“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 squire’s wife.”
“She’s a Dutchwoman, darling. How
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 disapproved 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
“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
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 Haymarket, 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.
