Winsor, Kathleen (60 page)

"Ye
gods!" said Amber to Nan one day as she was dressing in the room which
adjoined his chamber. "I think when I marry this old man I'll be a
nursemaid and not a wife!"

"Heavens,
mam, it's you've insisted he can't get out of bed! And it was your idea in the
first place to feed 'im those toadstools—"

"Shhh!"
cautioned Amber. "You've got no business remembering such things."
She got up, gave herself a last glance in the mirror, and went toward the door
into the next room; an expression of sweet tenderness spread over her face
before she opened it.

Barbara's
head lay on James Hamilton's shoulder.

And
both of them lay motionless, half between waking and sleeping, eyes closed,
faces smooth and peaceful. But slowly Barbara began to grow uneasy. Her nose
wrinkled a little and then the nostrils flared; she sniffed once or twice. What
the devil's that smell? she thought irritably. And then all at once she
realized.

Smoke!

The
room was on fire!

She
sat up with a start and saw that an entire velvet drapery was aflame,
apparently having been ignited by a candle into which it had blown. She put her
fists to her mouth and screamed.

"James!
The room's on fire!"

The
handsome colonel sat up and glared resentfully at the flaming drapery.
"Good Lord!"

But
Barbara was pushing him out of bed, sticking her feet into mules, reaching for
her dressing-gown. And now, suddenly wide awake, Hamilton rushed across the
room and with a swift movement jerked the hanging from its rod and started to
stamp the flame out. But already it had spread to a chair and as he flung it
onto the floor a Turkish rug caught fire.

Barbara
ran to him with his clothes in her hand. "Here!" She thrust them at
him: "Get into these! Quick—down that stairway before someone comes! Help!
Help!" she screamed. "Fire! Help!"

James
got out of the room just as Barbara admitted half-a-dozen servants from the
other door. By now the flames were licking up the walls, the opposite drapery was
afire and smoke was beginning to fill the room and make them cough.

"Do
something, some of you!" yelled Barbara furiously, but though the room was
filling with people—footmen, pages, blackamoors, serving-women, courtiers who
had been passing by—no one had yet made a move to put out the fire. They all
stood for several seconds, looking on in stupefied amazement, each waiting for
someone else to decide what should be done.

And
then a couple of footmen arrived carrying buckets full of water and pushed
their way in; they gave a mighty sling and sent the water splashing over one
burning chair and carpet. There was a hissing and the smoke rolled out and
everyone retreated, squinting his eyes and coughing. Several now began to run
for more water.

Dogs
were barking. A scared monkey leaped chattering from one shoulder to another
and in his terror bit the hand of a woman who tried to knock him aside. Men
rushed in and out with buckets of water, most of the women ran around
distractedly, doing nothing. Barbara was trying to give orders to everyone at
once, though no one paid her much attention. And now she seized a page by the
arm as he went hurrying by, huge buckets slopping with water in either hand.

"Boy!
Wait a moment—
I
want a word with you!" The young man stopped and looked at her; his eyes
were bloodshot and his face wet with sweat and smeared with soot. She lowered
her voice. "There's a cabinet in there—a small one over in this
corner—with a guitar atop it. Bring it out and I'll give you twenty pound."

His
eyes flickered in surprise. Twenty pounds when his pay
for the year
was three! She must want it badly. "The whole side's aflame, your
Ladyship!"

"Forty
pound, then! But bring it out!" She gave him a shove.

Two
or three minutes later he came back carrying the cabinet easily in one hand,
for it was very small. One side had been charred and as she set it down it fell
apart and several folded letters dropped to the floor. He stooped quickly to
retrieve them but Barbara cried: "Leave them alone!
I'll
pick them
up! Go back to your work!"

She
knelt on one knee and began to gather them swiftly, when all at once a hand
reached across and took one from beneath her very fingers. Looking up she saw
the Duke of Buckingham standing there smiling down at her. Her purple eyes narrowed
and her teeth closed savagely.

"Give
that to me!"

Buckingham
continued to smile. "Certainly, my dear. When I've had a look at it. If
it's so important to you, perhaps it's also important to me."

For
a moment they continued to stare at each other, Barbara still half crouching,
her tall cousin looming over her, both impervious to the noise and confusion
all about them. And then suddenly she sprang at him, but he stepped lightly
aside and warded her off with one raised arm, meanwhile sliding the letter into
an inside pocket of his doublet.

"Don't
be so hasty, Barbara. I'll return it to you in good time."

She
gave him a sullen glare and muttered some impolite curse beneath her breath,
but evidently realizing that she would have to wait until he was ready she went
back to directing the workmen. The fire was almost out by now and they were
carrying from the bedroom all the furniture which had not been scorched. But
the entire apartment was black with smoke and the bedchamber a wet charred
mess. The windows were flung open to air the rooms, though it was a gusty rainy
night, and Wilson brought Barbara a mink-lined cloak to put over her
dressing-gown.

When
at last they had gone she turned back to Buckingham, who was strumming at a
guitar. Barbara stared at him from across the room. "Now, George
Villiers—give me that letter!"

The
Duke made an airy gesture. "Tush, Barbara. You're always so brisk. Listen
to this tune I picked out the other morning. Rather pretty, don't you
think?" He smiled at her and nodded his head in time to the gay little
melody.

"A
pox on you and your damned tunes! Give me that letter!"

Buckingham
sighed, tossed the guitar into a chair and took the letter from his pocket; as
he began to unfold it she started toward him. He held up a warning hand.
"Stay where you are, or I'll go elsewhere to read it."

Barbara
obeyed him and stood there, her arms folded and the toe of her mule tapping
impatiently. The crisp parchment crackled in the quiet room, and then as his
eyes went rapidly
over the contents a smile of amusement and contempt stole onto his face.

"By
God," he said softly, "Old Rowley writes as lewd a love-letter as
Aretino himself." Old Rowley was his Majesty's nickname, after a pet goat
that roamed the Privy Gardens.

"
Now
will you give me that letter!"

Buckingham
slipped it once more into his own pocket. "Let's talk this over for a
moment. I'd heard his Majesty wrote you some letters just after you'd met. What
do you expect to do with 'em?"

"What
business is that of yours!"

The
Duke shrugged and started for the door. "None, I suppose, strictly
speaking. Well—a very fine lady has made me an assignation and I should hate to
disappoint her. Good-night, madame."

"Buckingham!
Wait a minute! You know what I intend doing with them as well as I do."

"Publishing
them some day perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"I've
heard you've threatened him with that once or twice already."

"Well,
what if I have? He knows what a fool he'd look if the people were ever to read
them. I can make him jump through my hoop like a tame monkey by the mere
mention of 'em." She laughed, a gleam of reflective gloating cruelty in
her eyes.

"A
time or two, perhaps, but not for long. Not if he really decides to put you
by."

"Why,
what do you mean? Age won't stale these! Ten years will only give 'em a higher
savour!"

"Barbara,
my dear, for an intriguing woman you're sometimes uncommonly simple. Has it
never occurred to you that if you really tried to publish those letters you
wouldn't be able to find 'em?"

Barbara
gasped. It had not, though she kept them under lock and key and until tonight
no one but herself had known where they were. "He wouldn't do that! He
wouldn't steal them! Anyway, I keep them well hidden!"

Buckingham
laughed. "Oh, do you? I'm afraid you take Old Rowley for a greater fool
than he is. The Palace swarms with men—and women too—who make it their business
to find anything that will bring a good price. If he really decided that he
wanted those they'd disappear from under your nose while you had your eye on
'em."

Barbara
was suddenly distraught. "Oh, he wouldn't do that! He wouldn't play me
such a scurvy trick! You don't
really
think he would, do you,
George?"

He
smiled, very much amused at her distress. "I know he would. And why not?
Publishing them wouldn't be exactly a gesture of good faith on your part, would
it?"

"Oh,
good faith be damned! Those letters are important to me! If he ever gets tired
of me they'll be all I have to protect
myself—and my children. You've got to
help me, George! You're clever about these things. Tell me what I can do with
them!"

Buckingham
heaved himself away from the wall against which he had been leaning.
"There's only one thing to do with them." But as she started eagerly
toward him he made a gesture of one hand, and shook his head. "Oh, no, my
dear. You'll have to puzzle this out for yourself. After all, madame, you've
not been my best friend of late—unless I've heard amiss."

"I've
not
been
your
best friend! Hah! And what good turns have you done me, pray?
Oh, don't think I don't know about you and your Committee for Getting Frances
Stewart for the King!"

He
shrugged. "Well, a man must serve his King—and pimping's often the
high-road to power and riches. However, it all came to nothing. She's a cunning
slut, if I've ever seen one."

"Well,"
said Barbara, beginning to pout. "If it had it might have undone me for
good and all. I thought you and I were pledged to a common cause,
Buckingham." She referred to their mutual hatred of Chancellor Clarendon.

"We
are, my dear. We are. It's my fondest wish to see that old man turned away in
disgrace—or better yet to see his head on a pole over London Bridge. It's time
the young men have a swing at governing the country." He smiled at her, a
friendly ingratiating smile, all malice and scorn gone from his face. "I
can't think why we're so often at odds, Barbara. Perhaps it's because we both
have Villiers blood in our veins. But, come— let's be friends again—And if
you'll do your part I'll try what luck I can have to bring you back into his
Majesty's favour again."

"Oh,
Buckingham, if only you would! I swear since her Majesty's recovery he's done
nothing but trail after that simpering sugar-sop, Frances Stewart! I've been
half-distracted with worry!"

"Have
you? I'd understood there were several gentlemen who'd undertaken to console
you—Colonel Hamilton and Berkeley and Henry Jermyn and—"

"Never
mind! I thought we were going to be friends again— but that doesn't give you
leave to slander my reputation to my face!"

He
made her a bow. "My humblest apologies, madame. I assure you it was but an
idle jest."

They
had similarly quarrelled and made friends a dozen times or more, but both of
them were too fickle, too mercurial, too determinedly selfish to make good
partners in any venture. Now, however, because she wanted his help she gave him
a flirtatious smile and was instantly forgiving.

"Gossip
will travel here at Whitehall, be a woman never so innocent," she informed
him.

"I'm
sure that's your case to a cow's thumb."

"Buckingham—what
about the letters? You know I'm but a
simple creature, and you're so clever.
Tell me what I shall do."

"Why,
when you ask so prettily of course I'll tell you. And yet it's so simple I'm
half ashamed to say it: Burn 'em up."

"Burn
them! Oh, come now, d'you take me for a fool?"

"Not
at all. What could be more logical? As long as they exist he can take them from
you. But once they're burned he can turn the Palace upside down and never find
'em—and all the while you're laughing in your fist."

For
a moment she continued to regard him skeptically, and then at last she smiled.
"What a crafty knave you are, George Villiers." She took a candle
from the table and going to the cold fireplace tossed into it those letters
which she held in her hand. Then she turned to him. "Give me the other
one."

He
handed it to her and she tossed it too on the heap. The candle-flame touched
one corner and in a moment the slow fire began to creep up the paper, making it
curl as it turned black. And then suddenly they broke into a bright blaze which
burned for a moment or two, the sealing-wax crackling and hissing, and began to
die out. Barbara looked up over her shoulder at Buckingham and found him
staring into the low fire, a thoughtful enigmatic smile on his handsome face.
She had a quick moment of misgiving, wondering what he could be thinking; but
it soon passed and she got to her feet again, relieved to have the troublesome
letters safe at last.