Winsor, Kathleen (10 page)

One
of the courtiers thrust his fingers into his ears and shook his head
vigorously. "Jesus! I swear I'll never be able to hear again! If there's a
man left in London who can use his voice tomorrow—he's a traitor and deserves
to be hanged."

Charles
smiled. "To tell you the truth, gentlemen, I think I can blame only myself
for having stayed so long abroad. I haven't met a man these past four days who
hasn't told me he's always desired my return."

The
others laughed. For now that they were home again, lords of creation once more
and not unwanted paupers edged from one country to another, they found it easy
to laugh. The years gone by had begun already to take on a kind of patina, and
now they knew the story had a happy ending they could see that, after all, it
had been a romantic adventure.

Charles,
who was being helped out of his clothes, turned to one of the men and spoke to
him in a low voice. "Did she come, Progers?"

"She's
waiting belowstairs, Sire."

"Good."

Edward
Progers was his Majesty's Page of the Backstairs. He handled private money
transactions, secret correspondence, and served in an ex-officio capacity as
the King's pimp. It was a position of no mean prestige, and of considerable
activity.

At
last they trooped out and left him alone, giving them a lazy wave of his arm as
he stood there in riding-boots, knee-length breeches, and a full-sleeved white
linen shirt. Progers went also, by another door, and Charles strolled over to
stand by the open windows, snapping his fingers impatiently while he waited.
The night air was cool and fresh, and just below ran the river, where several
small barges floated at anchor, their lanterns pricking the water like so many
fireflies. The Palace lay around the bend of the Thames, but the innumerable
bonfires back in the city had cast a glow against the sky and he could see the
flashing yellow trails of rockets as they shot up and then dropped hissing into
the water. The booming of cannon came again and again, and faintly the sound of
bells still ringing.

For
several moments he stood at the windows, staring out, but the expression on his
face was moody and almost sad. He looked like a tired, bitter, and disappointed
man, far more than like a king returned in triumph to his people. And then, at
the
sound of a door opening behind him, he spun swiftly on his heel, and his face
lighted with pleasure and admiration.

"Barbara!"

"Your
Majesty!"

She
bent her head, curtsying low, as Progers backed discreetly out of the room.

She
was some inches smaller than he but still tall enough to be imposing. Her
figure was magnificent, with swelling breasts and small waist, suggesting
lovely hips and legs concealed by the full satin skirts of her gown. She wore a
violet velvet cloak, the hood lined in black fox, and she carried a great
black-fox muff with a spray of amethysts pinned to it. Her hair was dark red,
her skin clear and white, and the reflection from her cloak changed her blue
eyes to purple. She was strikingly, almost aggressively beautiful, creating an
immediate impression of passion and a wild, lusty untamableness.

Instantly
Charles crossed and took her into his arms, kissing her mouth, and when at last
he released her she tossed aside her muff and dropped off her cloak, aware of
his eyes upon her. She stretched out her hands and he took both of them in his.

"Oh!
It was wonderful! How they love you!"

He
smiled and gave a slight shrug. "How they'd have loved anyone who offered
them release from the army."

She
disengaged herself and walked a little from him toward the windows, consciously
flirtatious. "Do you remember, Sire," she asked him softly,
"when you said you'd love me till Kingdom come?"

He
smiled. "I thought it would be forever."

He
came to stand behind her, his hands going to her breasts, and his head bent so
that his mouth touched the nape of her neck. His voice was husky, deep, and
there was a swift demanding impatience on his face. Barbara's hands had tight
hold of the window ledge and her throat arched back, but she stared straight
ahead, out into the night.

"Won't
it be forever?"

"Of
course it will, Barbara. And I'll be here forever too. Come what may, there's
one thing I know—I'll never set out on my travels again." Suddenly he put
one arm under her knees and swung her up off the floor, holding her easily.

"Where
does the Monsieur think you are?" "The Monsieur" was their name
for her husband.

She
put her lips to his smooth-shaven cheek. "I told him I was going to stay
the night with my aunt—but I think he guesses I'm here." An expression of
contempt crossed her face. "Roger's a fool!"

Amber
sat looking at herself in the mirror that hung above the dressing table.

She
was wearing a low-cut, lace-and-ribbon-trimmed smock made of sheer white linen,
with belled, elbow-length sleeves and a long, full skirt. Laced over it was a
busk—a short, tight little boned corset which forced her breasts high and
squeezed two inches from the twenty-two her waist normally measured. With it on
she had some difficulty both in breathing and in bending over, but it gave her
such a luxurious sense of fashionableness that she would gladly have suffered
twice the discomfort. Her skirt was pulled up over her knees so that she could
see her crossed legs and the black silk stockings that covered them; there were
lacy garters tied in bows just below her knees, and she wore high-heeled
black-satin pumps.

Behind
her hovered a dapper little man, Monsieur Baudelaire, newly arrived from Paris
and having at his fingers' ends all the very latest tricks to make an
Englishwoman's head look like a Parisienne's. He had been working over her for
almost an hour, prattling in a half-French and half-English jargon about
"heart-breakers" and "kiss-curls" and
"favourites." Most of the time she did not understand what he said,
but she had watched with breathless fascination the nimble manipulations of his
combs and oils and brushes and pins.

Now,
at last, he had her hair looking glossy as taffy-coloured satin, parted in the
center and lying sleekly over the crown of her head in a pattern of shadowy
waves. Fat shining curls hung to her shoulders, propped out a little by
invisible combs to make them look even thicker. In back he had pulled all the
hair up from her neck and braided and twisted it into a high scroll, securing
it there with several gold-headed bodkins. It was the style, he told her,
affected by all the great ladies and it quite transformed her features, giving
her a piquant air at once provocative and alluring. Like a cook decorating his
masterpiece he now fastened one pert black-satin bow at each temple and then
stood back, clasping his hands, tipping his head to one side like a curious
little bird.

"Ah,
madame!" he cried, seeing not madame at all but only her hair and his own
handiwork. "Oh, madame! C'est magnifique! C'est un triomphe! C'est la plus
belle—" Words failing him, he rolled his eyes and spread his hands.

Amber
quite agreed. "Gemini!" she turned her head from side to side,
holding up a hand mirror so as to see both back and front. "Bruce won't
know me!"

It
had taken six weeks to get a gown made, for every good tailor and dressmaker in
London had more orders than it was possible to fill. But Madame Darnier had
promised to have her dress finished that afternoon and his Lordship had told
her
that he would take her wherever she wanted to go. She had been counting the
days eagerly, for so far she had had little amusement but hanging out the
windows to watch the crowds in the streets and running down to make some
purchases from every vendor who passed. Lord Carlton was gone a great deal of
the time—where, she did not know—and though he had bought a coach which was
usually at her disposal she was ashamed to go out in her country clothes. Now,
everything would be different.

When
she was alone she had occasional pangs of homesickness, flunking of Sarah, whom
she had really loved, of the numerous young men who had run at her beck and
call, of what a great person she had been in the village where everything she
did was noticed and commented upon. But more often she thought of that bygone life
with scornful contempt

What
would I be doing now? she would ask herself.

Helping
Sarah in the still-room, spinning, dipping rushlights, cooking, setting out for
the market or going to church. It seemed incredible that such dull occupations
could once have engaged her from the time she got up, very early, until she
went to bed, also very early.

Now
she lay as long as she liked in the mornings, snuggled deep into a feather
mattress, dreaming, lost in luxurious reverie. And her thoughts had just one
theme: Lord Carlton. She was violently in love, completely dazzled, dejected
when he was gone and wildly happy when they were together. And yet she knew
very little about him and most of that little she had learned from Almsbury,
who had come twice when Bruce was away.

She
found out that Almsbury was not his name, as she had thought, but his title,
the whole of which was John Randolph, Earl of Almsbury. He had told her that
they had passed through Marygreen because they had landed at Ipswich and gone
north from there a few miles to Carlton Hall where Bruce had got a boxful of
jewels which his mother had not dared take when they fled the country—the
territory having been at that time in Parliamentary hands and overrun with
soldiers. Marygreen and Heathstone lay on the main road from there to London.

It
seemed to her a miracle wrought by God Himself that she had chanced to be
standing near the green at the moment they had come along. For Sarah had first
told Agnes to take the gingerbread, but Amber had coaxed until she let her go
instead—she was always eager to get away from the farm and out into the wider
world of Marygreen. Agnes had been furious but Amber had sailed off, humming to
herself and keeping a quick eye for whatever or whoever might be about. And
then she had loitered so long with Tom Andrews corning across the meadow that
another quarter-hour and she would never have seen them at all. By such
thoughts she convinced herself that
they had been fated since birth to meet
on the Marygreen common, the fifth day of May, 1660.

He
told her that Bruce was twenty-nine, that both his parents were dead and that
he had one younger sister who had married a French count and lived now in
Paris. She was very much interested in what he had done during the sixteen
years he had been away from England, and Almsbury told her something of that
also.

In
1647 both of them had served as officers in the French army, volunteer service
being an expected part of every gentleman's training. Two years later Bruce had
sailed with Prince Rupert's privateers, preying on the shipping of Parliament.
There had followed another interval in the French army and then a buccaneering
expedition to the West Indies and the Guinea Coast with Rupert. Almsbury
himself had no taste for life at sea and preferred to remain with the Court,
which had led a wandering hand-to-mouth existence in taverns and lodging-houses
over half of Europe. With Bruce's return they had travelled together around the
Continent, living by their wits; which meant, for the most part, by the
proceeds from their gambling. And two years ago they had been in the Spanish
army, fighting France and England. Both of them, he said, were the heirs of
their own right hands.

It
was the pattern of life which had been generally followed by the exiled
nobility, with the difference that Carlton was more restless than most and grew
quickly bored with the diversions of a court. To Amber it sounded the most
lively and fascinating existence on earth and she always intended to ask Bruce
to tell her more of what he had done.

To
help her while away the days he had employed a French instructor, a
dancing-master, a man to teach her to play the guitar, and another to teach her
to sing; each one came twice a week. She practised industriously, for she
wanted very much to seem a fine lady and thought that these accomplishments
would make her more alluring to him. She had yet to hear Lord Carlton say that
he loved her, and she would have learned to eat fire or walk a tightrope if she
had thought it could call forth the magic words. Now she was counting heavily
upon the effect her new clothes and coiffure might have on his heart.

Just
then there was a knock at the outer door and Amber leaped up to answer it. But
before she had got far a buxom, middle-aged woman came hurrying into the room,
her taffeta skirts whistling, out of breath and excited.

She
was Madame Darnier, another Parisian come to London to take advantage of the
rabid francophilia which raged there among the aristocracy. Her black hair was
streaked with grey and her cheeks were bright pink, a great chou of green satin
ribbon was pinned atop her head just behind a frontlet of false curls, and her
stiff shiny black gown was cut to a precarious depth. But still she contrived,
as a Frenchwoman should, to look elegant rather than absurd. In her wake
scooted a young
girl, plainly dressed, bearing in her arms a great gilded wooden box.