Winsor, Kathleen (95 page)

"It
doesn't matter. I've acted 'em all." She knew that he did not like any
reference to her acting and mentioned it frequently to annoy him. So far he had
refused the bait.

But
now he looked at her with obvious displeasure. Madame, I had hoped your own
sense of shame would prevent you from making any further reference to so
unfortunate an episode in your life. Pray, let me hear no more about it."

"Why
not?
I'm
not ashamed of it!"

"I
am."

"It
didn't keep you from marrying me!"

From
across the dozen or so feet that separated them they eyed each other. Amber had
long felt sure that if once she could break through his coldness and composure
she would have him at her mercy. If I ever hit him, she had told herself a
dozen times, I'd never be afraid of him again. But she could not quite bring
herself to do it. She knew well enough that he had a strong streak of cruelty,
a malevolent savagery—highly refined, as were all his vices. But she had not
found any restraining rein of conscience or compassion. Therefore she hesitated
out of fear, and hated herself for the cowardice.

"No,"
he agreed at last. "It didn't keep me from marrying
you—for you had
other attractions which I found it impossible to resist."

"Yes!"
snapped Amber. "Sixty-six thousand of 'em!"

Radclyffe
smiled. "How perceptive," he said, "for a woman!"

For
several seconds she glared at him, longing violently to smash her fist into his
face. She had the feeling that it would crumble, like a mummy's, beneath any
hard and sudden blow, and she could picture his expression of horror as his
face disintegrated. Suddenly she turned toward the book-shelves.

"Well,
where are they! The plays!"

"On
this shelf, madame. Take whatever you want."

She
picked out three or four at random, hastily, for she was anxious to get away
from him. "Thank you, sir," she said without looking at him, and
started out Just as she reached the door she heard his voice again.

"I
have some very rare Italian books in which I believe you would be
interested."

"I
don't read Italian." She did not glance around.

"These
may be appreciated without a knowledge of the language. They make use of the
universal language of pictures."

She
at once understood what he meant and paused, caught by her own strong interest
in whatever was sensational or prurient. With a smile which clearly betrayed
his cynical amusement at her curiosity he turned and took down from a shelf a
hand-tooled leather-bound volume, laid it on the table, and stood waiting. She
turned, and for a moment hesitated, watching him suspiciously as though this
were some trap he had set for her. Then with a defiant lift of her chin she
walked forward and opened the book, turned half-a-dozen pages on which was some
unrecognizable printing and stopped with a gasp of surprise at the first
picture. It was beautifully done, painted by hand, and showed a young man and
woman, both of them naked, straining in an ecstasy.

For
a moment Amber looked at it, fascinated. Suddenly she glanced up and found him
watching her, carefully, with the same expression she had seen that day in
Almsbury's library. It disappeared again, as swiftly as the time before; and
she picked up the book and started across the room.

"I
thought you'd be interested," she heard him saying, "but pray handle
it carefully. It's very old and very rare—a treasure of its kind."

She
did not answer or look around but went on out of the room. She felt bewildered
and angry, both pleasantly excited and disgusted. It seemed, somehow, that he
had taken an advantage of her.

The
Queen's Presence chamber was packed with courtiers.

The
ladies were dressed in the full splendour of laces, spangled satins and
velvets—garnet, carmine, primrose-yellow, dusky plum and flame—with shoulders
and bosoms and forearms blazing with jewels. Hundreds of candles burnt in
wall-sconces and torcheres, and Yeomen of the Guard held smoking flambeaux.
Their Majesties, seated on a dais canopied with crimson velvet swagged with
gold and silver fringe, gave their hands to be kissed. At one end of the room
waited the musicians, in vari-coloured taffeta suits and with garlands about
their heads, quietly tuning their instruments. There were no outsiders, no
spectators thronging the gallery to watch, for the plague was persistent, the
number of deaths fluctuating week by week. The women had only recently arrived
from Hampton Court.

"Her
Ladyship, the Countess of Castlemaine!" cried the usher.

"Baron
Arlington! Lady Arlington!"

"Lord
Denham! Lady Denham!"

"The
Earl of Shrewsbury! The Countess of Shrewsbury!"

As
each name was announced eyes swept toward the door, murmurs ran round the room
behind raised fans, glances were exchanged; there were feminine giggles and
sometimes the sound of a man's low chuckle.

"Damn
me," remarked one young beau to another, "but I wonder my Lord
Shrewsbury dares show his face in public. Her Ladyship has laid with half the
men at Court and yet he's never once so much as offered to defend his
honour."

"And
why should he, pray?" retorted the other. "Any man who thinks his
honour depends upon that of his wife is a fool!"

"Look!"
whispered a twenty-year-old fop, stroking at his elaborate curled wig,
arranging the profusion of ruffles at his wrist. "York's ogling my Lady
Denham again. I'll bet a hundred pound he lies with her before St. George's
Day."

"I'll
bet he doesn't. Her Ladyship's honest."

"Honest?
Pshaw, Jack. There's not a woman in the world who's honest at all times and
upon all occasions."

"She
may not be honest," interrupted a Maid of Honour, "but she's watched
mighty close."

"No
woman's watched so close she can't give her husband a buttered-bun if once she
sets her mind to it."

"Now
where d'ye think Lady Arlington got that scurvy gown? She's always as far
behind the fashion as a Lancashire's squire's wife."

"She's
a Dutchwoman, darling. How
should
she know how to dress?"

All
of a sudden something unexpected happened—the usher
announced two
unfamiliar names: a new element had entered that close-knit little clique.

"The
Earl of Radclyffe! The Countess of Radclyffe!"

The
Earl of Radclyffe. Who the devil was he? Some moss-backed old dodderer left
over from the last generation? And his countess—a platter-faced jade of at
least five-and-forty, no doubt, who disapprove of the new manners as violently
as any Puritan alderman's wife. They looked toward the doorway with a kind of
bored curiosity. Then, as Lord and Lady Radclyffe appeared, surprise and shock
flowed over the room, snapping them out of their lazy indifference. What was
this! An
actress
being presented at Court!

"Jesus
Christ!" remarked one gentleman to another. "Isn't that Amber St.
Clare?"

"Why!"
hissed an indignant lady. "That's that comedian— Madame What-d'ye-call who
was at the Theatre Royal a couple of years ago!"

"Intolerable!"

Amber
kept her head high and looked neither right nor left, but straight ahead toward
the Queen. She had never felt so nervously excited, so eager, or so scared. I
really am a countess, she had been telling herself all day. I've got as much
right at Whitehall as anyone. I
won't
let 'em scare me—I won't! They're
only men and women—they're no different from me or anyone else. But the truth
was she did believe them different— here, at least, in Whitehall.

Her
heart pounded so hard she was breathless, her knees trembled and her ears rang.
The back of her neck ached. She kept looking straight toward the dais, but all
she could see was a blur, as though she had her eyes open under water. Slowly
she walked forward, her shaking fingers on Radclyffe's arm— down the long long
corridor of faces toward the throne. She sensed the whispers, the smiles and
smirks, the indignation, but actually she saw and heard nothing.

Radclyffe
was splendidly dressed. His wig was white, his coat gold-and-purple brocade and
his breeches pale-green satin; precious stones glittered on his sword-hilt. His
sharp austere face forbade them to criticize his wife, defied them to remember
that she had been an actress, demanded that they admire and accept her. And
Amber's costume was as gorgeous as any in the room. Her long-trained gown was
cloth-of-gold covered with stiff gold lace; a veil fell over her head and she
wore her impressive collection of emeralds.

Now
they had reached the throne. She spread a deep curtsy; he knelt. As Amber's
lips touched the Queen's hand she raised her eyes, to find Catherine smiling, a
gentle wistful smile that caught suddenly at her heart. She's kind, thought
Amber, and she's unhappy, poor lady. But she's harmless. I like her, she
decided.

But
she dared not look at Charles. For here in his Palace, surrounded by all the
pomp and circumstance of royalty, he
was not the man she had visited
secretly at night three years before. He was Charles II, by the Grace of God
King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland. He was all the might and glory of
England—and she knelt before him reverently.

Slowly
she rose, moving backward, and went to stand among the throng that lined the
approach to the dais. For several moments she remained half-dazed—but gradually
the world began to expand again beyond herself and her feelings. She glanced to
the right and found Buckhurst there, grinning down at her. Sedley looked over
his shoulder with a wink. Immediately across from her was the magnificent
Buckingham, and though she had not seen him since that night at Long's in the
Hay-market, he smiled at her now and she was grateful. There were others: the
two Killigrews, father and son; Dick Talbot and James Hamilton and several more
young men who had frequented the tiring-room. And then all at once her eyes
came to a stop. She was looking straight at Barbara Palmer. Castlemaine was
watching her, her face speculative and predatory. For several seconds their
stares held, and it was Amber who looked away first, with flaunting unconcern.
She was beginning to realize that these people were not, after all, gods and
goddesses—even here on Olympus.

Finally
the presentations were over, the King gave a signal, and music swelled suddenly
through the room. The ball opened with a coranto, danced by Charles and
Catherine, the Duke and Duchess of York, and the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth.
Only one couple performed at a time. The dance was a slow stately parade, full
of attitudes, requiring a high degree of skill and gracefulness.

Amber
watched the King with enchanted eyes.

How
handsome he is, she thought, and how he walks and stands! Oh, I wonder if I
dare ask him to dance? She knew that court etiquette required that ladies ask
his Majesty to dance with them. I wonder if he still remembers me—no, of course
he doesn't. How could he? That was three years and a half ago—God knows how
many women there've been since then. But, oh, I want to dance—I don't want to
stand here all evening by myself!

In
her excitement she had altogether forgotten Radclyffe just beside her, silent
and unmoving.

When
the coranto ended Charles called for an allemande— in which several couples
might participate—and as the floor began to fill Amber waited breathlessly,
praying that she would be asked. She felt like a little girl at her first
party, lost and forlorn, and she was beginning to wish herself safe at home
again when—to her immense joy and relief—Lord Buckhurst made her a bow.

"M-m-may
I have the pleasure of her Ladyship's company f-for this dance, my lord?"
When sober, Buckhurst had a slight tendency to stutter, which caused him much
annoyance.

Amber,
with a start of surprise, remembered her husband
then and turned to him with a
look of apprehension. Suppose he should refuse! But he bowed as graciously as
she could have hoped.

"Certainly,
my lord."

Amber
gave Buckhurst a dazzling happy smile and laid her hand on his arm. They walked
out to join the other dancers, who stood in a double line halfway down the
room. Charles and Castlemaine were the first couple and everyone followed their
lead—a few steps forward and a few steps back, and then a pause. The figure of
the dance offered them all opportunity for flirtation or talk.

Buckhurst
smiled down at Amber. "H-how the devil did you get here?"

"Why,
how d'ye think, sir? I'm a countess!"

"You
told me, m-madame, that you weren't g-going to marry again."

She
gave him a mischievous sparkling glance. "But I changed my mind. I hope
your Lordship won't be inclined to hold a grudge."

"Good
Lord, no! Y-you can't believe what a pleasure it is to s-s-see a new face here
at Court. We're all s-so damned bored with one another."

"Bored!"
cried Amber, shocked. "How
can
you be bored?"