Winsor, Kathleen (54 page)

During
the past four months, since the discovery of her Majesty's pregnancy, Charles
had seemed to lose interest in Frances; he had been as coolly polite as though
he had never desired her at all—or as though he had already had her. But now he
seemed to return to Frances again for comfort in his despair. They were so
positive she would be the next Queen of England that it was not even possible
to find betting odds. Frances believed it herself.

But
certainly not even the King's sorrow was more extravagant or more seemingly
sincere than that of the least likely of all mourners, Lady Castlemaine. She
kept a continuous stream of pages running from the Queen's apartments to her
own at
every hour of the day and night, went there frequently herself, and was
reliably reported to pray for her Majesty's recovery five or six times a day.
Barbara was alarmed.

It
had never occurred to her, when Heydon had made his astounding prophecy, that
the Queen would be as sick as she was. Certainly not that she would die. And
she had not even considered the possibility that if she did she might be
replaced by a woman like Frances Stewart, whose marriage to the King could mean
nothing but Barbara's own ruin and, more than likely, her exile into France.
She and Frances had not been friendly for some time, not, in fact, since
Barbara had become convinced that his Majesty's infatuation for the girl was a
serious one. She had always underestimated all women but herself, and it had
taken her a long while to discover that Frances was really a formidable rival.
Now she lived in terror that the Queen would die.

The
gatherings in Barbara's rooms were sober affairs now, for though the King came
almost every night at supper-time his mood was a morose and silent one, and
discretion kept them from seeming to be as indifferent as they were.

On
the tenth night after Catherine had fallen sick he stood in Barbara's
drawing-room, over against the fireplace, thoughtfully swirling the red wine in
his glass and talking in quiet tones which the most intent ears could not
catch, to Frances Stewart. For Frances, though her own hopes of glory depended
upon the Queen's death, was genuinely sympathetic and sorrowful for the quiet
unhappy little woman who had befriended her.

"How
was she when you left her, Sire?"

Charles
scowled, a drawn and worried scowl which seldom left his face nowadays, and
stared down into his glass. "I don't think she even knew me."

"Is
she still delirious?"

"She
hadn't spoken for more than two hours." He gave a quick shake of his head
as though to drive away the painfully vivid image of her that dogged his
memory. "She talked to me this morning." A strange, sad and cynical
smile touched his mouth. "She asked me how the children were. She said
that she was sorry the boy was not pretty.
I told her that he was very handsome and
she seemed pleased—and said that if I was satisfied then she was happy."

Frances
gave a sudden hysterical sob, her fist pressed against her mouth, and Charles
looked at her in quick surprise, as though he had forgotten that she was there.
Just then a page entered the room, running in without ceremony, and went
immediately to the King.

Charles
whirled around. "What is it?"

"The
Queen, Sire, is dying—"

Charles
did not wait for the boy to finish his sentence but with a swift movement he
flung the glass into the fireplace and ran out of the room. The Queen's
bed-chamber was in the
same miserable condition it had been in for days: All windows were closed and
had been since she had first fallen sick, so that the air was heavy and hot and
stinking; the darkness was complete, but for a few low-burning candles about
the bed; and the priests hung over her like bald malefic ravens, their voices
eternally wailing and moaning.

Catherine
lay flat on her back. Her eyes were closed and sunken in dark pits, her skin
was yellow as wax, and she breathed so faintly that at first he thought she was
dead. But before he had even spoken she became aware of his presence beside
her, her eyes opened slowly and she looked up at him. She tried to smile and
then, painfully, she began to talk to him, falling back into Spanish.

"Charles—I'm
glad you came. I wanted to see you just once more. I'm dying, Charles. They
told me so, and I know it's true. Oh, yes it is." She smiled gently as he
started to open his mouth to protest. "But it doesn't matter. It will be
better for you when I'm dead. Then you can marry a woman who will give you sons—I
want you to promise me that you won't wait. Get married soon—. It won't matter
to me where I'll be—"

As
she talked he stared at her, horrified and sick with shame. He had not realized
before that she was dying because she had no wish to live. He had never wanted
or tried to understand what this past year had been for her. The enormity of
his selfish thoughtlessness, the guilty awareness that in his secret heart he
had hoped for her death, struck him like a blow from a mighty fist. He had a
moment of passionate regret, of devout promises for a better future.

Suddenly
he leapt to his feet and turned to face the priest who was standing just beside
him, interrupting the old man in the midst of his clamorous prayer.

"Get
out of here." His voice was low and tense with fury. "Get out of
here, I say! All of you!"

Priests
and doctors stared at him in astonishment, but made no move to go.

"But,
your Majesty!" protested one. "We must be here when her Majesty
dies—"

"She's
not going to die! Though God knows what you've put her through would kill a
stronger woman! Now, get out, or by Jesus, I'll throw you out myself!" His
voice rose to an enraged shout and one arm swept out in a violent gesture of
dismissal. His face was dark as a devil's and his eyes glittered savagely; he
hated them for his own errors as much as for theirs.

They
began to straggle out, puzzlement on their faces as they looked back again and
again, but he paid them no more attention and turning away dropped once more to
his knees beside her. For a long minute her eyes remained closed and he watched
her, his own breathing almost stopped; at last she looked up at him again.

"Oh—"
she sighed. "It's so quiet now—so peaceful. For a moment I thought I must
be—"

"Don't
say it, Catherine! You're not going to die! You're going to live—for me, and
for your son!"

But
she shook her head, a vague almost imperceptible movement. "I have no son,
Charles. I know I haven't. But, oh, I did so want to give you one—I wanted to
be part of your life. But now, before very long, I'll be gone— And when you
marry again you'll have sons— You'll be happier, and so I'm glad I'm
going—"

Charles
gave a sudden sob. The tears were streaming from his eyes and his two hands
crushed her tiny one between them. "Catherine! Catherine! Don't talk that
way! Don't say those things! You've got to want to live! If you want to you can
— And you've got to—for me—"

She
stared up at him, a new look in her eyes. "For
you,
Charles? You
want me to?" she whispered.

"Yes,
I do! Of course I do! My God, whatever made you think — Oh, Catherine, darling,
I'm sorry—I'm
sorry!
But you've got to live—for me— Tell me that you'll
try, that you will—"

"Why,
Charles—I didn't know you—Oh, my darling, if you want me to—I can live—Of
course I can—"

It
was not until after he was dead that Amber realized how much Rex Morgan had
meant to her. She missed the sound of his key turning in the lock and the
feeling of warmth and happiness he had always brought with him, as though a
fire had just been lighted in a cold dark room. She missed waking up in the
morning to find him half-dressed and shaving, screwing his face this way and
that as he scraped the beard off. She missed the evenings when they had been
alone and had played cribbage or crambo and he had listened to her strum her
guitar and sing the popular bawdy street ballads. She missed his smile and the
sound of his voice and the reassuring adoration in his blue eyes. She missed
him in a thousand ways.

But
most of all, though she scarcely knew it herself, she missed the comfortable
sense of security with which he had surrounded her.

For
now she found herself suddenly adrift, lost, and filled with a cold
apprehension for the future. She had almost seventeen hundred pounds with
Shadrac Newbold; so there was no immediate cause for concern on that score, and
she could not be arrested for debt anyway. But even seventeen hundred pounds,
she knew would not last very long if she continued to live on her present
scale, and when it was gone she would be at the mercy of the tiring-room
gallants.

The
thought was not pleasant—for after a year and a half of association she saw
them naked now and unvarnished with the
gilt of a naive young girl's illusions.
To her they were no longer gallant and gay and valiant, fine gentlemen because
they wore fine clothes and could trace their families to followers of William
the Conqueror—but only a half-breed species of Frenchified Englishman, shallow,
malicious, and absurd. They had all the trappings of cynicism, careless
ill-breeding and light-hearted cruelty, which were now the marks of quality.
There was not another man like Rex Morgan to be found among them.

"Oh,
if I'd only known this would happen!" she thought, over and over again.
"I'd never have gone away! And I wouldn't have gone to the King that time,
either. Oh, Rex, if I'd known, I'd have been kinder to you—I'd have made you
happy every minute—"

The
first visitor she admitted after Rex's funeral—though many others had come—was
Almsbury. He had been there before but she had been unfit to see anyone at all,
and so Nan had sent him away. But one afternoon, ten days after the duel, he
came again and this time she said that she would see him.

She
was sitting on a couch before a burning fire, for the weather was cold and wet,
and her head was bent in her arm. She did not even glance up until he sat down
and reached over to put one arm about her, and then she looked at him with red
and swollen eyes. Her dress was plain black and she wore not a ribbon or a
jewel, her hair was tumbled and only carelessly combed, and her face was shiny
with tears; her head ached and she looked thinner than she had.

"I'm
sorry, Amber," he said softly, tenderness and sympathy in his eyes and the
tone of his voice. "I know how little it means to hear that when you've
lost someone—but I mean it with all my heart, and please believe me when I say
that Bruce—"

She
gave him a venomous glare. "Don't you dare speak of him to me! Much I care
how sorry
he
is. If it hadn't been for him Rex would still be
alive!"

Almsbury
looked at her in surprise and an expression of impatience crossed his features,
but she had covered her face with her hands and was crying again, wiping at the
tears with a wet wadded handkerchief.

"That
isn't fair, Amber, and you know it. He asked you to stop the duel; he even let
Captain Morgan cut his arm in the hope that that would satisfy him. There was
nothing more to do unless he had let Morgan kill him—and surely even you
couldn't have expected that."

"Oh,
I don't care what he did! He killed Rex! He murdered him—and I loved him! I was
going to marry him!"

"In
that case," said the Earl, with unmistakable sarcasm, "it would have
been better judgment not to go off on a honeymoon with another man—even if he
was an old friend."

"Oh,
mind your own business!" she muttered, and though he hesitated for a
moment, Almsbury got to his feet, made her
a polite bow and went out of the room.
Amber neither spoke nor tried to stop him.

She
did not feel able to go back to the theatre immediately, and then shortly after
the first of June it closed for two months. But as soon as she began to admit
visitors her own apartments became almost as crowded as the tiring-room. She
found, somewhat to her surprise, that the duel had made her as much the fashion
as red-heeled shoes or Chatelin's Ordinary. Lord Carlton was handsome, his
family one of the oldest and most honourable, and his exploits as a privateer
had made him a spectacular figure, not only at Court but throughout the city.