Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  They were all instructed to call her "Madame"—Samuel could not bring himself to tell them her first name—and a troop of footmen began to march into the room carrying great silver trays, porringers and tankards, steaming with the most deliciously fragrant food and brimful of good golden ale. The dining-room was as solemnly impressive as the rest of the house. The stools they sat on were covered with tapestry; a great carved-oak cupboard was loaded with silver plate that made Amber's eyes pop; they drank from fragile crystal glasses and ate from silver dishes. And yet in the midst of all that splendour they sat in their quiet unpretentious clothes, black and grey and dark green, with white collars and cuffs, drab as sparrows. Ribbons and lace, false curls and powder and patches were nowhere to be seen and Amber, even in her simple black velvet gown with the white lace collar, felt strangely conspicuous—and she was.

  She had expected them to be hostile, and they were, for by law in the City of London one-third of a man's fortune must go to his widow and, if she bore him a child—as she hoped to do—she might get even more.

  But that was not the only reason they disliked her. They disliked her first because their father had married her, and every grievance stemmed from that, though it was not probable they would have had a good opinion of her under any circumstances. She was, though she tried not to seem so, an alien, different from them in all the wrong ways.

  Her beauty, even without obvious paint, was too vivid to be decent in their eyes. The women were convinced that she was neither as sweet nor as innocent as she seemed, for they recognized though they did not discuss her blatant quality of sexual allure. A woman's eyes should not have that wicked slant, nor her body an air of being unclothed even when thoroughly covered. They learned what her first name was and were shocked; their own names were the old-fashioned and trustworthy ones, Katherine, Lettice, Philadelphia, Susan.

  And Amber, in spite of her protestations to Samuel that she wanted nothing on earth but the love of his family, did from the start many things which they could only resent and criticize.

  She had already possessed an extensive wardrobe, but nevertheless she was constantly ordering and buying new things— elaborate gowns, fur-lined cloaks, dozens of pairs of silk stockings, fans and shoes and muffs and gloves by the score. For weeks at a time she never appeared twice in the same costume. And she wore her jewels, emeralds, diamonds, topazes, as carelessly as if they were glass beads. Her portrait, faintly smiling in a gold-lace gown, replaced that of Samuel and the first Mrs. Dangerfield in the drawing-room. The bedroom in which many of them had been born was refurnished and gold-flowered crimson-damask hangings went up at the windows and around the bed; the old fireplace was torn out and a new black Genoese marble mantel put in its stead; Venetian mirrors and lacquered East Indian cabinets and screens supplanted the respectable pieces of English oak.

  But even those things they might have forgiven her had it not been for their father's obvious and shameless infatuation. For once married to him Amber was able to make use of a great many means for increasing his passion which she had not dared employ during the courtship. She knew that her chief hold over him was her youth and beauty and flagrant desirability—qualities his first wife had utterly lacked and would have scorned as more suitable to a man's whore than to his lawful wife. And, because she wanted a child to bind him even closer, she pandered in every way she could to his concupiscence. He neglected his work to be with her, lost weight, and —even though he made an effort to behave decorously before his family—his eyes betrayed him whenever he looked at her. They were aware of all this, aware in fact of more than any of them cared to mention, and their hatred grew.

  At his age it seemed to them not only disgusting but actually treacherous, a desecration of the memory of their own mother. And it was incomprehensible, to the men as well as the women, for Samuel had lived so continently, had worked so hard and seemed so little interested in pretty women or any other form of divertissement, that they could not understand why he should now suddenly reverse all the habits of a lifetime.

  But it was Lettice, more than any of the others, who resented her. She felt that Amber's presence in the house was a shamful thing, for she could not regard a wife of barely twenty as anything other than her sixty-year-old father's mistress, taken in his declining and apparently immoral years.

  "That woman!" she whispered fiercely one day to Bob and the younger Sam as the three of them stood at the foot of the stairs and watched Amber run gaily up, curls tossing, skirts lifted to show the embroidered gold clocks on her green-silk stockings. "I vow she's no good! I'm sure she paints!" They always criticized her for the things they dared to say out loud to each other, though the rest was well if silently understood among them.

  Twenty-year-old Henry, who was a student at Grey's Inn, had just sauntered up and stood watching her too. He was so much younger than the others that his share in the fortune would not be a large one and so he had no prejudice on that score. For the rest, he had a sly admiration, for his stepmother which he often humoured in fanciful day-dreams.

  "It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't a raving beauty into the bargain, eh Lettice?" he said now.

  Lettice gave her brother a look of scorn. "Raving beauty! Who wouldn't be a beauty with paint and curls and patches and ribbons and all the rest of it!"

  Henry shrugged, looking back to his sister now that Amber had disappeared down the upper hallway. "It's a pity more woman aren't then, since it's so easy."

  "Faith and troth, Henry! You're getting all your ideas from the playhouse!"

  Henry coloured. "I am not, Lettice. I've never been inside a playhouse and you know it!"

  Lettice looked skeptical, and the other two brothers threw back their heads and laughed. Henry, growing redder, turned hastily and walked off; and Lettice with a sigh went out toward the kitchens to resume her work. For Amber had made no attempt to take over the running of the household and though Lettice would have liked to force it upon her Samuel had asked her to continue in charge and she could not refuse him. But it was no easy task to organize and direct an establishment consisting of thirty-five children and adults and almost a hundred and fifty servants.

  Upstairs Amber was getting into her cloak, putting the hood up over her hair, tucking a black-velvet vizard inside her muff. Her movements were quick and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  "I tell you, mam," said Nan, helping her but shaking her red-blonde curls, "it's a foolhardy thing to do."

  "Nonsense, Nan!" She began pulling on a pair of embroidered, elbow-length gloves. "No one could recognize me in this!"

  "But suppose they do, mam! You'll be undone—and for what?"

  Amber wrinkled her nose and gave Nan's cheek a little pat. "If anyone wants me I've gone to the 'Change. And I'll be back by three."

  She went out the door and down a narrow spiralling flight of stairs which led her into the back courtyard where one of the great coaches stood waiting. She got in quickly and the heavy vehicle lumbered about and drove out of the yard to turn up Carter Lane; she had kept Tempest and Jeremiah with her and they drove her wherever she went.

  At last they stopped. She put on her mask and got out, crossed the street and turned into a lane which led through a teeming noisy courtyard and thence to the back of the King's Theatre. She glanced around, then went in and down to the door of the tiring-room which she found, as always, full of half-naked actresses and beribboned gallants, most of whom were wearing the brand-new fashion of periwigs.

  For a moment she stood unnoticed in the doorway and then Beck Marshall spoke to her. "What d'you want, Madame?"

  With a triumphant laugh and a flourish Amber took off her mask and dropped back her hood. The women shrieked with surprise and Scroggs waddled forward to greet her, her ugly old face red and grinning, and Amber put an arm about her shoulders.

  "By Jesus, Mrs. St. Clare! Where've ye been? See!" she crowed. "I told ye she'd be back!"

  "And here I am. Here's a guinea for you to drink,
Scroggs, you old swill-belly—that should keep you foxed for a week."

  She came on into the room and was instantly surrounded on every side by the women who kissed her, asking a dozen questions at once, while the gallants hung close and insisted they had been adying for her company. There had been rumours that she had gone into the country to have a baby, had died of the ague, had sailed for America, but when she told them she had married a rich old merchant—whose name she did not disclose—they were much impressed. The actors heard that she was there and came in too, claiming a kiss each, examining her clothes and jewels, asking her how much money she would inherit and if she was pregnant yet.

  Amber felt wholly at her ease for the first time in more than four months. At Dangerfield House she was constantly dogged by the feeling that she would inadvertently do or say something improper. And she was made more uncomfortable by a nagging mischievous desire to suddenly throw off her air of sweet naivete, make a bawdy remark, wink at a footman, shock them all.

  Then all at once she caught sight of a face which, for an instant, she did not recognize, seeing it in this unfamiliar environment. And suddenly she clapped her mask back on, turned up her hood and began to make her goodbyes. For there across the room, talking to one of the new actresses, was Henry Dangerfield. In less than a minute she was on her way down the dimly-lighted corridor, but she had not gone far when footsteps came up behind her.

  "I beg your pardon, madame—"

  Amber's heart jumped and she stopped perfectly still, but only for an instant and then immediately she went on again.

  "I don't know you, sir!" she snapped, changing her voice to a higher pitch.

  "But I'm Henry Dangerfield and you're—"

  "Mrs. Ann St. Michel, sir, and travelling alone!"

  "I beg your pardon, madame—"

  To her intense relief Amber found that he had stopped and when she got outside and glanced back he was not in sight. Nevertheless she did not get into the coach but said softly to Tempest as she walked by, "Meet me at the Maypole corner."

  Amber spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, nervous and restless. She paced back and forth, looked out the window dozens of times, wrung her hands and asked Nan over and over why Samuel was late. Nan had not said that she knew this would happen, but she looked it.

  But when he came in, late in the afternoon, he greeted her with a smile and kiss, just as he always did. Amber, who had put on a dressing-gown and nothing else, laid her head against his chest.

  "Oh, Samuel! Where've you been! It's so late—I've been so worried about you!"

  He smiled and, glancing around to make sure that Nan was not looking, he slipped one hand into her gown. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. A gentleman had come from out of town on business and we talked longer than I expected—" His head bent to kiss her again, and from behind his back Amber signalled at Nan to leave the room.

  At first she thought she would stay there that night and not go down to supper, but finally she decided that it would do no good. If Henry had recognized her he could mention it tomorrow as well as today, and she could not hide in their apartments forever.

  But the supper went exactly as it usually did and afterward, as was their custom, they all went into one of the small parlours to spend an hour or two before retiring. Again Amber thought of pleading a headache and getting Samuel to go upstairs with her, but again she decided against it. If Henry was suspicious and she stayed—perhaps he would think that he had been wrong.

  Lettice, with Susan and Philadelphia and Katherine, sat before the fireplace talking quietly and working on pieces of embroidery. The younger children started a game of blindman's-bluff. Samuel sat down to a chess game which had been going on for several nights between him and twelve-year-old Michael, and Henry pulled up a chair to watch. The older brothers smoked their pipes and discussed business and the Dutch and criticized the government. Amber, beginning to feel comfortable again, sat in a chair and talked to Jemima, prettiest of all the good-looking Dangerfield children.

  Jemima, just fifteen, was the one friend Amber had made in her new home; and Jemima admired her wholeheartedly. She was too unsophisticated to understand much more regarding her father's recent marriage than that he had brought a new woman to live in the house. And this woman looked and dressed and behaved exactly as she would have liked to do herself. She could not understand the animosity felt toward Madame by her older brothers and sisters, and had often repeated to Amber the things she had heard them say about her. Once she told her that Lettice, upon hearing of how devotedly Madame had nursed him through his illness, had said that she would just as soon think she had made him sick herself to have the opportunity of making him well. Amber, somewhat uneasy to hear this, was relieved that the oldest brother had cautioned Lettice against being carried too far by her own jealousy. After all, he had said, the woman might be of dubious character— but she couldn't be that bad.

  Amber—who usually got along well with girls too young or unattractive to compete with her—encouraged the friendship. She found Jemima's naive admiration and talkativeness a convenient means of informing herself on the others—as well as a source of entertainment to help her pass the long dull days. Furthermore, she took malicious delight in annoying Lettice. For Lettice had warned Jemima repeatedly against the association, but Lettice was no longer head of the house and Jemima was spirited enough to enjoy disobeying her.

  She was about the same height Amber was, but her figure was slight and less rounded. Her hair was rich dark brown with sparks of copper in it; her skin fine and white and she had blue eyes with a sweep of curling black lashes. She was eager, vivacious, spoiled by her father and elder brothers, independent, stubborn and lovable. Now she sat on a stool beside Amber, her fingers clasped over her knees, eyes shining in fascination while Amber told her a story she had heard at second-hand of the King begging my Lady Castlemaine's pardon on his knees.

  Across the room Susan glanced at them and raised her eyebrows significantly. "How devoted Jemima is to Madame! They're all but inseparable. I should think you'd be more careful, Lettice. Jemima might learn to paint."

  Lettice gave her a sharp glance but found her looking down at her embroidery, taking tiny precise stitches. For several years, ever since Lettice had returned home and assumed management of the household, there had been a low-current feud going on between her and this wife of the eldest brother. The other two women smiled faintly, amused, for they were all secretly a little pleased that at last Lettice had found someone she could not dominate. But they were not so pleased it sweetened the bitter gall of lost money: the new wife was still the common enemy of them all, and their little personal animosities of but minor importance.

  Lettice answered her quietly. "I'm going to be more careful in the future—for that isn't all the child might learn from her."

  "Low-necked gowns without a scarf too, perhaps," said Susan.

  "Much worse than that, I'm afraid."

  "What could be worse?" mocked Susan.

  But Katherine sensed that Lettice knew something she had not told them, and her eyes lighted with the prospect of scandal. "What've you heard, Lettice? What's she done?" At Katherine's tone the other two instantly leaned forward.

  "What do you know, Lettice?"

  "Has she done something terrible?" They could not even imagine what could be terrible enough.

  Lettice threaded her needle. "We can't discuss it now with the children in the room."

  Immediately Philadelphia rose. "Then I'll send them to bed."

  "Philadelphia!" said Lettice sharply. "I'll handle this! Wait until she begins to sing."

  For every night, after the children had gone to bed and just before they all retired, Amber sang to them. Samuel had instigated the custom, and now it was a firmly-established part of household routine.

  The women fidgeted nervously for almost an hour, begging Lettice in whispers over and over again to send the children to bed, but she would not do so until exactly the time when
they went every night. She returned from seeing them into the custody of their nurses to find Amber strumming her guitar and singing a mournful pretty little song:

  "What if a day, or a month, or a year,

  Crown thy delights

  With a thousand glad contentings?

  Cannot the chance of a night or an hour

  Cross thy delights

  With as many sad tormentings?"

  When it was done the listeners applauded politely, all but Jemima and Samuel, who were enthusiastic. "Oh, if only I could sing like that!" cried Jemima.

  And Samuel went to take her hand. "My dear, I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."

  Amber kissed Jemima on the cheek and slipped her arm through Samuel's, smiling up at him. She was still holding her guitar which had been a gift from Rex Morgan and was decorated with a streamer of multicoloured ribbons he had bought for her one day at the Royal Exchange. She was relieved to have the evening done and was eager to get upstairs where she could feel safe. Never again, she had promised herself a dozen times, will I be such a fool.

  Lettice sat leaning forward in her chair, tense, her hands clasped hard, and now Katherine gave her an impatient nudge with her elbow. Suddenly Lettice's voice rang out, unnaturally clear and sharp: "It's not surprising that Madame's voice should be pleasant."

  Henry, standing across the room, gave a visible start and his adolescent face turned red. Amber's heart and the very flowing of her blood seemed to stop still. But Samuel had not heard, and though she continued to smile up at him she was wishing desperately that she could stop up his ears, push him out of the room, somehow keep him from ever hearing.

  "What do you mean, Lettice?" It was Susan.

  "I mean that any woman who used her voice to earn her living should have a pleasant one."

  "What are you talking about, Lettice?" demanded Jemima. "Madame has never earned her living and you know it!"

  Lettice stood up, her cheeks bright, fists clenched nervously at her sides, and the lappets on her cap trembled. "I think that you had better go to your room, Jemima."