Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Catherine, now in her flowing nightgown of white silk, took it and went to her little writing-table. She picked up a pen and had bent to write her signature, when suddenly Penalva's hawknosed face appeared over her shoulder.

  "Don't sign without reading it first, your Majesty!" she whispered.

  Catherine gave her a glance of mild surprise, for she had assumed that if the King had chosen these ladies to attend her they could not be otherwise than acceptable. But already her old chaperon was mumbling them over.

  "—Mrs. Price. Mrs. Wells. Mother of the Maids: Bridget Saunderson. Ladies of the Bedchamber: my Lady Castlemaine—" At the last name her voice became audible, suddenly sharp and indignant, and her face turned to Catherine's.

  It was the only name which meant anything to her. For before she had sailed her mother—who had given her so little advice as to how to be happy, either as wife or queen—had warned her never to allow Lady Castlemaine to so much as come into her presence. She was, the old Dowager Queen had said, an infamous hussy for whom the King had shown a deplorable kindness during the days of his bachelorhood.

  "Why!" said Catherine, horrified. Then quickly she glanced about to catch the cool eyes of Lady Suffolk upon her, and turned so that only her back was to be seen. "What shall I do?" she whispered, pretending to study the list.

  "Scratch the creature's name out, of course!" With a quick motion she snatched up the pen which Catherine had dropped, dipped it into the inkwell and handed it to her. "Scratch it out, your Majesty!"

  For a moment longer Catherine hesitated, her face troubled and hurt, and then resolutely she crossed her pen over the name with several dark broad strokes, until it was completely obliterated. She felt that by so doing, she had also obliterated this menace to her happiness. She turned then and spoke to her interpreter.

  "Tell my Lady Suffolk that I shall return the list to her in the morning."

  Half an hour later Charles arrived to find her alone and, as usual, on her knees before the little shrine which had been set up next to the great scarlet-velvet bed-of-state. He waited quietly, but already his eye had caught sight of the paper on the writing-table and the black bar which marked out Lady Castlemaine. However, he said nothing, and when she turned and smiled at him he crossed over to help her to her feet; but as he stooped to kiss her he could feel her tiny body stiffen defensively.

  For a few moments they talked, discussing the play they had seen that night—a performance of "Bartholomew Fair" done by the King's Company—but all the while Catherine was wondering nervously how she should broach the subject and wishing that he would mention it first. At last, in desperation, just as he excused himself to go into the dressing-room, she spoke quickly.

  "Oh—and Sire—before I forget. My Lady Suffolk gave me the list tonight—it's over there—" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I crossed out one name. I'm sure you know which one," she added hastily, a little note of defiance coming into her voice, for Penalva had warned her that she must let him know once and for all she was not to be treated like that again.

  Charles stopped, glancing carelessly across his shoulder, for he was just passing the writing-table. He turned slowly to face her. "Have you an objection to a lady you've never seen?"

  "I've heard of her."

  Charles gave a shrug and one finger stroked his mustache, but he smiled. "Gossip," he said. "How people love to gossip."

  "Gossip!" she cried, shocked now to see how crassly unconcerned he was at having been taken in this bold attempt. "It can't be just gossip! Why, my mother told me—"

  "I'm sorry, my dear, that my personal affairs are known so far afield. And yet since you seem so well advised of my shortcomings, I hope you'll believe me when I tell you that that episode is past. I have not seen the lady since we were married, and I intend having nothing more to do with her. I only ask you to accept her so that she may not have to suffer the indignities sure to be otherwise imposed upon her by ladies and gentlemen who were her friends only a short while since."

  "I don't understand you, Sire. What else does a woman of that kind deserve? Why, she was nothing but your—your concubine!"

  "It's always been my opinion, madame, that the mistresses of kings are as honourable as the wives of other men. I don't ask you to make her your friend, Catherine, or even to have her about you—but only that she be allowed the title. It would make her life much easier—and could scarcely hurt you, my dear." He smiled, trying to convince her, but nevertheless he was surprised at her stubbornness, for he had never suspected that this quiet adoring little woman had so much spirit.

  "I'm sorry, your Majesty, but I must refuse. I would gladly do anything else you ask—but I can't do this. Please, Sire—try to understand what it would mean to me, too."

  A week later Charles, on the pretext of going hunting, went to see Barbara at her uncle's nearby estate. She had just arrived and had sent him a desperate, humble imploring letter which, however, touched him less than did the fragrance it carried— that heavy musky compelling odour with which she always surrounded herself.

  Breathless from running, she met him just as he stepped into the great hallway where stag-horns decorated the walls and ancient armour and firearms hung in every corner. He looked at her and saw a woman more beautiful than the one he remembered—his memory was short for such things—with brilliant violet eyes, her hair in a lavish cluster of curls about her face, dressed in a becoming gown of deep-red silk.

  "Your Majesty!"

  She made him a sweeping curtsy and her head dropped gracefully. Her eyes closed and she gave a little sigh as he bent casually to kiss her upon the cheek. Then she took his arm and they walked on into the house and up the flight of stairs which led to the main apartments.

  "You're looking very well," he said, determinedly ignoring her obvious efforts to enchant. "I hope your confinement was not difficult."

  She laughed gaily and pressed his arm, as sweet and merry as she had ever been in the early weeks of their acquaintance before the Restoration. "Difficult! Heavens, Your Majesty,— you know how it is with me! I'd rather have a baby than a quartan ague! Oh, but wait till you see him! He's ever so handsome—and everyone says he's the image of you!" That was not what they had said about her first child.

  In the chapel the bishop was waiting with Lord Oxford and Lady Suffolk and the baby. When the ceremony of baptism was over Charles admired his son, took it up into his arms with an air of knowing exactly what he was about. But presently it began to cry and was sent off back to the nursery. The others went into a small private room to have wine and cakes, and here Barbara maneuvered him off to one side, under the pretext of showing him a section of the garden.

  But she soon turned from the roses and flowering lime.

  "And now you're married," she breathed softly, looking up at him with her eyes sad and tender. "And I've heard you're deep in love."

  He stood and stared at her moodily, his eyes flickering over her face and hair and down to her breasts and small-laced waist. He caught the faint lascivious odour of her perfume, and his eyes darkened. Practiced voluptuary as he was, Charles had begun to long for a woman whose senses he could arouse, and who could arouse his. Catherine loved him, but he was finding her innocence and instinctive reticence a bore.

  He sucked a quick breath through his teeth and his jaw set, "I'm very happy, thank you."

  A faint mocking smile crossed her face. "For your sake, Sire, I'm glad." Then she sighed again and looked wistfully out the window. "Oh, you can't think what a wretched time I had in London after you'd left! The very porters and 'prentices in the streets insulted me! If you hadn't promised to make me a Lady of the Bedchamber— Lord, I don't know how I'd shift!"

  A scowl crossed his face, for this was what he had been expecting and dreading. Of course her aunt had told her the whole story. "I'm sure you exaggerate, Barbara. I think you'll get along very well, in spite of everything."

  Her head turned swiftly, the black centers of her eyes enla
rging. "What do you mean—in spite of everything?"

  "Well—it's unfortunate, but my wife crossed out your name. She says she doesn't want you for an attendant."

  "Doesn't want me! Why, that's ridiculous! Why doesn't she want me? My family's good enough, I hope! And what harm can I do her now?"

  "None," he said, very definitely. "But all the same she doesn't want you. She doesn't understand the way we live here in England. I told her that I would—"

  Barbara stared at him aghast. "You told her she needn't have me!" she repeated in a horrified whisper. "Why, how could you do such a thing!" Tears had swum into her eyes and already, in spite of Lady Suffolk's frantic signalling, her voice was rising and a quaver of hysteria had come into it. "How can you do such a thing to a woman who has sacrificed her reputation, been deserted by her husband, and left to the scorn of all the world—to give you happiness! Oh,—!" She turned and leaned her forehead against the window, one closed fist pressed to her mouth. She took a deep sobbing gasp. "Oh, I wish I'd died when the baby was born! I'd never have wanted to live if I'd known you'd do a thing like this to me!"

  Charles looked more annoyed than sympathetic or conscience-smitten. All he wanted was to have the matter settled one way or another—and whether Barbara won or Catherine did made little difference to him. There was something to be said for both sides of the question, he thought, but a woman could never see more than one.

  "Very well," he said. "I'll speak to her again."

  But instead he sent the Chancellor to do the delicate business for him, though the old man protested vehemently, for he thought that Castlemaine would be well served if she were sent into exile overseas. Clarendon came out of his interview wiping his red face and shaking his head, limping slightly to favour his gout-stricken right foot. Charles was waiting for him in his laboratory and that was where he went—but as the short, round, pompous little man passed through the galleries he was followed by a trail of smirks and whispers. The contest between their Majesties was giving amusement to the entire Court.

  "Well?" said the King, getting up from where he had sat writing a letter to Minette—she was now Madame, Duchess of Orleans and third lady at the Court of France.

  "She refuses, your Majesty." He sat down, ignoring ceremony, because he was tired and discouraged and his foot ached. "For a little woman who looks meek and obliging—" He mopped his wet face again.

  "What did you tell her? Did you tell her that—"

  "I told her everything. I told her that your Majesty no longer had commerce with the Lady—nor ever intends to. I told her that your Majesty has the greatest affection for her and will make her a very good husband if she would but agree to this one thing. Oh, I beg of your Majesty, don't send me again! I have no maw for this business—you know what my opinion is—"

  "I don't care what your opinion is!" said Charles sharply, though usually he listened with a lazy patient smile to whatever criticism of his manners, morals or intellect the Chancellor cared to make. "What was her attitude when you left?"

  "She was in such a passion of tears, I think she may be wholly dissolved by now."

  Charles went to his wife's room that night in a mood defiant and determined. He had had a domineering mother; he had unwittingly chosen a domineering mistress; but he did not intend to be hen-pecked at home. He was less interested now in the fate of Barbara Palmer than he was in convincing his wife that he and not she would make the decisions. Catherine met him with an equally defiant air—though only an hour before they had been smiling politely at each other and listening to a choir of Italian eunuchs.

  He bowed to her. "Madame, I hope that you are prepared to be reasonable."

  "I am, Sire—if you are."

  "I ask this one favour of you, Catherine. If you'll grant it, I promise it shall be the last hard thing I'll ever expect of you."

  "But the one thing you ask is the hardest thing a man could ask of his wife! I can't do it! I won't do it!" Suddenly she stamped her tiny foot and cried in a flare of angry passion that astonished him, "And if you speak of it again I'll go home to Portugal!" She stared at him for a moment, and then bursting into tears turned her back and covered her face with her hands.

  For a long moment both of them were silent, Catherine struggling to control her sobs but wondering miserably why he did not come to her, take her into his arms, and tell her that he realized how impossible it would be for her to accept his cast-off whore as an attendant. He had seemed so kind and gentle and tender, she could not understand what had happened to change him. Surely if he cared so much about the woman's having that place he must still love her.

  But Charles, his stubbornness now thoroughly aroused, had a vision of himself going through life the meek, uxorious husband of a tyrannizing little despot. She could never learn earlier that he would rule his own household.

  "Very well, madame," he said at last. "But before you go I think it would be wise to determine first if your mother will have you—and to find out, I'll send your attendants before you."

  Catherine whirled around and stared at him with unbelieving astonishment. Those men and women of her own country were all she had to cling to in this strange terrifying land. Now, more than ever, when he was against her too, she needed them.

  "Oh, please, Sire!" Her hands went out imploringly.

  He bowed. "Good-night, madame."

  To the amused relief of the Court most of Catherine's ugly train departed within a few days, for Charles allowed only Penalva, the priests, and a few kitchen attendants to remain. He did not trouble to send so much as a letter of explanation with them, but he hoped the Dowager Queen would know that he was displeased because she had paid most of the dowry— at the last moment—in sugar and spices instead of in gold.

  For days the contest between them persisted.

  Catherine remained most of the time in her own rooms and, when she did appear, she and Charles scarcely spoke. When the courtiers met in the garden or at the cockpit they asked each other: "Are you going to the Queen-baiting this afternoon?" The young and gay wanted to see Barbara Palmer triumphant because she represented their own way of living; the older and more circumspect sympathized with the Queen but wished that she understood men better and had been taught that tact could often accomplish what blustering and threats could not. As usual, Charles heard advice from both camps, but though he listened politely to everyone he was no more influenced than usual. In any matter which he considered to be of importance to his comfort he made his own decisions— and he did so now.

  Queen Henrietta Maria was coming to pay her son another visit, and Charles did not intend that she should arrive to find his wife pouting and his house in a turmoil. Determined to settle the issue for once and all, he sent for Barbara to come to Hampton Court.

  One warm late-July afternoon Catherine's drawing-room was crowded to capacity and many who could not force their way in stood in the anteroom. There was a sharp tension in the air which she felt but could not understand, unless it was because Charles had not yet appeared. In spite of herself she continued to look anxiously for him, over their heads toward the doorway. For he was always there, and even when he ignored her she could find some comfort in the mere fact of his presence. But now, feeling lonely and forsaken, she had to force herself to smile, bit the inside of her lower lip so that it would not tremble, swallowed hard over the lump in her throat.

  Oh! she was thinking desperately, how I wish I'd never come to England! I wish I wasn't married! I wish I was back home again! I was happy then—

  Her memory returned with longing to the lazy still afternoons in the convent garden, washed with the hot Portuguese sun, when she had sat with her brush and palette trying to catch the sharp contrast of white walls and blue shadows, or had worked her needle and listened to the murmurous chant of prayers in the chapel. What a quiet safe world that was! She envied that Catherine for the things she had not known.

  And then suddenly she saw him and her back stiffened, a cold wave was
hed over her and the sadness and the dreamy languor were gone. Alert, glad to see him though she knew he would pay her no attention, a little smile touched her mouth. How tall he is, she thought, and how handsome! Oh, I do love him! She had scarcely noticed that a woman—dressed in white lace that sparkled with silver sequins—walked by his side.

  As they came forward the room fell into a hushed waiting silence, every eye watching, every ear straining to hear. It was not until Charles, in a low but perfectly distinct tone, had spoken the lady's name that Catherine turned to look at her, holding out her hand to be kissed as the woman dropped to one knee.

  At the same moment she felt a grasp on her shoulder and heard Penalva's hiss in her ear: "It's Castlemaine!"

  Catherine's hand jerked involuntarily, and her eyes turned to Charles, surprised, incredulous, questioning. But he was merely watching her, his face hard and speculative, his whole manner coolly defiant, as though daring her to refuse him now. She looked then at Lady Castlemaine, who had risen, and had a quick unforgettable glimpse of a beautiful face—the lips curled faintly, the eyes shining with triumph and mockery.

  She turned suddenly sick and weak. The world began to swim and rock dizzily, a ringing in her ears drowned out every other sound, and the room blackened before her eyes. She pitched forward out of her chair, but was kept from falling by the quick restraining hands of two pages and the Countess of Penalva, who glared at Charles with cold and unrelenting hatred. A sudden look of horror crossed his face and involuntarily one hand went out. But he quickly remembered himself, stepped back, and stood there silently while the Queen was carried from the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Because of Rex Morgan's place at Court, Amber was able to watch the King and Queen's state entry into London from the roof of one of the Palace buildings along the Thames.