He gave her a wave of his hand, without turning, but as he disappeared a thoughtful puzzled frown drew at her eyebrows. Almsbury and me—married. The idea had never occurred to her before. She had never wanted to be married to anyone but Bruce Carlton and it still seemed incredible that she could have been married happily to anyone else—even Almsbury. But how strange he should have said that—Almsbury, who thought no better of matrimony than did any other man of sense and wit.
Oh, well—she shrugged her shoulders and went back to complete her toilet. What use was it thinking about that now?
Besides, she had matters of importance to attend to. Durand would be there soon to dress her hair, and Madame Rouvière was coming to consult about her gown for the King’s birthday ball. She must decide whom to invite to her next supper—whether she should ask the French or the Spanish ambassador, and which one was likely to prove more generous in his gratitude. Should she ask Castlemaine, and let her steam all evening with jealous envy, or should she merely ignore her? Charles certainly would not care—nor would he leave the party at Barbara’s behest as he had been known to do, several years ago. It pleased Amber immeasurably to have in her own hands the settling of such issues—virtual life and death for the great or small of the Palace.
And now, since the day was evidently going to be a fine one, she decided to go driving in Hyde Park in her new caleche—a tiny two-seated carriage, precarious to sit in, but nevertheless showing the rider at great advantage from head to foot. She had a new suit of gold velvet and mink-tails and she intended to handle the reins herself—the prospect was exciting, for there was no doubt she would create a great sensation.
When Frances Stewart, now Duchess of Richmond, arrived back in town there was wild excitement at Court. Once more the whole pattern of existence was broken into pieces and must be put together again—politicians, mistresses, even lackeys and footmen began to wonder and to scheme and juggle, hoping to save themselves no matter what happened. At the Groom Porter’s Lodge they were betting that now Frances was a married woman she would have better sense than when she had been a virgin—they expected that she would soon occupy the place which had always been hers for the taking. And so, when she established herself at Somerset House and began to give vast entertainments, everyone went—not for Frances’s sake, but for their own. The King, however, much to their surprise, was never present and seemed unaware even that she had returned.
If Frances was troubled by this show of indifference she concealed it well. But she was by no means the only woman whose position depended upon the King’s favour who had cause for worry.
When Barbara came back from the country at the end of the year she had found the Countess of Danforth occupying her old place and two actresses flaunting his Majesty’s infatuation before all the Town. Moll Davis had left the stage and was occupying a handsome house he had furnished for her, and Nell Gwynne was not secretive about her frequent backstairs visits to the Palace. Barbara let it be known that the King begged her every day to take him back again, but that she scorned him as a man and would have nothing from him but money. In her heart, though, she was sick and afraid; she began to pay her young men great sums.
Charles, hearing of it, smiled a little sadly and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Poor Barbara. She’s growing old.”
But it was not only the women who furnished fodder for gossip. The Duke of Buckingham, too, continued to make himself conspicuous. Early in the new year the Earl of Shrewsbury was finally persuaded by his relatives that he must fight Buckingham and so he did, and was killed. After that the Duke took Lady Shrewsbury home with him to live, and when his patient little wife objected that such an arrangement was intolerable, he called a coach and sent her off to her father.
This amused Charles who said that his Grace could not possibly have devised a scheme to ruin him quicker with the Commons. But Buckingham had temporarily lost interest in the Commons and did not care what they thought of him—he could be faithful to his own plans no longer than to a woman.
Other events, less sensational but of more importance, were happening at the same time. Clarendon, though much against his will, had finally been forced by the King to flee the country, and all his daughter’s enemies took gleeful advantage of his disgrace to slight her. But Anne bore their envious contempt with hauteur and indifference, and managed to hold her own court together by a superior cleverness and determination. She told herself that these fools and their jealous pettifogging could mean nothing to her, for one day a child of hers would sit upon England’s throne—with every passing year the Queen’s barrenness made it more sure that she was right.
When Clarendon had gone his government was replaced by the Cabal, so called because the first letters of their five names spelled the word. It was made up of Sir Thomas Clifford, the one honest gentleman among them and hence suspected of wearing a false front; Arlington, who was his friend but jealous of him; Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. They shared a common hatred of Clarendon and fear of his possible return to power, and an almost equal hatred of York. Otherwise they were divided among themselves. Each distrusted and was afraid of every other—and the King trusted none of them, but was satisfied that at last he had a government which was completely his tool. He was cleverer than any one of them, or all of them together.
And so they set out to govern the nation.
England signed an alliance with Holland, by means of which Charles succeeded in compromising the Dutch so that when he was ready to fight them again they would have no chance of getting France to help them out. He intended, in fact, to have France on his side in the next war and his correspondence with his sister was now directed toward that end. The Dutch pact, together with secret treaties signed recently with both France and Holland, had given England the balance of power in Europe—and though accomplished by the grossest political chicanery it was typical of the King’s methods. For his charm and easy-going nature were a convenient shield, hiding from all but the most astute the fact that he was a cynical, selfish, and ruthlessly practical opportunist.
It was the Earl of Rochester who said that the three businesses of the age were politics, women, and drinking—and the first two, at least, were never quite separate.
Charles intensely disliked having a woman meddle in state affairs, but he found it impossible to keep them out. Accordingly he accepted, as he usually did, what he could not change. For as soon as a woman had attracted his attention or was known to be his mistress she was besieged on all sides—as the Queen never was—by petitions for help, offers of money in return for bespeaking a favour, proposals to ally herself with one or another of the Court factions. Amber had been involved in a dozen different projects before she was at Whitehall a fortnight. And as the months went by she wound herself tighter and closer into the web.
Buckingham, from the night of her presentation at Court, had seemed friendly—at least he always sided with her against Lady Castlemaine. Amber still mistrusted and despised him, but she took care he should not know it, for though he would make only a dubious friend he was sure to be a dangerous enemy. And she thought it less to her disadvantage to have him as the former. But for several months they made no demands upon each other, and neither made any test of the other’s good faith.
Then, one morning in late March, he paid her an unexpected call. “Well, my lord?” said Amber, somewhat surprised. “What brings you abroad so early?” It was not quite nine, and his Grace was seldom to be seen out of bed before midday.