Amber glanced back, smiling. “Bess is going?” She shrugged. “Well, much I care if she’s in a rage or no. Let her just say something to me and I’ll—”
“Never mind, my dear. I don’t want another brawl in my house. Go into the kitchen with Black Jack and Pall until she’s gone.”
Amber hesitated for a moment but finally turned and went into the other room. After a few minutes they heard Bess’s high-heeled shoes coming down the stairs, Mother Red-Cap’s voice talking to her, though Bess did not answer, and then with a bang she was gone. Black Jack proposed a toast to the peaceful life, and he and Amber presently wandered back into the parlour and sat down to play a game of cards.
They had spent interminable hours at cards and dice, for they did not go out on business more than once or twice a week—sometimes even less—and the long days and nights had to be passed somehow. Black Jack had taught her every trick in a gambler’s repertoire—palming, slurring, knapping, the brief—and in seven months she had attained to a very creditable proficiency. She felt that she could hold her own now at a table with any lord or lady in the kingdom.
After a while Blueskin came in and they started to play at putt, the favourite tavern game and one which had probably been the undoing of more country-squires’ sons than any other. It was three or four hours before she went upstairs to her own room, and there she found Bess’s final gesture to the rival she despised. Her smocks and gowns and petticoats littered the room, ripped and slashed to pieces. There were torn fans, gloves cut in two, cloaks hacked by scissors, and she had dumped the contents of the chamber-pot onto the remnants of Amber’s finest gown.
Black Jack promised to find Bess and give her the beating she deserved, but she had disappeared from Sanctuary and left not a trace, and they all knew it would never be possible to seek her out in the great sprawling city with its half-million inhabitants. She could lose herself in the warrens of Clerkenwell or St. Pancras, in the glutted seafaring center of Wapping, or in the alleys and courts of the Mint across the river in Southwark.
It was a bad shock to Amber; she decided that her life was cursed and that she would never get out of Whitefriars. She became gloomy and despondent, trailed listlessly about the house, and was sullenly bad-tempered with all of them. She hated Bess and Black Jack and Mother Red-Cap, Pall and Blueskin and the house-cat, even herself.
No matter what I do, she thought, no matter how hard I work and how much I save, there’s always something happens! I’ll never get out! I’ll die in this stinking hole!
Three days after Bess had gone Mother Red-Cap came into the bedroom and found Amber lying on her back, stretched out straight with her hands behind her head. She had been awake for at least two hours, mulling over her troubles, and the longer she thought about them the more insurmountable they became. She gave Mother Red-Cap a sulky glare, annoyed at being interrupted, but she did not speak.
“Well, my dear,” said Mother Red-Cap, as cheerfully as though Amber had greeted her in good humour. “This is no ordinary day for us, you know.”
Every morning she got up punctually at five, like an apprentice, put on her plain, neat dress, and began to go about her numberless tasks. From the moment she woke she was brisk and alert and ready for the day. The sight of such determined activity was irritating to Amber.
“It’s an ordinary day for me,” she said crossly.
“How now! Surely you’ve not forgot this is the day you’re going to Knightsbridge.”
“It’s not the day I’m going to Knightsbridge!”
“But, my dear child, this is most important. There’s a great deal of money involved.”
“It isn’t the first time there’s been a great deal of money involved—but I never saw much of it!” The subject had been discussed between them before, always with considerable bitterness, for though Amber protested she was being cheated of her rightful share Mother Red-Cap insisted that she got exactly what her services warranted, and Black Jack agreed. “Anyway, it’d be like Bess Columbine to have the constables waiting on us. She knows all our plans.”
“Nonsense, my dear. I think I know Bess better than you do, and I assure you she’s no such desperate creature as that. She hates the sight of a constable worse than a fishmonger hates a hard frost. But as for the money—I came up here to tell you I’ll double your earnest this time, to make up for the loss of your clothes.” Considering the matter settled she started toward the door. “Black Jack is below with Jimmy and Blueskin. They intend setting out within the hour.”
But as she went Amber flounced over on her side, scowled and called after her, “I’m not going!”
Mother Red-Cap did not reply, but within a few minutes Black Jack appeared and after half-an-hour’s coaxing and wheedling and assuring her that they had changed their plans so that Bess could not catch them if she tried, she got up and began to dress. Even so she would not leave before she had gone to consult an astrologer who lived in Mitre Court. Upon his assurance that the day was a propitious one for her she borrowed a cloak from Mother Red-Cap and, still sulking, left the Sanctuary with Pall and the three men.
Knightsbridge was a quiet little village on the West Bourne, just two miles and a half out of the city, and they reached it by taking a barge up the river to Tuthill Fields and then hiring a coach to the village. Because of its convenient situation Knightsbridge was much frequented by highwaymen who attacked travellers leaving or entering the city. Mother Red-Cap had had a message from the inn-keeper in her employ there that an old gentleman, Theophilus Bidulph, who came into London twice a year, was expected on the 8th of September.
Sometimes they had to wait two or three or more days for a victim to appear, but Amber heartily hoped that this time it would not be necessary. They went upstairs to the room assigned them and Pall immediately took off her shoes, complaining—as she had ever since leaving home—that they hurt her feet. Having nothing else to do Amber sat down to arrange her hair all over again, a process which could easily take half-an-hour, and when that was done she plagued Pall until the miserable girl finally admitted that she was with child by Black Jack Mallard. By nightfall she was distractedly bored, pacing uneasily about the room, hanging out the window and tapping her fingers on the sill, wishing she were anyone but who she was and anywhere in the world but there.
But at last she heard the pounding of horses’ hoofs, the clatter and bang of a coach; dogs began to bark and the ostlers ran out into the courtyard to greet the arriving guest. A few moments later there was a hasty tap at her door and the host told her Theophilus Bidulph had come and was ordering his supper downstairs. Amber waited about a quarter of an hour and then she went down herself.
Mr. Bidulph was standing beside the fireplace drinking a glass of ale and talking to the host and he did not see her until she spoke his name. Then he turned about in some surprise. He was a short merry-faced old gentleman with great bushy pointed eyebrows and the look of a good-natured imp.
“Why, Mr. Bidulph!” she cried, giving him a sparkling smile and holding out her hand.
He took it and made her a bow. “Your servant, madame.” In spite of his courtesy he was frankly puzzled, though he looked at her with interest.
“I vow I think you’ve forgotten me, sir.”
“By the mass, madame, I fear I have.”
“I’m Balthazar St. Michel’s eldest daughter, Ann. Last time we met I was no more than so high.” She bent a little, indicating with her flat palm a very tiny girl. “Surely you remember me now, sir? You used to dandle me on your knee.” She continued to smile at him.