Winsor, Kathleen (22 page)

"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.

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."