Winsor, Kathleen (107 page)

Amber
was furious that her humiliation should have been
seen by Barbara Palmer, of all
people, though there had been onlookers enough that the news would be all over
the Palace before nightfall. "That formal old fop!" she muttered.
"He'll be lucky if he lasts out the year at Court!"

"Yes,"
agreed Barbara, "and so will you. I've been watching women like you come
and go for seven years now—but I'm still here."

Amber
stared at her insolently. "Still here, but mightily out of request, they
say."

Barbara
had fallen so far since the days when she had been violently jealous of her,
and she had herself risen so high, that now they were face to face she hated
her less than she had thought she did. Now she could afford to be scornful and
even condescending.

Barbara
lifted her brows. "Out of request? Well, now—I don't know what the devil
you call out of request! At least he thinks well enough of me to have paid off
my debts not many days since to the tune of thirty thousand pound."

"You
mean he bribed you, don't you—to get rid of that brat you were starting?"

Barbara
smiled. "Well? Even so—that's a mighty good price for an abortion, don't
you agree?"

At
that moment Frances Stewart passed them, going along the corridor in fluttering
blue-silk robes with a black-velvet cloak flung over her shoulders, her feet in
gilt sandals and all her bright brown hair caught into a gold filet and
streaming loose down her back. She had been sitting for her portrait to
Rotier—a portrait commissioned by the King who intended to use her image as
Britannia on the new coins. Frances did not pause but nodded coolly to Amber
and barely glanced at Castlemaine. She suspected that they were talking about
her.

"There,"
said Barbara, as Frances went on, followed by three waiting-women and a little
blackamoor, "goes the punk who could put all our noses out of joint. A
duchy in exchange for a maidenhead. That seems a fair enough bargain to me. I
assure you mine didn't go as high—"

"Nor
mine," said Amber, still watching Frances as she swept off down the hall,
taking every eye with her as she went. "Though I doubt if he'd value it so
high once he had it."

"Oh,
he might—for the novelty of it."

"What
d'you suppose makes her so stubborn?" asked Amber, curious to hear what
Barbara would say.

"Don't
you know?" Laughter and malice glittered in Barbara's eyes.

"Well—I've
got at least one mighty good idea—"

At
that moment the King with his courtiers and dogs rounded a corner and came
suddenly upon them; his deep voice boomed with laughter. "Ods-fish, what's
this! My two handsomest countesses in conversation? Whose reputation are you
spoiling now?"

The
brief camaraderie was gone; the two women were once
more intense
rivals, each passionately determined to outdo the other. "We were wishing,
your Majesty," said Amber, "that the war would end so we could get
the fashions from Paris again."

Charles
laughed, slipped a casual arm about both their waists, and they walked slowly
along the gallery. "If this war is inconveniencing the ladies, then I
promise you I'll negotiate a peace."

When
they came to her Majesty's apartments Charles glanced at Buckingham, the Duke
stepped forward to offer Barbara his arm—and Amber went in with the King. To
both women it seemed a more significant triumph than it was. Barbara, however,
had her revenge when Stewart appeared— beautiful as ever in spite of the plain
black mourning into which she had changed—and was immediately taken off into a corner
by the King.

It
was not long before Amber found herself pregnant.

She
had no enthusiasm for spoiling her figure, even temporarily, but she understood
that unless she gave him a child she would have nothing at all to hold him by
once the exciting newness was gone from her bed. For though he might lose
interest in their mothers, Charles was never indifferent to children he
believed his. When she told him, at the end of February, he was sympathetic and
tender, apparently pleased—as though he was hearing the happy news for the
first time. And Amber thought that her place at Court was now fixed as the
stars.

He
startled her out of her complacency two days later by pointing to a young man
who stood across from them in the Drawing-Room and asking her if he seemed a
likely prospect for a husband.

"A
husband for who?" demanded Amber.

"Why,
for you, my dear, of course."

"But
I don't want to get married!"

"I
can't say I blame you—and yet a child's somewhat embarrassed without a surname,
don't you think?" He looked amused, his mouth beneath the narrow black
mustache gave her a somewhat crooked smile.

Amber
turned white. "Then you think it isn't yours!"

"No,
my dear, I don't think that at all. I think it very probably is. I've an
uncommon knack, it seems, for getting children—all but where I need 'em most.
But the child couldn't possibly be your last husband's and unless you marry
again before long it's going to have the bend sinister in its coat-of-arms.
That's a hardship for any young man, no matter what his parentage. And to be
altogether honest with you if you married it would help stop the
gossiping—outside Whitehall at least. The year's going to be difficult enough
as it is since I see no way we can set out the fleet—and the people will be
grumbling more than ever about the little things we do. Do you understand my
dear? It would mightily oblige me—"

Amber
was prepared to understand anything. She thought that chronic bad-temper and
forever keeping an easy-natured man uneasy had been Barbara Palmer's undoing,
and she did not intend to follow the Lady's unfortunate example. She guessed,
however, at a reason the King had not named: Frances Stewart. For each time he
took a new mistress Frances was peevish and sullen and insisted that she had
herself been on the verge of surrender when he had destroyed her confidence.

"Well,"
said Amber, "my only ambition is to please your Majesty. I'll marry again
if you want—but for Heaven's sake, get me a husband I can ignore!"

Charles
laughed. "It wouldn't be difficult to ignore
him,
I should
say."

The
young man across the room looked not a day older than she and his youthful
appearance was heightened by a pallid skin and rather delicate features. He was
perhaps five feet seven or eight and his slender body wore a cheap and
undistinguished suit. There was no doubt he felt ill at ease, though he was making
an effort to seem gay and laughed excitedly even while his eyes darted
anxiously about. Amber would not have noticed him of her own accord if he had
been there all evening.

"Lord,
but he looks a silly jackanapes!"

"But
docile," reminded Charles, smiling down at her with easy good-humour.

"What's
his rank?"

"Baron."

"Baron!"
cried Amber, horrified. "But I'm a countess!" She could not have been
more shocked if he had suggested she marry a porter or street-vendor.

Charles
shrugged. "Well, then, suppose I make him an earl? His family deserves it.
It should have been done long ago, in fact, but somehow it slipped my
mind."

"I
suppose that would help," said Amber dubiously, her eyes still frankly
appraising the young man who had now become conscious that she was watching him
and had begun to fidget. "Have you spoken to him yet?"

"No.
But I will, and it can be easily arranged. His family lost a great deal in the
Wars—"

"Oh,
my God!" groaned Amber. "Somebody else to spend my money! Well, this
time things are going to be different! This time
I'll
wear the
breeches!"

"Do
you find yourself attracted to Richmond?"

The
question had been in Charles's mind since the Duke had first made his proposal.
To him the young man seemed dull and sottish, too much given up to the bottle,
and his money affairs were so bad that he could scarcely be considered a good
match for a
serving-woman, much less a girl like Frances accustomed to luxury since birth.

She
looked at him with some surprise. "Attracted to him? Why do you ask
that?"

Charles
shrugged. "I thought it was possible. There's no doubt he's in love with
you."

Frances
was instantly the coquette again, closing her fan and then opening it swiftly,
telling the sticks with her right forefinger. "Well," she said,
looking at the fan and not at him, "suppose I am?"

The
King's face hardened suddenly. His black eyes anxiously searched her features
and the two lines on either side of his mouth grew deep as the muscles
tightened.

"Are
you?"

Frances
glanced up at him, still with that faint simpering smile on her face, but her
expression changed swiftly to surprise as she met his angry stare. "Why,
your Majesty! How grum you look! Has something vexed you?"

"Answer
me, Frances! I'm in no humour for jokes! And answer me truly."

Frances
gave a little sigh. "No, your Majesty, I'm not. Does that make it more
honourable for me to marry him?" Sometimes she surprised him, for it was
impossible to tell whether she spoke from naivete or a shrewdness she was not
generally believed to own.

Charles
gave her a slow, sad smile. "No, Frances, not more honourable—but I
confess I'm glad to hear it. I'm not very much inclined to jealousy—but this
time—" He shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes brooding thoughtfully
over her. "I've been looking at his accounts, and his finances are in the
worst possible condition. Without his title he'd have been snapped up by a
constable long ago. Truthfully, Frances, I don't think he's a good match for
you."

"Do
you know a better, Sire?" she asked tartly.

"Not
just now—but perhaps a little later—"

Frances
interrupted him. "Perhaps a little later! Sire, you don't know what you're
saying! Do you realize that I'm nineteen years old and my reputation is all but
ruined through my own foolishness? This is the first honest proposal I've ever
had—and it'll likely be the last one! There's just one thing in life I want—and
that's to be a respectable woman! I don't want my family to be ashamed of
me!"

They
were in her Majesty's ante-chamber, waiting while the Queen dressed, and now as
Catherine Boynton passed the door and heard Frances's raised voice she glanced
out, wondering what was going on between them. Charles noticed her pausing
there.

"Walk
this way with me, Frances." They strolled toward the other end of the room.
"I'm going to tell you something," he said quickly; his voice was
very low. "Will you promise to keep it a secret? Don't even tell your
mother—"

"Of
course, your Majesty."

Frances
could, in fact, hold a confidence better than most of those whose tongues
clacked in the corridors and bedchambers and drawing-rooms of Whitehall and
Covent Garden.

He
took a deep breath. "I've consulted the Archbishop of Canterbury about a
divorce."

"A
divorce!" She whispered the Word, shock and almost horror on her face.

Charles
began to talk rapidly, glancing around first to make sure that no one was near:
they were alone in the room. "This isn't the first time I've thought of
it. The doctors tell me they don't believe the Queen can ever carry a child
nine months. York isn't popular now—and he'll be less so when the people
discover his religious intentions. If I marry again and have a male heir it may
change the whole course of my family's future —Canterbury says it can be
arranged."

Frances's
thoughts and emotions ran over her face. Surprise dissolved into a kind of
slyness and pleased vanity as she began to contemplate what this could mean to
her.
Frances Stewart, Queen of England!
She had always been as proud of
her distant connection with the royal family as of anything—almost more proud
than she was of her beauty. But then, as she remembered the Queen, came a look
of doubt and hopelessness.

"It
would break her heart. She loves you so."

Charles,
who had been watching her face, a sort of morose longing and tenderness on his own,
now gave a sigh and his eyes shifted beyond her to stare out the windows at the
barren scarlet-oak growing in the Queen's garden. "I'm afraid of hurting
her more—she's been hurt so much already." A dark scowl swept over his
face and his teeth clenched suddenly; he made a quick impatient gesture.
"I don't know what to do!" he muttered angrily.

They
stood there together for a moment, silent, not looking at each other. And then
Catherine appeared in the doorway with Mrs. Boynton on one side and Winifred Wells
on the other. Her head was tipped slightly to one side, there was an eager
little smile on her face and bare adoration showed in her eyes as she looked at
Charles. Briefly she hesitated and then started forward, her dainty hands
clasped before her.

"I'm
sorry to have been so long a-dressing, Sire—"