He was less impressed than the Lady Debtors had been. “Four hundred. God’s blood, I can take that much in an easy night’s work. What happened?”
“My husband stole every penny I had and ran off and left me with the debts—”
“And the lullabye-cheat.” He glanced significantly at her belly. “Well—” He poured a glass of white wine for her and a smaller one of brandy for himself and flipped a coin to the waiter, giving a casual salute to the brim of his hat. “Here’s to you! May he come back soon and get you out of crampings.” He tossed it down at a gulp, as a gentleman should, poured another glass and turned to look at her shrewdly.
Amber drank hers down too, for she was thirsty, but a scowl puckered her eyebrows. “He’ll never come back. And I hope he never does—the ungrateful pimp!”
Black Jack laughed and gave a low whistle. “You say that with such spleen I’d go near to believe you really are married.”
She stared at him, her eyes sparkling. “Well! And why shouldn’t you believe it, pray! Why the devil does everyone think that’s just some tale I tell!”
He poured another glass for each of them. “Because, sweetheart, a girl like you who says her husband left her, probably never had one at all.”
She smiled then and her voice purred. “The way I look now I think I’d fright away a better man than a husband.”
“My eyes are good, sweetheart. They see under six layers of dirt—and they see a tearing beauty.” For a moment they sat looking at each other and then at last he said, “I’ve got a room with a window on the third floor. Would you like to smell some fresh air and look at the sky?” He half-smiled at the invitation but got to his feet and reached down his hand to help her.
As they walked out the entire room set up a bellowing and laughing, shouting obscenities and advice to Black Jack, who waved his hand at them but did not glance around.
The rooms were furnished like those in a low-class tavern catering to gay parties, the furniture scarred and much initialled, but certainly luxurious compared to the rest of the jail. The walls were covered with ribald words and sentences, crude drawings, names, and dates. Black Jack told her that the quarters had cost him three hundred pounds. Every man who bought the office of Jailor at Newgate went out of it rich, if not beloved.
Black Jack was often gone, for he had a great many visitors and social obligations to fulfill. But each time he came back they would laugh together over the fine lady—masked of course —who had hinted that she was at the very least a countess and had offered to solace his lonely hours. Once he stole a gold bracelet from some admirer and gave it to her. The highwaymen were the aristocrats of the underworld and they enjoyed a general popularity. Their names were well-known, their exploits discussed in taverns and on street-corners, they were much visited when in jail and when they took their last ride in a cart up Tyburn Hill they were attended by great and sympathetic crowds.
Amber spent most of her time at the window, swallowing in the fresh air as though she could never get enough, standing with her arms braced on the window-sill and looking out over the city. She could see the favoured prisoners down below in the courtyard, walking or standing in groups, some of them playing hand-ball or pitch-and-toss, for though it was now the end of January the weather continued mild and the streets were dusty. The tar-smeared quarters of the men hanged after the fanatic uprising earlier that month still lay exposed there and flies and wasps buzzed over the heap in angry masses.
Four days after Amber had met him Black Jack made another of his miraculous escapes, and she went with him. Every bolt, every door, every gate had been liberally greased with the King’s coin and each swung open at a touch. In the street a hackney waited, the door ajar; they got in swiftly and rattled off down Old Bailey Street. Black Jack, settling into the seat beside her, slapped his thigh and gave one of his thunderous laughs.
Suddenly a woman’s voice spoke, tart and peevish. “ ’Sdeath, Jack! That’s a fine stink you’ve got! You bring it out every time you go into that damned jail!”
That, Amber knew, must be Bess Columbine, whom he called his “buttock.” Now he introduced them, saying, “Bess, this is Mrs. Channell.”
The two women exchanged cool murmurous greetings and all three of them lapsed into silence. It was only a few minutes, however, until the coach stopped, and as she got out Amber saw that they were at the edge of the river. They climbed swiftly into the barge that waited there and the water-man started upstream; it was perfectly black and moonless and though none of them could see the others Amber felt Bess staring insistently at her and could sense her jealous hostility.
Much I care, she thought, if she likes my company or not!
