Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  James bowed courteously and left the room. Kings, he had always believed, were meant to be obeyed—but the courtiers nevertheless noticed and commented upon a certain coolness between the two brothers.

  It was not many days after that that the King summoned Clarendon to meet him at Whitehall, even though the old man had been sick in bed and was living at his house in Piccadilly where Charles and the council often met to save him the journey to the Palace. Charles and the Duke of York went to the Chancellor in his official apartments and there the three of them sat down to talk.

  Charles hated this moment, and he might have put it off much longer but that he knew it was necessary. For unrest seethed through all the country and had come to a focus in Parliament; he hoped to lull it again with the promise that all things would be better once the national bogey-man was disposed of. Yet he had known him long and been served by him faithfully. And for all that Clarendon often treated him as though he were an unruly schoolboy, criticizing his friends and his mistresses, telling him that he was not fit to govern, Charles knew that he was the best minister he had had, or was likely to have. Once Clarendon was gone he would be left surrounded by crafty and hostile and selfish men against whose cleverness he must pit his own wits and win—or rule England no longer.

  But there was no help for it. Charles looked him straight in the eye. "My lord, as you must be aware there is a general demand for new men in the government. I'm sorry to say this to you, but I shall not be able to hold out against them. They will want you to resign and I think you would serve your own turn best by anticipating them."

  It was a moment before Clarendon answered. "Your Majesty can't be in earnest?"

  "I am, Chancellor. I'm sorry, but I am. As you must know, I've not made this decision suddenly—and I've not made it alone." He meant, obviously, that hundreds and thousands of Englishmen were of the same opinion.

  But Clarendon chose to misinterpret. "Your Majesty refers, perhaps, to the Lady?" He had never once called Barbara by any other name.

  "Truthfully, Chancellor, I do not," Charles answered softly, refusing to take offense.

  "I fear your Majesty's unworthy companions have had more influence than you are yourself aware."

  "Ods-fish, my lord!" replied Charles with sudden impatience, his eyes flashing. "I hope I'm not wholly deficient in mental capacity!"

  Clarendon was once more the schoolmaster. "No one appreciates better than I, Sire, what your natural parts are—and it is for that reason I have long grieved to watch your Majesty losing your time and England's in the company of such creatures as the Lady and her—"

  Charles stood up. "My lord, I've heard you at length on this subject before! You will excuse me if I decline to hear it again! I will send Secretary Morrice to you for the Great Seal! Good-day!" Swiftly and without once glancing back he walked from the room.

  Clarendon and York both watched him go. When the door had closed, their eyes slowly veered around to meet. For a long moment they stared at each other, but neither spoke. At last Clarendon bowed and slowly he crossed the room and went out into the sunlight. Clustered there about the doorway, sitting on the grass, lounging against the walls were a score or more of men and some women—the news had spread that the Chancellor was with the King and they had gathered to watch him come out. His eyes narrowed, swept over them, and then as heads turned and mouths smiled he walked between them and on. He heard the murmurs begin to rise.

  He had almost crossed the garden when all at once a gay feminine voice cried out to him. "Goodbye, Chancellor!"

  It was Lady Castlemaine on the balcony above, surrounded by cages of bright-feathered birds; on one side of her stood Lord Arlington and on the other was Bab May. Though it was almost noon she had jumped out of bed when they told her that he was coming and now she was fastening her dressing-gown as she stood there above him, grinning, her red hair streaming loose.

  "Goodbye, Chancellor!" she repeated. "I trust we won't meet again!"

  The young men gathered below laughed, looking from him up to her and then back again. For a moment Clarendon's eyes met hers in the first direct look he had ever given her.

  Now very slowly he straightened his shoulders; his face was tired and old, marked by pain and disillusion—something that was both contempt and pity showed there.

  "Madame," he said quietly, but with perfect distinctness. "If you live, you will grow old." Then he walked on, passing out of sight, but Barbara leaned over the railing above, staring, dismayed.

  The young men were calling up their congratulations and compliments to her, Arlington and Bab May were both talking —but she heard none of them. All of a sudden she whirled around, pushing with her hands at the two men, and then she fled back into her chamber and slammed shut the door. Swiftly she snatched up a mirror, rushed with it to the light and stood staring at what she saw, her fingers touching her cheeks, her mouth, trailing down over her breasts.

  It isn't true! she thought desperately. Damn that old bastard —of course it isn't true! I'll never be old—I'll never look any different! Why, I'm only twenty-seven and that isn't old. It's young—a woman's at her best at twenty-seven!

  But she remembered a time, perhaps only yesterday, when twenty-seven had seemed very old, when she had dreaded and avoided the thought of it. Oh, drat him! Why did he say that! She felt sick and tired and full of resentful hatred. Somehow, after all their years of despising each other he had had the last word. But then a rebellious determination flared within her. Outside the men were waiting, excited, triumphant—what did it matter what a stupid malicious old man had said? He was gone now and she would never see him again. She flung away the mirror and went to the door, threw it open again and walked out, smiling.

  Throughout the Palace there was fear and unrest. Men distrusted one another and those who had seemed friends now scarcely spoke but passed in the corridors as though neither friend nor foe existed. Whispers and murmurs leaped from mouth to mouth, rumours swept along—some like vagrant breezes which merely touched and were gone, others of such force that all seemed to bend and rock before them. No one felt safe. The Chancellor was out, but they were not so well satisfied as they had expected to be. Which one would go down next?

  Many said it would be Lady Castlemaine.

  Barbara heard the talk herself but shrugged nonchalantly and did not trouble herself about it. She was perfectly confident that when and if that time came she would be able to bully him as she had in the past. She had her comfortableeasy life there at Court and did not intend that anyone should put her out of it. And then one morning when she was in bed with Mr. Jermyn, Wilson burst excitedly into the room.

  "Your Ladyship! Oh, your Ladyship—here he comes!"

  Barbara sat up and gave her hair an angry toss, while Mr. Jermyn peeped inquisitively over the top of the covers. "What the devil d'you mean coming in here? I thought I—"

  "But it's the King! He's coming down the hall—he'll be here in just a moment."

  "Oh, my God! Keep 'im off a minute, will you! Jermyn, for Christ's sake—stop staring like a stupid booby and get out of - here!"

  Henry Jermyn scrambled out of bed, grabbed up his breeches in one hand and his periwig in the other and made for the door. Barbara lay down again and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She could hear the spaniels as they came in at a run and, just in the next room, the King's murmurous laugh and his voice as he paused to speak to Mrs. Wilson. (There was gossip that he had recently begun an affair with her pretty serving-woman, though Barbara had not yet been able to make either of them admit it.) Opening one eye she saw, to her horror, that Jermyn had left behind a shoe and quickly snatching it up she flung it into the bed. Then she jerked the curtains to and lay down, composing her face to pretend that she was sleeping.

  She heard the door of the bedroom open and in an instant a couple of the dogs had leaped between the curtains and were prancing on her pillows, licking at her face. Barbara muttered a curse and flung out one hand to ward them o
ff just as Charles pulled back the curtains and stood smiling down at her, not at all fooled by the questioning sleepy look she gave him. He swooped the two dogs off onto the floor.

  "Good morning, madame."

  "Why—good morning, Sire." She sat up, one hand in her hair, the other modestly holding the sheets to her naked breasts. "What o'clock? Is it late?"

  "Almost noon."

  Now he reached down and took hold of the long blue ribbon on Mr. Jermyn's shoe and very slowly he drew it out and held it up, looking at it quizzically, as though not quite certain what it was. Barbara watched him with a kind of sullen apprehension. He twirled it slowly about by the string, observing it carefully on all sides.

  "Well," he said finally, "so this is the latest divertissement for ladies of quality—substituting the shoe for the gentleman. I've heard some say it improves mightily upon nature. What's your opinion, madame?"

  "My opinion is that someone's been spying on me and sent you here to catch me! Well—I'm quite alone, as you may see. Look behind the screens and drapes, pray, to satisfy yourself."

  Charles smiled and tossed the shoe to the spaniels who seized upon it eagerly. Then he sat down on the bed, facing her. "Let me give you some advice, Barbara. As one old friend to another, I think that Jacob Hall would give you more satisfaction for your time and money than Mr. Jermyn is likely to do." Jacob Hall was a handsome muscular acrobat who performed at the fairs and, sometimes, at Court.

  Barbara retorted quickly. "I don't doubt that Jacob Hall is as fine a gentleman as Moll Davis is a lady!" Moll Davis was his Majesty's newest mistress, an actress in the Duke of York's Theatre.

  "I don't doubt it, either," he agreed. For a long moment they looked at each other. "Madame," he said at last, "I believe that the time has come for you and me to have a talk."

  Something inside her took a plunging drop. Then it hadn't been just gossip, after all. Instantly her manner became re-respectful and polite, and almost flirtatious. "Why, certainly, Your Majesty. What about?" Her violet eyes were wide and innocent.

  "I think we need pretend no longer. When a man and woman who are married have ceased to love each other there is nothing for them but to find entertainment elsewhere. Fortunately, it's otherwise with us."

  That was the boldest statement of his feelings he had ever made to her. Sometimes, in anger, he had spoken sharply, but she had always assured herself that he had meant it no more than she meant what she said when angry. And she refused to believe even now that he could actually be serious.

  "Do you mean, Sire," she asked him softly, "that you don't love me any more?"

  He gave her a faint smile. "Why is it a woman will always ask that, no matter how well she knows the answer?"

  She stared at him, sick in the pit of her stomach. The very posture of his body showed boredom and weariness, his face had the finality of a man who understands his feelings perfectly. Was it possible? Was he really and truly tired of her? She had had warning enough for the past four years, both from him and from others, but she had ignored it, refusing to believe that he could fall out of love with her as he had fallen out of love with other women.

  "What do you intend to do?" Her voice was now just a whisper.

  "That's what I've come to discuss with you. Since we don't love each other any longer—"

  "Oh, but Sire!" she protested swiftly. "I love you! It's just that you—"

  He gave her a look of frank disgust. "Barbara, for the love of God spare me that. I suppose you think I've pretended to myself that you were in love with me. Well—I haven't. I was beyond the age of such illusions when I met you. And if I loved you once, which I suppose I did, I don't any longer. I think it's time we make a new arrangement."

  "A new— You intend to turn me out?"

  He gave a short unpleasant laugh. "That would be rather like turning the rabbit to the hounds, wouldn't it? They'd tear you to pieces in two minutes." His black eyes swung over her face, amused and contemptuous. "No, my dear. I'll deal fairly with you. We'll come to a settlement of some kind."

  "Oh." Barbara relaxed visibly. That was another matter again. He was still willing to "deal fairly," to come to a "settlement." She thought she knew well enough how to handle that. "I want to please your Majesty. But I hope you'll give me leave to think this over for a day or two. I've got my children to consider. No matter what happens to me I want them to have the things they should—"

  "They'll be taken care of. Study your terms then—I'll come here Thursday at this hour to discuss them with you."

  He got up, made her a casual bow, snapped his fingers at the dogs and left her without a backward glance. Barbara sat staring at the foot of the bed, puzzled, uneasy, worried. And then she heard him talking softly and there was Wilson's excited giggle. Suddenly she jumped out of bed and shouted:

  "Wilson! Wilson, come in here! I need you!"

  Thursday she met him at the door of her chamber, beautifully gowned and painted, and though he had half expected to find her in tears of hysterical anger she was gracious and charming—the old pose he had seen so seldom these past two or three years. The maids were dismissed and they sat down alone, face to face, each taking the other's measure. Barbara knew at once that he had not changed his mind, as she had hoped he would, during that interval.

  She gave him a piece of paper, a neat itemized list written in black ink, and sat drumming her nails on the arm of the chair as he read if, her eyes roamed the room but now and again flickered back to him. He scanned the page hastily, slowly his eyebrows contracted and he gave a low whistle. Without looking up at her he began to read:

  "Twenty-five thousand to clear your debts. Ten thousand a year allowance. A duchy for yourself and earldoms for the boys—" He glanced across swiftly, a half humorous scowl on his face. "Ods-fish, Barbara! You must think I'm King Midas. Remember, I'm that pauper, Charles Stuart—whose country has just gone through the worst plague and fire in history and is up to its ears in debt for war. You damned well know I haven't the means to support all this!" He gave the paper a whack with his hand and tossed it aside.

  Barbara shrugged, smiling. "Why, Sire, how should I know? You've given me more than that in the past—and now you want to get rid of me, though no fault of my own— Why, Lord, Your Majesty, only in ordinary decency you should give me that much. It takes a deal of money to look a hostile world in the face. You know that as well as anyone. I might as well be dead as try to get along on less once you've cast me off— Why, my life wouldn't be worth the living!"

  "I have no intention of making your life miserable to you. But you know I can't possibly make such an arrangement as this."

  "On the other hand, the mother of five of your children shouldn't have to beg for her living when you grow tired of her, should she? How would it look for you, Sire, if the world knew you'd turned me off with a stingy settlement?"

  "Has it ever occurred to you that in France there are several very comfortable nunneries where a lady of your religion might live well and happily on under five hundred pound a year?"

  For an instant Barbara stared at him. All at once she gave a sharp explosive laugh. "Damn me, but you do have the drollest wit! Come, now: Can you imagine me in a nunnery?"

  He smiled in spite of himself. "Not very well," he admitted. "Still, I can't make any such allowance as that."

  "Well, then—perhaps we can agree another way."

  "And what way might that be?"

  "Why can't I stay on here? Perhaps you don't love me any more, but surely it can't matter to you if I live in the Palace. I'll trouble you no farther—you go your way and I'll go mine. After all, isn't it unfair to make me wretched because you've fallen out of love with me?"

  He knew how much sincerity there was in what she said, and yet he had begun to think that perhaps that would be the easiest way, after all. No sudden break to wrench them apart, no unpleasant scenes of tears and recriminations—but a slow and easy drifting. Someday she would go of her own accord. Yes, that might be b
est. At any rate it would be the least trouble—and immediate expense—to him.

  He got to his feet. "Very well then, madame. Trouble me no more and we'll get along well enough. Live any way you like, but live as quietly as you can. And one thing more: If you tell no one about this, no one will know it—for I'll not mention it."

  "Oh, thank you, Sire! You are kind!"

  She came to stand before him and looked up into his face, her eyes coaxing, inviting him. She still hoped that a kiss and half an hour in bed could change everything—expunge the animosity and distrust which had grown out of the passionate infatuation with which they had begun. He stared at her steadily and then, very faintly, he smiled; his hand made a light gesture and he walked beyond her and out of the room. Barbara turned to watch him, stunned, as though she had had a slap in the face.

  A couple of days later she went into the country to have an abortion, for this child, she knew, he would never own. But it had also occurred to her that if she was gone for a few weeks he would forget everything that had been unpleasant between them and begin to miss her—he would send for her to come back, as he had done in the old days. Someday, she told herself, he'll love me again, I know he will. Next time we meet, things will be different

  Chapter Fifty-five

  She lived at the top of Maypole Alley, a narrow little street off Drury Lane, in a two-room lodging which looked exactly as she always did—careless and untidy, with nothing in its place. Silk stockings were flung over chair-backs, a soiled smock lay in a heap on the floor just beside the bed, orange-peelings littered the table and empty ale-glasses stood about, unwashed. The fireplace was heaped with ashes and apparently had not been swept out for years. Dust coated the furniture and puffs of it drifted over the floor, for the girl she hired to come in and clean had not been there for several days. Everything suggested an abandonment to chaos, a gay headlong contempt for stodgy tidiness.