He scowled. "You don't know what you're talking about, Minette."
"Yes, I do, my dear. I assure you I do, and I think the world overestimates love-making. It's only a small part of life—there are so many other things to do." She spoke now with a great air of confidence and worldly wisdom.
"My little sister—how much you have to learn." He smiled at her but his face was tender and sad. "Tell me, has a man ever made love to you?"
"No. That is, not very much. Oh, I've been kissed a time or two—but nothing more," she added, blushing a little and dropping her eyes.
"That's what I thought—or you wouldn't talk like that." Charles's first son had been born when Charles was Minette's age. "Half the joys and half the sorrows of this world are discovered in bed. And I'm afraid you'd find nothing but sorrow there if you married Philippe."
Minette frowned a little and gave a brief sigh; they started to walk again. "That may be all very true for men, but I'm sure it isn't for women. Oh, please let me marry him! You know how much Mam wants me to. And I want to too. I want to live in France, Sire—that's the only place I could ever be at home. I know Philippe isn't perfect, but I don't care—if I have France, I'll be happy."
Christmas was England's most beloved holiday, and nowhere was it celebrated with more enthusiasm than at Whitehall.
Every room and every gallery was decorated with holly, cypress and laurel. There were enormous beaten-silver wassail-bowls garlanded with ivy. Branches of mistletoe hung from chandeliers and in doorways, and a berry was pulled off for each kiss. Gay music sounded throughout the Palace, the staircases were crowded with merry young men and women, and both day and night there was a festival of dancing and games and cards.
The immense kitchens were busy preparing mince-pies, pickled boar's heads to be served on immense golden platters, peacocks with their tails spread, and every other traditional Yule-tide delicacy. In the Banqueting Hall the King's Christmas presents were on display and this year every courtier with a farthing to his name had sent one—instead of retiring into the country to avoid the obligation, as had once been common practice.
And then suddenly the laughter was hushed, the music ceased to play, gentlemen and ladies walked softly, spoke in whispers: Princess Mary was sick of the small-pox. She died the day before Christmas.
The royal family passed Christmas day quietly and sadly, and Henrietta Maria began to make preparations for returning to France. She was afraid to leave Minette longer in England for fear she too would contract the disease. And there was no real reason to stay longer, for though she had Minette's dowry and a generous pension for herself, she knew at last that she had failed with James.
Berkeley had finally admitted that his story had been a lie, Killigrew and Jermyn had done the same, and James had recognized Anne as his wife. But he made no mention of his decision to his mother and she was furious when she heard of it, refused to speak to him either in public or in private and declared that if that woman entered Whitehall by one door she herself would go out by another.
And then all at once her attitude changed completely and she told James that since Anne was his choice in a wife she was ready to accept her, and she asked that he bring the Duchess to her. James was relieved, though he knew what had prompted her sudden softening of heart. Cardinal Mazarin had written to tell her frankly that if she left England while still on bad terms with her two sons she would find no welcome in France. He was afraid that Charles would revoke her pension and that he, Mazarin, would have to support her.
The day before she left London Henrietta Maria received her daughter-in-law in her bedchamber at Whitehall. This was still the custom among great persons for that room was the most opulently furnished of all and differed from a drawing-room only because it contained the immense four-poster tester-covered bed-of-state. The reception was a large one, for Henrietta Maria was popular at Court if nowhere else, and in spite of widespread sickness they had been drawn there by curiosity to see how Queen and Duchess would greet each other. All wore sombre black and most jewels had been reluctantly left at home. The room smelt of unwashed bodies and a nostril-searing stench of burnt brimstone and saltpetre which had been used to disinfect the air. In spite of that precaution Henrietta Maria had not been willing for Minette to run the risk, and she was not there.
The Queen Mother sat in a great black velvet chair, a little mantle of ermine about her shoulders, talking pleasantly with a group of gentlemen. The King stood just beside her, tall and handsome in his royal-purple velvet mourning. But everyone was growing impatient. The prologue had been too long—they were eager for the play to begin.
And then there was a sudden commotion in the doorway. The Duke and Duchess of York were announced.
A hushed expectant murmur ran through the room and many pairs of eyes glanced quickly to Henrietta Maria. She sat perfectly still, watching her son and his wife approach, a faint smile on her mouth; no one could have told what she was thinking. But Charles, glancing down at her, saw that she trembled ever so slightly and that one veined taut-skinned hand had a tight hold on the arm of her chair.
Poor Mam, he thought. How much that pension means to her!
Anne Hyde was twenty-three years old, dark and ugly with a large mouth and bulging eyes. But she walked into the room —stared at by dozens of pairs of curious jealous critical eyes and facing a mother-in-law she knew hated her—with her head held high and a kind of courageous grandeur that commanded admiration. With perfect respect but no slightest hint of servility she knelt at the Queen's feet, bowing her head, while James mumbled a speech of presentation.
Henrietta Maria smiled graciously and kissed Anne lightly on the forehead, apparently as well-pleased as though she had made the choice for James herself. Behind her the face of the King was impassive—but as Anne gave him a quick look of gratitude his black eyes sparkled at her with something that was very like a reassuring and congratulatory smile.
Chapter Seven
The day after Lord Carlton's departure Amber had moved almost a mile across town to the Rose and Crown in Fetter Lane. She could not stand the sight of the rooms where they had lived, the table where they had eaten, and the bed they had slept in. Mr. Gumble who gave her a bleak, sympathetic look, the chambermaid, even the black-and-white bitch with her litter of pups, filled her with lonely sickness. She wanted to get away from it and, just as much, she wanted to avoid the possibility of seeing Almsbury or any other of his Lordship's acquaintance. The Earl's promise of friendship should she need it meant nothing to her now but the dread of raking over her misery and shame. She wanted to be left alone.
For several days she shut herself up in the single room she had taken.
She was convinced that her life was over and the future that lay before her was arid and hopeless. She wished that she had never seen Bruce, and forgetting her own willful part in what had happened to her, blamed him for all her troubles. She forgot that she had eagerly wanted to have a child and hated him for leaving her pregnant, frightened and baffled by the knowledge that imprisoned within her body, growing with each day that passed, was proof of her guiltiness. One day she would no longer be able to conceal it—and what would happen to her then? She forgot that she had despised Marygreen and wanted to leave it, and blamed him for having brought her to this great city where she had no friends and every strange face looked like an enemy's. A hundred times she decided that she would go back home, but she did not dare. For though she might be able to explain to Sarah what had happened, her uncle, she knew, would very likely refuse her the house. And certainly would turn her out when he found her with child.
Amber mulled wretchedly over her problems, but there seemed no solution to them and no end. She would never again be young and gay and free. And all because of him!
But in spite of herself Lord Carlton sometimes—and more often as the days passed—stepped out of his role as Devil. She was still wholly infatuated and she had a passionate painful longing for him that was somethin
g more than desire. It was awe, bedazzlement, admiration as well.
But gradually, as time passed, she began again to take an interest in merely being alive. Her meals tasted good to her. There were so many things to eat here in London that she had never had before: elaborate sweets called marchpanes, olives imported from the Continent, Parmesan cheese and Bayonne bacon. And she began to feel a kind of curious wonder at the strange and mysterious functioning of her own body in pregnancy. She even began to care something about her appearance again. And once when she had idly dusted some powder over her cheeks, she went on opening one jar after another, until she had painted all her face, and she could not help being pleased with the result.
She almost felt then that she was too pretty to mope away the rest of her life alone.
Her windows overlooked the street, which was in a somewhat fashionable neighborhood, and she began to spend more and more time there, wondering who the handsomely gowned lady was, getting out of her coach attended by four gallants, where the good-looking young man who stared up at her was going and what he thought of her. London was just as exciting as it had ever been.
But I'm going to have a baby!
That was what made the difference. Even more than Lord Carlton's departure.
But she could not stay indoors forever, and so one day when Carlton had been gone for about a fortnight she made herself ready again with great care and went out. She had no plan or specific intention but wanted only to get away from her room, perhaps to ramble through the streets in her coach, to feel in some way that she was a part of the world.
The coachman whom Lord Carlton had hired had fallen sick of the small-pox not three days after his Lordship left and Amber had paid him his salary for the year and—scared of the disease—sent the footman away. The host at the Rose and Crown found two others to take their place. Now while she waited for her coach she stood in the doorway of the inn pulling on her gloves, and was unable to keep back a pleased smile as two flaxen haired beribboned young fops went by and craned their necks to stare at her. She was sure that they thought her some person of quality. And then, to her surprise, she heard her own name spoken and gave a start. Turning quickly she saw that a strange woman had come up behind her.
"Good morning, Mrs. St. Clare. Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to affright you, madame. I wanted to ask how you were doing. My apartments are just next yours and the landlord told me you'd been abed with an ague. I have a decoction that does wonders for an ague—"
Her eyes and smile were friendly and she looked at Amber as though she admired her beauty and her clothes. Instantly grateful for the attention and glad to have someone to talk to, if only for a moment, Amber made her a little curtsy.
"God-a-mercy, madame. But I think the ague's near gone by now."
At that instant her coach drove up and stopped before them; the footman opened the door, turned down the folding iron steps and stood ready to hand her in. Amber hesitated for just a moment. The jolt her self-confidence had had and two weeks of complete seclusion had made her a little shy. But she was desperately lonely and this lady looked kind—and not too critical. She would have been afraid of one of the glossy tart-voiced young women her own age whom she had seen and admired and half-consciously begun to imitate. But she was not able to think of anything more to say and so made her a slight curtsy and started toward the coach.
"Why!" cried the stranger then. "Is that your family madame?" She referred to Bruce's crest, which Amber had not removed from the door.
"Aye," said Amber without hesitation. But she was hoping that the woman could not tell one from another. To her, at least, they all looked alike with their absurd clawing dog-faced lions, their checkerboards and stripes.
"Why, then I know your father well! My own country-seat is near Pickering in Yorkshire!"
"I come from Essex, madame. Near Heathstone." She was beginning to wish that she had not lied about it, for it seemed likely she might be caught.
"Why, of course, Mrs. St. Clare! How furiously stupid of me! But your crest is so similar to that of a near neighbour of mine—though now I look closer I see well enough what the difference is. May I present myself, madame? I'm Mrs. Goodman."
"I'm glad of your acquaintance, madame." She bowed, thinking how much like a fine lady she was behaving, for she had learned those little niceties from her French master and by watching Lord Carlton and his friends. "Can't I carry you somewhere?"
"Why, faith, my dear, I wouldn't care to put you to the trouble. I was only going to pick up a trifle or so in the 'Change."
The 'Change, Amber knew, was a fashionable lounge and meeting-place for the gallants and ladies, and that now seemed to her as good a place as any for her excursion. "I am going there myself, madame. Pray ride along with me."
Mrs. Goodman did not hesitate and they both got in, spreading their full skirts about them, ruffling their fans, commenting on the September heat. The coach started off across town, jogging about on the cobble-stones, and from time to time they were held up in a dispute with a hackney over the right of way or had to wait while a procession of colliers carts filed slowly by. Amber and Sally Goodman sat inside talking animatedly, and Amber had almost forgotten that she was a jilted woman carrying in her body a bastard child.
Sally Goodman was plump with pink over-fleshed arms and a bosom that bulged out of her low-necked gowns. Her skin was badly pock-marked, though she did what she could to remedy this defect by the application of a thick layer of some pink-white cosmetic, and her hair was two or three shades of light yellow so that it was plain she aided nature in this respect also. She admitted to twenty-eight of her thirty-nine years and, for that matter, she did contrive to look younger than she was. Her clothes had a sort of specious elegance, though a practiced eye might have known immediately that they were made of second-rate materials by a second-rate sempstress, and there was precisely the same quality in her manner and personality. But she had a hearty good-natured joviality that Amber found both warming and comforting.
Mrs. Goodman, it seemed, was a person of quality and means, making a short stay in London while her husband was abroad on business. Evidently judging Amber by her accent, clothes and coach, she assumed her to be a country heiress visiting in the city and Amber—pleased with this identity— agreed that she was.
"But, Lord, sweetheart!" said Mrs. Goodman. "Are you all alone? A pretty young creature like you? Why, there's dozens of wicked men in London looking for just such an opportunity!"
Amber almost surprised herself with the readiness of her reply. "Oh, I'm visiting my aunt—that is, I—I'm going to visit her as soon as she gets back. She's still in France— She was with his Majesty's court—"
"Oh, of course," agreed Mrs. Goodman. "My husband was there too, for a time, but the King thought he could do more good back here, organizing plots. Where does your aunt live, my dear?"
"She lives in the Strand—oh, it's a mighty fine house!" Almsbury had once driven her by his home which was located there, though not yet returned to his possession.
"I hope she comes back soon. I'm afraid your parents would be uneasy to have you here alone for very long, my dear. You're not married. I suppose?"
Amber felt a sudden hot blush at that question and her eyes retreated to her closed fan. But she found another nimble lie conveniently at her tongue's end.
"No—I'm not— But I will be soon. My aunt has a gentleman for me—an earl, I think she said. He's on his travels now but he'll likely come home when she does." Then she remembered what Almsbury had told her about Bruce's parents and added: "My father and mother are both dead. My father was killed at Marston Moor and my mother died in Paris ten years ago."
"Oh, you poor dear child. And have you no guardian, no one to care for you?"
"My aunt is my guardian when she's here. I've been living with another aunt, since she went abroad."
Mrs. Goodman shook her head and sympathetically pressed Amber's hand. Amber was passionately grateful for her kindly i
nterest and understanding, for the mere fact that here was another human being she could talk to, share small experiences with—she had always felt miserable and lost when alone.
The Royal Exchange stood at the junction of Corn Hill and Threadneedle Street, not far from the Royal Saracen Inn. The building formed an immense quadrangle completely surrounding a courtyard and the galleries were divided into tiny shops attended by pretty young women who kept up a continual cry: "What d'ye lack, gentlemen? What d'ye lack, ladies? Ribbons, gloves, essences—" The gallants loitered there, flirting with the 'Change women, lounging against a pillar to watch the ladies walk by and calling out boldly to them. The courtyard itself was crowded with merchants, soberly dressed, intent on business, talking of stocks and mortgages and their ventures at sea.
As they went inside and began to mount the stairs Amber reluctantly followed Sally Goodman's example and put on her vizard. What's the good of a pretty face, she thought, if no one's to see it? and she let her cloak fall back, showing her figure. But in spite of the mask there was no doubt she attracted attention. For as they walked along, pausing now and then to examine a pair of gloves, some embroidered ribbons, a length of lace, enthusiastic comments followed them.
"She's handsome—very handsome! By God, but she is!"
"Those killing eyes!"
"As pretty a girl, for a fortnight's use or so, as a man could wish."
Amber began to feel pleased and excited and she cast furtive sidelong glances to see how many men were watching her and what they looked like. Mrs. Goodman, however, took another view of the compliments. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.
"Lord, how bawdy the young men talk nowadays!"
Somewhat abashed at this Amber guarded her eyes and frowned a little, to show that she was displeased too. But the frown did not last long—for she was half-intoxicated by the sights and sounds all about her.
Forever Amber Page 12