Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

The house had beauty and peace and the suggestion of an active useful life. It was more than a hundred years old and five generations had lived in it, leaving behind them a comfortable aura of prosperity—not of wealth but of solid ease and plenty, of good food and warmth and comfort. It was a house to love.

As Amber went in she stooped and took the kitten up into her arms, caressing its smooth soft fur with her fingers, hearing it purr with a low, contented little rumble. Supper was over and only Sarah and fifteen-year-old Agnes remained in the kitchen—Sarah just drawing hot loaves of bread from the oven sunk into the wall beside the fireplace, Agnes mending a rushlight.

Agnes was talking, her voice petulant and resentful: “—and it’s no wonder they talk about her! I vow and swear, Mother, I’m ashamed she’s my cousin—”

Amber heard her but did not care just then. Agnes had said the same thing often enough before. She came into the room with a joyful little cry and ran to fling one arm about her aunt. “Aunt Sarah!” Sarah’s head turned and she smiled, but there was a look of searching worry in her eyes. “The inn’s full of noblemen! His Majesty’s coming home!”

The troubled expression was gone. “Are you sure, child!”

“Aye,” said Amber proudly. “They told me so!” She was full of the importance of her news and the wonderful thing that had just happened to her. She thought anyone must be able to tell by looking at her how greatly she had changed since leaving home two hours before.

Agnes looked frankly suspicious—and contemptuous—but Sarah turned and rushed out of the house toward the barns, where most of the men had gone to finish their evening tasks. Amber ran after her. And the moment the news was told, by both women at once, a general shout of rejoicing went up. Men came running out of the barns and cow-sheds, women rushed from their little cottages (there were several on the farm), and even the dogs barked with a loud gay sound as if they, too, would join in the hilarity.

Long live his Majesty, King Charles II!

At market the week before Matthew had heard rumours of a Restoration. They had been floating through the country since early March, carried by travellers, by itinerant pedlars, by all those who had commerce with the great world to the south. Tumbledown Dick, the Protector’s son, had been thrown out of his office. General Monk had marched from Scotland, occupied London, and summoned a free Parliament. Civil war seemed on the verge of breaking out again between civilians and the great mobilized armies. These events had left in their wake a trail of weariness and hope—weariness with the interminable troubles of the past twenty years, hope that a restored monarchy might bring them peace again, and security. They yearned for the old familiar ways. And now, if the Cavaliers were returning, it must mean that King Charles was coming home—a Golden Age of prosperity, happiness, and peace was about to begin.

When at last the excitement had begun to die down and everyone went back to his work, Amber started for the house. They would get up early tomorrow morning to leave for the Fair and she wanted to sleep long enough to look and feel her best. But as she was going by the dairy on her way into the kitchen she heard her name spoken softly, insistently, and she stopped. There was Tom Andrews standing in the shadows, reaching out a hand to catch her wrist as she went by.

Tom was a young man of twenty-two who worked for her Uncle, and he was very much in love with Amber who liked him for that reason—though she knew that he was by no means a match for her. For she was aware that her mother had left her a dowry which would enable her to marry the richest farmer in the countryside. But she found a certain luxury in Tom’s adoration and had encouraged him in it.

Now, with a quick glance around to make certain that neither Aunt Sarah nor Uncle Matt would see her, she went inside. The little room was cool, sweet and fresh, and perfectly dark. Tom caught hold of her roughly, one arm about her waist, his hand immediately sliding down into her blouse as he sought for her lips. Obviously this was not new to either of them, and for a moment Amber submitted, letting him kiss and fondle her, and then all at once she broke away, pushing violently at him.

“Marry come up, Tom Andrews! Who gives you leave to be so bold with me!”

She was thinking that it was incredible the kiss of an ordinary man should be so different from that of a lord, but Tom was hurt and bewildered and his hands reached out for her again.

“What’s the matter, Amber? What’ve I done? What’s got into you?”

Angrily she wrenched her hand free and ran out. For she now felt herself above such trifling with men of Tom Andrews’ station and was only eager to get upstairs and into bed where she could lie and think of Lord Carlton and dream of tomorrow.

The kitchen was deserted except for Sarah, sweeping the flagstoned floor one last time before going to bed. There were three or four rushlights burning, a circle of tiny moths darting about each tenuous reaching flame, and only the bell-like song of the crickets invaded the evening stillness. Matt came in, scowling, and without a word went to the barrel of ale which stood in a far cool corner of the room, poured himself a pewter mugful and drank it off. He was a middle-sized serious man who worked hard and made a good living and loved his family. And he was conscientious and God-fearing, with strong beliefs as to what was right and what was wrong, what was good and what was bad.

Sarah gave him a glance. “What is it, Matt? Is the foal worse?”

“No, she’ll live, I think. It’s that girl.”

His face was sour and now he went to stand before the great fireplace which was surrounded on all sides with blackened pots and pans, gleaming copper, pewter polished till it looked like silver. Bacon and hams, in great nets, hung from the overhead beams, and there were several thick tied-up bunches of dry herbs.

“Who?” asked Sarah. “Amber?”

“Who else? Not an hour since I saw her come out of the dairy and a minute later Tom Andrews followed her, looking like a whipped pup. She’s got the boy half out of his noddle—he’s all but useless to me. And what was she doing, pray, down at the inn with a pack of gentlemen?” His voice rose angrily.

Sarah went to stand the broom just outside the door and then closed it, throwing the bolt. “Hush, Matt! Some of the men are still in the parlour. I don’t think she was doing anything she shouldn’t have. She was just passing by and saw them—it’s natural she should stop.”

“And come home alone in the dark? Did it take her an hour to hear that the King’s to return? I tell you, Sarah, she’s got to get married! I won’t have her disgracing my family! D’ye hear me?”

“Yes, Matt, I hear you.” Sarah went to the cradle beside the fireplace where the baby had begun to stir and whimper, took him out and put him to her breast, then she went to sit down on the settle. She gave a weary little sigh. “Only she don’t want to get married.”

“Oh!” said Matt sarcastically. “So she don’t want to get married! I suppose Jack Clarke or Bob Starling’s not good enough for ’er—two of the finest young fellows in Essex.”

Sarah smiled gently, her voice soft and tired. “After all, Matt, she is a lady.”

“Lady! She’s a strumpet! For four years now she’s caused me nothing but trouble, and by the Lord Harry I’m fed up to the teeth! Her mother may have been a lady but she’s a—”

“Matt! Don’t speak so of Judith’s child. Oh, I know, Matt. It troubles me too. I try to warn her—but I don’t know what heed she pays me. Agnes told me tonight—Oh, well, I don’t think it means anything. She’s pretty and the girls are jealous and I suppose they make up tales.”