Читаем Forever Amber полностью

“Rex!” she cried imploringly. But the moment he let her go and she began to recover her senses her own rage mounted to heedless violence. “I was with the King!” she yelled at him. “That’s where I was!” She began massaging her neck, and ended with a mutter, “Now what’ve you got to say!”

For a long moment he stared at her, incredulous at first, and then slowly, gradually, she saw the crumpling of his hopes and confidence. “You weren’t,” he said at last. “I don’t believe it.”

Her hands went up to arrange her hair where it had come loose, and she gave him a cruel superior little smile. “Oh, don’t you?”

But he did and she knew it.

Then without another word he turned, took his cloak and sword and hat from the chair where he had left them, and started across the room. He gave her a last look of contempt and disgust before he went out, but she met it with merely a cool lift of the eyebrows. And as the door slammed behind him she gave a snap of her fingers, swirled about quickly and ran into the bedroom to a mirror.

For surely a woman who had been made love to by a king could not look like any common mortal. She half expected a glow, a luminous shimmer to her skin and hair, and was disappointed to see that she looked no different except that her hair was tumbled and there were tired shadows beneath her eyes.

But I’m not the same! she assured herself triumphantly. I’m somebody now! I’ve lain with the King!

When Nan tried to wake her the following morning she shooed her away, rolling over onto her stomach, saying she’d sleep as long as she liked and they could do without her at rehearsal. By the time she finally did wake up it was almost noon and the rehearsal long since over. She yawned and stretched, sliding back the heavy draperies which had made the bed so hot and sultry that she was wet all over, and then suddenly she reached beneath the feather mattress and brought out the bagful of coins, dumping them onto the pillow so that she could count them again.

There was fifty pounds. Only to think of it—fifty pounds as a gift for the greatest honour a woman could have.

Before going to the theatre she took the money to deposit with Shadrac Newbold, and when she finally got there it was after two. As she had expected, her appearance in the tiring-room created a considerable sensation; all the women began to babble and shriek at once. Beck ran to throw her arms about her.

“Amber! We thought you weren’t coming at all! Quick! Tell us about it—we’re a-dying to hear! What was it like?”

“How much money did he give you?”

“What did he say?”

“How long were you there?”

“What did he do?”

“Was it different than it is with ordinary men?”

It was the first time that King Charles had sent for a player and their feelings were divided between personal jealousy and occupational pride. But curiosity over-rode both.

Amber was not reticent; she answered all their questions. She described the rooms of Edward Progers where she had been received first, the appearance of the King in his brocade dressing-robe, the new-born puppies which had slept beside their mother on a velvet cushion near the fireplace. She told them that he had been as kind and easy, as courteous as though she were a lady of the highest rank. But she did not add that she had been so scared she thought she would faint, and she hinted that he had given her at least a thousand pounds.

“When are you going again?” Beck asked at last, as Scroggs began to help Amber out of her clothes.

“Oh,” she said casually, “sometime soon, I suppose. Maybe next week.”

She was very confident, for though she had not spent more than an hour with him she had come away feeling that of all the women he had known she had pleased him best. It did not occur to her that perhaps the others had thought the same.

“Well, madame!” It was Tom Killigrew’s voice, sounding cold and sarcastic as he made his way through the crowded room toward her. “So at last you’ve come.”

Amber looked up in surprise, and then gave him a friendly smile. She was prepared to be no different from usual, in spite of her changed status—at least until she was more secure in her new place. “I’m a little late,” she admitted, ducking her head into the gown which Scroggs held for her.

“You were not at rehearsal this morning, I believe.”

“No.” She thrust her arms through the sleeves and as Scroggs pulled the dress down her head appeared once more. “But that’s no matter. I’ve played the part a dozen times—I know it well enough without rehearsing.” She took up a mirror and half turned to face the light, examining the paint on her face and wiping away a little smear of lip-rouge rubbed onto her chin as she had struggled into the gown.

“With your permission, Madame St. Clare, I shall decide who will rehearse and who will not. I’ve given your part to Beck Marshall—I don’t doubt you’ll be able to play the strumpet well enough without rehearsal.”