Winsor, Kathleen (135 page)

Just
at that moment the King's spaniels rushed scraping and clawing into the room
and before Amber and the Duke could compose themselves Charles had strolled in,
followed by several of the courtiers.

Buckingham
instantly smoothed out his face and went to kiss the King's hand—it was the
first time he had seen him since the day in the garden when Charles had called
him a scoundrel. The Duke lingered several minutes longer, affable and
talkative, pretending to Amber and all of them that they had merely been having
a friendly chat; but she was considerably relieved when he left. News of the
quarrel spread rapidly. When she met Barbara in her Majesty's apartments before
noon the Lady had already heard of it and undertook to let her know that her
cousin had sworn to all his acquaintance he would ruin Lady Danforth if it took
the rest of his life. Amber laughed at that and said let Buckingham do his
worst, she did not doubt to hold her own. And she knew that she could, too,
while the King liked her. After all, she had been at Whitehall only one year
and any possible loss of Charles's affections still seemed to her, like old
age, a distant and unlikely misfortune.

And
certainly the first result of their broil seemed a very favourable one. Baron
Arlington came to pay his first secret call upon her.

The
Baron had always been polite to Amber, with his own cold aloof Castilian
courtesy, but he had never troubled himself to show her any undue attention.
For if Charles thought that ladies were better suited to other occupations than
politics, his Secretary of State was convinced that all women were a damned
nuisance and should be shipped away to let men run the country in peace. Still,
Arlington was a politician and he never allowed prejudice or emotion to
interfere with important business. Serving his King was the important business
of his life, though he hoped and intended to serve himself at the same time.
Evidently he had decided that because of the rupture with Buckingham she might
be of some use to him.

Amber
came in one night, late and very gay—for she and Charles and a dozen or more
lords and ladies had put on cloaks and masks and driven out to visit the
Beggars' Bush, a disreputable tavern in High Holborn where the beggars, both
men and women, held weekly carousals. Arlington and King Charles were good and
close friends, but the stiff solemn Baron seldom made one of such a frivolous
party. Amber was astonished when Nan told her that he was downstairs and had
been waiting there for almost an hour.

"Ye
gods! Send 'im up then—post-haste!"

She
tossed her mask and gloves and muff aside and dropped her cloak over Tansy who,
completely enveloped, went groping
his way across the room. Amber laughed as
she watched him, then turned about to face her portrait above the fireplace,
frowning critically and with displeasure as she examined it. Now, why had he
made her so plump? Certainly
she
had no Roman nose, and that wasn't
anything like the colour of her hair. She was annoyed every time she saw it for
Lely insisted on painting each sitter, not as she really was, but after some
pattern of his own to which he tried to fit the entire sex. But then, he was
the fashion.

She
turned back as Nan ushered Lord Arlington into the room. He bowed from the
doorway while she made him a curtsy.

"Madame,
my humble service to you."

"Your
servant, sir. Pray come in—I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Not
at all, madame. I occupied the time with writing some letters."

He
was wrapped from head to foot in a great swirling black cloak and in his hand
was a vizard. And now as he smiled he put on like a garment the charm which he
held in reserve for necessary occasions, and wore only where it should show to
advantage. There was no sincerity in the man, but there was a good deal of
craft and guile as well as shrewdness and, what was rare in Charles's
easy-going Court, a methodical application to business.

"You're
alone, madame?"

"Quite,
my lord. Won't you be seated and may I offer you something to drink?"

"Thank
you, madame. It's kind of your Ladyship to receive me at this inconvenient
hour."

"Oh,
never speak of it, my lord," protested Amber. "It's I that am
grateful for your Lordship's condescension in paying me a visit."

A
servant came in then carrying a tray, with glasses and decanters, and set it
down on a low table. Amber poured brandy for the Baron, clary-water for herself
and he proposed her health. They sat there a few moments longer—in her great
scarlet-and-silver and black-marble chamber where a hundred reflections of them
showed in the Venetian mirrors—bandying compliments.

But
at last the Baron got to the business of his visit. "All this privacy,
madame, is merely a precaution against his Grace of Buckingham's jealousy. Don't
misunderstand me, pray, for the Duke and I are good friends—"

They
were, of course, desperate enemies, but Arlington was too cautious to admit it
though Buckingham was usually ready to tell whoever would listen. Only a short
while before he had snorted at Amber, when she had referred to the Baron as a
dangerous foe: "Madame, I scorn to have a fool for an enemy!"

"It
seems," continued Arlington, "he doesn't want you friendly with
anyone but himself. The truth on it is, madame,
it came to my ears today on very
good authority that his Grace has told Colbert it's useless to make you further
gifts because you are already committed to the cause of Spain."

"The
devil he did!" cried Amber indignantly, for she was convinced that she had
no more use for Buckingham or his tricky friendship. "He's as meddlesome
as an old bawd! The way he uses his friends it's no wonder they soon wear
out!"

"Oh,
please, madame—not so hard on his Grace, I beg of you! It was never my
intention to make you suspect his Grace's friendship for you. But it seems he
wants to keep you for himself, and I had hoped that you and I might be friends
also."

"I
see no reason why we shouldn't, my lord. Sure a woman may be allowed two
friends—even at Whitehall."

The
Baron smiled. "You seem to be a woman of wit, madame —than which I admire
nothing more." She poured him another glass of brandy. He sat for a
moment, staring into it reflectively, saying nothing. Then, finally: "I
understand that your Ladyship is to be congratulated."

"For
what, pray?"

"It
runs through the galleries your young son will inherit a dukedom."

Amber
suddenly sat forward in her chair, her eyes glittering and eager. "Did the
King tell you—"

"No,
madame—not the King. But it's current gossip."

She
slumped back then and made a face. "Gossip. Gossip won't get me a
duchy."

"It
is
what you want then?"

"What
I want? My God! There's nothing I want so much! I'd do
anything
to get
it!"

"If
that's true, madame, and you wished to do something for me—why, I might be able
to help your case somehow." He modestly lowered his eyes. "I think I
may say without vanity that I have some small influence here at
Whitehall."

He
had, of course, great influence. And what seemed even more important, he had a
well-established reputation for always bettering the condition of those he took
into favour.

"If
you can help me to a duchy I swear I'll do anything you ask!"

He
told her what he wanted.

It
was generally known in the Palace that Buckingham often met with a group of old
Commonwealth men who had as their object the overthrow of Charles II's
government and the seizure of power into their own hands. Because the kingdom
had so recently been split and disorganized it gave hope to others of
inordinate ambition that the like could be accomplished again. Arlington wanted
her to learn the time and place of their meetings, what occurred there and what
steps were taken, and to report the information to him. There was no doubt he
could have learned these things himself but it was a costly process involving
numerous very large bribes, and in persuading her to pay them, he saved himself
that much money and
gave in return nothing but what he could very well spare—a few words in her
behalf to the King. Amber understood all this but the money had no value to
her, and Arlington's support was worth a great deal.

Amber
had already bought four acres of land in St. James's Square, the town's most
aristocratic and exclusive district, and for several months she and Captain
Wynne—who was designing many of the finest new homes in England—had been
discussing plans for the house and gardens. She knew exactly what she wanted:
the biggest and newest and most expensive of everything. Her house must be
modern, lavish, spectacular; money was of no importance.

So
long as they can't send me to Newgate, what do I care? she thought, and her
recklessness increased apace.

After
her conversation with Arlington she was convinced that the duchy was all but in
her lap, and she told Captain Wynne to begin construction. It would take almost
two years to complete and would cost about sixty thousand pounds—far more even
than Clarendon House. This vast new extravagance set all tongues gabbling at
Court, whether with awe, indignation or envy, for everyone agreed that no one
beneath the rank of duchess could or should live in such state. And most of
them decided that the King had finally promised her a duchy. Charles, no doubt
amused, neither confirmed nor denied that he had and Amber optimistically took
his silence for consent. But the weeks went by and she was still only a
countess.

There
was no doubt Charles seemed as fond of her as of anyone else just then, but he
had nothing to gain by giving a duchy, and the King's generosity was usually at
least half self-interest. Furthermore, there were so many demands constantly
made upon him that he had developed a habit of automatic procrastination.
Discouraged though she became at times, Amber was determined to get the duchy
someway—and by now she had convinced herself that by one means or another it
would always be possible to get anything she wanted.

She
made use of everyone she could, no matter how little influence he might have,
and though she busied herself eternally doing favours for others, she saw to it
that she always got a return. Barbara Palmer was furious to see her rival
making headway and told everyone that if Charles dared give that low-bred slut
such an honour she would make him sorry he had ever been born. Finally she got
into a public argument with him about it and threatened to dash out his
children's brains before his face and set the Palace on fire.

Less
than a fortnight later Charles, in a spirit of malicious vindictiveness, passed
a patent creating Gerald Duke of Ravenspur, with the honour to devolve upon his
wife's son, Charles. And the look on Barbara's face the first time she had to
leave an arm-chair and take a stool because the new duchess had entered the
room was something Amber expected to remember with satisfaction all the rest of
her life.

Immediately
her position at Whitehall took on greater importance.

She
set the fashions. When she had a tiny pistol made to carry in her muff, most of
the other Court ladies did likewise. Several apartments were being redecorated
with mirrored walls, and a great deal of walnut furniture was sent out to be
silver-plated. She pinned up the brim of her Cavalier's hat at an angle one day
and next day half the ladies in his Majesty's hawking-party had done the same.
She appeared at a ball with her hair undone and hanging down her back covered
with a thick sprinkling of gold-dust, and for a week that was the rage.
Everyone copied her beauty patches—little cupids drawing a bow, the initials CR
(Charles Rex) intertwined, a prancing long-horned goat.

Amber
racked her brain to think of something new, for it tickled her vanity to lead
them about like so many pet monkeys fastened to a stick. Everything she did was
talked about. Yet she pretended to be bored with the imitations and resentful
she could never keep a fashion to herself.

One
unexpectedly warm October night she and several of the gayest ladies and
gentlemen took off their clothes and dove from the barge on which they had been
supping and dancing to swim in the Thames. Almost nothing that had occurred
since the Restoration so aroused the indignation of the sedate as this
prank—for heretofore men and women had not gone swimming together and it had
seemed the one steadfast decency still respected by a wicked decadent age. Her
private entertainments for the King were, it was said, scandalous and lewd. Her
numberless reputed lovers, her beauty-rites and her extravagances were
discussed everywhere. There was nothing of which she had not been accused; no
action was considered beyond or beneath her.

Amber,
by no means resenting all this vicious and spiteful talk, paid out large sums
to start new rumours and to keep them going. Her life, though comparatively
chaste, became in reputation a model of license and iniquity. Once, when
Charles repeated some gross tale he had heard of her, she laughed and said that
rather than not be known at all she'd be known for what she was.

The
people liked her. When she drove through the streets in her cal
èche, handling
the reins herself and surrounded by six or eight running footmen to clear the
way, they stopped to stare and give her a cheer. She was remembered for her
days in the theatre; and her frequent spectacular public appearances as well as
her open-handed almsgiving had made her both well-known and popular. She loved
the attention now as much as she ever had and was still eager to be liked by
those she would never know.