Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

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 walls 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 neck-line 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 back-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 grum 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 ear-rings Bruce had bought for her at the Fair. Luke had stolen everything of value, including the reconciliation bracelet and the silver-handled tooth-brush 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 ear-rings 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.