Winsor, Kathleen (74 page)

Frances
Stewart had replaced Barbara Palmer as the most popular and successful hostess
at Whitehall. The suppers she gave in her apartments overlooking the river were
crowded with all the powerful and clever men and pretty women of the Court.
Both Buckingham and Arlington were trying to enlist
her support for
their own projects, for they were convinced as was everyone else that the King
could be led through a woman.

Buckingham
strummed his guitar for her and sang songs, mimicked Clarendon and Arlington,
played with her at her favourite game of building card-castles, and flattered
himself that she was falling in love with him. The Baron had no such social
tricks at his command, but he did unbend enough to talk to her with a certain
air of gracious condescension which was the best he could do toward charming a
woman. And when Louis XIV sent his new minister, Courtin, to try to persuade
Charles to call off the Dutch War, the merry little Frenchman immediately
applied himself to Mrs. Stewart.

"Oh,
heavens!" she said one evening to Charles, when he had finally maneuvered
her into a corner alone. "My head's awhirl with all this talk of politics!
One tells me this and another that and a third something else—" She
stopped, looked up at him and then gave a sudden mischievous little burst of
laughter. "And I don't remember any of it! If they only guessed how little
I listen to their prittle-prattle I warrant you they'd all be mightily out of sorts
with me."

Charles
watched her, his eyes glowing with passionate admiration, for he still thought
that she was the most perfectly lovely thing he had ever seen. "Thank God
you don't listen," he said. "A woman has no business meddling in
politics. I think perhaps that's one reason why I love you, Frances. You never
trouble me with petitions—your own or anyone else's. I see asking faces
everywhere I look—and I'm glad yours doesn't ask." His voice dropped
lower. "But I'd give you anything you want, Frances—anything you
could
ask
for. You know that, don't you?"

(Across
the room one young man, watching them, said to another: "His Majesty's
been in love with her for two years and she's still a virgin. I tell you, it's
beyond credence!")

Frances
smiled, a gentle wistful smile so young and artless that it clutched at his
heart. "I know that you're very generous, Sire. But truly, there's nothing
I want but to live an honourable life."

A
look of quick impatience crossed his face and his eyebrows twisted with a kind
of whimsical anger. But then he smiled. "Frances, my dear, an honourable
life is exactly what he who lives it thinks it to be. After all, honour is only
a word."

"I
don't know what you mean, Sire. To me, I assure you, honour is much more than a
word."

"But
nevertheless it must be one or several qualities you associate with a certain
word. His Grace of Buckingham, for instance, over there at the card-table, has
quite another definition from your own."

Frances
laughed at that, somewhat relieved that she could, for she did not like serious
conversations and felt uneasy in the presence of an abstraction. "I don't
doubt that, your Majesty. I
think that's one subject where his Grace and I
think no more alike than you and I do."

"Oh?"
said the King, with an air of mild and amused interest. "And has
Buckingham been trying to persuade you over to his interpretation?"

Frances
blushed and tapped her fan on her knee. "Oh, that wasn't what I
meant!"

"Wasn't
it? I think it was. But don't trouble yourself about it, my dear. It's an old
habit of the Duke's—falling in love along with me."

Frances
looked offended. "Falling in love along with you! Heavens, Sire! You sound
as if you've been in love mighty often!"

"If
I tried to pretend I'd never noticed a woman until you came along—well,
Frances, after all—"

"Just
the same you needn't speak as though it's a common everyday occurrence!"
She tilted her chin and turned a haughty profile to him.

Charles
laughed. "I almost think you're prettiest when you're just a little—just
ever so little—angry with me. You have the loveliest nose in the world—"

"Oh,
have I, Sire?" She turned eagerly and smiled at him, unable to resist the
compliment.

But
suddenly the King glanced across the room and muttered in annoyance, "Good
Lord! Here comes Courtin to lecture me about the war again! Quick! Let's go in
here!"

He
took her arm and though she started to protest he swiftly ushered her through
the door and closed it. The room was dark but for the moonlight reflecting off
the water, but he led her across it and into another beyond.

"There!"
he said, closing the second door. "He'll never dare follow us in
here!"

"But
he's such a nice little man. Why don't you want to talk to him?"

"What's
the use? I've told him a thousand times, England and Holland are at war and
that's all there is to it. The fleet's at sea—I can't very well call it back
for all the nice little men
in France. Come here—"

Frances
glanced at him dubiously, for each time they were alone the same thing
happened. But after a moment of hesitation she walked to the window and stood
beside him. White swans were floating there close to shore in the early spring
dusk, and the reeds grew so tall the tips of them touched the glass. The water
looked dark and cold and a brisk wind had whipped up the waves. He slipped one
arm about her waist and for a minute or more they stood silently, looking out.
And then slowly he turned, drew her close against him, and kissed her mouth.

Frances
submitted, but she was unresponsive. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders,
her body held taut and her lips were cool and passive. His arms tightened and
his mouth
forced her lips apart; the blood seemed to vibrate through his veins with the
intensity of his passion. He felt sure that this time he could bring her to
life, make her desire him as violently as he did her.

"Frances,
Frances," he murmured, a kind of pleading rage in his voice. "Kiss
me. Stop thinking—stop telling yourself that this is wicked. Forget
yourself—forget everything and let me show you what happiness can be—"

"Sire!"

She
was beginning to push at him now, a little frightened, arching her back and
trying to bend away from him, but his body curved over hers, his hands and his
mouth seeking. "Oh, Frances, you can't put me off any longer—I've waited
two years—I can't wait forever—I love you, Frances, I swear I do! I won't hurt
you, darling, please—please—"

It
was true that he was in love with her. He was in love with her beauty and her
femininity, the promise of complete fulfillment which she seemed to offer. But
he did not really love her any more than he had ever loved any other woman; and
he believed furthermore that her show of virtue was a stubborn pretense,
designed to get something she wanted. In his relations with women as in all
other phases of his life, his selfishness took refuge in cynicism.

"Sire!"
she cried again, really alarmed now, for she had never realized before how
powerful was his strength, how easy it would be for him to force her.

But
he did not hear. His hands had pushed the low-cut gown far off her shoulders,
and he held her hard against him, as though determined to absorb her body into
his own. She had never seen him so blindly excited and it terrified her, for
her emotions did not answer his but fled to the opposite extreme— she was scared
and disgusted. And all at once she hated him.

Now
she put her crossed arms against his shoulders and pushed, and at the same time
she gave a sobbing desperate cry. "Your Majesty, let me go!" She
burst into tears.

Instantly
he paused, his body stiffening, and then he released her, so swiftly that she
almost lost her balance. While he stood there in the darkness beside her, so
quiet she would have thought she was alone but for the sound of his breathing,
she turned away and continued to cry—not softly but with whimpering sobs so
that he would hear her and regret what he had done. And also so that he would
realize she was even more offended than he could possibly be. For she was
afraid now that he might be angry.

It
seemed a long time, but at last he spoke. "I'm sorry, Frances. I didn't
realize that I was repulsive to you."

Frances
whirled around. "Oh, Sire! Don't think that! Of course you're not! But if
I once give myself up to you I'll have lost the only thing I have that's any
value to me. A woman can no more be excused because she gives herself to a king
than if he were
any other man. You know that your own mother says that."

"My
mother and I do not always think alike—and certainly not on that point. Answer
me honestly, Frances. What is it you want? I've told you before and I tell you
again—I'll give you anything I have. I'll give you anything but marriage—and
I'd give that if I could."

Frances's
voice answered him crisply. "Then, Sire, you will never have me at all.
For I shall never give myself to a man under any other conditions than
marriage."

He
stood with his back to the windows and his face in darkness, and she could not
see the expression of savage anger that brushed across it. "Someday,"
he said, in a soft voice, "I hope I'll find you ugly and willing." He
went past her swiftly and out the door.

Amber
did not like being shut up in a black room; it made her melancholy. But at
least the fact that she was supposed to be in mourning secured her from what
would otherwise have been an intolerable number of visits from every friend,
acquaintance and remote relative of the entire family. Her child, a girl, had
been born just a few days after Samuel's death. And she would have been
expected to give a gossips-feast, a child-bed feast, and a great reception
following the christening.

As
it was she received calls only from close relatives and friends of the family,
though many others sent gifts. During these she sat half propped in bed,
looking very pale and fragile against all that sombre black. She smiled
wistfully at her visitors, sometimes squeezed out a tear or two or at least a
long sigh, and looked fondly at the baby when someone said that she was as much
Samuel's image as if she had been spit out of his mouth. She was polite and
patient and as decorous as ever, for she felt that she owed Samuel that much at
least in return for the great fortune he had left her.

She
scarcely saw the immediate family at all. Each of them came just once to her
room, but Amber knew that it was only out of a persistent sense of duty to
their father. She realized that now he was dead they expected and wanted her to
leave as soon as she could get out of bed. And she did not intend to linger
there any longer than necessary.

But
it was only Jemima who said what the others were thinking. "Well—now that
you've got Father's money
I suppose you expect to buy a title with it and set
yourself up for a person of quality?"

Amber
gave her an impudent mocking smile. "I might," she agreed.

"You
may be able to buy a title," said Jemima, "but you
can't buy the
breeding that goes with it." That sounded to Amber like something she had
heard one of the others say, but the next words were Jemima's own: "And
there's something else you can't buy, either, not if you had all the money there
is. You never
can
buy Lord Carlton."

Amber's
jealousy of Jemima had faded, since she knew her to be securely trapped in
marriage, to lazy contempt. There was nothing she had to fear from her now. And
she gave her a slow, sweeping insolent glance. "I'm very sensible of your
concern, Jemima. But I'll shift for myself, I warrant you. So if that's all you
came for, you may as well go."

Jemima
answered her in a low tense voice, for Amber's smugness and indifference made
her furious. "I
am
going— and I hope I never see you again as long
as I live. But let me tell you one thing—someday you're going to get the fate
you deserve. God won't let your wickedness thrive forever—"

Amber's
superiority dissolved into a cynical laugh. "I vow and swear, Jemima,
you've grown as great a fanatic as the rest of them. If you had better sense
you'd have learned by now that nothing thrives so well as wickedness. Now get
out of here, you malapert slut, and don't trouble me again!"