None of the young men was interested in matrimony, which had fallen into such disrepute that it was considered only as the last resort of a man so far encumbered by debt he could see no other way out. Good manners forbade a man and wife to love—scarcely permitted them even to like—each other, and a happy marriage was regarded with scorn, not envy. This was Amber’s view, for Luke Channell had convinced her that marriage was the most miserable state a woman could endure, and she talked as glibly as any rake about the absurdity of being a wife or husband. In her heart she held a secret reservation, for Bruce Carlton—but she was almost willing to believe now that she would never see him again.
Only once did her confident audacity receive a jar and that was when, about mid-October, she discovered that she was pregnant again. Penelope Hill had warned her that the most careful precautions sometimes failed, but she had never expected that they might fail her. For a time she was wildly distracted. All her pleasures would be ruined if she had to go again through the tedious uncomfortable ugly business of having a baby, and she determined that she would not do it. Even in Marygreen she had known women who had induced abortions when pregnancy recurred too often. She had wanted Bruce Carlton’s child, but she did not want another man’s now, or ever.
She talked to one of the girls she had met, a ’Change woman named Mally, who was rumoured to have been given a great sum of money by no one less than the Duke of Buckingham: the girl directed her to a midwife in Hanging Sword Alley who she said had a numerous clientele among young women of their class and way of life. Without telling Michael anything about it she went to the midwife, who set her for an hour or more over a pot of steaming herbs, gave her a strong dose of physic, and told her to ride out to Paddington and back in a hackney. To Amber’s immense relief some one, or all, of the remedies had been successful. Mally told her that every twenty-eight days she followed the practice herself of taking an apothecary’s prescription, a long soaking in a hot tub, and a ride in a hell-cart.
“Gentlemen nowadays,” said Mally, “you’ll find, have no patience with a woman who troubles ’em in that way. And, Lord knows, with matters as they stand a woman needs what good looks she can be mistress of.” She lifted up her plump breasts and crossed her silken ankles, giving a. smug little smile.
At first Amber was in considerable apprehension whenever she left the house—even though she habitually went cloaked and hooded and masked—for fear a constable would stop her. The memory of Newgate weighed on her like an incubus. But even more terrifying was the knowledge that if caught again she would very likely be either hanged or transported, and she was already so rabid a Londoner that one punishment seemed almost as bad as the other.
And then one day she learned something which seemed to offer her a solution, and an exciting new adventure as well. She had been surprised at the elegant clothes worn off-stage by all the actors she had seen, and one night she commented idly about it to Michael.
“Ye gods, they all look like lords. How much money do they get?”
“Fifty or sixty pound a year.”
“Why, Charles Hart had on a sword tonight must have cost him that much!”
“Probably did. They’re all head over ears in debt.”
Amber, who was getting ready for bed, now backed up to have him unlace the tight little boned busk she wore. “Then I don’t envy ’em,” she said, jingling the bracelet on her right wrist. “Poor devils. They won’t look so spruce in Newgate.”
Michael was concentrating on the busk, but at last he had it unlaced and gave her a light slap on the rump. “They won’t go to Newgate. An actor can’t be arrested, except on a special warrant which must be procured from the King.”
She swirled around, sudden eager interest on her face. “They can’t be arrested! Why?”
“Why—because they’re his Majesty’s servants, and enjoy the protection of the Crown.”
Well—
That
This was not the first time, however, that she had cast covetous eyes toward the stage. Sitting with Michael in the pit, she had seen how the gallants all stared at the actresses and flocked back to the tiring-room after the play to paw over them and take them out to supper. She knew that they were kept by some of the greatest nobles at Court, that they dressed magnificently, occupied handsome lodgings and often had their own coaches to ride in. They seemed—for all that they were treated with a certain careless contempt by the very men who courted them—to be the most fortunate creatures on earth. Amber was filled with envy to see all this attention and applause going to others, when she felt that she deserved it at least as much as they.
