She told him her own name and the story of her misfortunes, though she omitted altogether Lord Carlton’s part in it and pretended that the baby had been gotten by her husband. Luke Channell’s name, since she had used it in Whitefriars, was no longer of any value to her and she made Michael promise to keep secret the fact that she had ever been married; she considered that that mistake was over and done and absolutely refused to think of Luke as her husband.
About a fortnight after Black Jack’s death Michael went down to Ram Alley to visit Mother Red-Cap and convince her that Mrs. Channell had gone from London and would never return. He went partly out of curiosity, to see what the old woman’s reaction to the recent events had been, and also because Amber begged him to get the imitation gold ear-rings she had left behind, telling him that her aunt had given them to her just before she had gone away. He brought them back, and some news as well.
“She’s satisfied you’re gone. I told her I’d had a letter from you and that you were back with your family and would never so much as think of London again.”
Amber laughed, taking a bite out of a big red apple. “Did she believe you?”
“She seemed to. She said that you should never have left the country in the first place—and that London was no place for a girl like you.”
“I’ll warrant she’s running distracted to have lost me. I made her a mighty good profit, let me tell you.”
“Sweetheart, Mother Red-Cap wouldn’t run distracted if she lost her own head. She’s got another girl she’s training to take your place—a pretty little wench she found somewhere who’s with child and unmarried and full of gratitude for the kind old lady who’s promised to help her out of her difficulties.”
Amber made a sound of disgust, throwing the apple-core across the room into the fireplace. “That old flesh-broker would pimp for the devil himself if there was a farthing to be got by it!”
Most of her time, when she was alone, she spent learning to read and to write and she undertook both with the same enthusiasm she had had for her dancing and singing and guitar lessons. Hundreds of times she wrote her name and Bruce’s, drawing big hearts around them, but she always burnt the papers before Michael should see them—partly because she knew it would not be tactful to let the man who was keeping her find that she was in love with someone else, but also because she could not bear the thought of discussing Bruce with anyone. Her own signature was a long sprawl of which only the initial letters were made large and distinguishable, and when she showed Michael specimens of her handwriting he laughed and told her it was so illegible it might be mistaken for that of a countess.
One wet early October afternoon she lay stretched out flat on her stomach on the bed, mouthing over the text of one of the bawdy illustrated books which he had given her to practice on, an English edition of Aretino’s sonnets. Hearing the key turn in the lock and the door of the other room open, she called over her shoulder: “Michael? Come in here! I can’t make this out—”
His voice, solemn for once, answered her. “Come here, nephew.”
Thinking that he was playing some joke she leapt off the bed and ran to the doorway, but stopped on the threshold with a gasp of astonishment and dismay. For with him was an old man, a sour prim thin-nosed old gentleman with a forbidding scowl and a look of having been preserved in vinegar. Amber took a startled step backward and one hand went to the throat of her deeply opened white shirt, but it was too late. He could never mistake her for a boy now.
“You said that you were entertaining your nephew, sirrah!” said the old man sternly, drawing down his tufted brows and frowning back at Michael. “Where is he?”
“That is he, Mr. Gripenstraw,” said Michael, respectfully, but nevertheless with an air of whimsical unconcern.
Mr. Gripenstraw looked at Amber again, over the tops of his square-cut green spectacles, and he screwed his mouth from side to side. Amber’s hand dropped and she spoke to Michael, pleading.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I thought you were alone.”
He made a gesture, motioning her into the bedroom, and she went, closing the door but standing next to it so that she could hear what was said between them. Oh, God in Heaven! she thought despairingly, rubbing the palms of her hands together.
“Well, Mr. Godfrey—and what excuse have you to make this time?”
“None, sir.”
“How long has this baggage been on your premises?”
“One month, sir.”
