Forever Amber Read online

  He spoke swiftly, giving her no chance to interrupt, and obviously was in a hurry to get out before she started to cry. But he had not taken three steps when she ran to throw herself before him.

  "Bruce! Aren't you even going to kiss me?"

  He hesitated for only an instant and then his arms went about her with a rough eagerness which suggested some reluctance within himself to leave her. Amber clung to him, her fingers clutching his arms as though she could hold him there by sheer force of superior strength, her mouth avidly against his, and already her face was wet with tears.

  "Oh, Bruce! Don't go! Please don't go—please don't leave me—! Please—please don't leave me—"

  But at last his fingers took hold of her wrists and slowly he forced her away. "Amber, darling—" His voice had a sound of pleading urgency. "I'll come back one day—I'll see you again—"

  She gave a sudden cry, like a lonely desperate animal, and then she began to struggle with him, reaching out to grab hold of his arms, terrified. All at once he seized both her wrists, his mouth caught at hers again for an instant, and before she could quite realize what had happened he was gone through the room and out the door and it slammed behind him.

  Stunned, she stood for a moment staring at the closed door. And then she ran to it, her hand going out to grab the knob.

  "Bruce!"

  But she did not quite reach it. Instead she stopped, brought up short by some hopelessness inside herself, and though for a moment her eyes continued to watch the door, at last she slumped slowly to her knees and her head dropped into her hands.

  Chapter Six

  The Duke of York leaned gloomily against the fireplace. His hands were in the pockets of his breeches, his good-looking face was sulky, and he stared down at the floor. Across the room Charles was bent over a table, peering intently into a pewter pan set on an oil-lamp, in which boiled and bubbled a hundred different herbs. Now, carefully, he took up a spoon and measured in three heaping spoonfuls of dried ground angelica, stirring as he did so.

  The brothers were in his Majesty's laboratory, surrounded on all sides by crucibles and alembics, retorts and matrasses. There were glass and earthenware jars full of powders, pastes, many-coloured liquids, oil of prima materia. Egg-shaped vessels of every size and substance lined the shelves. Piles of books bound in old leather, stamped with gold, stood on the floor or on the tables. Chemistry—which had not yet secured its divorce from the medieval witch-women, alchemy—was one of the King's chief interests. Even when he had had to beg a meal he had not been able to resist paying money out of his meagre store for almost every new nostrum recommended him by a passing quack.

  "How the devil," said Charles now, stirring the mixture but not looking around, "did you let her get you into such a mess?"

  York gave a heavy sigh. "I wish I knew. She isn't even pretty. She's as ugly as an old bawd. Eyes that pop and a shape like this—" His hands described an ungainly female form.

  Charles smiled. "Perhaps that's what fooled you. It's my observation a pretty woman seldom thinks it's necessary to be clever. Anne Hyde is clever—don't you agree?" He seemed amused.

  James shifted his weight, scowling. "I don't know what fooled me. I must have been out of my mind. Signing that damned marriage-contract!"

  "And in your own blood. A picturesque touch, James, that one. Well—you've signed it and you've had her and she's pregnant. Now what?"

  "Now nothing. I hope I never see her again."

  "A contract of marriage is as binding as a ceremony, James, you know that. Whether you like it or not, you're married to her. And that child she carries is yours and will bear your name."

  James heaved himself away from the fireplace, walked across the room and glanced at the concoction his brother had stirred up. "Ugh!" said the Duke. "How it stinks!"

  "It does, I agree," admitted Charles. "But the fellow who sold me the recipe says it's the most sovereign thing for an ague ever discovered—and London and the ague, you know, are synonymous. This winter I don't doubt you'll be glad enough to borrow a dose of it from me."

  Restless, discontented, angry, James turned and walked away. After a moment he once more took up the subject of his marriage. "I'm not so sure," he said slowly, "you're right about that, sir. The brat may not be mine after all."

  "Now what've you been hearing?"

  Suddenly James came back to him; his face was serious and growing excited. "Berkeley came to me two days ago and told me that Anne has lain with him. Killigrew and Jermyn have sworn the same thing since."

  For a long moment Charles looked at his brother, searching his face. "And you believed them?"

  "Of course I believed them!" declared James hotly. "They're my nearest friends! Why wouldn't I believe them?"

  "Berkeley and Jermyn and Harry Killigrew. The three greatest liars in England. And why do you suppose they told you that? Because they knew it was what you wanted to hear. It is, isn't it?" Charles's dark eyes narrowed slightly, his face shrewd. He understood his brother perfectly, much better in fact than James understood himself.

  James did not answer him for a long moment but at last he said softly, half-ashamed, "Yes. I suppose it is. But why the devil should I think Anne Hyde is more virtuous than another woman? They all have a price—"

  "And hers was marriage." The King set the pan off the flame and turned down the lamp. Then he took his doublet from where it had hung over a chair-back and slipped into it. "Look here, James—I'm no better pleased than you are with this business— The daughter of a commoner, even if he is my Chancellor, is no suitable wife for the heir to the English throne. But it would raise a damned peculiar smell all over Europe if you got her with child and refused to marry her. If she'd been anyone but the Chancellor's daughter we might have found a way around it. As it is I think there's only one course for you: Marry her immediately and with as good a grace as you can."

  "That isn't what the Chancellor wants. He's locked her in her rooms and says he'd rather have her thrown into the Tower and beheaded than disgrace the Stuarts by marrying one of them."

  "Edward Hyde was a good servant to my father and he's been a good servant to me. I don't doubt he's angry with her, but one thing you may be sure of—it's not only the Stuarts he's worried about. He knows well enough that if his daughter marries you he'll have a thousand new enemies. Jealousy doesn't breed love."

  "If you say it's best, Sire, I'll marry her—but what about Mam?" He gave Charles a sudden desperate look that was almost comical.

  Charles laughed, but put an arm about his brother's shoulders. "Mam will most likely have a fit of the mother that will go near to killing her." "A fit of the mother" was the common term for hysteria. "She's always hated Hyde—and her family pride is almost as great a passion with her as her religion. But I'll protect you, Jamie—" He grinned. "I'll threaten to hold off her pension."

  They walked out together, James still thoughtful and morose, Charles good-humoured as usual. He snapped his fingers at a pair of little spaniels asleep in a square of sunshine and they scrambled to their feet and tore yapping out of the room, scuttling between his legs, turning to prance on their hind legs to look up at him.

  James's marriage to Anne Hyde created a considerable excitement. The Chancellor was furious; Anne wept incessantly; and the Duke still thought he might find a way out. With the help of Sir Charles Berkeley he stole the blood-signed contract and burned it, and Berkeley offered to marry her himself and give the child his name. The courtiers were in a quandary, not knowing whether they should pay their respects to the new Duchess or avoid her altogether, and only Charles seemed perfectly at ease.

  And then the Duke of Gloucester, who had fallen ill of small-pox but had been thought to be out of danger, died suddenly. Charles had loved him well, as he did all his family, and he had seemed a young man of great promise, eager and charming and intelligent. It was unbelievable that now he lay dead, still and solemn and never to move again. There had been nine children in the family
. Two had died on the day of birth, two others had lived only a short while, and now there remained only Charles and James, Mary who was Princess of Orange, and Henrietta Anne, the youngest, still with her mother in France.

  But even the death of Henry could not halt the festivities for long. And though the Court managed to show a decent face of sorrow in the presence of Charles or James, the balls and the suppers, the flirtations and the gambling went on as before, wildly, madly, as though it would never be possible to get enough of pleasure and excitement.

  The great houses along the Strand, from Fleet Street to Charing Cross, were opened all day and far into the night. Their walls resounded with noisy laughter and the tinkle of glasses, music and chatter, the swish of silken skirts and the tap of high-heeled shoes. Great gilt coaches rattled down the streets, stood lined up outside theatres and taverns, went rambling through the woods of St. James's Park and along Pall Mall. Duels were fought in Marrowbone Fields and at Knightsbridge over a lady's dropped fan or a careless word spoken in jest. Across the card-table thousands of pounds changed hands nightly, and lords and ladies sat on the floor, watching with breathless apprehension a pair of rolling dice.

  The execution of the regicides, held at Charing Cross, was attended by thousands and all the quality went to watch. Those men who had been chiefly responsible for the death of Charles I now themselves died, jerking at the end of a rope until they were half-dead, and then they were cut down, disembowelled and beheaded and their dripping heads and hearts held up for the cheering crowds to see. After that their remains were flung into a cart and taken off to Newgate to be pickled and cured before being set up on pikes over the City gates.

  A new way of life had come in full-blown on the crimson wings of the Restoration.

  It was only a week after her brother's death that Princess Mary arrived in London. She was twenty-eight, a widow and mother—though she had left her son in Holland—a pretty, graceful gay young woman with chestnut curls and sparkling hazel eyes. She had always hated Holland, that sombre strait-laced land, and now she intended to live in England with her favourite brother and have all the lovely gowns and extravagant jewels for which she longed.

  She embraced Charles enthusiastically, but she was cooler with James and only waited until the three of them were alone to speak her mind to him:

  "How could you do it, James? Marry that creature! Heavens, where's your pride? Marrying your own sister's Maid of Honour!" Anne and Mary had been close friends at one time, but that was over now.

  James scowled. "I'm sick of hearing about it, Mary. God knows I didn't marry her because I wanted to."

  "Didn't marry her because you wanted to! Why, pray, did you marry her then?"

  Charles interrupted, putting an arm about his sister's waist. "I advised him to it, Mary. Under the circumstances it seemed the only honourable course to take."

  Mary cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Mam won't find it so honourable, I warrant you. Just wait until she gets here!"

  "That," said Charles, "is what we're all waiting for."

  It was not long until the Queen Mother Henrietta Maria arrived—not more than a week, in fact, after Anne Hyde's son was born. Most of the Court went to Dover to meet her and they stayed a day, or two at the great old castle which for centuries had guarded the cliffs of England.

  Henrietta Maria was forty-nine but she looked nearer seventy, a tiny hollow-cheeked haunted-eyed woman with no vestige of beauty left. What little she had possessed had gone early, lost in the bearing of her many children, in the hardships of the Civil Wars, in her grief for her husband whom she had loved devotedly.

  In repose her face was ugly, but when surrounded by people she was vivacious and gay, with all the superficial charm of her youth and the delightful manners in which she had so carefully schooled her children. She was dressed in the mourning-clothes which she had worn faithfully since her husband's death and never intended to leave off until her own. The gown was plain black with full sleeves and high neck, broad white linen collar and cuffs, and over her head was hung a heavy black veil. She still wore her dark hair in old-fashioned corkscrew curls; it was her one concession to the love of personal ornament and pretty things which had been so strong in her.

  By nature she was domineering and since all her children were stubborn and self-willed there had been continual conflict in the family. Several years before she had quarrelled with Gloucester over his refusal to enter the Catholic Church and had warned him never to see her more; when he died they were still unreconciled. But in spite of her deep hurt over that situation she now accosted James, determined to rule him or to break off their relationship. The Duke and his mother had always been most friendly when apart and he had been dreading this encounter with her, for her tongue could be acid and spiteful when she was angry.

  "Well, James," she said at last, when they were alone in her bedchamber to which she had summoned him. Her voice was quiet, and she had her hands clasped lightly before her, but her black eyes sparkled with excitement. "There's talk about you in France—talk of which I was, needless to say, deeply ashamed."

  He stood across the room near the door and stared down at his feet, unhappy and ill-at-ease. He said nothing and would not look at her. For a long moment they remained perfectly silent and then he ventured to steal a glance, but instantly dropped his eyes.

  "James!" Her voice was sharp and maternal. "Have you nothing to reply?"

  With a sudden impulsiveness he crossed the room and dropped to one knee at her feet. "Madame, I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I've played the fool, but thank God now I've come to my senses. Mrs. Hyde and I are not married and I intend to think of her no more—I've had proof enough of her unworthiness."

  The Queen Mother bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. She was relieved and very pleased at the unexpected good sense he was showing—for knowing James she had anticipated a stubborn and bitter struggle. And so a part, at least, of what she had come for was accomplished.

  She had two other purposes.

  One was to secure a pension which would enable her to live out the rest of her life in comfort and security. She had begged too often from the tight-fisted Cardinal Mazarin, had lived too long in privation and want—sometimes without so much as firewood to heat her rooms. It would mean a great deal to her to have money again. Her other purpose was to get a suitable dowry for Henrietta Anne, who had suffered perhaps more than any of them during the years of exile. For with her father dead, her brother hunted out of his country, she had grown up as the poor relation of the grand Bourbons, a mere neglected little waif lost in the glitter of the French Court.

  Now, however, King Louis's brother wanted to marry her.

  Henrietta Anne, whom Charles called Minette, was just sixteen. Her features were not perfect, her figure was too slender and one shoulder was slightly higher than the other—but almost everyone who met her was immediately struck by her beauty. For they attributed to facial prettiness what was really the glow of a warm and tender charm; it was impossible to resist her. And Charles had for her a deep and sincere devotion which he had never felt for any of his numerous mistresses.

  His sister's marriage to Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, would give him a valuable ally in the French Court, because Minette had already shown that she possessed a diplomatic talent which won admiration and respect from the most cynical statesmen. And she loved her brother with a passionate loyalty which would always place his interests first, those of Louis XIV second. Nevertheless Charles hesitated.

  "Are you sure," he asked her, "that you want to marry Philippe?"

  They had left the Banqueting Hall to stroll in the Privy Gardens, along the gravel paths which separated the lawns and hedges into formal squares. Though mid-November it was very warm, and the rose-bushes were still covered with leaves; Minette had not even troubled to throw a cloak over her gold-spangled ball-gown.

  "Oh, yes, Sire! I do!" She answered him with an eager smile.

  He glanced down
at her. "Do you love him?" Charles was so eager for his sister's happiness that it troubled him to think of her marrying, as other princesses must, without love.

  "Love him?" Minette laughed. "Mon Dieu! Since when did love have anything to do with marriage? You marry whom you must and if you can tolerate each other—why, so much the better. If not—" She shrugged. But there was no air of precocious cynicism about what she said—merely good common Parisian sense, and a willingness to accept the world for what it was.

  "Perhaps," he said. "But nevertheless you're my sister, and I want to know. Do you love him?"

  "Why—to tell you the truth, I don't know whether I do or not. I've played with him since we were children, and he's my cousin. I think he's pretty—and I feel a little sorry for him. Yes, I suppose you might say I love him." She put up one hand as a quick little breeze ruffled her hair. "And of course he's mad in love with me. Oh, he swears he can't live till we're married!"

  "Oh, Minette, Minette—how innocent you are. Philippe's not in love with you—he's not in love with anyone but himself. If he thinks he loves you now it's because he sees that others do and imagines that if he marries you he'll get some of that affection himself. When he doesn't he'll grow jealous and resentful. He's a mean petty man, that Philippe—he'll never make you happy."

  "Oh, you judge him too severely!" she protested. "He's so harmless. Why, all his concern is to find a new way of dressing his hair or tying his ribbons. The most serious thought in his life is who takes precedence over whom in a parade or at the banqueting-table."

  "Or finding a new young man."

  "Oh, well, that!" said Minette, dismissing so minor a fault with a graceful little gesture of one hand. "That's common enough—and no doubt he'll change when we're married."

  "And suppose he doesn't?"

  She stopped directly before him, looking up into his face.

  "But, my dear!" Her voice was teasingly reproachful. "You're so serious about it. What if he doesn't? That's no great matter, is it—so long as we have children?"