Forever Amber

by Kathleen Winsor

  Charles smiled, one arm over the back of the chair and his legs crossed, his eyes lazily admiring as he sat watching her undress. "The Chancellor has been telling me what I may and may not do for so many years I believe he half thinks I pay him some attention. But he's a very good old man and very loyal, and his intentions are the best even if his understanding is sometimes faulty. However, I wouldn't trouble myself with whether or not his wife calls, if I were you. I assure you she's a dull old lady and no very entertaining company."

  "I don't care whether she's dull or not! Don't you understand? It's just that she should call on me!"

  He laughed. "I understand. Let's forget it—"

  He got up and went toward her and Barbara turned, just slipping her smock down over her breasts, to look at him. Her eyes lighted with a bright passion that was perfectly genuine, and as his hands reached out a shudder of expectation shook her, driving everything else from her mind. But not for long.

  As they lay in the bed, her head resting on his shoulder so that she could feel beneath her cheek the pulsing of his blood, Barbara said softly, "I heard the most ridiculous rumour today."

  Charles was uninterested and merely murmured, "Did you?"

  "Yes—someone told me that you're already married to a niece of the Prince de Ligne—and have two sons by her."

  The Prince doesn't even have a niece, so far as I know. None I've married, anyway." His eyes were closed and he lay flat on his back, a faint smile on his mouth. But he was not thinking of what they were saying.

  "Someone else told me that you're contracted to the Duke of Parma's daughter."

  He did not answer and now, raising herself on one elbow, she said anxiously: "You're not, are you?"

  "Not what? Oh, no. No, I'm not married."

  "But they want you to marry, don't they? The people, I mean."

  "Yes, I suppose they do. Some fat squint-eyed straight-haired antidote, no doubt," he said lazily. "Odsfish, I don't know how I'll ever get an ugly woman with child."

  "But why should you marry an ugly woman?" With one pointed forefinger she was tracing a pattern in the matted black hair on his chest.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and then his face broke into a grin and he reached out his hand to stroke her head. "Princesses are always ugly. It's a tradition they have."

  Barbara felt the excitement begin to mount within her, and her heart was pounding at a furious rate. Unable to look him full in the face, she dropped her eyes before she spoke. "But —Well, why marry a princess if there's none you like? Why not—" She took a deep quick breath and her throat felt dry; a sharp pain stabbed at the base of her skull. "Why not marry me?" Then she raised her eyes quickly and looked at him, searching.

  Instantly Charles's face grew wary, the smile faded, and it settled once more into the old lines of moody cynicism. She could feel him draw away from her, though actually he had not moved at all. Barbara was shocked and she looked at him with horrified disbelief on her face. She had been so sure, so perfectly confident that he loved her madly, even enough to make her his wife.

  "Sire," she said softly, "hasn't that ever occurred to you?"

  He sat up and then left the bed to begin dressing. "Now come, Barbara. You know as well as I do that it's impossible."

  "Why?" she cried, growing desperate. "Why is it impossible? I've heard it was you who made the Duke marry Anne Hyde! Then why can't you marry me—if you want to. If you love me." She felt her temper getting away from her and caught at it frantically, telling herself that this was too important to throw away because she couldn't hold her tongue. She still thought that she could wheedle him into anything.

  Someway I'll make him marry me. I know I will. He's got to. He's got to!

  With his breeches on he pulled the thin white linen shirt over his head and fastened the full sleeves at the wrist. He was eager to get away from her, bored and impatient at the prospect of a useless quarrel. He was, and he knew it, thoroughly infatuated with her, for he had never found a woman more exciting to lie with. But if she had been Queen of Naples he would not have cared to marry her—he knew her too well for that, already.

  "The two cases aren't exactly comparable, my dear," he said now, his warm voice low and soothing, hoping to lull her into quiet and then get away. "My children will succeed to the throne. James's, most likely, never will."

  Certainly that seemed perfectly reasonable for Charles had already recognized at least five illegitimate children, while Barbara herself was convinced that the child she carried was his and not her husband's—or Chesterfield's.

  "Oh, but what's to become of me if you marry another woman? What will I do?" She was close to tears.

  "I think you'll do very well, Barbara. I see no reason why you shouldn't. You're not exactly a helpless person, you know."

  "But that isn't what I mean! Oh, you see how they all run after me now—Buckingham and Cooper and the rest of that crew— But if you marry someone else and fob me off— Oh, I'd die! You can't think how they'd use me! And the women would be even worse than the men! Oh, Charles, you can't, you can't do that to me!"

  He paused now and looked at her sharply; then all at once his face softened and he sat down beside her again, taking her hands into his. Her face was wet with tears that welled out of her eyes and slid over her cheeks in great drops, splashing off onto the satin-covered blankets beneath her.

  "Don't cry, darling. What the devil do you take me for—an ogre? I won't desert you, Barbara, you can be sure of that. You've given me a great deal of happiness, and I'm grateful. I can't marry you, but I'll see that you're taken care of—very well."

  She was sniffling and her chin quivered but she was again conscious of her appearance and trying to weep attractively. "How? With money? Money won't help—not in the case I'll be in."

  "What would help?"

  "Oh, Sire, I don't know! I don't see how I can—"

  He interrupted her quickly, to stem another flood. "If I make you a Lady of my wife's Bedchamber—would that help?"

  He spoke to her like an indulgent uncle holding out a sweetmeat to a small girl who had fallen and skinned her knee.

  "I suppose it would. If you really do it. You won't change your mind and just—just— Oh—"

  Now, suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge of her defeat, she burst into shaking sobs and flung herself toward him. He held her against his chest for a moment, patting her shoulder while she cried, and then very gently he disengaged himself and got up.

  While she lay on the bed and sobbed he swiftly slid into his doublet, knotted his cravat, buckled on his sword, and taking up his hat came to stand above her. Charles, who could not do without women though he could very easily do without any one woman, was often inclined to wish that it was never necessary to see any of them out of bed.

  "Barbara—I swear I've got to go now. Please don't cry any more, darling. Believe me, I'll keep my promise—"

  He bent and kissed the top of her head and then turned and went to the door. He glanced back just in time to see her look around at him, red-faced and swollen-eyed; he gave her a hasty wave and went out.

  She sat up slowly, her face wrenched into a scowl, one hand to her aching head. And then all at once she opened her mouth and gave a high uncanny scream that made the veins in her neck stand out like purple cords, and picking up a vase from the bedside table she hurled it with all her strength at the mirror across the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  To get to the Tap-Room, which was a floor and a half below the Lady Debtors' Ward, Amber had to follow the candleman down a black narrow flight of stairs. But when they had gone only part way he turned suddenly and blocked the passage and she stopped three steps above him, angry and frightened at the look she saw on his face, for her advanced pregnancy gave her a sense of clumsy helplessness.

  "Go on!" she cried. "What are you stopping for?"

  He made no answer but lunged swiftly forward; one hand caught hold of her skirts and dragged her to
ward him. With a scream Amber knocked the candle out of his hand. Suddenly she found that he had given way and she was going swiftly down the steps, her hands reaching out blindly toward the walls, but the short chains on her wrists and ankles caught with a jerk. She lost her footing and toppled headlong, twisting desperately to protect her belly and yelling with terror as she plunged toward the bottom of the stair-well.

  But even as she stumbled Black Jack Mallard started up, and he caught her before she had hurt herself. She could not see him but she felt with passionate relief a man's powerful hands and arms, his great protecting body, and she heard the violent angry thunder of his voice bellowing curses at the candleman whose footsteps went pounding on up to the second story.

  "What did he do to you? Are your hurt?" he demanded anxiously.

  Spent with fear, Amber relaxed against him. "No—" she panted. "I think I'm—"

  From above, the candleman shouted something unintelligible and with a snarl of rage Black Jack let her go and started after him. "You stinking son-of-a-whore, I'll—"

  Suddenly his warmth and protectiveness were gone. Amber's eyes opened and she reached out frantically. "Don't leave me! Please—don't leave me!" She was afraid of other unseen dangers hiding there in the dark.

  Instantly he was back again. "I'm here, sweetheart. Don't be scared. I swear I'll slit his gullet next time I see him, the turd-coloured dog!"

  "I wish you would," she muttered, pressing her hands to her swollen stomach.

  Fright had left her crumpled and weak and she let him half carry her to the bottom of the staircase where he gently set her on her feet again. The Tap-Room was nearby and they stood in a kind of smoky twilight; she could feel him watching her. And finally, forcing herself to look up, she saw his eyes going over her face and shoulders and breasts with an expression of pleased contemplation. All at once she felt pretty again; she could almost forget her stringy hair and the lice crawling on her skin and the dirt packed beneath her finger nails. The corners of her mouth went up in a faint smile and her eyes slanted flirtatiously.

  Black Jack Mallard was the biggest man Amber had ever seen. He was at least six feet five, his shoulders were massive and the muscles in his calves thick and powerful. His coarse black hair, shiny with oil, hung to his shoulders and there was a slight wave in it. She could see the glint of gold as a vagrant light touched the rings he wore in either ear-—it was a fashion much affected by the fops, but on this giant the jewels seemed only to accentuate his almost threatening masculinity. His forehead was low and broad, his nose wide at the nostrils, and while his upper lip was narrow and tightly drawn the lower rolled out in a heavy curve.

  His clothes were in the latest mode: a blue velvet suit consisting of short doublet and wide-legged knee-length breeches, white shirt, white linen-and-lace cravat. Garnet-coloured satin ribbons hung in loops at his waist and sleeves and shoulders, there was a feather-loaded Cavalier's hat on his head and he wore calf-high riding boots. Only the boots would not have been acceptable in the King's own Drawing-Room. The clothes were obviously expensive and certainly no cast-off garments but they were soiled, somewhat wrinkled, and he wore them with an air which suggested contempt of such finery.

  Now he grinned at her, showing even, square teeth so white they glistened, and made a bow. For all his great bulk he was controlled and graceful as a cat. "I'm Black Jack Mallard, madame, of the Press Yard." The Press Yard was the elite quarter of the jail, reserved for the rich.

  She curtsied, delighted to be once more in the presence of a man who was not only susceptible to her charms but worthy of them. "And I, sir, am Mrs. Channell of the Lady Debtors' Ward, Master side."

  Both of them laughed and bending over he gave her a casual kiss, the customary salute upon formal introduction. "Come in here," he said, "and we'll have a bouse on that."

  "A what?"

  "A bouse, sweetheart—a drink. I don't suppose you know our Alsatian cant." He took her arm and she noticed that he wore no fetters and even had a sword slung at his hip.

  The Tap-Room was dimly lighted with several tallow candles, but the smoke that hung over it was thick as a morning fog on the Thames. At one end was a bar. Stools and tables and chairs were packed in closely, leaving little room to pass between them, and the ceiling was so low that Black Jack had to hunch his shoulders as he walked along, going toward a table in one far corner. He exchanged several greetings as he went and Amber was aware that every eye there turned to survey her, searching curiously over Black Jack's new wench; she caught some whistles from the men and low-murmured spiteful comments from the women.

  But he evidently had a position of some authority, for they moved respectfully aside to let him pass, several of the women gave him inviting smiles, and one or two men complimented his choice. His own attitude toward them was that of good-natured camaraderie—he slapped the men on the back, stroked one woman's hand and another's cheek as he passed— and seemed as much at his ease as though they had been in the tap-room of the Dog and Partridge.

  Amber sat down with her back to the wall, and Black Jack, after asking her what she wanted, ordered Rhenish for her and brandy for himself. When they had examined her thoroughly the others went back to what they had been doing. Bottles were raised, cards shuffled and dice rolled, prostitutes wandered from table to table soliciting business; the room swelled with voices—laughter, songs and shouts, the occasional cry of a child. Amber exchanged a smile with Moll Turner but averted her eyes swiftly from the sight of a blowzy fat woman sprawled at a table, holding a fan of cards in her hand while a sleeping baby had its mouth fastened to one brown teat.

  "Oh, my God! she thought with horror. Two more months and I'll— She looked quickly at Black Jack, and found him smiling down at her.

  "You're a mighty dimber wench," he said softly. "How long 've you been here?"

  "Five weeks. I'm here for debt—four hundred pound."

  He was less impressed than the Lady Debtors had been. "Four hundred. God's blood, I can take that much in an easy night's work. What happened?"

  "My husband stole every penny I had and ran off and left me with the debts—"

  "And the lullabye-cheat." He glanced significantly at her belly. "Well—" He poured a glass of white wine for her and a smaller one of brandy for himself and flipped a coin to the waiter, giving a casual salute to the brim of his hat. "Here's to you! May he come back soon and get you out of crampings." He tossed it down at a gulp, as a gentleman should, poured another glass and turned to look at her shrewdly.

  Amber drank hers down too, for she was thirsty, but a scowl puckered her eyebrows. "He'll never come back. And I hope he never does—the ungrateful pimp!"

  Black Jack laughed and gave a low whistle. "You say that with such spleen I'd go near to believe you really are married."

  She stared at him, her eyes sparkling. "Well! And why shouldn't you believe it, pray! Why the devil does everyone think that's just some tale I tell!"

  He poured another glass for each of them. "Because sweetheart, a girl like you who says her husband left her, probably never had one at all."

  She smiled then and her voice purred. "The way I look now I think I'd fright away a better man than a husband."

  "My eyes are good, sweetheart. They see under six layers of dirt—and they see a tearing beauty." For a moment they sat looking at each other and then at last he said, "I've got a room with a window on the third floor. Would you like to smell some fresh air and look at the sky?" He half-smiled at the invitation but got to his feet and reached down his hand to help her.

  As they walked out the entire room set up a bellowing and laughing, shouting obscenities and advice to Black Jack, who waved his hand at them but did not glance around.

  The rooms were furnished like those in a low-class tavern catering to gay parties, the furniture scarred and much initialled, but certainly luxurious compared to the rest of the jail. The walls were covered with ribald words and sentences, crude drawings, names, and dates. Black
Jack told her that the quarters had cost him three hundred pounds. Every man who bought the office of Jailor at Newgate went out of it rich, if not beloved.

  Black Jack was often gone, for he had a great many visitors and social obligations to fulfill. But each time he came back they would laugh together over the fine lady—masked of course—who had hinted that she was at the very least a countess and had offered to solace his lonely hours. Once he stole a gold bracelet from some admirer and gave it to her. The highwaymen were the aristocrats of the underworld and they enjoyed a general popularity. Their names were well-known, their exploits discussed in taverns and on street-corners, they were much visited when in jail and when they took their last ride in a cart up Tyburn Hill they were attended by great and sympathetic crowds.

  Amber spent most of her time at the window, swallowing in the fresh air as though she could never get enough, standing with her arms braced on the window-sill and looking out over the city. She could see the favoured prisoners down below in the courtyard, walking or standing in groups, some of them playing hand-ball or pitch-and-toss for though it was now the end of January the weather continued mild and the streets were dusty. The tar-smeared quarters of the men hanged after the fanatic uprising earlier that month still lay exposed there and flies and wasps buzzed over the heap in angry masses.

  Four days after Amber had met him Black Jack made another of his miraculous escapes, and she went with him. Every bolt, every door, every gate had been liberally greased with the King's coin and each swung open at a touch. In the street a hackney waited, the door ajar; they got in swiftly and rattled off down Old Bailey Street. Black Jack, settling into the seat beside her, slapped his thigh and gave one of his thunderous laughs.

  Suddenly a woman's voice spoke, tart and peevish. " 'Sdeath, Jack! That's a fine stink you've got! You bring it out every time you go into that damned jail!"

  That, Amber knew, must be Bess Columbine, whom he called his "buttock." Now he introduced them, saying, "Bess, this is Mrs. Channell."