Winsor, Kathleen (55 page)

Amber
knew how much such popularity meant, but she determined to take every advantage
of it that she possibly could. Somewhere among those clamouring beaus, those
beribboned fops and wit-imitators, there must be a man—a man who would fall in
love with her as Rex had done; and if she could but single him out, this time
she would know what to do. Marriage she did not expect, for the social position
of an actress was no better than that of the vizard-masks in the pit, and with
Rex dead her earlier opinion of matrimony had revived. But the brilliant lavish
exciting life of an exclusive harlot seemed to her a most pleasant one.

She
saw herself occupying a magnificent house in St. James's Field or Pall Mall,
driving about town in her gilt coach-and-six, giving fabulous entertainments,
setting the styles which would be taken up at Whitehall. She saw herself
famous, admired, desired and—most of all—envied.

It
was what she had wanted for a long time; and now that she had begun to
reconcile herself to the fact of Rex Morgan's death, the wish opened once more
into quick full blossom. Optimistically, she decided that he was all that had
kept her from having those things.

But
though she encouraged them all, flirted with them and laughed at their jokes,
she never accepted their proposals. She knew that they held constancy in
contempt, but also that they valued a woman more if she pretended concern for
her virtue and made a great issue of surrender—just as they would rather win
money from a man who hated to lose it. And so far no one had offered what she
wanted.

"Phoo
pox, Mrs. St. Clare!" said one of them to her. "A virtuous woman is a
crime against nature!"

"Well,"
retorted Amber, "then there aren't many criminals nowadays."

But
nevertheless she was growing uneasy and discouraged and in spite of her
insistence that she intended never to err again, the other actresses taunted
her because she had not found another keeper.

"I
hear the young gentlemen are grown mighty shy of keeping these days,"
remarked Knepp one afternoon when she and Beck Marshall had come to call on
Amber. Over her glass of
clary—a potent drink made of brandy and clary-flowers flavoured with sugar and
cinnamon and ambergris—she flipped Beck a sly wink. "They say three months
is the limit a man will keep now, for fear of losing his reputation as a wit."

"Oh,
gad, a man is as much laughed at for keeping as ever he was for taking a
wife," said Beck. "More, I believe, for at least a wife brings a
dowry to settle his debts, while a whore gives him nothing but a bastard and
more debts."

"Especially,"
said Amber, "if she's being kept by three or four at once."

Beck
looked at her sharply. "What d'you mean by that, madame?"

"Heavens,
Beck." Amber opened her eyes wide in pretended innocence. "I'm sure
it isn't my fault if your conscience troubles you."

"My
conscience doesn't trouble me at all! Don't you agree it's better to be kept by
three men at once—than by none at all?" She gave Amber a malicious
tight-lipped smile, and then defiantly downed her drink at one gulp.

"Well,"
said Amber, "I'm glad I learnt my lesson on that score. I intend never to
go into keeping again."

"Hah!"
Knepp gave a sudden short barking laugh, and then she and Beck got up and
prepared to leave.

As
Amber closed the door after them she heard Knepp say, "She intends never
to go into keeping again—until she can find the man who'll make her an indecent
proposal at a high figure!" And the giggling voices of the two women faded
away down the stairwell.

Amber
turned back to Nan, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Oh,
Nan, maybe they're right! I half believe it's harder to find a man who'll keep
than one who'll marry."

"Well,
mam—"

"Now
don't tell me again I should have married Captain Morgan!" she cried
warningly. "I'm sick of hearing it!"

"Lord,
mam, I wasn't going to say anything about that. But I have been thinking of a
plan you might try."

"What?"

"If
you quit the theatre, took lodgings in the City and set yourself up for a rich
widow, I'll warrant you'd find a husband with a good portion within the
month."

"My
God, Nan! Can you imagine me married to some stinking old alderman with nothing
to do but breed his brats and visit his aunts and cousins and sisters and go to
church twice on Sundays for my diversion? No thanks! I'm not that
discouraged—yet!"

For
three months it had rained, and then on the last day of June the sun came out
brilliantly, the puddles in the streets began to dry, and the air was fresh and
sparkling-clean. Children appeared, like a ragged legion sprung up overnight,
in every alley and lane and courtyard in London, running and
shouting
joyously at their gutter games. Vendors and ballad-singers and housewives
swarmed out-of-doors to feel the sun, and in St. James's Park and the Mall
courtiers and ladies strolled again.

Since
his Majesty's Restoration St. James's Park was open to the public and not only
the nobility but other idlers were free to saunter through its broad tree-lined
avenues and stop to watch the King playing pall mall, which he did with the
same enthusiasm and skill he showed at every kind of athletic contest.

Amber
went there that pleasant sunny afternoon with three young men—Jack Conway, Tom
Trivet and Sir Humphrey Perepound—who had come to invite her to supper. It was
scarcely four o'clock when they left her apartments and so they had some time
to waste until the supper hour. At the Park entrance they got out of their
hired coach and started off up Birdcage Walk, so called because the trees were
full of cages containing singing and squawking birds from Peru, the East
Indies, and China.

The
three fops were all younger sons who lived far above their means and much in
debt. Up at noon, they escaped by some back door or window to avoid their
creditors. They strolled then to the nearest ordinary for dinner, went next to
the playhouse where they got in free under the pretext of intending to stay for
but one act, spent part of the evening in a tavern playing cards and the rest
in a bawdy-house, and started for home at midnight, noisy and surly and
drunken. Not one of them was over twenty, they would never inherit an estate,
and the King probably was not even able to recognize them at sight. But Amber
had been alone when they had called and she would rather be seen with anyone
than no one—for obviously if a woman lay shut up in her house she could not
bring herself to the attention of a great man.

She
always hoped and expected that this day might be the day for which she had been
waiting. But her hopes had been sorely buffeted these past six weeks and were
beginning to show signs of wear.

They
kept up an unceasing chatter, gossiping about everyone who passed, bowing
obsequiously to the lords and ladies of higher rank but judging them
vindictively once they had gone by. Amber scarcely listened to them, but her
eyes saw every detail of a lady's gown and coiffure, compared it mentally with
her own, and went on to the next. She smiled at the men she knew and was amused
to see how much it annoyed the women they were attending.

"There's
my Lady Bartley with her daughter fast in tow, as usual. Gad, she's exposed the
girl at every public mart in town and still they haven't found a taker,"
Sir Humphrey informed them.

"Nor
ever will, as far as I'm concerned. Curse my tripes, but they made a mighty
play for me not long since. I vow and
swear the old lady is hotter for a
son-in-law than the daughter is for a husband—there's never a more eager
bed-fellow than your wanton widow. It was her design I should marry her
daughter but devote my manhood to her. She told me as much one day when—Now!
What d'ye think! She went by like she'd never seen me before! Damn my
diaphragm, but these old quality-bawds grow impertinent!"

"Who's
that rare creature just coming? She looks as if she would dissolve like an
anchovy in claret. Damn me, but she has the most languishing look—"

"She's
the great fortune from Yorkshire. They say she hadn't been in town a week when
she was discovered in bed with her page. Your country-wench may never learn the
art of dressing her carcass, but it doesn't take her long to find out how to
please it." Sir Humphrey, as he talked, had taken a bottle of scent from
his inner pocket and was touching the stopper to his eyebrows and wrists and
hair.

"For
my part, gentlemen," said Jack Conway, who was lazily fanning himself with
Amber's fan, a trick the beaus all had to show their gentility, "I
consider every woman odious but the finest of her sex—" He made Amber a
deferential bow. "Madame St. Clare."

"Oh,
gad, and I too! I only spoke of the slut to give Sir Humphrey the opportunity
of railing at her. I vow, there's no one has the art of wiping out a reputation
almost in one breath as it were, like Sir Humphrey."

Jack
Conway had begun to comb his hair with a great carved ivory comb and now Tom
Trivet took a flagolet from his pocket and started to play a tune on it.
Obviously, he had played in company more than he had practiced. Sir Humphrey
took advantage of the noise to whisper in her ear.

"Dear
madame, I'm most confoundedly your slave. What d'you think I've done with the
ribbon you gave me from your smock?"

"I
don't know. What did you do? Swallow it?"

"No,
madame. Though if you'll give me another to take its place I will. I've got it
tied in a most pretty bow—I'd be most glad to show you. The effect is
excellent, let me perish—"

Amber
murmured "Hm—" in an absent-minded tone.

For
advancing through the crowd with people bowing to him on every side sauntered
the gorgeous figure of his Grace, Duke of Buckingham, an equipage of several
pages following close in his wake. Everyone turned and stared as he passed,
whispers ran along behind the raised fans of elegant ladies, ambitious mothers,
eager young girls—all of them hoping for an extra moment's notice from the
great Duke.

Oh,
damn! thought Amber frantically. Why didn't I wear my new gold-and-black gown!
He'll
never
see me in this!

The
Duke was advancing steadily. The green plumes on his hat swayed with every nod
of his head, the sun glittered on the diamond-buttons of his suit, his
handsome, arrogant face and
splendid physique gave every other man a look of
drab insignificance. Amber had seen Buckingham in the pit and in the
tiring-room, she had been presented to him casually once, and she had heard
endless gossip about his amorous and political exploits—but he had never paid
her any particular attention. Now, however, as he came closer she saw his eyes
run over her swiftly and go on and then her heart gave a plunge as they
returned again—and this time lingered. He was no more than four yards from her.
"Madame St. Clare?"

The
Duke had stopped and was making her a flourishing bow while Amber quickly
recovered herself and swept out her skirts in a deep curtsy. She was conscious
that other men and women were watching them, turning their heads as they
passed, and that her three gallants were stammering foolishly and making
desperate efforts at nonchalance. The Duke's mouth was smiling beneath his
blond mustache, and his eyes travelled down her body and back up again, as
though measuring her by his own private yardstick.

"Your
servant, madame."

"Your
servant, sir," mumbled Amber, almost suffocated with excitement. She
stabbed about wildly for something to say, something to arrest his
attention—witty and amusing and different from what any other woman would have
said, but she did not find it.

His
Grace, however, was at no loss for words. "If I mistake not, you're the
lady over whom Lord Carlton fought some officer, a month or so since?"

"Yes,
your Grace. I am."

"I've
always admired Lord Carlton's taste, madame, and I must say that you're so fine
a person I can see no reason to differ from his judgement now."

"Thank
you, your Grace."

"Oh,
gad, your Grace!" interrupted Sir Humphrey, suddenly bold and swaggering.
"Every man in town is adying to be the lady's servant. I vow and swear,
her health is drunk as often as the King's—"

Buckingham
gave him a brief glance, as though he had noticed him for the first time, and
Sir Humphrey wilted instantly. Neither of the two others ventured to speak.

"My
coach is at the north gate, madame. I stopped to take a turn in the Park as I
was going to supper— It would please me mightily if you would be my
guest."

"Oh,
I'd like to, your Grace! But I—" She paused, her eyes indicating that she
was obligated to the three fops who were now bridling and grinning in
anticipation of being invited to sup with the Duke of Buckingham.

The
Duke bowed to them, a bow which was at once polite and condescending, which
showed his own breeding even while it contrived to belittle theirs. "Sure,
now, gentlemen—you've enjoyed the lady's company all afternoon. I know you're
all
too much men of wit and understanding to wish to deprive others of that
privilege. With your permission, gentlemen—"