Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  For Charles it marked the successful culmination of ten years of planning. French money would free him, in part at least, from his Parliament; French men and ships would help him to the defeat of his country's most dangerous enemy, the Dutch. In return he gave nothing but a promise—a promise that one day, at his own convenience, he would declare himself a Catholic. Charles was much amused to see how eager the French envoy was to complete the business, how eager they were to pay him for protection against a war he had never intended to wage.

  "If everything I've ever done," he said to Arlington, when it was signed and complete, "dies when I die—at least I'll leave England this much. This treaty is a promise that one day she'll be the greatest nation on earth. Let my French cousin have the Continent if he wants it. The world is wide, and when we've destroyed the Dutch all the seas on it will belong to England."

  Arlington, who sat with one weary hand pressed to his aching head, sighed a little. "I hope she'll be grateful, Sire."

  Charles grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and reached down to give him a friendly pat. "Grateful, Harry? When was a nation or a woman ever grateful for the favours you do her? Well—I think my sister's abed now; I always pay her a call last thing at night. You've been working too hard these past few days, Harry. Better take a sleeping-potion and have a good night's rest." He went out of the room.

  He found Minette sitting up waiting for him in the enormous canopied four-poster bed. The last of her waiting-women were straggling out, and half-asleep on her lap was her little tan-and-black spaniel, Mimi. He took a chair beside her and for a moment they were silent, smiling, looking at each other. Charles reached out one hand and covered both her own.

  "Well," he said. "It's done."

  "At last. I can scarcely believe it. I've worked hard for this, my dear—because I thought it was what you wanted. Louis has often accused me of minding your interests more than his own." She laughed a little. "You know how tender his pride is."

  "I think it's more than pride, Minette—don't you?" His smile teased her, for rumours still persisted that Louis had been madly in love with her several years before and had not yet quite recovered.

  But she did not want to talk about that. "I don't know. My brother—there's something you must promise me."

  "Anything, my dear."

  "Promise me that you won't declare your Catholicism too soon."

  A look of surprise came into Charles's eyes, but was quickly gone. His face seldom betrayed him. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because the King is troubled about it. He's afraid you may declare yourself and alienate the German Protestant princes— he needs them when we fight Holland. And he fears that the English people would not tolerate it—he thinks that the best time would be in the midst of a victorious war."

  An almost irresistible smile came to Charles's mouth, but he forced it back.

  So Louis thought that the English people would not tolerate a Catholic king—and was afraid that a revolution in England might spread to France. He regarded his French cousin with a kind of amused contempt, but was glad it was always possible to hoodwink him. Charles had never intended and did not now intend to try to force Catholicism on his people—of course they would not tolerate it—and he preferred to keep his throne. It was his expectation to die quietly in his bed at Whitehall.

  Nevertheless he answered Minette seriously, for even she did not share all his secrets. "I won't declare myself without consulting his interests. You may tell him so for me."

  She smiled, and her little hand pressed his affectionately. "I'm glad—for I know how much it means to you."

  Almost ashamed, he quickly lowered his eyes.

  I know how much it means to you, he repeated to himself. How much it means —He made a fervent wish that it would always mean as much to her as it did now. He did not want her ever to know what it was to believe in nothing, to have faith in nothing. He looked up again. His eyes brooded over her, his dark face earnest and unsmiling.

  "You're thin, Minette."

  She seemed surprised. "Am I? Why—perhaps I am." She looked down at herself and as she moved the spaniel gave a resentful little grunt, telling her to be still. "But I've never been plump, you know. You've always called me 'Minette'."

  "Are you feeling well?"

  "Why, yes, of course." She spoke quickly, like one who hates to tell a lie. "Oh—perhaps a headache now and then. I may be a little tired from all the excitement. But that will soon pass."

  His face hardened slowly. "Are you happy?"

  Now she looked as though he had trapped her. "Mon Dieu! What a question! What would you say if someone asked you, 'Are you happy?' I suppose I'm as happy as most people. No one is ever truly happy, do you think? If you get even half of what you want from life—" She gave a little shrug and gestured with one hand. "Why, that's all one can hope for, isn't it?"

  "And have you got half of what you wanted from life?"

  She glanced away from him, down at the ornate carved footboard of the bed; her fingers stroked through Mimi's scented glossy coat. "Yes. I think I have. I have you—and I have France: I love you both—" She looked up with a sudden wistful little smile. "And I think that both of you love me."

  "I do love you, Minette. I love you more than anyone or anything on earth. I've never thought that many men are worth a friendship or many women worth a man's love. But with you it's different, Minette. You're all that matters in the world to me—"

  Her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. "All that matters to you? Come now, you can't really mean that when you have—"

  He answered her almost roughly. "I'm not jesting. You're all I have that matters to me— These other women—" He shrugged. "You know what they're for."

  Minette shook her head gently. "Sometimes, my brother, I'm almost sorry for your mistresses."

  "You needn't be. They love me as little as I love them. They get what they want, and most of them more than they're worth. Tell me, Minette—how has Philippe treated you since the Chevalier's banishment? Every Englishman who visits France brings back tales about his behaviour to you that make my blood run cold. I regret the day you married that malicious little ape." His black eyes gleamed with cold loathing and as he set his teeth the muscles of his jaw flexed nervously.

  Minette answered him softly and there was a look of almost maternal pity on her face. "Poor Philippe. You mustn't judge him too hard. He really loved the Chevalier. When Louis sent him away I was afraid that Philippe would go out of his mind —and he thought that I was responsible for his banishment. To tell you the truth I'd be glad enough to have him back again—it would make my own life much more peaceful. And Philippe's so jealous of me. He suffers agonies when someone even compliments a new gown I'm wearing. He was half wild when he learned I was to take this trip—you'll never believe it but he slept with me every night, hoping I'd become pregnant and the trip would have to be postponed again." She laughed a little at that, though it was a laugh without much mirth. "That's how desperate he was. It's strange," she continued reflectively, "but before we were married he thought that he was is love with me. Now he says it turns his stomach to think of getting into bed with a woman. Oh, I'm sorry, my dear," she said swiftly, seeing how white he had become, so white that a queer almost grey pallor showed through the bronze tones of his skin. "I never meant to tell you these things. It doesn't matter, really. There are so many other things in life that are delightful—"

  Suddenly Charles's face contorted with a painful spasm and he bent his head, covering his eyes with the heels of his two hands. Minette, alarmed, reached over to touch him.

  "Sire," she said softly. "Sire, please. Oh, forgive me for talking like a fool!" She flung the little spaniel aside and hastily got out of bed to stand beside him, her arms about his shoulders; then she knelt in front of him, but his face was hidden from her. "My dear—look at me, please—" She took hold of his wrists and though at first he resisted her, slowly she dragged his hands down. "My brother!" she cried th
en. "Don't look like that!"

  He gave a heavy sigh; all at once his face relaxed. "I'm sorry. But I swear I could kill him with my bare hands! He won't treat you like that any more, Minette. Louis will see that his brother mends his ways, or I'll tear that damned treaty into bits!"

  In the little room, draperies of scarlet and gold embroidered with the emblem of the house of Stuart had been hung to cover the stone walls. Candelabra with masses of tapers were lighted, for though it was mid-afternoon it was dark indoors because there were no windows—only one or two narrow slits placed very high. A heavy stench of perfumes and stale sweat clogged the nostrils. Voices were low and respectfully murmurous, fans whispered in languid hands, half-a-dozen fiddlers played soft tender music.

  Only Charles and Minette occupied chairs—most of the others stood, though some of the men sat on thick cushions scattered over the floor. Monmouth had taken one just at his aunt's feet and he sat with his arms clasped about his knees, looking up at her with a face full of frank adoration. Everyone had fallen in love with Minette all over again, willing victims to her sweetness and charm, her ardent wish to be liked, the quality she had in common with her oldest brother which made people love her without knowing why.

  "I want to give you something," she was saying to Charles, "to remember me by."

  "My dear—" His mouth had a whimsical smile. "As though I'm likely to forget you."

  "But let me make you a little gift. Perhaps a little jewel— something you can put on sometimes that will make you think of me—" She turned her head and spoke to Louise de Kerouaille who was standing just at her shoulder. Louise was never far from Minette when the King was in the room. "My dear, will you bring me my jewel-box—it's in the center drawer of that cabinet."

  Louise made a delicate little curtsy; all her movements were graceful and pretty. She had a kind of well-bred diffidence, a refinement and an easy elegance which Charles admired in women but seldom found combined in the gustier ladies of his own Court. She was Parisian to the last fibre of her body, the last thread of her gown. And though she had undeniably flirted with him she had never been brazen or tactless or bold—she was a woman who must be won before she might be possessed. Charles, quite thoroughly jaded, was piqued at the notion of being once more the pursuer, not the pursued.

  As she stood now before Minette, holding the box in her two hands, he said: "Here's the jewel I want— Let her stay in England, Minette."

  Louise blushed, very becomingly, and lowered her eyes. Several of the English ladies stiffened perceptibly. The Duchess of Ravenspur and the Countess of Castlemaine exchanged indignant glances—for all the English mistresses had been allied against Louise from the first moment they had seen her. Amused and subtle smiles appeared on the faces of the men. But Minette shook her head.

  "I'm responsible to her parents, Sire. They trust me to bring her back." And then, to smooth over the awkward moment, she added: "Here—whatever you like—whatever will make you think most often of me."

  Charles smiled sauvely, not at all offended or embarrassed, and made a selection from the trinkets in the box. Within a moment he seemed to have completely forgotten the episode. But he had not at all. Someday, he promised himself, I'll have that woman—and his memory was often as long in such matters as it was short in others.

  At that moment the Queen entered with several of her ladies, among whom the Duchess of Richmond was always to be found these days. Since Frances's disfigurement by smallpox she and Catherine had become ever faster friends, until now she hung about her Majesty with a kind of trustful pathetic dependence in which the lords and ladies of Whitehall found cause only for contemptuous amusement.

  Minette left the next day.

  Charles, with York and Monmouth and Rupert, went on board the French ship and sailed partway out into the Channel. From the moment he had seen her he had been dreading this hour of parting; now he felt that he could not bring himself to let her go. For he had a mortal fear that he would never see her again. She looked tired; she looked disillusioned; she looked ill.

  Three times he said good-bye, but each time he returned to embrace her once more. "Oh, my God, Minette!" he muttered at last. "I can't let you go!"

  Minette had tried not to cry, but now the tears rolled down her cheeks. "Remember what you promised me. And remember that I love you and that I've always loved you better than anyone else on earth. If I don't see you again—"

  "Don't say that!" Inadvertently he gave her a little shake. "Of course I'll see you again! You're coming back next year— Promise me—promise me, Minette!"

  Minette tipped back her head and smiled at him, her face suddenly cleared and peaceful. Like an obedient child she repeated after him, "I'm coming back next year— I promise—"

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Amber had been almost as annoyed as Charles that Monsieur insisted upon Minette remaining in Dover—for she had not wanted to leave London. Until the last moment she hesitated, but when the Queen set out she went along. All the fortnight of Minette's visit, however, she was unhappy and ill-at-ease. She wanted desperately to go back to London, to try some way, any way she could, to see him again. She was passionately relieved when the French fleet set sail and Minette was on her way home.

  She had no more than entered the Palace—where she kept and often occupied her old suite—when she sent a footboy to discover Lord Carlton's whereabouts. Impatience and nervousness made her irritable and she found fault with everything as she waited, criticized the gown Madame Rouvière had just completed, complained that she had been jolted to a jelly by that infernal coachman who was to be discharged at once, and swore she had never seen such a draggle-tail slut as that French cat, de Kerouaille.

  "What's keeping that little catch-fart!" she demanded furiously at last. "He's been gone two hours and more! I'll baste his sides for this!" And just then, hearing his quiet "Madame—" behind her, she whirled about. "Well, sirrah!" she cried. "How now? Is this the way you serve me?"

  "I'm sorry, your Grace. They told me at Almsbury House his Lordship was down at the wharves." (Bruce's ship had made two round trips to and from America since last August and he was now getting them ready to sail a third time. On the next trip back they would put into a French port and he and Corinna would sail from there with the furniture they intended to buy in Paris.) "But when I got there he was nowhere to be found. They thought he had gone to dine with a City merchant and did not know whether he would return later today or not."

  Amber glowered sullenly at the floor, her right hand clasping the back of her neck. She was desperately worried, she was agonizingly disappointed, and to add to her troubles she had begun to suspect that she was pregnant again. If she was, she was sure that the child must be Lord Carlton's, and though she longed to tell him, she dared not. She knew also that she should see Dr. Fraser and ask him to put her into a course of physic, but could not bring herself to do it.

  "Her Ladyship is at home," said the footboy now, eager to be of some help.

  "What if she is!" cried Amber. "That's nothing to me! Go along now and don't trouble me any more!"

  He bowed his way out respectfully but Amber had turned her back on him and was absorbed in her own worries and plans. She was determined to see him again—it made no difference how, and she cared not at all that he only too obviously did not wish to see her. Unexpectedly the words of the little footboy came back to her. "Her Ladyship is at home." He had not been gone a minute when she snapped her fingers and whirled around.

  "Nan! Send to have the coach got ready again! I'm going to call on my Lady Carlton!" Nan started at her for an instant, dumfounded, and Amber gave an angry clap of her hands. "Don't stand there with your mouth half-cocked! Do as I say and be quick about it!"

  "But, madame," protested Nan. "I just sent to have the coachman discharged!"

  "Well, send again to catch him before he leaves. I must use him for today at least."

  She was hurrying about to gather her muff and gloves, mask
and fan and cloak, and she left the room close on Nan's heels. Susanna came running up from the nursery at that moment, having just been told that her mother was back, and Amber knelt to give her a hasty squeeze and a kiss, and then told her that she must be off. Susanna wanted to go along and when Amber refused she began to cry and finally stamped her foot, very imperious.

  "I will too go!"

  "No, you won't, you saucy minx! Be still now, or I'll slap you!"

  Susanna stopped crying all at once and gave her a look of such hurt and bewildered astonishment—for usually her mother made a great fuss over her when she had been gone a few days and always brought back a present of some kind— that Amber was instantly contrite. She knelt and took her into her arms again, kissed her tenderly and smoothed her hair and promised her that she might come upstairs that night to say her prayers. Susanna's eyes and face were still wet but she was smiling when Amber waved goodbye.

  But as she sat waiting for Corinna in the anteroom outside their apartments Amber began to wish she had not come.

  For if Bruce should return and find her there she knew that he would be furious—it might undo whatever chance she still had left to make up the quarrel with him. She felt sick and cold, trembling inside, at the mere thought of confronting this woman. The door opened and Corinna came in, a faint look of surprise on her face as she saw Amber sitting there. But she curtsied and said politely that it was kind of her to call. She invited her to come into the drawing-room.

  Amber got up, still hesitating on the verge of giving some random excuse and running away—but when Corinna stepped aside she walked before her into the drawing-room. Corinna had on a flowing silk dressing-gown in warm soft tones of rose and blue. Her heavy black hair fell free over her shoulders and down her back, there were two or three tuberoses pinned into it and she had another cluster of her favourite flower fastened at her bosom.