Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

The day was warm for the sun had come out suddenly after a morning of early summer rain, and she had lowered the glass window. Rattling along King Street she came to Charing Cross where the Strand met Pall Mall, and as the coach drew to a stop she stuck out her head to look for him. The open space was filled with children and animals, beggars and vendors and citizens; it was busy, noisy, and—as London would always be to her—exciting.

She saw him immediately, standing several feet away with his back turned, buying a little basket of the first red cherries from an old fruit-woman, while a dirty little urchin pulled at his coat, begging a penny. Bruce had not taken to disguises with the same gusto she had but always wore his own well-cut unostentatious suits. This one had green breeches, gartered at the knee, and a handsome knee-length black coat with very broad gold-embroidered cuffs set on sleeves that came just below the elbow. His hat was three-cornered and both suit and hat were in the newest fashion.

Her face lost its petulant frown at the sight of him, and she leant forward, waving her arm and crying: “Hey, there!”

Half-a-dozen men looked around, grinning, to ask if she called them. She made them an impudent teasing grimace. Bruce turned, paid the old cherry-woman, tossed a coin to the little beggar, and after giving the driver his directions got into the coach. He handed her the basket of cherries and, as the hackney gave a lurch and started off, sat down suddenly. With quick admiration his eyes went over her, from her head down to her fragile ankles, demurely crossed.

“You make as pretty a country-wench as the first day I saw you.”

“Do I so?” Amber basked under his smile, beginning to eat the cherries and giving a fistful to him. “It’s been ten years, Bruce—since that day in Marygreen. I can’t believe it, can you?”

“I should think it would seem like many more than ten years to you.”

“Why?” Suddenly her eyes widened and she turned to him. “Do I look so much more than ten years older?”

“Of course you don’t, darling. What are you, twenty-six?”

“Yes. Do I look it?” There was something almost pathetic in her eagerness.

He laughed. “Six-and-twenty! My God, what an age! Do you know how old I am? Thirty-nine. How do you imagine I get around without a cane?”

Amber made a face, sorting over the cherries. “But it’s different with men.”

“Only because women think so.”

But she preferred to discuss something more agreeable. “I hope we’re going to have something to eat. I didn’t have dinner today—Madame Rouvière was fitting my gown for his Majesty’s birthday.” It was the custom for the Court to dress up on that occasion. “Oh, wait till you see it!” She rolled her eyes, intimating that he would be thunder-struck at the spectacle.

He smiled. “Don’t tell me—I know. It’s transparent from the waist down.”

“Oh, you villain! It is not! It’s very discreet—as discreet as anything of Corinna’s, I’ll warrant you!”

But, as always, she knew that it had been a mistake to mention his wife. His face closed, the smile faded, and both of them fell silent.

Riding there beside him, jogging about uncomfortably on the hard springless seat, Amber wondered what he was thinking, and all her grievances against him rushed back. But she stole a glance at him from the corners of her eyes, saw his handsome profile, the nervous flickering of jaw muscles beneath the smooth brown skin, and she longed to reach out and touch him, to tell him how deeply, how hopelessly, how eternally she loved him. At that moment the coach turned into the courtyard of the lodging-house and as it stopped he got swiftly out and reached a hand in to help her.

Chickens, clucking and cackling, had rushed for cover as the horses came in and a cat streaked out of the way of the wheels. The sun lay warm on the brick-paved yard though the smell of recent rain was there, and pots of flowers against the wall had put out green leaves and dainty buds, tipped with colour. Overhead, hanging from lines or flung across balcony railings, was the stiff-dried wash, bed-sheets and shirts and towels and the billowing smocks of the women. A little boy sat in the sun, stroking his dog and singing an idle endless song to himself; he looked up curiously but did not move as the coach stopped short of him by only a few feet.

Amber put her hand into Bruce’s and jumped down, flipping off her hat to feel the sun on her hair and skin, smiling at the youngster and asking him if he wanted some cherries. He was on his feet in an instant and after taking out a handful she gave him the basket. As Bruce had now paid the driver they strolled into the side entrance which led up to their apartments, Amber eating the fruit and spitting out pits as she went.

He had ordered a meal sent up and when they arrived the waiters were just leaving. A heavy white-damask cloth was laid on a small table before the fireplace, with flat silver and napkins, a seven-branched lighted candelabrum and handsome Italian dishes of wrought silver. There were strawberries in thick cream, a crisp broiled carp caught that morning in the river, a plateful of hot buns with a spattering of caraway seeds on them, and a jelly-torte—a delicious achievement with moist cooked apples in the center and apple-jelly poured over the whole. And there was a pot of steaming black coffee.

“Oh!” cried Amber in delight, forgetting that they had been on the narrow edge of hostility. “Everything I love!” She turned joyously and kissed him. “You always remember what I like best, darling!”

And it was true that he did. Time after time he had brought her unexpected gifts, some of the greatest value, others of none at all. If a thing was beautiful or if it was amusing, if it reminded him of her or if he thought that it would make her laugh, he bought it—a length of some marvellous green-and-gold glinting material, a fabulous jewel, or a mischievous monkey.

She flung her hat aside and loosened the laces of her corselet so that she would be more comfortable, and they sat down to eat. All her resentment had gone. They talked and laughed, enjoying the good food, absorbed in each other, both of them happy and content.

They had come at only a few minutes past two and it had seemed then that there was a long afternoon before them. But the sun had moved from where it had been falling across their dining-table, around to the bedroom, onto the recessed seat below the square-paned windows, and finally out of the room altogether. Inside it was already cool shadowy dusk, though not dark enough yet to light the candles. Amber got up from where she had been lying on the bed with a pile of nutshells between her and Bruce, and went to look out the window.

She was only partly dressed, bare-footed and wearing her smock. Bruce, in his plain-cut breeches and wide-sleeved white shirt lay stretched out and resting on one elbow, cracking a nutshell in his right hand, watching her.

She leaned out a little, looking toward the busy barge-laden river where the sun was going down, turning the water to red brass. Below in the shadows of the courtyard two men stood talking, turning their heads as a girl walked by with a slopping pail of water in each hand, her hair bright as flames where a last shaft from the sun struck it. There was a languor and quietness in the air as the long day drew to a close—and the movements of all creatures were slower and a little weary. Amber’s throat swelled and began to ache; her eyes were wet with tears as she turned to look across the room at him.

“Oh, Bruce, it’s going to be a glorious night. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to take a barge and sail up the Thames to some little inn and ride back in the morning—”

“It would,” he agreed.

“Then let’s!”

“You know we can’t.”

“Why not!” Her voice and eyes challenged him. But he merely looked at her, as though the question were superfluous. Both of them were silent for a few moments. “You don’t dare!” she said flatly at last.

Now it came welling back into her again, all the anger and resentment, the hurt pride and baffled affection of these past months. She came to sit beside him again on the rumpled bed, determined to have it out with him now.

“Oh, Bruce, why can’t we go? You can think of something to tell her. She’ll believe anything you say. Please! You’ll be gone so soon!”

“I can’t do it, Amber, and you damn well know it. Anyway, I think it’s time to leave.” He sat up.

“Of course!” she cried furiously. “The minute I mention something you don’t like to hear then it’s time to leave!” Her mouth twisted a little and there was bitter mockery in her tones. “Well, this is one time you’re going to hear me out! How happy d’ye think I’ve been these five months past—sneaking about to see you, scarcely daring to give you a civil word in company—all for fear she might notice and be hurt! Oh, my! Poor Corinna! But what about me!” Her voice was harsh and angry and at the last she hit herself a smack on the chest. “Don’t I count for something too!”

Bruce gave her a bored frown and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Amber, but this was your idea, remember.”

She sprang up to face him. “You and your blasted secrecy! Why, there’s not another man in London coddles his wife the way you do her! It’s ridiculous!”

He reached for his vest, slipped it on and began to button it. “You’d better get into your clothes.” His voice spoke shortly and the line of his jaw was hard; the expression on his face roused her to greater fury.

“Listen to me, Bruce Carlton! You may think I should be pleased you’ll so much as do me the favour of lying with me! Well, maybe I was once—but I’m not just a simple country wench any longer, d’ye hear? I’m the Duchess of Ravenspur—I’m somebody now, and I won’t be driven around in hackneys or met at lodging-houses any longer! And I mean it! D’ye understand me?”

He took up his cravat and turned to the mirror to knot it. “Pretty well, I think. Are you coming with me?”

“No, I’m not! Why should I!” She stood with her feet spread and hands planted on her hips, watching him with her eyes defiantly ablaze.

The cravat tied, he put on his periwig, picked up his hat and walked through the bedroom toward the outside door, while Amber stared after him with growing fear and misgiving. Now what was he going to do? Suddenly she ran after him and just as she got to him he reached the door, took hold of the knob and turned to look down at her. For a moment they looked at each other in silence.

“Goodbye, my dear.”

Her eyes shifted warily over his face. “When will I see you again?” She asked the question softly and her voice was apprehensive.

“At Whitehall, I suppose.”

“Here, I mean.”

“Not at all. You don’t like meeting in secret—and I won’t do it any other way. That would seem to settle the matter.”

She stood and stared at him in horrified unbelief, and then all at once her fury burst. “Damn you!” she yelled. “I can be independent too! Get out of here, then—and I hope I never see you again! Get out! Get out!” Her voice rose hysterically and she lifted her fists to strike at him.

Swiftly he opened the door and went out, slamming it behind him. Amber flung herself against the panels and burst into wild helpless angry tears. She could hear his feet going down the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away, and then—when she quit sobbing for a moment and listened—she could hear nothing at all. Only the faint sound of a fiddle playing somewhere in the building. Whirling around she ran to the window and leaned out. It was almost dark but someone was just coming into the courtyard carrying a lighted link and she saw him down there, rapidly crossing the square.

“Bruce!”

She was frantic now, and thoroughly scared.

But she was three stories above the ground and perhaps he did not hear her; in another moment he had disappeared into the street.

SHE DID NOT see him at all for six days. At first she thought that she could make him come to her, but he did not. She wrote to let him know that she was ready to accept an apology. He replied that he had no wish to apologize but was satisfied to leave it as it was. That alarmed her, but still she refused to believe that all those tempestuous years, the undeniably powerful feeling they had for each other, could end now—tamely, uselessly, disappointingly—over a petty quarrel that could so easily have been avoided.