Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

And from the gallery the ’prentices sent up a low appreciative hum.

Amber felt her cheeks begin to burn and sweat start in her armpits, but at last she forced herself to sneak a glance out of the corner of one eye. She saw several upturned faces beneath her, grinning, and all at once she realized that these were only men like any other men. Just before the ladies-in-waiting went off the stage she threw them a dazzling smile, and heard another rising hum of approval. After that she stood in the wings and fretted because her part was done. By the time the play was over she was incurably stage-struck.

Beck Marshall spoke to her as they were going into the tiring-room. “Look here, Mrs. What-d’ye-call,” she said, pretending to have forgotten Amber’s name. “You needn’t strut up and down like a crow in the gutter. Those gentlemen will have a swing at anything new—”

Amber smiled at her, superior, very well satisfied with herself. “Don’t concern yourself for me, madame. I’ll have a care of my own interests, I warrant you.”

But she was more than a little disappointed when Michael and three of his friends appeared promptly, surrounding her and shutting her off from any possible outside interference, for several of the young men were watching her, asking about her, curious and interested and admiring.

Oh, well, she thought. I won’t always be troubled with Michael.

THE NEXT DAY Amber was given the part of the first Court lady, and had four short lines to say. Not very long after that she was taking important roles, singing songs and, dressed in a tight pair of breeches and thin white blouse, performing the dance at the end of the play. It was her chief qualification as an actress that she could easily achieve an accurate and only piquantly exaggerated imitation of almost any kind of woman, whether great lady or serving-wench. And little more was expected, for the audience had no interest in the subtleties of character delineation. The taste was for crude gorgeous exciting effects, whether in women, scenery, or melodrama.

They liked the bloody noisy terrifying tragedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, considered Ben Jonson the greatest playwright of all time, thought Shakespeare too realistic and hence deficient in poetic justice. He required considerable altering before he could qualify for presentation. A great deal of singing and dancing, frequent changes of scenery and costume, battles and deaths and ghosts, profanity and smut and seminudity was what they liked and what they got. At every murder or suicide sheep’s-blood spurted from concealed bladders and covered the actor with gore; ghosts rose and sank on trap-doors; scenes of torture by rack, wheel and fire filled the theatre with anguished screams and groans. But through it all the fops in the pit kept up a stream of banter with the actors and prostitutes and orange-girls, and the ladies in the boxes waved their fans and cast lazy smiles at the gallants below.

Amber’s popularity was considerable—because she was new, the women insisted—and every day after the performance she was surrounded by a flock of gallants who kissed her, tied her garters, watched her dress, and invited her to spend the night with one or all of them. She listened and laughed, flirted with everyone, but went home with Michael Godfrey.

She was afraid of arousing his jealousy, for he knew all her secrets and could ruin her if he chose. But even had she been free of him, she had not yet heard the offer which could interest her. She was looking for a man of both importance and wealth, who would keep her according to the manner in which she intended to live—clothes and jewels and a coach, a generous annual allowance, handsomely furnished lodgings, a serving-woman, and a footman. The man who could supply those things was not to be found every day, even among the tiring-room gallants, and when found he was not likely to be a ready dupe. Amber was impatient, eager to better her status, but determined to make no rash change which might precipitate her down the steep narrow road leading to common prostitution. Penelope Hill’s advice meant more to her now than when she had first heard it—and she intended to turn some man’s weakness to her own advantage.

More than a month went by and still Amber was on no better terms with the other actresses than she had been at first. They missed no opportunity to confuse or embarrass her, either on the stage or in the tiring-room, circulated rumours that she had the French-pox and that she was living incestuously with her brother—Michael—and were more annoyed than ever when she treated them all with cool, superior contempt. But nothing they said seemed to discourage the men, who brushed it all aside as mere jealous female slander.

“Well,” said Beck Marshall to her one day, “they may poach after you here in the tiring-room, but I don’t notice one of ’em’s made you an offer of more than half-a-crown.”

Amber sat on one of the tables, legs crossed while she looked into a hand-mirror and carefully drew a black line along the edge of her eyelid. “And what about you, madame? Who’s your stallion? The Duke of York, I doubt not?”

Beck gave her a smug, complacent smile. “Not his Highness, perhaps. But then, Captain Morgan’s a man of no mean consequence.”

“And who the devil’s Captain Morgan? That straight-haired nincompoop I saw you with at Chatelin’s the other night?” She got up and turned her back, beckoning Scroggs to come help her into her gown.

“Captain Morgan, Mrs. Double-tripe, is an officer in his Majesty’s Horse Guard—and a mighty handsome fellow into the bargain. And he’s so mad in love with me he’s going to make me a settlement and take me off the stage. I don’t doubt he’d marry me quick enough—if I could make up my mind to endure matrimony,” she added, examining her nails.

Amber stepped into her gown and stooped over to pull it up. “You’d better make up your mind to endure it before long,” she said, “or you’ll be leading apes in hell.” Leading apes in hell was supposedly the destiny of an old maid, and Amber liked to taunt Beck with the fact that she was two or three years her senior. “But where d’you keep this wonder? Under lock and key?”

“He’s been out of town these two months past—his family’s got a great estate in Wales, and his father just died. But he wrote me he expects to return within the week and then—”

“Oh, I don’t doubt I’ll be in a green-sickness of jealousy at the very sight of ’im.”

At that moment a boy stuck his head in the door calling, “Third music, ladies! Third music!” and they all began to troop out, for the third music meant that it was time for the curtains to be drawn. Amber thought no more of Beck’s Captain Morgan and several days went by. But late one afternoon as she was dressing after the performance, surrounded by her circle of impudent gallants, a man appeared in the doorway who instantly arrested her attention.

He was well over six feet tall with wide, square shoulders, lean hips, and magnificent legs. Powerful and virile, in his red and blue uniform he was an exciting contrast to the pale effeminate young fops who talked incessantly of their claps and poxes and carried a box of turpentine-pills wherever they went. His face was crudely handsome, with well-defined features; he had waving brown hair and skin tanned to a tawny-gold. Amber stared at him in surprise and admiration, wondering who he was, and then as he smiled slowly the corners of her eyes went up and she gave him a faint answering smile.

At that moment there was a scream from Beck.

“Rex!”

And she rushed over to throw herself into his arms, took his hand, and led him to the opposite side of the room. She dressed hastily then and hurried him out, but as he went he gave Amber a backward glance.

“Well!” said Beck the next morning, as they sat in the pit watching a rehearsal. “What d’ye make of him?” But her eyes were slightly narrowed and she was more defiant than triumphant.

Amber smiled innocently and gave a little shrug. “Oh, no doubt he’s a very fine person. I don’t wonder you rushed ’im out as fast as if you were going for a midwife.” Her eyes took on a malicious sparkle. “It’d never do to let a fellow like that make the acquaintance of other ladies, would it?”

Beck flared. “I smoke your design, madame! But let me tell you this—if I find you spreading your nets for him I’ll make you sorry for it! I’ll carbonado you, I swear I will!”

“Pooh!” said Amber, and got up to leave her. “Your bellow-weathering doesn’t scare me!”

Still, Captain Morgan did not appear backstage again for several days, and when Amber gibed at her for not daring to show her prize not only Beck but her older sister Anne flew into a rage and threatened her with the wrath of God, as well as their own. “Just you dare meddling with Captain Morgan!” cried Anne dramatically, for she was the tragedienne of the company. “You’ll wish you hadn’t!”

But Amber was so little impressed by their threats that whenever she saw him in the pit, as she often did, she flirted openly with him. It would have pleased her a great deal to steal Beck Marshall’s admirer, even if he had been much less attractive than he was.

She was going into the theatre early one afternoon when a ragged little urchin came limping up, glanced hastily around, and thrust a wax-sealed paper into her hand. Curious, Amber tore it open. “For Madame St. Clare,” she read. (“Madame” was the title applied to all actresses.) “I must confess I am hopelessly smitten by you, for all that a lady known to us both has warned me you’re not to be trusted and already belong to another man. Still, I have made so bold as to reserve a table for us at the Fox-Urider-the-Hill at Ivy Bridge. I shall hope to see you there tomorrow evening at seven. Your most humble obliged servant, madame, I am, Captain Rex Morgan.” And he added a postscript: “May I ask you, madame, to have the kindness for me as not to mention this note to anyone?”