Several times she brought Amber offers of specific sums from one or another of the men, but it was never enough that Amber cared to make the venture. Moll’s condition was sufficient warning and she was in mortal fear of being peppered herself. Nevertheless she would have done anything to get out of Newgate—taken any wild chance that might keep her baby from being born there.
By the end of a month her money had dwindled to less than two pounds, for everything had a price and it was invariably a high one. She had been paying to have her food sent in—the alternative was to eat the prison-fare, mouldy bread and stale water, with charity-meat once a week—and she had also paid for Mrs. Buxted’s meals because otherwise the woman would have had none. When a midwife who shared the ward told her that she was too thin for a pregnant woman and that the baby was getting all she ate, she decided that she must sell the gold ear-rings.
Mrs. Cleggat gave them one scornful glance. “Those things? Brass and Bristol-stone! They’re not worth three farthings! Where’d ye get ’em—St. Martin’s?” A great deal of cheap imitation jewellery was sold in the parish of St. Martin-le-Grand.
Hurt, Amber did not answer her. But she had begun to notice herself that the thin gilt was wearing and showed a grey metal beneath. She was almost glad that they were too worthless to sell.
At the end of her fifth week in Newgate Amber sat in one of the boxes of the chapel, stared at her dirty finger-nails, and worried about how she would eat a month from then. For days she had been trying to find courage to tell Mrs. Buxted that she could not feed her any longer. But she had not been able to do it, for every day Mrs. Buxted’s daughter came and brought her the youngest child to nurse. As usual, Amber had not heard a word of the sermon, though it had been going on for a long while.
Now Moll Turner gave her a sharp nudge. “There’s Black Jack Mallard!” she whispered. “And he’s got his eye on you!”
Amber glanced sulkily across the room where she saw a gigantic black-haired man sitting staring at her, and as she did so he smiled. Cross at being interrupted in her worries, she scowled at him and looked away. Moll, thoroughly disgusted, nudged her several times but Amber refused to pay her any attention.
“Oh, you and your hogan-mogan airs!” muttered Moll as they left the chapel. “Who d’ye expect to find here in Newgate, pray? His Majesty?”
“What’s so fine about him, I’d like to know?” She had thought him too dark and ugly.
“Well, Mrs., whatever you may think, Black Jack Mallard is somebody! He’s a rum-pad, let me tell you.”
“A highwayman?”
Highwaymen, she had discovered, were the elite of the criminal world, though this man was the first she had seen. She did remember, though, one of that brotherhood who had hung, a mere clean-picked skeleton, in a set of gibbet-irons at the Marygreen crossroads, mute warning to others of his kind. And in a slight breeze the bones and irons had had an eerie clank that sent the villagers home before sundown to avoid passing him in the dark.
“A highwayman. And one of the best, too. He’s already broke out of here three times.”
Amber’s eyes opened with a snap. “Broke out of here! How!”
“Ask ’im yourself,” said Moll, and went off, leaving Amber at the door of her own ward.
Staring dazedly, Amber walked inside. Here was the chance she had been waiting for! If he’d got out before, he’d get out again—perhaps soon. And when he did—She was suddenly excited and full of optimism—But all at once her hopes collapsed.
Look at me! I’m fat as a barn-yard fowl and stinking dirty. The Devil himself wouldn’t have a use for me now.
There was no doubt her appearance had suffered sad changes during the past five weeks. Now, at the end of her seventh month of pregnancy, she could no longer button her bodice, the once pert frills had wilted, and her smock was a dirty grey. Her gown was stained in the armpits, spotted with food, and her skirt hung inches shorter in front. She had long ago thrown away her silk stockings, for they had been streaked with runs, and her shoes were scuffed out at the toes. She had not seen a mirror since she had been there, nor taken off her clothes, and though she had scrubbed her teeth on her smock she could feel a slick film as she ran her tongue over them. Her face was grimy and her hair, which she had to comb with her long finger-nails, snarled and greasy.
Despair on her face, Amber’s hands ran down over her body. But she was sharply aware that this might be her one chance, and that made her determination begin to rise. It’s dark in here, she told herself. He can’t see me very well—and maybe I can do something, maybe I can make myself look a little better someway. She decided that she would do what she could to improve her appearance and then go down to the Tap-Room, on the chance of seeing him, though admission there would cost her a precious shilling and a half.
