"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.
"Oh! You've killed him."
"Hush! He's not hurt." He looked up, giving her a broad grin. "What the hell, sweetheart! Scared by a little blood? A broken head may teach him better sense next time—if we hadn't fibbed the young prigster somebody else would have. Look at this scout—" He held up a gold watch. "Fifteen pound if it's worth a sice. It takes fine bait to catch a big fish. Now come along—let's rub off." He had the boy's wrists and ankles tied and they started out. Amber paused to look back once more, but Black Jack hurried her down the backstairs and into a hackney that was waiting.
The night's easy success was reassuring to Amber, who now believed that she might soon get enough money to leave the Friars. And she had enjoyed the adventure, too—all but the clouting of Tom Butterfield, for whose welfare she still felt a certain guilty concern. When she had drunk her morning draught of ale, brought to her by the shuffling Pall, she slipped into her dressing-gown and went downstairs. Mother Red-Cap and Black Jack were in the parlour, talking, and both of them seemed in high spirits.
Amber came in with a breezy greeting and wave of her hand —full of a vast self-confidence and ready to be congratulated. Mother Red-Cap gave her a warm smile.
"Good-morning, my dear! Black Jack's been telling me how like a veteran you handled matters last night! He says it was worth a Jew's eye to see the way you led the young cully into his trap. And now you've seen for yourself how easy it is, and safe, haven't you?"
Amber, thinking that now they had a need of her, was inclined to be independent. She shrugged. "I suppose so. Well—" She held out her hand. "Tip me my earnest."
"Why, my dear, there's nothing for you this time. I've applied your share on your bill."
"On my bill!"
"Of course. Or did you think it costs nothing to eat and lodge and give birth to a baby?"
She unlocked the drawer where her ledger was kept, took out a neatly written sheet and handed it to Amber who stood for a moment staring at it, nonplussed. She did not know what it said, for she had never been taught to read or write, but she was horrified to think that none of the money she had helped to steal was hers. For those expenses Mother Red-Cap had mentioned were not ones she had ever expected to pay. She felt that she had been cheated, and it made her angry. After a moment she looked up, her mouth opened to speak, and saw Mother Red-Cap just removing her cloak from the peg where it hung beside the door; she put it on and went out.
"Here!" Amber thrust the bill at Black Jack. "Read it to me!"
He took it and read the items slowly. At each one her scowl intensified. Now she was in a fine pickle! Instead of being less in debt she was deeper than ever. A violent despair filled her.
The bill was carefully itemized.
£ s. d.
1. For 3 months lodging and diet......... 30 0 0
2. Suit of childbed linen................. 4 4 0
3. For the minister to christen the child...... 2 10 0
4. For the midwife's fees................. 3 3 0
5. For the christening supper............ 6 0 0
6. For the wet nurse for 15 days............ 1 0 0
7. For Mrs. Chiverton.................. 10 0 0
8. For Mrs. Chiverton to bring the child upon request.. 5 0 0
9. For the dressmaker for altering the green gown...... 0 6 2
£62 3 2
"Lord!" cried Amber furiously. "I'm surprised she doesn't charge me for the use of her pot!"
Black Jack grinned. "Never mind. She will."
Amber was as angry with Black Jack as she was with Mother Red-Cap. For he could have paid her bill—and the debt too— at no hardship to himself. She was so resentful over his refusal that she had lost all sense of gratitude at being out of Newgate. She would have pawned some of the jewellery he had given her, but it was not enough to clear the full debt and if part of it disappeared she knew that she would get no more. It seemed to her that she would be in Whitefriars forever.
And so when Michael Godfrey came the next afternoon and asked her again to go away with him she agreed without hesitating an instant.
"Wait here and I'll be right down. I want to get my cloak and I have a new gown—" She was already out of the room.
Michael called after her: "Let it go! I'll get you another!"
But she pretended not to hear him and ran on, for there were several things she wanted to take with her—a lace fan, a pair of green silk stockings, the imitation gold ear-rings, and her parakeet. She rushed about the room—the house was empty and she wanted to get away before someone should return— flung everything into a sheet and hastily tied it. "Come on," she said to the parakeet. "We've had enough of this damned sanctuary." And with the cage in one hand, the tied-up sheet in the other, she hurried out and down the stairs. Halfway to the bottom she stopped with a gasp, for the door swung open and Black Jack Mallard stood there, his great frame blocking out the light.