Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Holy Mother of God! Tomorrow night it will be me!

  Chapter Thirty-six

  God's terrible voice was in the city.

  But twenty miles away at Hampton Court it could scarcely be heard at all; there were too many distracting noises. The whir of shuffled cards and the clack of rolling dice. The scratching of quills writing letters of love or diplomacy or intrigue. The crashing of swords in some secret forbidden duel. Chatter and laughter and the sibilant whisper of gossip. Guitars and fiddles, clinking glasses raised in a toast, rustling taffeta petticoats, tapping high-heeled shoes. Nothing was changed.

  They did, occasionally, discuss the plague when they gathered in her Majesty's Drawing-Room in the evenings, just as they discussed the weather, and for the same reason—it was unusual.

  "Have you seen this week's bills?" Winifred Wells would ask as she sat talking to Mrs. Stewart and Sir Charles Sedley.

  "I can't bear to look at 'em. Poor creatures. Dying like flies."

  Sedley, a dark short plump young man with snapping black eyes and a taste for handsome lace cravats, was scornful of her tender heart. "Nonsense, Frances! What does it matter if they die now or later? The town was overcrowded as it was."

  "You'd think it mattered, my Lord, if the plague got you!"

  Sedley laughed. "And so it would. Sure, my dear, you'll allow there's some difference between a man of wit and breeding and a poor drivelling idiot of a baker or tailor?"

  At that moment another gentleman approached them and Sedley got up to welcome him, throwing one arm about his shoulders. "Aha! Here's Wilmot! We've been sitting here most damnably dull, with nothing to talk on but the plague. Now you've come we can be merry again. What've you got there? Another libel to spoil someone's reputation?"

  John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, was a tall slender young man of eighteen, light-skinned and blond with a look of delicacy which made his handsome face almost effeminate. Only a few months before he had come to Court direct from his travels abroad, precocious and sophisticated, but still a quiet modest lad who was just a little shy. He adapted himself to Whitehall so quickly that he was but recently released from the Tower for the offense of kidnapping rich Mrs. Mallet with intent to marry her fortune.

  Writing was the fashion. All the courtiers wrote something, plays, satires, lampoons on their friends and acquaintances, and the Earl had already shown that he had not only a quick talent but a flair for malice. Now he had a rolled-up sheet of paper stuck beneath his arm and the other three glanced at it expectantly.

  "I protest, Sedley." Rochester's smile and manner were deceptively mild, and he bowed to Stewart and Wells so courteously that it was impossible to believe he had not the most charitable opinion of all women. "You'll convince the ladies I'm an ill-natured sot. No—it's no libel I have here. Just a silly thing I scratched out while I was waiting for my periwig to be curled."

  "Read it to us!" cried both women at once.

  "Yes, for God's sake, Wilmot. Let's hear it. The silly things you scratch out while you sit at stool are better than anything Dryden can do though he eat a peck of prunes and put himself into a course of physic."

  "Thanks, Sedley. I'll be in the front row to cry up your play if you ever bring yourself to finish it. Well, here's what I've writ—"

  Rochester began to read his poem, a long half-idyllic, pseudo-serious rambling tale of a shepherd and his love. The virgin was reluctant, the swain over-ardent, and when at last he brought her to consent he found himself powerless to satisfy either of them—and so it pointed a moral to laggard young maidens, like Frances, perhaps. Winifred Wells and Sedley were much amused, but though Frances could follow the trend of thought the subtleties escaped her. When at last he had finished he suddenly crumpled the paper and flung it into the fireplace. None of the gentlemen would let it be thought they had any regard for their scribbling.

  "You write well on that subject, my lord," said Sedley. "Can it be you've had the misfortune yourself?"

  Rochester was not offended. "You always seem to know my secrets, Sedley. Is it possible you're lying with my whore?"

  "And will you be angry if I am?"

  "By no means. I say a man who won't share his whore with his friends is damned ill-natured and deserves the pox."

  "Well," said Sedley, "I wish you'd treat your ladies with more kindness. She complains to me constantly that you're unfaithful and use her barbarously. She swears she hates you and never wants to see your face again."

  Rochester gave a sudden laugh. "Ye gods, Sedley! You're out of the fashion! That's my last whore!"

  At that moment a quick change came over Rochester's face; his blue eyes darkened and an odd smile touched his mouth. The others turned curiously to see that Barbara Palmer had just appeared in the doorway. For an instant she paused, and then she swept in upon them, gorgeous, sultry, impressive as a tropical storm. She was dressed in green satin and she glittered everywhere with the darting shafts thrown from her jewels.

  "By God," said Rochester softly, "she's the handsomest woman in the world!"

  Frances made a face and turned her back. The King's attention had accustomed her to the flattering notion that she was the most beautiful creature alive and she did not like to hear others praised; and Winifred and Castlemaine, rivals for the same man, had never been more than superficially polite to each other. While they watched, Barbara crossed the room and went to take her place at one of the card-tables.

  "Well," said Sedley, "if you have a mind to lie with her you must cure yourself of your nervousness. She'd have no patience with a man who found himself in such a predicament. Anyway, I don't think your Lordship is the type she admires."

  They gave a hearty burst of laughter at this, for no one would ever forget how Barbara had given Rochester a blow that had sent him reeling when he had once tried to snatch a kiss.

  The Earl joined in the laughter but his eyes had a malicious gleam. "No matter," he shrugged. "Another five years and I warrant she'll be willing to pay even me a round sum."

  The two women looked pleased, if a little surprised. Had Barbara actually begun to pay her lovers? Sedley, however, was frankly skeptical.

  "Come now, John. You damned well know her Ladyship can have whatever man she sets her mind to, with no more than the lift of an eyebrow. She's still the handsomest woman at Whitehall—or in all London, for the matter of that—"

  Frances, now thoroughly hurt, gave a wave of her hand at someone across the room. "Your servant, madame—gentlemen—I must speak a word with my Lady Southesk—"

  Rochester and Sedley and Winifred exchanged smiles. "I still hope," said the Earl, "that some day that little milksop Stewart will come to blows with Castlemaine. Gad, I could write an epic on it!"

  Several hours later Frances and Charles stood beside an open casement window above the garden, and the soft night breeze carried to them a faint smell of roses and the waxen sweet scent of potted orange-trees. It was almost midnight and many of the ladies and gentlemen had left already. Others were counting up their losses, arranging loans, grumbling about bad luck or exulting if it had been good.

  Queen Catherine was talking to the Duchess of Buckingham and pretending not to notice how engrossed her husband was in Mrs. Stewart. She had learned her lesson well three years before, and though she loved Charles sincerely and hopelessly, she had never again objected to his interest in another woman. Now she played cards and danced, wore English clothes and dressed her hair in the latest French mode; she was as much an English-woman as her early training would allow. Charles always showed her the most perfect courtesy and insisted that the members of his Court do likewise. She was not happy, but she tried to seem so.

  Frances was saying, "What a beautiful beautiful night! It doesn't seem possible that only twenty miles away there are thousands of men and women—sick, and dying."

  Charles was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke very softly. "My poor people. I wonder why this has happened to them. They can't deserve it— I can't ma
ke myself believe in a malignant God who would punish a nation for the faults of its ruler—"

  "Oh, Sire!" protested Frances. "How can you talk like that! They're not being punished for your faults! If they're being punished for a fault it's for their own!"

  Charles smiled. "You're loyal, Frances. I think you must be my loyal subject— But of course you're not my subject at all. I'm yours—"

  At that moment the high flaunting voice of Lady Castlemaine interrupted them. "Lord, what wretched cards I held tonight! I lost six thousand pound! Your Majesty, I swear I'm stark in debt again!"

  She gave a gurgling laugh, staring up at him with her great purple eyes. Barbara was not so docile as the Queen. Charles visited her in private; she was then carrying his fourth child, and she did not intend that he should slight her in public. Obviously resenting her intrusion, he looked at her coldly with something of the forbidding hauteur he could so well assume when he had a use for it.

  "Are you, madame?"

  Frances now took up her skirts, with a gesture which delicately conveyed her distaste. "Excuse me, Sire. Your servant, madame." She scarcely looked at Barbara, and then she started away.

  Quickly Charles touched her arm. "Here, Frances—I'll walk along with you, if I may. You have an escort, madame?" His question to Barbara did not demand or want an answer.

  "No, I haven't! Everyone's gone." Her lips pouted and she had an injured air which was probably the beginning of a crackling tantrum. "And I don't see why I should shift for myself while you—"

  Charles interrupted. "With your leave, madame, I shall see Mrs. Stewart to her chamber. Good-night." He bowed, very politely, offered Frances his arm, and the two of them walked off together. They had gone only a few feet when Frances turned her head and looked up at him; suddenly she burst into a gleeful giggle.

  They walked back to her apartments and at the door he kissed her, asking if he might come in while she made ready for bed—which he often did, sometimes with a herd of his courtiers. But now she gave him a wan little smile and a look of pleading.

  "I'm tired. And my head aches so."

  He was instantly alarmed, for though there had been no plague at Court the slightest sign of an indisposition was enough to set up unpleasant fears. "Your head aches? Do you feel well otherwise? Have you any nausea?"

  "No, Your Majesty. Just a headache. Just one of my headaches."

  "You have them often, Frances."

  "All my life. Ever since I can remember."

  "You're sure they're not just a convenience—for putting off unwelcome visitors?"

  "No, Sire. I really have them. Please—may I go now?"

  Quickly he kissed her hand. "Certainly, my dear. Forgive my thoughtlessness. But promise me that if it gets worse or if you have any other symptoms you'll send for Dr. Fraser—and let me know?"

  "I promise, Sire. Good-night."

  She backed into the room and closed the door gently. It was true that she had always had violent headaches. Her gaiety and high spirits were part nervousness, for she had none of Castlemaine's robust hearty vigour.

  In her bedroom the long-tailed green parrot which she had brought from France was sleeping, his head tucked under his wing, but at her entrance he woke instantly and began to dance up and down on his perch, squawking with delight. Mrs. Barry, the middle-aged gentlewoman who had been with Frances since babyhood, had also been dozing in her chair; now she too woke, and came hurrying forward to help her mistress undress.

  Alone now and off her guard, with no need to impress anyone, she looked frankly tired. Slowly she got out of her gown, unfastened the laces of her busk and with a sigh of relief sat down while Barry began to unpin the jewels and ribbons twisted in her hair.

  "Another headache, sweetheart?" Mrs. Barry's voice was worried, soft and maternal, and her fingers worked with loving tenderness.

  "Terrible." Frances was close to tears.

  Barry took a cloth now and wrung it out in a bowl of vinegar which was kept on a shelf nearby, convenient for frequent use. She laid it across Frances's forehead and held it with her fingers at either temple, while Frances closed her eyes and let her head rest gratefully against the cushion of Barry's bosom. They continued silent for a few moments.

  Suddenly there was a sound of commotion from outside. A little page spoke, quietly, and an angry feminine voice answered; the door of the bedroom burst open and there stood Barbara Palmer. For an instant she glared at Frances and then she slammed it closed, with such violence that the noise seemed to reverberate in Frances's brain, making her wince.

  "I have a crow to pluck with you, Madame Stewart!" declared the Countess.

  Frances's pride rose, ready to do combat, and sweeping the weariness from her face she stood up, lifting her chin. "Your servant, madame. And what can I do for you, pray?"

  "I'll tell you what you can do for me!" replied Barbara, and she crossed the room swiftly, until she stood just three or four feet from her. Barry was glaring pugnaciously from over Frances's shoulder and the parrot had begun to squawk his resentment, but Barbara ignored them both. "You can stop trying to make me appear a fool in public, madame! That's what you can do!"

  Frances looked at her with obvious distaste, wondering how she had ever been so stupid as to consider this wild uncontrolled harpy her best friend. And then she sat down again, motioning Barry to continue undressing her hair.

  "I'm sure I don't know how I can make you look a fool, madame—in public or anywhere else. If you do, you have only yourself to thank."

  Barbara stood with her hands on her hips, eyes slightly narrowed. "You're a cunny gypsy, Mrs. Stewart—but let me tell you this: I can be a mighty dangerous enemy. You may find you've got the bear by the nose. If I set my mind to it, I could have you out of Whitehall like that!" She gave a quick sharp snap of her fingers.

  Frances smiled coolly. "Could you, madame? You're welcome to try— But I think I please his Majesty quite as well as you—even though my methods may not be the same—" • Barbara made a sound of disgust. "Bah! You squeamish virgins make me sick! You're no good to any man, once he's had you! I'll wager you my right eye that once his Majesty lays with you he'll—"

  Frances gave her a bored look and as Barbara chattered on, the door behind her swung slowly open. His Majesty appeared in it. He motioned her to silence and stood lounging against the door-jamb, watching Barbara, his dark face moody, displeased and glowering.

  Barbara was beginning to shout. "There's one place where you can never get the better of me, Madame Stewart! Whatever my faults, there's never a man got out of my bed—"

  "Madame!"

  The King's voice spoke, sharply, from the doorway, and Barbara swung about with a horrified gasp. Both women watched him come into the room.

  "Sire!" Barbara swept him a deep curtsy.

  "That's enough to your bawdy talk."

  "How long have you been there?"

  "Long enough to have heard a great deal which was unpleasant. Frankly, madame, at times you exhibit the worst imaginable taste."

  "But I didn't know you were there!" she protested. And then suddenly her eyes narrowed, she looked from Charles to Frances and back again. "Oho!" she said softly. "Now I begin to see something. How cleverly the two of you have hoodwinked us all—"

  "Unfortunately, you're mistaken. As it happened you passed me in the hall without seeing me, and when I found where you were going I turned around and followed you back. You looked as though you were about some mischief." He smiled faintly, amused at her discomposure, but instantly his face sombered again. "I thought we had agreed, madame, that your behaviour toward Mrs. Stewart was to be both polite and friendly. What I heard just now sounded neither."

  "How can you expect me to be polite to a woman who slanders me!" demanded Barbara, quick to her own defense.

  Charles gave a short laugh. "Slanders you! Ods-fish, Barbara, you don't imagine it's still possible? Now, Mrs. Stewart is tired, I believe, and would like to rest. If you'll make her an a
pology we'll both go and leave her alone."

  "An apology!" Barbara stared at him with horrified indignation, and turning she swept Frances contemptuously from head to foot. "I'll be damned if I do!"

  All good humour was gone from his face now replaced by that sombre bitterness which lurked there at all times. "You refuse, madame?"

  "I do!" She faced him defiantly, and both of them had forgotten Frances who stood looking on, tired and nervous, wishing that they would quarrel elsewhere. "Nothing under God's sky can make me apologize to that meek simpering milksop!"

  "The choice is your own. But may I suggest that you retire from Hampton Court while you consider the matter? A few weeks of quiet reflection may give you another view of good manners."

  "You're sending me from the Court?"

  "Put it that way if you like."

  Without a moment's hesitation Barbara was in tears. "So this is what it's come to! After the years I've given up to you! It's a shame before all the world that a king should turn away the mother of his children!"

  He lifted one eyebrow, skeptically. "My children?" he repeated softly. "Well, some of them, perhaps. But there's nothing more to be said. Either make Mrs. Stewart an apology— or go elsewhere."

  "But where can I go? The plague's everywhere else!"

  "For the matter of that, the plague's here too."

  Even Frances snapped out of her weary lethargy and both women repeated at once: "Here!"

  "The wife of a groom died of it today. Tomorrow we move to Salisbury."

  "Oh, my God!" wailed Barbara. "Now we'll all get it! We'll all die!"

  "I don't think so. The woman has been buried and everyone who was with her is shut up. So far there've been no new cases. Come, madame, make your choice. Will you be going with us tomorrow?"