Ambergate (11 page)

“Wait. That’s a nice piece. That wood comes from faraway places. I seen such trees growin’. Could fetch you a good price.”

“It’s not for sale,” I said. “I have the offer of employment here. I’ve no need of money”

“Lucky girl,” the sailor said, smiling a broad, white smile. “I don’t like to think of you goin’ hungry.” He looked at my
clothes and smiled again. “Remember me if you change your mind—Butley by name. I could bring you a good price back from the
Capital. Gravengate Docks is my regular run, takin’ brick or salt along the coast.”

“Gravengate?” I breathed.

“Gravengate. This is my girl here—the
Redwing.
” He gestured at a broad, three-masted barge lying against the quay, its rust-colored sails furled. “And if I’m not mistaken,
you’re from the Capital yourself.” He came closer. “Regular number of us here, there be, not just the summer plague-runners
but soldiers too.”

I was suddenly frightened. For all his face was so friendly, I wondered if he could be being paid by the Militia to interrogate
strangers. “Do soldiers come here to Poorgrass?” I asked, my heart beating hard.

“To Poorgrass? ‘Course they come, for a bit of off-duty relaxation, if you understand my meanin’.” He winked. “It’s wild fenland
where they are, the military camp at Windrush Creek. Only sheep. No ladies.”

I relaxed. “You know Poorgrass well, then, Sir?”

“Well? Me and Shadow”—he gestured at the small boy—“are back here all the time, ain’t that the truth, Shadow?”

The boy looked up and nodded, and the cat weaved round him, purring. The tip of its tail was white, otherwise it was coal
black. “And Plushey,” the boy said.

“And Mister Plush, can’t forget him.”

I made a decision. “Would you know the whereabouts of Gull House on Kaye Street, Sir?”

His bright eyes measured me. “Is that where you’ll be workin’?”

“It might be,” I said carefully.

“It’s by the stream, what they call a gull local.” He jerked his head. “Follow the causeway till you can’t get no further,
then the street roundwise. Can’t miss it.” He was chuckling to himself now.

I felt uneasy; I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Now his eyes were on the amber at my neck. I pulled my jacket collar
together and turned away. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Wait. Shadow will go with you. He knows Kaye Street like the back of his hand, don’t you, Shadow? You don’t want to be hangin’
‘round Kaye Street in the dark tryin’ to find your way, a young lady like you.”

Chuckling again, he bent to his ropes, the cat rubbing against his legs. The small boy sprang ahead of me back along the quay,
as nimble and delicate in his movements as the barge cat. “I’ve nothing to give you for this, I’m afraid, Shadow,” I said.
“I’ve no money till I’m paid.”

He grinned at me, his dirty face mischievous. “I’ll come and collect it later, then, Miss!”

“Is that your father?” I nodded behind us at the sailor’s back.

“Lawks, no. That’s the bargemaster.” ‘Is brother is mate and I’m barge boy. There’s more crew to help with the loadin’ and
unloadin’, but I do the important stuff like climbin’ the
riggin’ and lookin’ after Plush.” He puffed out his scrawny chest and then laughed mockingly at himself. “’E’s important too,
is Plush, ‘cos ‘e eats the rats.”

I wondered if he were an orphan, if he’d ever been in a Home. A shapeless woolen tunic hid his thin forearms and any branding
mark. “Why are you called Shadow?”

His lively little face lit up. “It’s a nickname, see?”

“I’ve a nickname too,” I said. “It’s Scuff. Maybe I had a proper name, a given name, once, but I don’t remember it. I was
nicknamed Scuff because I wore shoes that had belonged to someone with bigger feet.”

He looked down at my borrowed boots and grinned again. “I’m called Shadow for a reason too.” He pulled me closer. He smelled
of warm grass and salt. “I’m like a shadow, see?” he whispered. “That’s ‘cos I’m a spy for ‘imself, for the barge-master,
Mr. Butley.”

“Why does he want you to spy, Shadow?” I asked warily.

He looked at me sideways, put his finger to the side of his nose. “Others could be jealous of our cargo, know what I mean?
I keep a watch on ‘em, report back. They don’t know I’m listenin’. I’m just a shadow on the wall and ever so small.”

I was relieved. “You sound useful, Shadow.”

“Oh, I am.” His eyes glinted. “’Ey, Miss Scuff! Could do the same for you, report back. If there’s anything—anyone—you want
watchin’.”

I shook my head quickly.

“You could pay me—later,” he offered chirpily.

“What makes you think I need someone to watch for me?” I said, my heart beating faster.

He laughed carelessly. “Why, everyone’s watchin’ some person else, ain’t they?”

On the causeway I was afraid of losing him, but he stuck by my side like a limpet, grabbing hold of my jacket to guide me.
They were beginning to light braziers and lamps outside the warehouses. Once I stopped to warm my cold hands, but Shadow pulled
me on. “You shouldn’t stop, Miss.”

It was true I could see no other females about in the fading light. I was doubly glad Shadow was with me. I might have missed
the continuation of Kaye Street altogether, for the causeway ended abruptly in the brick wall of a dockyard and there was
only a dark alleyway between the wall and the last warehouse. Shadow darted into the gap, but I hesitated.

“Can this be right?” I said in a low voice, for some seamen were looking at us curiously.

He nodded. “Yes, Miss, you’ll see the Gull in a minute.”

And he was right, for the narrow gap between wall and warehouse widened at the end into a puddled street with a wide, open
drain down one side, full of rushing water. In some places it had risen to pour over the cobbles. The wind funneled down between
the buildings on either side of us and rippled the shiny surface of the water into tiny sharp waves, but it could not blow
away the stench of sewage.

I looked at the water in horror in the dusk. Shadow pulled me onto a line of raised stepping stones. “This way.”

There was no one about. The buildings that lined the street appeared to be warehouses, shuttered and dark. Then we passed
an ironworks. The main part of town lay to our
left. I was filled with doubt. Was this where Miss Jennet’s relatives would live?

Then I heard creaking in the wind. “See,” said Shadow, and pointed.

There was a house on the slope above us, a town house once fine and imposing, with a brick exterior, four stories, and wide
stone steps leading up to a pair of elegant, painted pillars that supported a porch over the front door. Over the years, the
paint had peeled away, and salt and rain had eaten at the exposed brick. A faded sign swung in the rising wind.

I looked at it, scarce believing my eyes: a sheep by a wriggling blue stream, crudely painted. Miss Jennet had never said
I’d be working in a tavern.

“Shadow, this can’t be the house!”

He shrugged. “Long Gull, you said.”

He was fidgeting, looking up at the windows of the house. I could see candlelight on the first floor, where the shutters had
not yet been closed.

“No, no—Gull House—it was your master who said…”

“Plenty of ladies come ‘ere, Miss. I’ve brought ‘em. You’ll be right enough. They’ll give you a bed for the night, least.”

My heart sank. I remembered such places—houses of ill-repute—from my time in the Capital. “It’s the wrong house,” I said firmly.

“Is it Gull ‘ouse you want, then?” He looked up at the house again, then back at me.

“Do you know Gull House, Shadow?” I said suspiciously.

He looked shifty. “Could do. Plenty of grand ‘ouses in the
center of town.” He began to cough, a barking cough that echoed down the empty cobbles. He wiped his mouth, his thin chest
heaving, his large eyes fixed on mine.

I thought of trailing after him in the growing darkness of a strange town, a boy whom I didn’t even know I could trust to
find it. While I was hesitating, the door opened as if on cue.

A woman stood on the step. In the dusk I couldn’t make out her face, young or old, but her clothes were tight around her shapely
figure, her hair down and loose over her shoulders.

“Mistress Bundish?” I said uncertainly, and even as I said it I knew my misgivings were justified. “Mistress Elizabeth Bundish?”

There was a pause. She turned to Shadow—I couldn’t see her expression—and then back to me. “And who’s asking for her?” Her
accent was genteel, yet she was no lady, I thought. All I wanted now was to leave this place as fast as possible.

“I’m sorry,” I said politely, climbing the steps so she could see me. “I believe I have mistaken the address. I’m a stranger
here…”

“A mistake? Then why don’t you come in, my dear, and let us sort it out? It will be dark soon and at the least we may lend
you a lantern.”

Her voice was gentle and kind; I should not have judged her so quickly.

“Go on, Miss,” urged Shadow. “We could do wiv the light.” He was jittering about on the step below me, as if he were cold.

Some instinct rose to protect me. I stepped back, almost at the same moment as Shadow must have pushed me forward. Encumbered
by the box, I almost fell at the lady’s feet, and might have done so, if she hadn’t gripped my arm herself to raise me up.
Her hand beneath my arm was like a claw.

I saw her other hand go out to Shadow, press something into his outstretched palm. Suddenly I was inside the wide, candlelit
hall, and Shadow, with a gleeful jingle of coins, had disappeared into the darkness outside as the door shut.

Immediately, I struggled free of her powerful clutch on my arm, but already she had whisked a key from a pocket at her waist
and locked the front door.

We gazed at each other, breathing fast: she with exertion, me with fear. She was a tall, wiry woman, richly dressed in stiff
violet taffeta. “You are a pretty one,” she murmured, her rouged lips smiling. “I could see it even in the halflight.”

“What is this?” I faltered. “You are not Elizabeth Bundish, are you? Why are you imprisoning me here? I’ve nothing valuable
in my box, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Your box?” She looked down and saw it clutched to me. “My dear, it’s not your box I want.” She gave a gurgle of laughter.

I looked around wildly, at the graceful staircase curving upwards at the end of the hall and the silken chairs standing
either side of an open doorway. Of course she would not want my box. “What then?” I demanded.

She did not answer. Instead, she took out the key again, slow and deliberate. She held it aloft so I should mark it, then
she unlocked the front door. “Leave, if you wish,” she said softly, “you are free to go,” and she held the door open so I
could see the dusk pressing down on the black cobbles and the greasy, oozing water. “I must warn you that a pretty girl—so
young too—should not be alone at night in Poorgrass Kayes.” She clicked her tongue. “As a mother once, I find it beholden
on me to offer you a bed for the night. Indeed, I cannot bear to let you out again. It would be very irresponsible of me.”

I hesitated, looking out at the darkness. When I turned she was watching me expectantly, even humorously, thin brows arched.
Her angular face and crooked smile did not seem evil. There was a warmth about her, a charm. A fire crackled from the room
along the hall; and there was a rich smell of cooking meat in the air, and of sweet-scented flowers.

She gestured again at the open door. Cold night air seeped damply against my face. “There, leave if you wish.” She parted
her hands to indicate it was my choice, not hers, and the candlelight gleamed on her silver bracelets.

I looked at her direct in her black-ringed eyes. “I would be free to leave in the morning?” I said, to make certain.

“You need to find your Mistress—Bundish, you said? I can help you find her, I’m sure. I know the town well. Let us discuss
it properly tomorrow when you’ve rested.”

“I can’t pay you for a bed,” I said stiffly.

She shook her head, put her arm around my shoulders.

She was wearing a musky perfume; face powder had creased around her eyes. I hung back from her closeness, but she wouldn’t
allow me; and somehow she was leading me down the hall and into a parlor, golden with candlelight and hung with wallpaper
of yellow silk. A china bowl filled with hyacinths sat on a polished chest. She pressed me down on a couch amongst velvet
cushions and perched herself opposite on an embroidered chair, leaning forward to tinkle a little brass bell on the chest.

It was delightfully warm and cozy; the fire blazed merrily in the wrought-iron grate. It was so long since I had been in a
house, sat comfortably—so long since I had been truly warm! I put my box down carefully on the parquet floor and looked around,
avoiding the lady’s appraising gaze.

This house did not seem like a tavern, unless they had no visitors. Where were the drinkers? The noise of ribald conversation?
The clash of pewter and chink of glass? Shortly after the bell had rung, a girl poked her head around the door, saw me, and
stared. She looked a few years older than I was, her fair hair in ringlets. “Connie, fetch the decanter and two glasses,”
said the woman.

I shook my head when the drink—an amber liquid in a small, stemmed glass—was offered. The girl, Connie, having brought the
glasses on a tray, had now disappeared after
further inspection of me, and we were alone again. I felt almost too tired to speak.

“Drink,” urged the woman kindly. “A sip or two. It will do you good. You are much fatigued, I can see that.”

It was true, the drink did me good; a glow suffused me from my head to my feet. I had meant to take one sip only, but found
I had swallowed the lot, and that my glass had been refilled. My head began to swim. The woman took an enameled tin from a
corner cupboard and offered me a savory biscuit, then another. They were delicious: salty and sharp with cheese. I wolfed
down several, though I tried to eat them slowly; I licked my fingers for the last of the taste when I thought she wasn’t looking.