Kathleen Winsor - Forever Amber

“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.

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 toward 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 stairwell.

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 you 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 fingernails. 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 head 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.”