But most of all, though she scarcely knew it herself, she missed the comfortable sense of security with which he had surrounded her.

For now she found herself suddenly adrift, lost, and filled with a cold apprehension for the future. She had almost seventeen hundred pounds with Shadrac Newbold; so there was no immediate cause for concern on that score, and she could not be arrested for debt anyway. But even seventeen hundred pounds, she knew, would not last very long if she continued to live on her present scale, and when it was gone she would be at the mercy of the tiring-room gallants.

The thought was not pleasant—for after a year and a half of association she saw them naked now and unvarnished with the gilt of a naive young girl’s illusions. To her they were no longer gallant and gay and valiant, fine gentlemen because they wore fine clothes and could trace their families to followers of William the Conqueror—but only a half-breed species of Frenchified Englishman, shallow, malicious, and absurd. They had all the trappings of cynicism, careless ill-breeding and light-hearted cruelty, which were now the marks of quality. There was not another man like Rex Morgan to be found among them.

“Oh, if I’d only known this would happen!” she thought, over and over again. “I’d never have gone away! And I wouldn’t have gone to the King that time, either. Oh, Rex, if I’d known, I’d have been kinder to you—I’d have made you happy every minute—”

The first visitor she admitted after Rex’s funeral—though many others had come—was Almsbury. He had been there before but she had been unfit to see anyone at all, and so Nan had sent him away. But one afternoon, ten days after the duel, he came again and this time she said that she would see him.

She was sitting on a couch before a burning fire, for the weather was cold and wet, and her head was bent in her arm. She did not even glance up until he sat down and reached over to put one arm about her, and then she looked at him with red and swollen eyes. Her dress was plain black and she wore not a ribbon or a jewel, her hair was tumbled and only carelessly combed, and her face was shiny with tears; her head ached and she looked thinner than she had.

“I’m sorry, Amber,” he said softly, tenderness and sympathy in his eyes and the tone of his voice. “I know how little it means to hear that when you’ve lost someone—but I mean it with all my heart, and please believe me when I say that Bruce—”

She gave him a venomous glare. “Don’t you dare speak of him to me! Much I care how sorry he is! If it hadn’t been for him Rex would still be alive!”

Almsbury looked at her in surprise and an expression of impatience crossed his features, but she had covered her face with her hands and was crying again, wiping at the tears with a wet wadded handkerchief.

“That isn’t fair, Amber, and you know it. He asked you to stop the duel; he even let Captain Morgan cut his arm in the hope that that would satisfy him. There was nothing more to do unless he had let Morgan kill him—and surely even you couldn’t have expected that.”

“Oh, I don’t care what he did! He killed Rex! He murdered him—and I loved him! I was going to marry him!”

“In that case,” said the Earl, with unmistakable sarcasm, “it would have been better judgement not to go off on a honeymoon with another man—even if he was an old friend.”

“Oh, mind your own business!” she muttered, and though he hesitated for a moment, Almsbury got to his feet, made her a polite bow and went out of the room. Amber neither spoke nor tried to stop him.


She did not feel able to go back to the theatre immediately, and then shortly after the first of June it closed for two months. But as soon as she began to admit visitors her own apartments became almost as crowded as the tiring-room. She found, somewhat to her surprise, that the duel had made her as much the fashion as red-heeled shoes or Chatelin’s Ordinary. Lord Carlton was handsome, his family one of the oldest and most honourable, and his exploits as a privateer had made him a spectacular figure, not only at Court but throughout the city.

Amber knew how much such popularity meant, but she determined to take every advantage of it that she possibly could. Somewhere among those clamoring beaus, those beribboned fops and wit-imitators, there must be a man—a man who would fall in love with her as Rex had done; and if she could but single him out, this time she would know what to do. Marriage she did not expect, for the social position of an actress was no better than that of the vizard-masks in the pit, and with Rex dead her earlier opinion of matrimony had revived. But the brilliant lavish exciting life of an exclusive harlot seemed to her a most pleasant one.

She saw herself occupying a magnificent house in St. James’s Field or Pall Mall, driving about town in her gilt coach-and-six, giving fabulous entertainments, setting the styles which would be taken up at Whitehall. She saw herself famous, admired, desired and—most of all—envied.

It was what she had wanted for a long time; and now that she had begun to reconcile herself to the fact of Rex Morgan’s death, the wish opened once more into quick full blossom. Optimistically, she decided that he was all that had kept her from having those things.

But though she encouraged them all, flirted with them and laughed at their jokes, she never accepted their proposals. She knew that they held constancy in contempt, but also that they valued a woman more if she pretended concern for her virtue and made a great issue of surrender—just as they would rather win money from a man who hated to lose it. And so far no one had offered what she wanted.

“Phoo, pox, Mrs. St. Clare!” said one of them to her. “A virtuous woman is a crime against nature!”

“Well,” retorted Amber, “then there aren’t many criminals nowadays.”

But nevertheless she was growing uneasy and discouraged and in spite of her insistence that she intended never to err again, the other actresses taunted her because she had not found another keeper.

“I hear the young gentlemen are grown mighty shy of keeping these days,” remarked Knepp one afternoon when she and Beck Marshall had come to call on Amber. Over her glass of clary—a potent drink made of brandy and clary-flowers flavoured with sugar and cinnamon and ambergris—she flipped Beck a sly wink. “They say three months is the limit a man will keep now, for fear of losing his reputation as a wit.”

“Oh, gad, a man is as much laughed at for keeping as ever he was for taking a wife,” said Beck. “More, I believe, for at least a wife brings a dowry to settle his debts, while a whore gives him nothing but a bastard and more debts.”

“Especially,” said Amber, “if she’s being kept by three or four at once.”

Beck looked at her sharply. “What d’you mean by that, madame?”

“Heavens, Beck.” Amber opened her eyes wide in pretended innocence. “I’m sure it isn’t my fault if your conscience troubles you.”

“My conscience doesn’t trouble me at all! Don’t you agree it’s better to be kept by three men at once—than by none at all?” She gave Amber a malicious tight-lipped smile, and then defiantly downed her drink at one gulp.

“Well,” said Amber, “I’m glad I learnt my lesson on that score. I intend never to go into keeping again.”

“Hah!” Knepp gave a sudden short barking laugh, and then she and Beck got up and prepared to leave.

As Amber closed the door after them she heard Knepp say, “She intends never to go into keeping again—until she can find the man who’ll make her an indecent proposal at a high figure!” And the giggling voices of the two women faded away down the stair-well.

Amber turned back to Nan, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Oh, Nan, maybe they’re right! I half believe it’s harder to find a man who’ll keep than one who’ll marry.”

“Well, mam—”

“Now don’t tell me again I should have married Captain Morgan!” she cried warningly. “I’m sick of hearing it!”

“Lord, mam, I wasn’t going to say anything about that. ”But I have been thinking of a plan you might try.”

“What?”

“If you quit the theatre, took lodgings in the City and set yourself up for a rich widow, I’ll warrant you’d find a husband with a good portion within the month.”

“My God, Nan! Can you imagine me married to some stinking old alderman with nothing to do but breed his brats and visit his aunts and cousins and sisters and go to church twice on Sundays for my diversion? No thanks! I’m not that discouraged—yet!”


For three months it had rained, and then on the last day of June the sun came out brilliantly, the puddles in the streets began to dry, and the air was fresh and sparkling-clean. Children appeared, like a ragged legion sprung up overnight, in every alley and lane and courtyard in London, running and shouting joyously at their gutter games. Vendors and ballad-singers and housewives swarmed out-of-doors to feel the sun, and in St. James’s Park and the Mall courtiers and ladies strolled again.

Since his Majesty’s Restoration St. James’s Park was open to the public and not only the nobility but other idlers were free to saunter through its broad tree-lined avenues and stop to watch the King playing at pall mall, which he did with the same enthusiasm and skill he showed at every kind of athletic contest.

Amber went there that pleasant sunny afternoon with three young men—Jack Conway, Tom Trivet and Sir Humphrey Pere-pound—who had come to invite her to supper. It was scarcely four o’clock when they left her apartments and so they had some time to waste until the supper hour. At the Park entrance they got out of their hired coach and started off up Birdcage Walk, so called because the trees were full of cages containing singing and squawking birds from Peru, the East Indies, and China.