Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  "Why, he's gone, mem. He said you was a lady wanted to elope with 'im and told me to call 'im at half-after-one. He went off in the coach soon's he came down—said you'd pay the reckoning," he added significantly.

  Amber stared at him in astonishment and then she ran to the door to look out. It was true. Her coach was gone. She turned and faced him, angry and worried. "I've got to get back to London! How can I do it? Is there a stage-coach that stops here?"

  "No, mem. Few enough of any kind stops here. The dinner was ten shillin's and the room ten shillin's. One pound in all, mem." He held out his hand.

  "One pound! Well, I haven't got it! I haven't got a farthing! Oh, damn him!" It seemed to her that no one had ever had such scurvy luck, no one had ever suffered such trials as had beset her constantly since she had come to London. "How'm I to get home?" she demanded again, desperate now. Certainly she could not walk in that pouring rain and the mud.

  For a moment the host was silent, measuring her, deciding at last in her favour because of her fine clothes, "Well, mem, you look an honest lady. I've got a horse I can let you take and my son can show you the way—if you'll pay him the reckoning when you get there."

  Amber agreed and she and the innkeeper's fourteen-year-old boy set out on a pair of swaybacked nags that could not be kicked or coaxed out of a plodding trot. Though not yet two-thirty it was dark and the rain came down steadily, soaking both of them through before they had gone a quarter-mile.

  They rode silently, Amber clenching her teeth, wretchedly uncomfortable with the heavy jogging of her belly and the feel of wet clothes and hair clinging tight to her skin. She was wholly obsessed with Luke Channell and how she despised him. And the farther they rode, the more her stomach stabbed and ached, the more chilled she became—the more savagely she hated him. She promised herself that she would murder him for this, though she burnt alive for it.

  When they got back into the City the streets were almost deserted. Men with their cloaks wrapped up about their mouths and their hats pulled low leant against the wind. Wet skinny dogs and miserable cats crouched in the doorways, and the kennels down the middle of the streets were rushing torrents of water and refuse.

  The boy helped her to dismount and followed her as she ran inside, her skirts sticking to her legs, her soaked hair hanging down her shoulders in long twining tendrils. She looked like some weird water-witch. She ran through the parlour without glancing at anyone—though every eye there turned to follow her in amazement—rushed up the steps two at a time, then down the hallway to burst into her room with a hysterical scream.

  "Luke!"

  No one answered. For the room was empty, her bed still unmade, and everywhere were signs of hurried departure. Drawers were open and empty; the wardrobe where her clothes had been stood ajar, but nothing was in it; the top of her dressing-table had been wiped clean. The mirrors she had bought were gone from the walls. A pair of silver candlesticks had been taken from the mantel. In his pretty gilt cage the little parakeet cocked an eye at her, and she saw the earrings Bruce had bought at the May Fair lying on the floor, as though flung away in contempt.

  She stood there, staring, stunned and helpless. But even while she stared there began to come over her a feeling of relief and she was glad to be rid of them—all three, Luke and Sally Goodman and simple little Honour Mills. Slowly she reached up one hand and took out the bodkins that held up her back hair—they had gold knobs on the ends with a pattern of tiny pearls. She held them toward him.

  "My money's all gone," she said wearily. "Here. Take these."

  He looked at her doubtfully for a moment, but finally accepted them. Slowly Amber pushed the door shut. She leaned back against it. She wanted nothing but to lie down on the bed and forget—forget that she was even alive.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nine

  The floor of the room was covered with rushes which smelt sour and old, and rats came out boldly to dart about searching for morsels of food, their eyes bright and black as beads. The walls were stone, moist and dripping and green with a mossy slime; sunk into them were great ring-bolts from which hung heavy chains. Boarded beds ranged the wall as in a barracks. Though only mid-morning it was dark and would have been darker but for a tallow-candle which burnt with a low sullen flame, as though oppressed by the stinking air. It was the Condemned Hold at Newgate where prisoners were kept until they had paid the price of better quarters.

  There were four women in the room, all of them seated, all of them shackled with heavy chains on wrists and ankles, all of them perfectly quiet.

  One was a young Quaker girl in sober prim black, a starched white collar about her throat and a linen cap covering her hair; she sat motionless, concentrating on her feet. Across from her was a middle-aged woman who looked like any of the dozens of housewives seen every day in the streets going to market with a basket over one arm. Not far from her sprawled a morose slattern who stared dully at the others, one side of her mouth screwed up in a faint cynical smile. There were large open sores on her face and breasts and now and again she coughed with a hollow, racking sound as if she would bring up her very guts. The fourth woman was Amber, and she sat wrapped in her cloak, one hand tightly clasping the bird-cage set on her lap, the other inside her muff.

  She looked strangely out of place there in that mouldering sty, for though all her garments were somewhat the worse for the soaking they had had two weeks before, the materials were good and the style fashionable. The gown, which had been made by Madame Darnier, was black velvet, caught up in back over a stiff petticoat of dark red-and-white-striped satin. Pleated frills of sheer white linen showed about the low neckline and at the elbows of the puffed sleeves. Her silk stockings were scarlet and her square-toed shoes black velvet with large sparkling buckles. She wore her black-velvet cloak, carried her fox muff, her gloves and fan and mask.

  She had been there for perhaps an hour—though it seemed a great deal longer—and so far no one had spoken a word. Her eyes roamed about restlessly, searching in the darkness, and she was beginning to fidget nervously. From everywhere about them, overhead, beneath their feet, from either side, came the muffled sounds of shouts and groans, screams and curses and laughter.

  She looked at the housewife, then at the Quakeress, finally at the dirty slut across the room, and the last she found watching her with grim insolent amusement. "Is this the prison?" asked Amber at last, speaking to her because neither of the others seemed conscious of her or their own whereabouts.

  For a moment she continued to squint near-sightedly at Amber and then she laughed and suddenly began to cough, leaning over with her hand against her chest until she spat out a great clot of bloody phlegm. "Is this the prison?" she repeated at last, mimicking. "What the hell d'ye think it is? It ain't Whitehall, me fine lady!" Her accent was strong and harsh and her voice had the dreary whine of a woman who has been tired for years.

  "I mean is this all the prison?"

  "Jesus, no." She gave a weary sweep of one arm. "Hear that? It's over us and under us and all around us. What're you here for?" she asked abruptly. "We ain't used to havin' the quality for company." She sounded sarcastic, but too tired to be dangerously malicious.

  "For debt," said Amber.

  The morning after Luke and his aunt and the maid had left her Amber had wakened with a bad cold, her throat so sore she could scarcely speak. But she was half relieved to be sick, for at least she could do nothing until she got well and it was impossible for her even to imagine what she would do then. She had no clothes but the ones she had been wearing, not a penny in cash, and her only negotiable assets were her wedding-ring, the string of pearls she had worn around her neck, a pair of pearl ear-drops, and the earrings Bruce had bought for her at the Fair. Luke had stolen everything of value, including the reconciliation bracelet and the silver-handled toothbrush Bruce had given her.

  As Amber lay in bed, coughing and blowing her nose, her very bones seeming to ache and her head feeling as though it was
stuffed with cotton, she began to worry. She knew that she had been a fool, that they had played a trick on her that must be old as time and worn threadbare by usage. With her country-girl gullibility she had walked into their trap, as innocent as a woodcock. And she had nothing for consolation but the sureness that they had been almost as much mistaken in her. For now she was convinced that Luke had thought he was marrying a real heiress and that they had left only when the mistake was discovered.

  By the third day the hall outside her room was aswarm with creditors all of them demanding payment. And when Amber went to the door wrapped in a blanket and told them that her husband had run away and she had no money they threatened to bring action against her. At last she refused to answer any more and shouted at them to go away and leave her alone. Then this morning the constable had come, told her to get dressed and taken her off to Newgate. She would not be tried, he said, until the quarter-session and then—if found guilty of her large debt—she would be sentenced to remain in Newgate until it was paid.

  "For debt," repeated the housewife. "That's why I'm here, too. My husband died owin' one pound six."

  "One pound six!" cried Amber. "I owe three hundred and ninety-seven pound!" She felt almost triumphant at being in jail for such a stupendous sum, but that feeling was soon squelched.

  "Then," said the slattern, "you ain't goin' out of here till they carry you out in a wooden box."

  "What d'you mean? I had the money! I had more than that —but my husband rubbed off with it! When they catch him I'll get it back again!" She tried to sound confident but the woman's words had scared her, for it was not the first rumour she had heard of the kind of justice they dealt here in London.

  Smiling, the other woman heaved herself away from the wall and came forward, bringing with her a stench that made Amber's nostrils flare in revulsion. She stood for a moment looking down at her with an expression that suggested both weary jealousy of her youth and beauty and an almost friendly contempt for her naivete and confident optimism. Then she sat down beside her.

  "I'm Moll Turner. Where'd you come from, sweetheart? You ain't been long in London, have you?"

  "I've been here seven months and a half!" retorted Amber defiantly, for it always hurt her pride when she was recognized for an outlander. "I came from Essex," she added, more meekly.

  "Well, now, you needn't take such hogan-mogan airs with me, Mrs. Minx. I'd say anyone's had such a flam put upon 'em as you have stands in need of a little friendly counsel. And you'll need more before you been long in this place."

  "I'm sorry. But to tell you truly, Mrs. Turner, I'm in such a mouse-hole I think I'll run mad. What can I do? I've got to get out of here! I'm going to have a baby!"

  "Are you indeed?" She did not seem very much impressed or concerned. "Well, it won't be the first born in Newgate, believe me for that. Look here, sweetheart, most likely you ain't never goin' out of here. So listen to what I say and you'll save yourself a deal of trouble."

  "Never!" cried Amber frantically. "Oh, but I am! I've got to! I won't stay—they can't keep me in here!"

  Mrs. Turner seemed bored and impatient, and ignoring Amber's protests went on with what she had begun to say. "You'll have to pay garnish to the jailor's wife to get better quarters, garnish for lighter chains, garnish if you so much as puke in this place. And you can begin to get the feel of it by giving me them ear-drops—"

  Amber gasped in horror and moved back a little. "I won't do it! They're mine! Why should I give 'em to you, pray!"

  "Because, sweetheart, if I don't get 'em the jailor's wife will. Oh, I'll use you honestly. Give me the ear-drops—they don't look worth more'n a pound at the top—" she added, narrowing her eyes and peering at them closely, "—and I'll tell you how to live in this place. I've been here before, I'll warrant you. Come, now, before we're disturbed."

  Amber stared at her for a long moment, frank skeptical distrust on her face, but finally she decided that it would be worth the earrings to have a friend who understood this strange place. She slid the pearls from her ears and dropped them into Mrs. Turner's outstretched palm. Moll tucked them into the bodice of her gown, somewhere between her stringy breasts, and turned to Amber.

  "Now, my dear, how much money have you got?"

  "Not a farthing."

  "Not a farthing? My God, how d'you intend to live? Newgate ain't run for charity, you may be sure. You pay for everything you get here, and you pay dear."

  "Well, I won't. Because I haven't got any money."

  Amber's matter-of-fact tone sent Moll into another fit of violent coughing, but at last she straightened, running her forearm across her wet mouth. "Don't seem like you're old enough to be out of the house alone, sweetheart. Where's your family —in Essex? My advice to you is to send to 'em for help."

  Amber stiffened at that suggestion, defensively lowering her black lashes. "I can't. I mean I won't. They didn't want me to get married and I—"

  "Never mind, my dear. I think I know your plight well enough. You found yourself with child and so left, home. Now your keeper's left you. Well, in London we don't give a damn —we've got troubles enough of our own without worryin' ourselves with our neighbours—"

  "But I am married!" protested Amber, determined to have the credit of a respectable woman since she had gone to such length to be one. "I'm Mrs. Channell—Mrs. Luke Channell. And here's my ring to prove it!" She stripped the glove from her left hand and thrust it beneath Moll's nose.

  "Yes, yes. Lord, my dear, I don't care if you're married or whore to forty men. I was myself, in better days. Now I'm so peppered a man wouldn't have me upon a pinch." She smiled faintly and shrugged, then stared off into space, forgetting her promise as she began to recall the disappointments of her own life. "That's the way I began. He was a captain in the King's army—a mighty handsome fellow in his uniform. But my dad didn't like to see his daughter bringin' a nameless brat into the family. So I came to London. You can hide anything in London. My boy died—more's the mercy—and I never saw my captain again. But I saw other men aplenty, I'll warrant you. And I had money for a while, too. Once a gentleman gave me a hundred pound for one night. Now—" She turned suddenly and looked at Amber, who had been staring at her with fascinated horror, finding it almost impossible to believe that this ugly emaciated sick creature had once been young and in love with a handsome man, just as she was. "How old d'ye think I am? Fifty? No, I'm thirty-two. Just thirty-two. Well, I've had my day, there's no denyin' that. I suppose I wouldn't trade it for something different—"

  Amber was beginning to feel sick, seeing herself several years hence in Moll Turner. Oh, God! Oh, God! she thought frantically. It's just like Aunt Sarah said. Look what happens to a bad woman!

  And then all of them started at the sound of a key in the lock; the great iron door began to swing open. Moll, putting her hand to her mouth, muttered quickly: "Sell that ring for whatever she'll give you."

  A woman, perhaps fifty years old, came into the room. Her hair, almost white, was lifeless as straw and screwed into a hard knot high on the crown of her head. She wore a soiled blouse, a dark-blue woollen skirt with a long red apron tied over it, and slung about her hips was a leather thong to which were attached several very large keys, a pair of scissors, a wallet and a bull's pizzle—a short heavy wooden cudgel for maintaining discipline. She carried a candle stuck into a bottle, and before turning around to look at them she set it on a shelf.

  A huge grey-striped cat followed her in, pushing against her legs, arching its back, giving out a low satisfied rumble. And then all at once it caught sight of Amber's parakeet and moved swiftly forward. But Amber, with a little scream, jumped to her feet and, holding the cage at shoulder-level, kicked out at the cat with one foot while her parakeet fluttered and clung terrified to the bars of its cage.

  "Good morning, ladies," said the woman now, and her shrewd pitiless eyes went over them quickly, resting longest on Amber. "I'm Mrs. Cleggat—my husband is the Jailor. It's my understandin
g that you are all ladies of refinement who naturally would not care to take up your abode in a vault set aside for thieves, parricides, and murderers. I'm happy to say that from here you may be removed to a chamber the equal of that in any private house and there you'll be furnished with the best of conversation and entertainment—for a consideration."

  "There's the rub," commented Moll, sprawled out with her arms crossed, her legs stretched before her.

  "How much?" asked Amber, keeping an eye on the cat which now sat patiently at her feet, wide-eyed and flicking just the tip of his tail. If she could sell her wedding-ring she would have money enough to buy very good quarters—and she was convinced that she would be out within a day or two.

  "Two shillings six to get out of here. Six shillings for easement. Two shillings six a week for a bed. Two shillings a week for sheets. Six shillings six to the turnkey. Ten shillings six to the steward of the ward for coal and candles. That's all for now. I'll have one pound ten from each of you ladies." As they all looked at her and no one either moved or spoke she said briskly, "Come, now. I'm a woman of affairs. There's others here too, y'know."

  Moll now lifted her skirt and from a pocket in her petticoat produced the required sum. " 'Sblood, it seems I only steal enough to support myself in prison."

  Amber looked around, waiting for one of the others to speak, but they did not and so she pulled the wedding-ring from her finger and extended it toward Mrs. Cleggat. "I haven't got any money. How much will you give me for this?"

  Mrs. Cleggat took it, held it to the candle and said, "Three pound."

  "Three pound! But I paid twelve for it!"

  "Values are different here." She unbuttoned the wallet, counted out several shillings, handed them to Amber and dropped the wedding-ring into the leather pouch. "Is that all?"

  "Yes," said Amber. She did not intend to part with the string of pearls Bruce had given her not long before he sailed.