Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Ranged against the apron-shaped stage, which extended out into the pit, stood half-a-dozen girls with baskets over their arms, bawling out their wares—oranges and lemons and sweetmeats—which they sold at exorbitant prices.

  Above the pit, but down close to the stage, was a balcony divided into boxes, and there sat the ladies of quality, gorgeously gowned and jewelled, with their husbands or lovers. Above that was another balcony filled with women and rowdies. And in one still higher were the apprentices who beat time to the music with their cudgels, gave a loud hum by way of disapproval and, when really indignant, sounded their catcalls—loud whistles that filled the theatre.

  Essentially the audience was aristocratic—the harlots and 'prentices being almost the only outsiders—and the ladies and gentlemen came to see and to be seen, to gossip and to flirt. The play was a secondary consideration.

  Amber found nothing to disappoint her. It was all she had expected, and more.

  Taut with excitement and happiness, she sat very straight beside Bruce, her eyes round and sparkling and travelling from one side of the theatre to the other. So this was the great world! Yet she could not but be poignantly aware of her new gown, her elaborate coiffure, the scent of her perfume, and the unfamiliar but pleasurable feeling of cosmetics on her skin, the silken caress of her fur muff between her fingers, the voluptuous display of her breasts.

  And then, as she looked around at the boxes near them, she encountered the eyes of two women who were leaning slightly forward, watching her—and the expression on their faces was a sudden rude shock.

  They were both handsome, richly dressed, sparkling with jewels, and they had an indefinable hauteur and confidence which she already associated with quality. Bruce had bowed and spoken to them when they came in—as he had spoken to several other men and women nearby and had acknowledged waves of greeting from gentlemen in the pit. But now, as her eyes met theirs, they gave her a sweeping contemptuous glance, exchanged smiles with each other; one woman murmured something behind her fan—and with a concerted lift of the eyebrows they both looked away.

  For an instant Amber continued to stare at them, surprised and hurt, almost sick with humiliation, and then she looked down at her fan and bit her lower lip to force back the sudden impulse of tears. Oh! she thought in passionate mortification, they think I'm a harlot! They despise me! All at once the glory was gone from her outing into the gay world and she wished she had never come, had never exposed herself to their scorn and disdain.

  When Bruce, who had evidently seen the exchange of glances, gave her hand a warm reassuring pressure her spirits lifted a little and she flung him a look of gratitude. But though she returned her eyes to the stage then and tried to take an interest in what was going on she found it impossible. She only wished that the play would end so that she might get back to the comforting seclusion of their apartment. How ashamed Sarah would be, how furious Uncle Matt, to see to what a condition she had come!

  At last the epilogue had been spoken and the audience began to rise. Bruce turned to her with a smile, putting her cloak over her shoulders. "Well, how did you like it?"

  "I—I liked it." She did not look him in the eyes and dared not glance about for fear of confronting the two women again, or some other sneering face.

  Below in the pit several of the men were clustering about the orange-girls, kissing them, handling them familiarly, while others indulged in horseplay among themselves, clapping one another on the back and pulling off hats. The actor who had impersonated Juliet, still in his long blond wig and a gown with padded chest, came out and stood talking to some of the beaus. Others were climbing up onto the stage and going back behind the scenes. Overhead they could hear tramping feet making for the exits, and the ladies and gentlemen about them were pausing in small groups—the women kissing one another and squealing while the men smiled with smug tolerance. But all the while Amber stood with a troubled frown on her face, her eyes fixed on Bruce's cravat, wishing they would all get out.

  "Shall we go, my dear?" He offered her his arm.

  Outside the theatre they made their way through the loiterers to his coach where it stood in line with several others, all jamming the streets until foot-traffic was almost at a standstill. Everyone was pushing to get through and vendors and porters were swearing angrily. All of a sudden a beggar thrust himself before them, making weird undistinguishable sounds, his mouth open, and he put his face up to Amber's to show her where his tongue bled from having been cut out. Sickened with pity and a little frightened she drew closer to Bruce, holding his arm.

  Bruce tossed the man a coin. "Here. Out of the way."

  "Oh—that poor man! Did you see him? Why did they do that to him?"

  They had reached the coach and he handed her in. "There was nothing wrong with him. It's a trick they have of rolling their tongues out of sight and poking them with a stick until they bleed."

  "But why doesn't he work instead of doing that?"

  "He does work. Don't think begging's the easiest profession in the world."

  She sat down while he turned to talk to two young men who had called his name, and she saw them both looking at her from over his shoulder, frank appraisal in their eyes. For one bold instant Amber returned their stares, lifting her brows and slanting the corners of her eyes—and then suddenly she blushed and looked the other way. Oh, Lord! they were most likely thinking the same thing about her that the women had! But still she could not resist sneaking them another slow cautious glance—and her eyes met once more the full stare of the handsomer one. Swiftly she glanced away. And yet—there was no doubt it did not seem so insulting, coming from a man.

  Bruce finally turned back, spoke to the driver and got in, sitting down beside her as the coach gave a jog and started to move. He took one of her hands in his. "You've set the town by its ears. That was my Lord Buckhurst and he says you're far more beautiful than Barbara Palmer."

  "You mean the King's mistress?"

  "Yes. How the devil do you manage to get all the current gossip?" He looked down at her, amused as though she were a pretty doll or a plaything.

  "The dressmaker told me about her. Bruce—who were those two ladies? The ones in the next box that waved to you?"

  "Wives of friends of mine. Why?"

  She looked down at her fan, frowning, counting the sticks. "Did you see how they looked at me? Like this—" She pulled her face into a sudden grimace, a perfect though somewhat exaggerated and malicious imitation of the stares they had given her. "They think I'm a harlot—I know they do!"

  Bruce gave her a look of surprise and then, to her astonishment, threw back his head and laughed.

  "Well!" she cried, offended. "What the devil is there to laugh at, pray?"

  She was beginning already to pick up some of his expressions, words and phrases Matt Goodegroome would never have allowed even his sons to use. It seemed to Amber that all fine persons swore and that it was a mark of good breeding.

  "I'm sorry, Amber. I wasn't laughing at you. But to tell you the truth I think they glared at you for another reason—jealousy, no doubt. Certainly neither of them has any reason to have an ill opinion of another woman's character. Between 'em I think they've laid with most of the men who went to France."

  "But you said they're married!"

  "So they are. If they weren't they might have been more discreet."

  She was relieved, but at the same time a quick suspicion entered her mind. Could he have been one of those men? But she promptly decided that if he had been he would never have mentioned the matter at all—and she thrust that thought aside. She began to feel happy again, and eager for the next adventure.

  "Where are we going now?"

  "I thought you might like to have supper at a tavern."

  Back in the City they stopped in New Street before a building which bore the sign of a great golden eagle. When she stepped down Amber lifted her skirts high to show her black lace garters, just as she had seen several ladies do outsi
de the theatre. Then, as they were about to go in the door, they heard a loud shout in a familiar masculine voice.

  "Hey! Carlton!"

  Curiously they looked around. It was Almsbury, riding by in a hackney jammed with several other men, and as the coach pulled up he jumped out, waved his companions goodbye and came toward them at a run. He blinked his eyes twice as he saw Amber and then swept off his hat in a deep bow.

  "Holy Christ, sweetheart! Damn me if you aren't as beautiful as a Venetian whore!"

  The delightful smile froze on Amber's face.

  Well! So that was what he thought of her too! Her eyebrows drew together in a furious scowl, but at a glance from Bruce the Earl hastened to repair his breach. He shrugged his shoulders and made a comical face.

  "Well—after all, you know, Venetian prostitutes are the prettiest women in Europe. But then, I suppose if you—"

  He paused, watching her with an ingratiating grin and Amber slowly raised her eyes to his again. She could not resist his friendliness and all of a sudden she smiled. He took her arm. "Lord, sweetheart, you know I wouldn't offend you for anything on earth." The three of them went inside and, at Bruce's request, were shown upstairs to a private room.

  After the men had ordered, the waiter brought them a small barrelful of oysters and they began cracking them open, eating them raw with a sprinkle of salt and a few drops of lemon juice, scattering the shells on the table and floor. Almsbury predicted that oysters would become the staple food at Court and when Amber looked puzzled Bruce told her what he meant. She laughed heartily, thinking it a very good joke.

  By the time they had finished the oysters the rest of the meal appeared: a roast duck stuffed with oysters and onions, fried artichoke bottoms, and a rich cheesecake baked in a crust. After that there was Burgundy for the two men, white Rhenish for Amber, fruit, and some nuts to crack. For a long while they sat at the table talking, all of them warm and well-fed and content, and Amber quite forgot her earlier chagrin.

  The wine was stronger than the ale to which she was accustomed and after a couple of glasses she became quiet and drowsy, and sat with her eyes half closed listening to the men talk. A sense of lightness pervaded her, as though her head had become detached and floated somewhere far above her. She watched Bruce admiringly, every expression that crossed his face, every gesture of his hands. And when he would turn to smile at her or, as he did once or twice, lean over to brush his lips across her cheek, her happiness soared dizzily.

  At last she whispered in his ear and, when he answered, got up and crossed the room to a small closet. While she was in there she heard a knock at the outer door, another voice speaking, and then the sound of the door closing again.

  When she came out, Almsbury was sitting at the table alone, pouring himself another glassful of wine. He glanced around over his shoulder. "He's been called out on business but he'll be back in a moment. Come here where I can look at you."

  Ten minutes or more dragged slowly by with Amber watching the door, looking up with swift eager expectancy at each slight sound, nervous and unhappy. It seemed as though he had been gone an hour when the waiter came in. He bowed to Almsbury.

  "Sir, his Lordship regrets that he has been called away on a matter of important business, and asks that you do him the kindness of carrying madame to her lodging."

  Almsbury, who had been watching Amber while the man delivered his message, nodded his head. And now Amber looked at him with her face white, her eyes as hurt as if she had been struck.

  "Business," she repeated softly. "Where can he go on business at this hour?"

  Almsbury shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sweetheart. Here, have another drink."

  But though Amber took the wineglass he proffered she merely sat and held it. For a month and a half she had looked forward to this night—and now he must go off somewhere on business. Every time she asked him where he had been or where he was going it was always the same answer—"business." But why tonight? Why this one night for which she had planned so long and from which she had hoped so much? She felt tired and discouraged and hung listlessly in her chair, scarcely speaking, so that after a few minutes Almsbury got up and suggested that they go.

  During the ride back she did not trouble herself to make conversation with the Earl, but when they reached the Royal Saracen she asked him if he would care to come upstairs, half hoping that he would refuse. But he accepted readily and, while she went on ahead to take off her gown, stopped in the taproom for a couple of bottles of sack. Coming out of the bedroom in a pair of clopping mules and a gold satin dressing-gown—another recent acquirement—she found him stretched comfortably on a cushion-piled settle before the fire. He gave a wave of his arm, signalling her to come to him and, when she sat down beside him, took hold of one of her hands, looked at it reflectively for a moment and then touched it to his lips. Frowning, Amber stared off into space, scarcely conscious of him.

  "Where d'you think he went?" she asked at last.

  Almsbury shrugged, tilted the bottle again.

  "What the devil is this 'business' he's always about? Do you know what it is?"

  "Every Royalist in England has business nowadays. One wants his property back. Another wants a sinecure that'll pay a thousand a year for helping the King on and off with his drawers. The galleries are full of 'em—country squires and old soldiers and doting mamas who've heard the King has an eye for pretty women. They all want something—including me. I want Almsbury House back again and my lands in Herefordshire. His Majesty couldn't please all of us if he were King Midas and high Jupiter rolled into one."

  "What does Bruce want? Carlton Hall?"

  "No, I don't think so. It was sold, not confiscated, and I don't believe they'll give back property that was sold." He finished the bottle and leaned over to pick up another one.

  The Earl could drink more with less effect to himself than any man she had ever seen, and Bruce had told her that it was because he had lived so long in taverns that his blood had turned to alcohol. She still was not sure whether he had meant it as a joke or the solemn truth.

  "I don't see what he can want," she said. "As rich as he is."

  "Rich?" Alsmbury seemed surprised.

  "Well—isn't he?"

  Amber knew very little about money for she had never had in her possession more than a few shillings at a time and could scarcely tell the value of one coin from another. But it seemed to her that Lord Carlton must have fabulous wealth to own a coach-and-four, to wear the clothes he did, to buy such wonderful things for her.

  "By no means. His family sold everything they had to help the King and what they didn't sell was taken from them in the decimations. That jewellery he found at Carlton Hall was just about everything that was left. No—he's not rich. In fact, he's damned near as poor as I am."

  "But what about the coach—and my clothes—"

  "Oh. Well—he has that much. A man who knows what he's about can sit down for a few hours at cards or dice and come away several hundred pounds to the good."

  "Cheating?" She was rather shocked, almost inclined to think that Almsbury was lying.

  But he smiled. "Well, perhaps he plays a little upon advantage But then, we all do. Of course some of us are clever at it and some not so clever— Bruce can slur and knap with any man in Europe. He made his living for most of fifteen years with a pair of dice and a pack of cards—and he lived a damned sight better than most of us did. In fact, the other night I saw him win twenty-five hundred in four hours at the Groom Porter's Lodge."

  "Is that what all this business is he goes upon—gambling?"

  "Partly. He needs money."

  "Then why doesn't he ask the King for it—since everyone else does?"

  "My dear, you don't know Bruce."

  At that moment she heard a coach come banging down the street and left him to rush to the window—but to her disappointment it continued on by and rounded the next corner. She stayed there, looking out into the darkness, for there wer
e no street lights of any sort but only the pale gleam from the new moon and the stars. The streets were deserted, not a person was in sight. London citizens stayed home at night unless they had a very good reason to go abroad, and then they took with them an escort of linkboys or footmen.

  In the distance she saw the glow of the bellman's lantern and could hear his monotonous refrain: "Past ten o'clock of a fine warm summer's night and all's well. Past ten o'clock—"

  Completely absorbed in her worries about Bruce, she had forgotten that Almsbury was there at all. But now she felt his arms go around her, one hand sliding into her dressing-gown, and with the other he turned her about and kissed her on the mouth. Astonished, she gave a little gasp and then suddenly shoved him away, slapping him resoundingly across the face.

  "Marry come up, sir!" she cried. "A fine friend you are! When his Lordship hears about this he'll run you through!"

  He stared at her for an instant in surprise, and then threw back his head and laughed. "Run me through! Jesus, sweetheart, but you've a droll wit! Come, now—surely you don't think Bruce would give a damn if I borrowed his whore for a night?"

  Amber's eyes blazed in violent anger. Then in a fury she kicked out at his shins, beginning to pound his chest with her clenched fists. "I'm not a whore, you damned dog! Get out of here— Get out of here or I'll tear you to pieces!"

  "Hey!" He grabbed her wrists, giving her a shake. "Stop it, you little vixen! What are you trying to do? I'm sorry. I apologize. I didn't—"

  "Get out, you varlet!" she yelled.

  "I'm going. I'm going— Hold your bawling."

  Picking up his hat, which she had knocked off, he crossed to the door. There, with his hand on the knob, he turned to face her. She was still glaring at him, fists planted on her hips, but tears glistened in her eyes and it was all she could do to keep from crying. His flippancy vanished.