Winsor, Kathleen (30 page)
Authors: Forever Amber
One
of them was Penelope Hill, a prostitute who lived just across the street. She
was a large-boned young woman whose claims to beauty were a head of hair that
was like a heavy skein of pale yellow silk, and ample melon-shaped breasts.
Rusty sweatstains showed in the armpits of her soiled blue-taffeta gown and all
her body gave out a strangely inviting promise of lushness and fulfillment. She
was languid and cynical and regarded all men with a kind of amused contempt;
but she warned Amber that a woman had no chance of succeeding in a man's world
unless she could turn their weaknesses to her own advantage.
Such
philosophical advice, however, meant less to Amber than did her practical
information on another subject. From Penelope she learned that there were a
great many means of preventing perpetual child-bearing—or abortions—and she
learned what they were. In possession of the knowledge, Amber wondered how she
had ever been so stupid as not to have guessed at it long since; it seemed so
perfectly obvious.
When
the baby was two weeks old he was christened with
the single name—Bruce. It was
customary to give a bastard his mother's surname, but she could not use hers
and would not use Luke Channell's. Afterwards she had a christening feast,
which was attended by Mother Red-Cap and Black Jack, Bess Columbine and Michael
and Penelope Hill, an Italian nobleman who had fled his country for reasons he
did not disclose and who knew no word of English, the coiner and his wife from
the third floor, two men who accompanied Black Jack on his expeditions out of
town—Jimmy the Mouth and Blue-skin—and an assortment of cutpurses, bilks, and
debtors. While the men drank and played cards the women sat and discussed
pregnancy and miscarriages and abortions with the same ravening interest they
had in Marygreen.
A
week after that the woman Mother Red-Cap had hired to take the baby came for
him. She was Mrs. Chiverton, a cottager's wife from Kingsland, a tiny village
lying out of London some two and a quarter miles, but almost four miles from
Whitefriars. Amber liked and trusted her immediately, for she had known many
women of her kind. She agreed to pay her ten pounds a year to feed and care for
the baby, and gave her another five so that she could have him brought to see
her whenever she wanted.
She
did not wish to part with him at all and would have kept him there with her in
Whitefriars if it had not been for Mother Red-Cap's insistence that he would
probably die in that unhealthy place. She loved him because he was her own—but
perhaps even more because he was Bruce Carlton's. Bruce had been gone now for
almost eight months, and in spite of the violent feeling she still had for him,
he had grown unceasingly unreal to her. The baby, a moving breathing proof of
his existence, was all that convinced her she had ever known him at all. He
seemed to be a dream she had had, a wish that had almost, but not quite, come
true.
"Let
me know right away if he falls sick, won't you?" she said anxiously as she
put him into Mrs. Chiverton's arms. "When will you bring him to see
me?"
"Whenever
ye say, mem."
"Next
Saturday? If it's a good day?"
"Very
well, mem."
"Oh,
please do! And you'll keep him warm and never let him be hungry, won't
you?"
"Yes,
mem. I will, mem."
Black
Jack went along to see her safely into a hackney, but when he came back Amber
was sitting alone in a chair by the table, staring morosely into space. He sat
beside her and took her hands into his; his voice was teasing but sympathetic.
"Here, sweetheart. What's the good of all this moping and sighing? The
little fellow's in good hands, isn't he? Lord, you wouldn't want 'im to stay
here. Would you now?"
Amber
looked at him. "No, of course not. Well—" She tried a little smile.
"Now,
that's better! Look here—d'ye know what day this is?"
"No."
"It's
the day before his Majesty's coronation. He rides through the City on his way
to the Tower! How would you like to go see 'im?"
"Oh,
Black Jack!" Her whole face lighted eagerly and then suddenly collapsed
into a discontented frown. "But we can't—" She had come to feel that
she was as much a prisoner in Whitefriars as she had been in Newgate.
"Of
course we can. I go into the City every day of my life. Hurry along now, into
your rigging and we'll be off. Bring your mask and wear your cloak," he
called after her, as she whirled and started out on a run.
It
was the first time Amber had left Alsatia since she had come there two months
and a half before, and she was almost as excited as she had been the first day
she had seen London. After weeks of rain the sky was now blue and the air fresh
and clean; there was a brisk breeze that carried the smell of the outlying
fields into the city. The streets along which the King's procession would pass
had been covered with gravel and railed off on either side and the City
companies and trainbands formed lines to keep back the eager pushing crowds.
Magnificent triumphal arches had been erected at the corners of the four main
streets and—as the year before—banners and tapestries floated from every house
and women massed at the windows and balconies threw flowers.
Black
Jack shepherded Amber through the crowd before him, elbowing one man aside,
shoving his hand into the face of another, until finally they came to the very
front. She dropped her mask—which was kept in place by a button held between
the teeth—and could not stop to pick it up. Black Jack did not notice and in
her own excitement she soon forgot that it was gone.
When
they got to where they could see, the great gilt coaches, filled with noblemen
in their magnificent Parliament robes, were turning slowly by. Amber stared at
them with her eyes wide open, impressed as a child, and unconsciously she
searched over each face, but did not see him. Lord Carlton had ridden the year
before with the loyal Cavaliers returning from over the seas. But when the King
approached she forgot even Bruce.
His
Majesty was on horseback and as he rode along, nodding his head and smiling,
hands reached out trying to touch him or the trappings of his horse. From time
to time his attention was caught by a pretty woman somewhere in the crowd. And
so he glanced once, then again, at a girl whose tawny eyes stared up at him in
passionate admiration and awe, her lips parted with a sudden catch of breath as
his gaze met hers. And as he passed he smiled at her, the slow lazy smile that—
for all its cynicism—was so strangely tender. Her head turned, following him,
but he did not look back.
Oh!
thought Amber, dizzy with exultation. He looked at me! And he smiled! The
King
smiled at me! In her excitement she did not even see the camel lumbering
along bearing brocaded panniers from which a little East Indian boy flung
pearls and spices into the crowd.
The
King's swarthy face and the expression in his eyes stayed with her for hours as
vivid as the moment she had seen him. And now she was more than ever
dissatisfied with her life in the Sanctuary. The world of which she had half
lost remembrance called to her again like an old and beloved melody and she
yearned to follow it—but did not dare. Oh, if only somehow,
somehow
I
could get out of this scurvy place!
That
evening the four of them sat at the supper-table: Bess sullen and glowering
because she had not been to the pageant; Amber eating in silent preoccupation;
Black Jack laughing as he showed Mother Red-Cap the four watches he had stolen.
Amber was conscious of the conversation but she paid no attention to what was
being said until she heard Bess's angry protest.
"And
what about me, pray? What am
I
to do?"
"You
may stay here tonight," said Mother Red-Cap. "There'll be no need for
you to go along."
Bess
banged her knife onto the table. "There was a need for me once! But now
Mrs. Fairtail's come I find I'm as unwelcome as a looking-glass after the
small-pox!" She gave Amber a venomous glare.
Mother
Red-Cap did not answer her, but turned to Amber. "Remember the things I've
told you—and above all, don't be uneasy. Black Jack will be there when you need
him. Keep your wits and there'll be no possibility of mistakes."
Amber's
hands had turned cold and her heart was beginning to pound. During the
discussions and rehearsals for these holdups she had always felt that she was
merely pretending, that she would never really have to do any of those things.
And now all of a sudden—when she had least expected it—the pretending was done.
Mother Red-Cap
did
intend her to go. Amber could feel the noose about
her neck already.
"Let
Bess go if she wants to!" she cried. "I've got no great maw for the
business! I dreamed about Newgate again last night!"
Mother
Red-Cap smiled. Her temper was never ruffled, she never lost her cool,
reasonable tone and manner. "My dear, surely you know that dreams are
expounded by contraries. Come, now, I had expected great things of you—not only
for your beauty but for your spirit, which I had thought would carry you
undismayed through any adventure."
"Undismayed
spirit, my arse!" snorted Bess.
Amber
gave her a sharp hard stare across the table and then got to her feet. Without
another word she left the room and went upstairs to get her cloak and mask, to
powder her face and smooth a little rouge on her lips. A few minutes later she
came
down to find Bess and Black Jack quarreling. Bess was chattering furiously at
him though he merely lounged in his chair with a wine-bottle in his hand, and
ignored her. Seeing Amber at the door he smiled and got to his feet. Bess whirled
around.
"You!"
she
cried. "You're the cause of all my troubles—
you jilting whore!" And
suddenly she grabbed a saltcellar from the table and hurled it to the floor.
"There! And the devil go with you!" She turned and rushed out of the
room, sobbing as she went.
"Oh!"
cried Amber, staring at the spilt salt with scared and anxious eyes.
"We're cursed! We
can't
go!"
Black
Jack, who had gone after Bess, now gave her a cuff with his great hand that
almost knocked her off her feet. "You damned meddling jade!" he
roared at her. "If we run into ill-luck I'll cut your ears
off!"
But
Mother Red-Cap scoffed at Amber's superstitious fears and assured her that it
could be
no
ill omen because it had been done purposefully. She gave them some last-minute
admonitions, Black Jack swallowed a glass of brandy and— though Amber was still
reluctant and worried—they set out. By the time they had climbed the stairs and
entered the Temple gardens she was beginning to feel excited and eager for
whatever adventure might lie ahead; Bess and the spilt salt were already far
out of her mind.
Chapter
Thirteen
In
the city the bells were ringing, and blazing bonfires sent up a glow against
the sky. Every house was brightly lighted and crowds of merrymakers filled the
streets; coaches rattled by and there were sounds of laughter and singing and
music. Taverns were packed and the inns were turning customers away. It was the
night of the Restoration all over again.
The
Dog and Partridge was a fashionable tavern located in Fleet Street, frequented
for the most part by gallants and the well-dressed, overpainted harlots who
tracked them to their habitat. On this night it was jammed full. Every table
was crowded with men—those who brought women usually took them to a private
room upstairs; waiters were going among them with trays of bottles and glasses
and foaming mugs of ale; a tableful of young men were singing; over in one
corner some fiddlers scratched away, unheard and ignored. And just as Amber
entered the door four young men started out, drunk and excited, going to fight
a duel over some petty disagreement or imagined slight. They jostled against
her but went on, troubling neither to stop nor to apologize, though by their
dress they were obviously gentlemen.
Amber,
masked and with her hood up, drew her cloak disdainfully about her and stepped
aside. When they had gone
she stood in the doorway and looked over the smoke-filled room, as though to
find someone, and presently the host approached her. "Madame?"
She
knew by his manner that he took her for what she was supposed to be: a
lady—Covent Garden variety. And she felt like one herself. She had spent hours
at her window, both at the Royal Saracen and the Rose and Crown, watching them
get in and out of their coaches, stop to speak to an admirer, fling a beggar a
shilling. She knew how they picked up their skirts, how they pulled on a glove,
spoke to a footman, used their fans. They were confident, careless ladies, sure
of the world and of their position in it, ever so slightly scornful of those who
lived apart. But it was not by mere mimicry that she could so successfully
pretend to be one; it was an attitude toward life that seemed natural to her.
"I'm
looking for a gentleman," she said softly. "He was to meet me
here." She scarcely glanced at the host; her eyes were going over the
room.
"Perhaps
I can help you to find him, madame. What was he wearing? What is his
appearance?"
"He's
very tall and his hair is black. I think he wears a black suit with a gold
braid garniture."
The
host turned, looked over the room. "Can it be that gentleman? The one at
the far right-hand table?"
"No,
no. Not that one. Hang it, the rascal must be late!" She fluttered her fan
in annoyance.
"I'm
sorry, madame. Perhaps you would prefer to wait in some more private
place?"
"I'd
prefer it, but if I do he might miss me. I can't tarry long—you
understand." He was to understand that she was a married woman come to an
assignation with her lover and in some apprehension of being seen by her
husband or an acquaintance. "Place me in some discreet corner then. I'll
wait on the wretch a few minutes or so."
The
host led her across the room, weaving his way through the hot, noisy crowd, and
Amber was aware that for all she was concealed from top to toe several of the
gallants turned and looked at her. Her perfume was alluring and her cloak—
which Black Jack had stolen from some lady of quality— suggested wealth. He
seated her at a table in the farthest corner, and though she declined to order
anything to drink she put a silver coin into his hand.
"Thank
you, sir."
Sitting
down Amber let her cloak fall open just enough to reveal something of her low
neckline, flared her fan, gave a bored little sigh and then a quick casual
glance around the room. She met several pairs of eyes, a few smiles and one
broad grin, and instantly
she
dropped her lashes. They were not to
take her for a prostitute.
She
was glad now that she had come; a quick excitement
flowed through
her veins, and she only wished that this was real life, no mere part she was
playing.
Within
a quarter of an hour she had sorted them over and found at least one young man
apparently well suited to her purposes. He sat at a table some seven or eight
feet away playing cards with four companions, but his head turned persistently
and his eyes looked back at her again and again. When most women went masked in
public places a man had to learn to judge beauty by very little detail—the
colour and sheen of a curl escaping from a hood, the sparkle of a pair of eyes
seen between narrow slits, the curve of a pretty mouth.
Now,
as she felt him looking at her again she glanced across and let the faintest
smile touch her lips, a smile that scarcely existed at all, and then she looked
away. Immediately he put down his cards, shoved back his chair and started
toward her, walking unsteadily.
"Madame—"
He paused politely to hiccough. "Madame, will you permit me the honour of
buying you a glass of wine?"
Amber,
who had been looking in another direction, now glanced at him in apparent
surprise.
"Sir?"
The
boy was flustered. "Oh, I'm sorry, your Ladyship. I meant no
offense—hic—but I thought you might be lonely—"
"I'm
waiting for someone, sir. I'm not lonely at all. And if you take me for a whore
you're quite mistaken. I think you'll find your luck better with that lady over
there."
With
her fan, which she held clasped in one hand as it lay on the table, she
indicated an unmasked woman who had just come in and who stood surveying the
room, her cloak open to show a pair of almost naked breasts. As he looked Amber
noticed that he wore four rings, had gold buttons on his coat with tiny
diamonds in the centers, that his sword case was silver and that he wore a
large mink muff attached to a broad twisted satin girdle.
He
gave her a bow, very stiff and dignified. "I beg your pardon, madame. That
is not my game, I assure you. Your servant, madame." He turned and would
have gone off but she stopped him.
"Sir!"
He looked around and she smiled up at him, her tawny eyes coaxing.
"Forgive my rudeness. I fear the waiting has set me on edge. I'll accept
your offer of wine, and thanks."
He
smiled, forgiving her instantly, sat down and summoned the waiter to order
champagne for her and brandy for himself. He told her that his name was Tom
Butterfield and that he was a student at Lincoln's Inn, but when he tried to
find out who she was she grew cool and aloof, intimating that she was too well
known to dare give her name. And she knew by the way he stared at her that he
was trying to place her, wondering if she was Lady This or Countess That, and
thinking that he was having a considerable adventure.
They
sipped their drinks, chatting idly, and when a little
herring-peddler
came to the table to ask if she might sing a song for the lady they both
agreed. The child was perhaps ten or eleven years old, a slovenly little waif
with dirty fingers, snarled blonde curls and shoes worn through at the toes.
But her voice was surprisingly clear and mature and there was about her a
buoyant happy quality, refreshing as the taste of oranges on a stale tongue.
When
she had done, Tom Butterfield munificently gave her several shillings, no doubt
to impress her Ladyship. "You've a pretty voice, child. What's your name,
pray?"
"Nelly
Gwynne, sir. And thank ye, sir." She gave them both a grin, bobbed a
curtsy, and was off through the crowd, stopping at another table across the
room.
Amber
now began to seem impatient. "What provoking creatures men are!" she
exclaimed at last. "How the devil does he dare use me at this rate? I'll
see that he smokes for it, I warrant you!"
"He's
an ignorant blockhead that would keep your Ladyship awaiting," agreed Tom
Butterfield soberly, though his eyes no longer focused well and he looked
half-asleep.
"Well,
he'll not do it again, you may be sure!" She began to gather up her belongings,
muff, fan, and gloves. "Thank you for your drink, sir. I'll go along
now."
She
dropped one glove and bent slightly to pick it up. He stooped at the same time
to get it for her and as he did so stared down into her bodice; he was weaving
on his feet as he straightened, and gave his head a vigorous shake to clear it.
"Let
me see you to your coach, madame."
They
went out the door, Tom Butterfield walking solemnly at her heels and ignoring
the jocular hoots of his friends. "Where is your coach waiting,
madame?"
"Why,
I came in a hackney, sir," she replied, implying that no lady going to an
assignation would be so foolish to ride in her own coach which might be seen
and reported. "I believe there's one for hire over there. Will you call it
for me?"
"I
protest, madame. So fine a person as yourself travelling about after nightfall
in a hell-cart? Tush!" He waggled an admonitory finger at her. "I
have my coach just around the corner. Pray, let me carry you to your
home." He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.
They
climbed in and the coach started off, jogging along Fleet Street to the Strand,
and now Tom Butterfield sat in his own corner, hiccoughing gently from time to
time and hanging onto the strap beside the window for support. Amber, afraid
that he would fall asleep, finally said to him: "You still don't know me,
do you, Mr. Butterfield?"
"Why,
no, madame.
Do
I know you?" She could feel him lean toward her as
though trying to see through the darkness.
"Well—you've
smiled and bowed to me often enough at the play."
"How
now, have I then? Where were you sitting?"
"Where?
In a box of course!" No lady of quality sat elsewhere and her tone was
indignant, but still teasing.
"When
were you there last?"
"Oh,
perhaps yesterday. Perhaps the day before. Don't you recall a lady who smiled
kindly on you? Lord, I never thought you'd forget me so quick—all those amorous
tweers you cast."
"I
haven't forgot. My mind's been running on you ever since. You were in the fore
of the king's box three days ago, dressed in a pretty deshabille with your hair
in a tour and your eyes had the most languishing gaze in all the world. Oh,
gad, madame, I haven't forgot—not I. I'm mightily smitten with you, I swear I
am. I'm in love with you, madame!"
As
his impetuosity mounted Amber grew more coy, moving as far away as she could
get and giving a low giggle in the darkness so that he made a grab for her.
They started to tussle, she yielding a little and then pushing him
off as he tried
to draw her against him, giving a cry of dismay as his hand went into her
bodice and caught one breast. He was panting excitedly, blowing his sour breath
in her face, and all at once she gave him a brisk slap.
"What
the devil, sir! Is this the way you handle a person of quality?"
Suddenly
abashed, sobered by the slap, he drew away. "Forgive me, madame. My ardour
outran my breeding."
"Indeed
it did! I'm not accustomed to that kind of courtship!"
"My
humblest apologies, madame. But I've admired you for a great while."
"How
do you know? Perhaps I'm not the lady you have in mind at all."
"You
must be the lady I have in mind. In fact, madame, I find myself so hot for
you—" He reached for her again and they had begun to struggle once more,
when the coach stopped. "Hell and furies!" he muttered, and she began
to push him off.
"Sit
up, sir, for God's sake!" She was straightening her clothes, pulling up
her bodice, smoothing her hair, and then the door opened and Tom Butterfield
staggered out and offered his hand to help her down.
The
house before which they were stopped was a new one in Bow Street just a block
from Covent Garden Square. At the door he caught hold of her to kiss her again
and as he did so she took the key from her muff and slipped it into the lock.
"My
husband's abroad tonight," she murmured. "Will you come in, Mr.
Butterfield—and drink a glass of wine with me?"
She
pushed open the door and went in with him following close behind her. But when
he would have detained her in the passage she disengaged herself and went
on up the black
staircase to another door, which she also opened. She went in first and turned
to find him smiling, his eyes full of expectancy as he looked at her; a candle
was burning and it gave just enough light to see by. And then as Black Jack's
heavy cudgel smashed down upon his skull the smile froze on his face, his eyes
glazed over, and he dropped to the floor, folding up in sections like a
carpenter's rule. Amber gave an involuntary little scream, one hand to her
mouth, for the look of accusation she had seen in his eyes filled her with
guilt.
But
Black Jack had already stuck the cudgel back into his pocket and was kneeling
beside him, cutting the string of cat's gut on which the buttons of his coat
were strung. While she stood and stared he went efficiently about his work,
rolling him over to get the buttons in back, pulling off the rings, unbuckling
the sword and muff, searching through his pockets. And then, as a dark narrow
streak of blood began to run out of his hair and over his temple, Amber moaned
aloud.