Winsor, Kathleen (129 page)

The
entire room, floor to ceiling, was lined with mirrors—brought from Venice and
smuggled through the port
officers by his Majesty's connivance. The floor was laid with black Genoese
marble, supposed to be the finest in Europe. On the ceiling an artist named
Streater had depicted the loves of Jupiter, and it swarmed with naked
full-breasted, round-hipped women in a variety of attitudes with men and
beasts.

The
bed, an immense four-posted structure with a massive tester, was covered with
beaten silver and hung with scarlet velvet. And every other article of
furniture in the room was thickly plated with silver; each chair, from the
smallest stool to the great settee before the fireplace, was cushioned in
scarlet. The window-hangings were silver embroidered scarlet velvet. Above the
fireplace and sunk flush with the wall was a more intimate and considerably
more typical portrait of Amber, painted by Peter Lely. She lay on her side on a
heap of black cushions, unashamedly naked, staring out with a slant-eyed smile
at whoever paused to look.

The
room seemed to possess a violent, almost savage personality. No human being had
a chance of seeming important in it. And yet it was the envy of the Palace, for
it was the most extravagant gesture anyone had yet made. Amber, not at all awed
by it, loved it for its arrogance, its uncompromising challenge, its crude and
boisterous beauty. It represented to her everything she had ever believed she
wanted from life; and all she had got. It was her symbol of success.

But
it was not enough, now she had it, to make her happy.

For
though her days were perpetually busy, occupied with a never-ceasing round of
gossip, new clothes, gambling, play-going, supper-giving, schemes and
counter-schemes, she was never able to make herself forget Bruce Carlton. He
would not leave her, no matter what she was doing, and though usually her
longing for him was a low-keyed minor unhappiness it surged sometimes into
tremendous and monumental music which seemed unbearable. When that happened,
always when she least expected it, she would think and almost wish that she
would die. It would seem impossible then that she could exist for another
moment without him, and her yearning, wild and desperate, would reach out
blindly—to inevitable disappointment.

About
mid-March Almsbury arrived in London alone to attend to some business matters
and amuse himself for a few weeks. Amber had not seen him since the previous
August and the first question she asked was whether or not he had heard from
Bruce.

"No,"
said the Earl. "Have you?"

"Have
I?" she demanded crossly. "Of course not! He's never written me a
letter in his life! But it'd seem he might at least let
you
know how he
does!"

Almsbury
shrugged. "Why should he? He's busy—and as long as I don't hear from him I
know everything's well with him. If it wasn't he'd let me know."

"Are
you sure?"

Her
eyes slipped him a stealthy glance. They were in her bedroom, Amber in a
dressing-gown lying on a little day-bed with her trim ankles crossed, while
Tansy sat on the floor beside her contemplating the frayed toes of his shoes.
Though he could be very amusing, usually he did not speak unless spoken to and
was quiet in a way which suggested some strange inner tranquillity, an almost
animal self-sufficiency.

"What
do you mean by that?" Almsbury's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at
her. "If you're hoping that something's happened to Corinna you may as
well forget it. Hoping for another woman to die will never get you what you
want; you know that as well as I do. He never intended to marry you
anyway."

There
were times when some suppressed impatience or cruelty in the Earl crept into
his attitude toward her. She took him so much for granted that it never
occurred to her to wonder about the cause, though she was always very quick to
take offense when it appeared.

"How
do you know! He might have, now I'm a countess— if it hadn't been for
her—"

Her
eyes hardened as she spoke of Corinna and her upper lip tightened stubbornly.
But in a sense, she was almost glad to have Corinna as the reason and excuse
for all her troubles— she could never otherwise have explained to herself or
anyone else his refusal to marry her.

"Amber,
my dear," he said now, and his eyes and the tone of his voice had softened
with a kind of affectionate pity. "There's no use pretending to yourself,
is there? He didn't marry her because she's rich and titled. Probably he
wouldn't have married her if she hadn't been—no man in his position would—but
if that was all he wanted he'd have married long ago. No, sweetheart—you might
as well be honest with yourself. He loves her."

"But
he loves me too!" she cried desperately. "Oh, he does, Almsbury! You
know he does!" Suddenly her voice and eyes grew wistful.
"You
think
he loves me, don't you?"

Almsbury
smiled and reached across to take her hand. "My poor little darling. Yes,
I think he does—and sometimes I almost think, you'd have loved him even if he
had married you."

"Oh,
of course I would!" she cried and then, half-ashamed: "Stop teasing
me, Almsbury." She glanced nervously away, feeling foolish. But all at
once the words burst forth in a rush. "Oh, I
do
love him, Almsbury!
You can't imagine how much I love him! I'd do anything—anything in the world to
get him! And I'd always love him—If I saw him every day and every night for a
thousand years! Oh, you know it's true, Almsbury —I've
never
loved
another man—I never could!" Then, seeing some strange look come into his
eyes, she was afraid that she
had hurt him. "Oh, of course I love you,
Almsbury—but in a different way—I—"

"Never
mind, Amber. Don't try to explain yourself—I know more about it than you do,
anyway. You're in love with three of us: the King, and Bruce—and me. And each
one of us, I think, loves you. But you won't get much happiness from any of
it—because you want more than we're willing to give. There's not one of us you
can get hold of the way you got hold of that poor devil of a young captain—what
was his name?—or the old dotard who willed you his money. And do you want to
know why? I'll tell you. The King loves you—but no better than he's loved a
dozen other women and will one day love a dozen more. No woman on earth can
hurt him, because he depends on them for nothing but physical pleasure. His
sister is the only woman he really loves—but that's neither here nor there so
far as we're concerned. Bruce loves you— but there are other things he loves
more. And now there's another woman he loves more. And last of all, darling—I
love you too. But I've got no illusions about you. I know what you are and I
don't care—so you'll never hurt me much either."

"Ye
gods, Almsbury! Why should I want to hurt you—or anyone else? What the devil
put that maggot into your head?"

"No
woman's ever satisfied unless she knows she can hurt the man who loves her.
Come, now, be honest—it's true, isn't it? You've always thought you could make
me miserable, if you ever wanted to try, haven't you?" His eyes watched
her steadily.

Amber
smiled at him—the smile of a pretty woman who knows she is being admired.
"Maybe I have," she admitted at last. "Are you sure I
couldn't?"

For
an instant he sat motionless, and then all at once he got to his feet; his
white teeth were showing in a broad smile. "No, sweetheart, you
couldn't." He stood and looked at her, his face serious again. "I'll
tell you one thing, though—if there's any man on earth you could have married
and been happy—it's me."

Amber
stared at him, amazed, and then, with a little laugh, she stood up.
"Almsbury! What in the devil are you talking about? If there's one man I
could have married and been happy it's Bruce, and you know it—"

"You're
wrong about that." But as she started to protest he began walking toward
the door and she strolled along beside him. "I'll see you in the
Drawing-Room tonight—and we'll raffle for that hundred pound you won from me
yesterday."

She
laughed. "We can't, Almsbury! I spent it this morning —for a new
gown!" And then, just as he went out the door, she laughed again.
"Imagine
us
married!"

He
gave her a wave of his hand, without turning, but as he disappeared a
thoughtful puzzled frown drew at her eyebrows. Almsbury and me—married. The
idea had never occurred to her before. She had never wanted to be married to
anyone
but Bruce Carlton and it still seemed incredible that she could have been
married happily to anyone else—even Almsbury. But how strange he should have
said that—Almsbury, who thought no better of matrimony than did any other man
of sense and wit.

Oh.
well—she shrugged her shoulders and went back to
complete her toilet. What use
was it thinking about that now?

Besides,
she had matters of importance to attend to. Durand would be there soon to dress
her hair, and Madame Rouvi
ère was coming to consult about her gown for the
King's birthday ball. She must decide whom to invite to her next supper— whether
she should ask the French or the Spanish ambassador, and which one was likely
to prove more generous in his gratitude. Should she ask Castlemaine, and let
her steam all evening with jealous envy, or should she merely ignore her?
Charles certainly would not care—nor would he leave the party at Barbara's
behest as he had been known to do, several years ago. It pleased Amber
immeasurably to have in her own hands the settling of such issues—virtual life
and death for the great or small of the Palace.

And
now, since the day was evidently going to be a fine one, she decided to go
driving in Hyde Park in her new cal
èche— a tiny two seated carriage,
precarious to sit in, but nevertheless showing the rider at great advantage
from head to foot. She had a new suit of gold velvet and mink-tails and she
intended to handle the reins herself—the prospect was exciting, for there was
no doubt she would create a great sensation.

When
Frances Stewart, now Duchess of Richmond, arrived back in town there was wild
excitement at Court. Once more the whole pattern of existence was broken into
pieces and must be put together again—politicians, mistresses, even lackeys and
footmen began to wonder and to scheme and juggle, hoping to save themselves no
matter what happened. At the Groom Porter's Lodge they were betting that now
Frances was a married woman she would have better sense than when she had been
a virgin—they expected that she would soon occupy the place which had always
been hers for the taking. And so, when she established herself at Somerset
House and began to give vast entertainments, everyone went —not for Frances's
sake, but for their own. The King, however, much to their surprise, was never
present and seemed unaware even that she had returned.

If
Frances was troubled by this show of indifference she concealed it well. But
she was by no means the only woman whose position depended upon the King's
favour who had cause for worry.

When
Barbara came back from the country at the end of the year she had found the
Countess of Danforth occupying her old place and two actresses flaunting his
Majesty's infatuation before all the Town. Moll Davis had left the stage and
was occupying a handsome house he had furnished for her,
and Nell Gwynne
was not secretive about her frequent back stairs visits to the Palace. Barbara
let it be known that the King begged her every day to take him back again, but
that she scorned him as a man and would have nothing from him but money. In her
heart, though, she was sick and afraid; she began to pay her young men great
sums.

Charles,
hearing of it, smiled a little sadly and shrugged his wide shoulders.
"Poor Barbara. She's growing old."

But
it was not only the women who furnished fodder for gossip. The Duke of
Buckingham, too, continued to make himself conspicuous. Early in the new year
the Earl of Shrewsbury was finally persuaded by his relatives that he must
fight Buckingham and so he did, and was killed. After that the Duke took Lady
Shrewsbury home with him to live, and when his patient little wife objected
that such an arrangement was intolerable, he called a coach and sent her off to
her father.

This
amused Charles who said that his Grace could not possibly have devised a scheme
to ruin him quicker with the Commons. But Buckingham had temporarily lost
interest in the Commons and did not care what they thought of him— he could be
faithful to his own plans no longer than to a woman.