Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  She looked up at him sideways, but his expression did not change and now, as they reached the door to her apartment, he opened it and they went in. She turned about quickly to face him, and knew at that instant he was about to say something which he expected would make her angry.

  "I've been wanting to talk to you about this, Amber—I want to make him my heir—" And then, as a flash of hope went over her face, he hastily added: "In America no one would know whether he's legitimate or not—they'd think he was the child of an earlier marriage."

  She stared at him incredulously, her face recoiling as though from a sudden cruel slap. "An earlier marriage?" she repeated softly. "Then you're married now."

  "No, I'm not. But I'll marry someday—"

  "That means you still don't intend to marry me."

  He paused, looking at her for a long moment, and one hand started to move in an involuntary gesture, but dropped to his side again. "No, Amber," he said at last. "You know that. We've talked this all over before."

  "But it's different now! You love me—you told me so yourself? And I know you do! You must! Oh, Bruce, you didn't tell me that to—"

  "No, Amber, I meant it. I do love you, but—"

  "Then why won't you marry me—if you love me?"

  "Because, my dear, love has nothing to do with it."

  "Nothing to do with it! It has everything to do with it! We're not children to be told by our parents who we'll marry! We're grown up and can do as we like—"

  "I intend to."

  For several seconds she stared at him, while the desire to lash out her hand and slap him surged and grew inside her. But something she remembered—a hard and glittering expression in his eyes—held her motionless. He stood there watching her, almost as though waiting, and then at last he turned and walked out of the room.

  Nan arrived a fortnight later with Susanna, the wet-nurse, Tansy and Big John Waterman. They had spent the four months going from one village to another, fleeing the plague. Despite everything only one cart-load had been stolen; almost all of Amber's clothes and personal belongings were intact. She was so grateful that she promised Nan and Big John a hundred pounds each when they returned to London.

  Bruce was enchanted with his seven-months-old daughter. Susanna's eyes were no longer blue but now a clear green and her hair was bright pure golden blonde, not the tawny colour of her mother's. She did not very much resemble either Bruce or Amber but she gave every promise of being a beauty and seemed already conscious of her destiny, for she flirted between her fingers and giggled delightedly at the mere sight of a man. Almsbury, teasing Amber, said that at least there could be no doubt as to her mother's identity.

  The very day of Nan's arrival Amber put off Emily's unbecoming black dress and, after considerable deliberation, selected one of her own: a low-bosomed formal gown of copper-coloured satin with stiff-boned bodice and sweeping train. She painted her face, stuck on three patches, and for the first time in many months Nan dressed her hair again in long ringlets and a high twisted coil. Among her jewellery she found a pair of emerald ear-rings and an emerald bracelet.

  "Lord!" she said, surveying herself in the mirror with pleased satisfaction. "I'd almost forgot what I look like!"

  She was expecting Bruce back soon—he and Almsbury had gone out to hunt—and though she was eager to have him see her at her best again she was a little apprehensive too. What would he say about her putting off mourning so soon? A widow was expected to wear plain unadorned black with a long veil over her hair all the rest of her life—unless she married again.

  At last she heard the door slam in the next room and his boots crossed the floor. He called her name and then almost immediately appeared in the doorway, pulling loose the cravat at his neck. She was watching for him with her eyes big and uncertain, and she broke into a delighted smile as he stopped abruptly and then gave a long low whistle. She spread her fan and turned slowly around before him.

  "How do I look?"

  "How do you look! Why, you vain little minx, you look like an angel—and you know it!"

  She ran toward him, laughing. "Oh, do I, Bruce!" But suddenly her face sobered and looked down at her fan, beginning to count the sticks. "D'you think I'm wicked to leave off mourning so soon? Oh, of course," she added hastily, with a quick upward glance, "I'll wear it when I get back to town. But out here in the country with no one to see me or know if I'm a widow or not—it doesn't matter out here, does it?"

  He bent and gave her a brief kiss, grinning, and though she searched his face carefully she could not be sure what he was thinking. "Of course it's not wicked. Mourning, you know, is done with the heart—" Lightly he touched her left breast.

  After an unusually hot and arid summer the weather changed swiftly at the end of October. Violent rainstorms came in rapid succession and by the middle of the month there were hard frosts. The two men went out to ride or hunt in spite of it, though usually the powder became wet and they seldom shot anything. Amber spent most mornings in the nursery. Other times Bruce and Almsbury played billiards while she watched, or the three of them played cards or amused themselves by making anagrams out of their own names or someone else's—for the most part they turned out to be unflattering. Emily seldom joined in these pastimes for she was an old-fashioned housewife who preferred to oversee each smallest detail of cooking and cleaning, rather than leave it to a steward as many great ladies had begun to do. Amber did not see how she could tolerate spending all her hours, in the nursery, the still-room, or the kitchen, but there was no doubt the three of them were gayer when Emily was not present.

  Ordinarily Barberry Hill was overflowing with guests at that time of year for both the Earl and her Ladyship had vast numbers of relatives, but the plague was keeping everyone at home and only occasionally some neighbour came to call. More encouraging news, however, had begun to come from London. The number of deaths was decreasing, though it was still over a thousand a week. Many who had left town when fewer than a hundred died in one week were now going back. The streets were full of beggars covered with plague sores, but no more corpses were to be seen and the dead-carts came only at night. A feeling of optimism was beginning to prevail again for they thought that the worst was over.

  Bruce was growing restless. He was worried about what had happened to his ships and the prizes he had brought; he wanted to go back to London and, as soon as possible, to sail again for America. Amber asked when he thought that he would leave.

  "As soon as I can. Whenever it seems likely that men will be willing to sign on again."

  "I want to go back with you."

  "I don't think you'd better, Amber. I'm going to Oxford first—the Court's there now and I want to see the King about a grant of land. The weather's terrible and I can't take the time to travel by coach—and once I get to London I'll be so busy I wouldn't be able to see you. Stay here with Almsbury another month or two—the city isn't safe yet."

  "I don't care," she insisted stubbornly, "whether it's safe or not. If I can see you at all I'm going. And it won't hurt me to ride horseback that far, I'll warrant you."

  But one noon as she stood at her windows looking out over the grey-skied rolling hills that swept away south, watching a party of horsemen approach the house, a strange feeling of dread and suspicion began to take hold of her. Before it was possible actually to distinguish the individual horses or their riders she was sure that Bruce was not among them. Suddenly she turned, swooping up her skirts, and rushed out of the room, along the hallway and down the great staircase. She arrived at the bottom and confronted Almsbury just as he entered the hall.

  "Where's Bruce!"

  Almsbury, who wore a long riding-cloak and high leather boots, his brown hair wet and the feathers on his hat soaking and draggled, looked at her uneasily. "He's gone, Amber. Back to London." He took off his hat and knocked it against his knee.

  "Gone? Without me!" She stared at him, first in surprise and then with growing anger. "But I was going, too! I told
him I was going!"

  "He said that he told you he was going alone."

  "Blast him!" she muttered, and then all at once she turned and started off. "Well, he's not! I'm going too!"

  Almsbury shouted her name but she paid no attention and ran on, back up the stairs again. Half-way up she passed someone she had not seen before, a well-dressed elderly man, but though he turned and looked after her she ignored him and ran on. "Nan!" she cried violently, bursting into her rooms again. "Pack some clothes for me! I'm going to London!"

  Nan stared at her and then looked toward the windows where the rain was furiously beating and splashing and the upper branches of an elm tree could be seen writhing with the wind. "To London, mam? In this weather?"

  "Damn the weather! Pack my clothes I tell you! Anything, I don't care! Throw it in!"

  She was yanking loose the bows that fastened the front of her bodice and now she tore the gown down and stepped out of it, kicking it to one side as she went to the dressing-table and began to slam her bracelets onto its polished wood surface. Her face was glowering and her teeth clenched furiously.

  Damn him! she thought. At least he could let me have that much! I'll show him! I'll show him!

  Nan scurried about, pulling gowns and smocks and shoes off hooks and out of drawers. Both women were so occupied they did not see Almsbury open the door and come in until he spoke.

  "Amber! What in the devil are you doing?"

  "Going to London! What d'ye think?"

  She did not even glance at him but was jerking the bodkins out of her hair, which tumbled down her back. He crossed over swiftly and his face appeared behind her in the mirror. She gave him a truculent glare, daring him to try to stop her.

  "Leave the room, Britton! Do as I say!" he added, as Nan hesitated, looking at Amber. "Now listen to me! Do you want to make a fool of yourself? He doesn't want you in London. He doesn't think it's safe and he doesn't care to be troubled with you—he's going to be busy."

  "I don't care what he wants. I'm going anyway. Nan!" She whirled about, shouting the girl's name, but Almsbury caught her wrist and brought her up shortly.

  "You're not going—if I have to tie you to a bedpost! It is possible to have plague twice, you know. If you had any sense you wouldn't want to go back—for nothing. Bruce left because he had to. His ships may be ruined or plundered by now and if they haven't been they would be soon after the town began to fill again. Now, darling, for God's sake—be sensible. He'll be back again some day; he said he would."

  Amber looked up at him, her lower hp still rolled out stubbornly, but tears were in her eyes and beginning to slide over her cheeks. She sniffled but did not protest when he put his arms about her. "But why," she asked him at last, and caught her breath on a sob, "why didn't he even say 'goodbye' to me? Last night—why, last night was just like always—"

  He pressed her head to his chest and stroked her hair. "Just maybe, sweetheart—it was because he didn't want to quarrel."

  Amber gave a mournful little wail and burst into tears at that, her arms going about his neck for comfort. "I—I wouldn't have quarrelled! Oh, Almsbury! I love him so much!"

  He let her cry, holding her close, until at last she began to grow quiet again. Then he took out a handkerchief and gave it to her. "Did you notice the gentleman coming downstairs as you were going up?"

  She blew her nose, wiped at her red eyes and tear-stained face. "No. I didn't. Why?"

  "He asked me who you were. He thinks you're the most beautiful woman he's ever seen."

  Vanity crept through her grief. "Does he?" She sniffled a few times, looking down at the handkerchief as she twisted it in her hands, and then blew her nose again. "Who is he?"

  "He's Edmund Mortimer, Earl of Radclyffe—one of the oldest and most honoured families in England. Come on, darling, it's time for dinner. Let's go down—he wants to be presented."

  Amber sighed, turning away. "Oh, I don't care if he does. I don't want to know anyone else."

  Almsbury gave her an ingratiating smile. "You'd rather stay in your room and mope, is that it? Well, do as you like, but he'll be mighty disappointed. To tell you the truth, I think he might make you a proposal."

  "A proposal! What the devil would I want with another husband? I'm never going to get married again!"

  "Not even to an earl—" said his Lordship thoughtfully. "Well, my dear, do as you like. But I thought I heard you say something to Bruce the other night like: 'Just wait till I'm Countess of Puddle-dock.' Now here's your chance—are you going to throw it away?"

  "I suppose you told the old dotard how rich I am."

  "Well, now—perhaps I did. I don't remember."

  "Oh, well, then, I'll come down. But I'm not going to marry him. I don't care whether I ever get to be a countess or not!"

  But she was already thinking: If the next time Bruce saw me I was her Ladyship, Countess of Radclyffe, he'd take some notice of that, I'll warrant you!

  He's only a baron!

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Dinner was postponed a half-hour, while Amber dressed again and removed the traces of tears from her face. Then, throwing a fur-lined cloak about her shoulders, she went to the dining-parlour. It was always necessary to wear cloaks when passing from one room to another during the winter, but this year it was so cold that they must be worn all the time.

  Almsbury and his guest stood before the fireplace. Lady Almsbury sat near them, working on a piece of needle-point. The two men turned, Almsbury made the introductions, and as Amber curtsied her eyes swept critically over the Earl of Radclyffe. Her first reaction was quick: How ugly he is! She decided immediately that she would not marry him, and they sat down to dinner.

  Edmund Mortimer was fifty-seven and looked at least five years older. He was perhaps three inches taller than Amber, but because she had on high-heeled shoes they were exactly of a height. Slight and delicate, with narrow shoulders and thin

  legs, his head seemed too large for his fragile frame and the luxuriant periwig he wore increased the effect of disproportion. His face was severe and ascetic in expression and as he spoke decaying yellow teeth showed between his tight-pressed lips. Only his clothes met with her approval, for they were the most exquisite, the most perfect in every detail, that she had ever seen. And his manners, though cold and not engaging, were likewise impeccable.

  "His Lordship," said Almsbury, as they began to eat, "has been travelling on the Continent these three years past."

  "Oh?" said Amber politely. She was not hungry and she wished that she had stayed in her own room. She had to swallow food to force down the aching lump that rose in her throat. "But why come back now, of all times—with the plague among us?"

  His voice, as he answered her, was precisely clipped, as though the man who spoke would tolerate no carelessness. "I am no longer young, madame. Sickness and death do not frighten me any more. And my son is to be married within the fortnight—I came back for the ceremony."

  "Oh." That was all she could think of to say.

  It did not seem to her that he was so interested in her as Almsbury had Said and since she had come half to be flattered by a man's goggle-eyed staring, she was disappointed and bored. She paid little attention to the rest of the conversation and as soon as dinner was over escaped back to her room.

  The apartments she had shared with Bruce for more than a month were dreary and deserted now, and the fact that he had so recently been there made them even lonelier. She wandered forlornly from one room to another, finding something to remind her of him everywhere she looked. There was the book he had been reading last, lying opened in a big chair. She picked it up and glanced at it: Francis Bacon's "History of Henry VII." There was a pair of mud-stained boots, two or three soiled white-linen shirts which carried the strong male smell of his sweat, a hat he had worn while hunting.

  Suddenly Amber dropped to her knees, the hat crushed in her hands, and burst into shaking sobs. She had never felt more lonely, hopeless and despairin
g.

  Two or three hours later when Almsbury gave a knock at the door and then came in she was stretched out on her stomach on the bed, head buried in her arms, no longer crying but merely lying there—listless.

  "Amber—" He spoke to her softly, thinking that she might be asleep.

  She turned her head. "Oh. Come in, Almsbury."

  He sat down beside her and she rolled over on her back and lay looking up at him. Her hair was rumpled and her eyes red and swollen, her head ached vaguely but persistently, and her expression was dull and apathetic. Almsbury's ruddy face was now serious and kindly, and he bent to kiss her forehead.

  "Poor little sweetheart."

  At the sound of his voice the tears welled irresistibly again, rolling out the corners of her eyes and streaking across her temples. She bit at her lower lip, determined to cry no longer; but for several moments they were quiet and one of Almsbury's square hands stroked over her head.

  "Almsbury," she said at last. "Did Bruce leave without me because he's going to get married?"

  "Married? Good Lord, not that I know anything about! No, I swear he didn't."

  She gave a sigh and looked away from him, out the windows. "But someday he'll get married—and he says when he does he wants to make Bruce his heir." Her eyes came back again, slightly narrowed now and suddenly hard with resentment. "He won't marry me—but he'll make my son his heir. A pretty fetch!" Her mouth twisted bitterly and she gave a kick of her toe at the blankets.

  "But you will let him, won't you? After all, it would be best for the boy."

  "No, I won't let him! Why should I? If he wants Bruce, he can marry me!"

  Almsbury continued to watch her for several seconds, but then all at once he changed the subject. "Tell me: What's your opinion of Radclyffe?"

  She made a face. "A nasty old slubber-degullion. I hate him. Anyway, he didn't seem so mightily smitten by me. Why, he scarcely gave me a glance, once he'd made his leg."

  He smiled. "You forget, my dear. He belongs to another age than ours. The Court of the first Charles was a mighty formal and discreet place—ogling wasn't the fashion there, no matter how much a gentleman might admire a lady."