney. It was the kind of prank the ladies and gentlemen were always playing—but Catherine had never dared go on such an adventure before and the Palace buzzed with shock and amusement to learn their mousey little Queen had finally braved the great forbidding world outside her castle-walls.

“They said she was trembling all over when she first came in,” continued Charles. “But after a few minutes she began to laugh and told it all as a good frolic. The chair-men who carried her there were devilish rude fellows, she said, and the hackney-driver so drunk she expected he would tumble her into the streets!” He seemed highly amused. “All the citizens were grumbling I’d led the country straight to hell! She makes a good intelligence-agent, don’t you agree? I’ve a notion to send her out often.”

Buckingham’s face had a look of sour reproval. “It was mighty indecorous. And worse yet—mighty dangerous.”

Now they emerged into the hot July sunshine and had to squint their eyes till they had accustomed themselves to the glare. They started off across the Privy Gardens toward the Tennis Court, passing several men and women who were strolling there or standing talking, and the King greeted many of them with a smile or a wave of the hand. Sometimes he paused to talk for a moment or called out a friendly greeting. Buckingham did not like these interruptions.

“Oh, I don’t imagine she was in any great danger,” said Charles. “Anyway, she’s safely back now.”

“But another time, Sire, she might not return safely.”

Charles gave a burst of laughter. “Sure, now, George—you don’t think anyone considers me rich enough to make it worth their while to kidnap my wife?”

“It wasn’t ransom I had in mind. Has it never occurred to you, Sire, that her Majesty might be kidnapped and sent to a desert island and never heard from again?”

“I must confess, I haven’t worried a great deal at the prospect.” Charles waved his arm at a couple of pretty women sitting several yards away on the lawn, and they laughed and nudged each other, fluttering their fans at him in return.

“There are many such islands,” continued Buckingham, ignoring the interruption, “located in the West Indies. There is no reason why one of them could not be supplied with every possible comfort. A woman might live out the rest of her days at ease in such a place.”

A quick scowl crossed Charles’s face and he looked sharply at the Duke. “Do I misunderstand you, Villiers, or are you suggesting that I get rid of my wife by having her kidnapped?”

“The idea is by no means impracticable, your Majesty. I had given it considerable thought, in fact—even to the point of locating a suitable island on the map—long before her Majesty took to this indiscreet new pastime of masquerading.”

Charles made a sound of disgust. “You’re a scoundrel, George Villiers! I don’t deny that I desperately need an heir—but I’ll never get one by any such means as that! And let me tell you one thing more: If her Majesty is ever harmed or molested—if she ever disappears—I’ll know where to lay the blame. And you won’t wear a head so long as an hour! Good-day!”

He gave Buckingham a brief dark look of anger and then walked swiftly away from him into the building which housed the tennis-courts. The Duke turned on his heel and went off in the other direction, muttering beneath his breath.