Ladies in Waiting

by Laura L. Sullivan

  “Some, and bound to get more.”

  “Does he have a title?”

  “I suppose. His father was a lord.”

  “Eldest son? Then tell your beastly . . . I mean saintly mother and bed the boy before she can say no. Now, is my periwig straight? I’m off. Tell Catherine I have a headache tomorrow, if I’m still asleep when we’re called for. The way Nelly pours the brandy, I’m sure it will be true. Shows what an early education can do. Dream of your Harry, Beth, and you of your king, Zabby.”

  “What’s the use?” she said from under the covers. “He doesn’t care a fig for me.”

  “Oh, at least one fig, my dear. You could have him with a snap of your fingers.”

  Zabby peeked out. She knew Eliza was just saying it to make her feel better. She knew she was too odd-looking, too awkward to attract Charles. She was smart, but not witty, and wit was what counted at court. That or otherworldly elfin beauty such as dimwitted, giggling Frances possessed. No, Zabby knew she was useful as an assistant in Charles’s elaboratory, nothing more. Oh, perhaps he was grateful to her for saving his life, but gratitude is a far cry from love, or lust.

  She tossed and fretted beneath the covers for an hour, irrationally cross with everyone, even dear gentle Beth lying as still as a marble odalisque asleep at her side. She may have to face down her dragon mother, Zabby thought, but if she’s brave she can have her Harry, whoever he is, and the world will think no worse of her in a month’s time. There’s no hope for me.

  At last, Zabby drifted into a fitful sleep, and as soon as her breath came evenly, Beth slipped out of bed, pulled off the shift that covered her gown, and left to meet her lover.

  Chapter 16

  The Loving Father

  ELIZA SWUNG her golden watch as she strolled through the torch-lit streets to Nelly’s house. What a fine thing it is to have a kept woman, she thought. Even if she did no more than provide a cheerful room and a soothing voice, and of course a cover for Eliza’s own masculine disguise. She began to appreciate why a man might want to keep something soft and pretty and always merry for his own private enjoyment, to chase away the cares of the world.

  Not that I have a single care, Eliza thought gaily as she walked. But she was worried about her friends.

  Why doesn’t every woman choose to live like this? she wondered, not troubling to think that she could do what she chose because she had money and leisure. Every lass should put on a pair of breeches and seek out companions solely for their lively wit and conviviality. She didn’t mind at all that none of her companions (save Nelly) knew she was a woman. She didn’t want to be appreciated for her womanly charms, such as they were, and knew that no matter how clever and poetic she might be, when she was clad in a gown a man would always see her handsome dowry first, her bosom second, and her talent last of all. But out here in the world of theaters and coffeehouses and rowdy inns, they heard her words first and hardly noticed her person. She could craft a subtle compliment or barb it with a malicious twist into the most cutting insult. She could extemporize satire on the court or praise the reigning beauty, to the delight of her audience, so that they didn’t care about her face, never looked under her weskit for bound breasts, and if they noticed she had a full purse, it was only in gratitude that her wealth could extend a pleasant party for another hour or two.

  She’d been giving it a great deal of thought, and now resolutely decided she’d never marry at all. Why should I? she thought complacently as she smoothed her coat before letting herself into Nelly’s suite. Even an oldfellow might put his foot down if he knew what a merry life I lead when the sun sets, and I’ll have no man’s foot on me! What good is a husband except to make money or give one a title? I’ve got the first, and don’t care for the second. Heirs? Mayhap when I’m a doddering old harridan of fifty I’ll adopt a splendid young buck and make him my heir. Or Nelly here.

  “Hello, my sweet!” she said, and gave Nelly a kiss on the cheek. “Ye gads, what a sty this place is.”

  “Sorry,” Nelly said with an impish grin. “I never had an instant to clean up from last night.” There were walnut shells on the floor and shrimp tails on the table, and every candle was burned to a stump with trailing widow’s weeds of beeswax. “You should really hire me a servant.”

  “A servant knows all her master’s secrets, and I don’t want anyone knowing the master is a mistress and the mistress a free woman. At least, I trust you’re still free. You have been declining their offers, haven’t you?” Despite the public knowledge that the supposed Mr. Duncan had Nelly Gwynn in keeping, a great many men propositioned the delightful girl.

  “Mostly,” she said. “Sedley gave me this.” She held out a gold ring with a little winking diamond chip. “But I haven’t done anything to earn it yet.”

  “That cheap frippery shouldn’t buy him more than a smart slap. Don’t succumb to that impoverished beggar, my lass. If you mean to sell yourself, aim as high as you can. I see great things in your future—we all do, the queen included, or we wouldn’t trouble ourselves with you. You’re comfortable for now, and will be as long as you like. Take some time to look at the board before you make a play. Now, where shall we go tonight? Are there any parties? No? What about that show they’ve been crying up for the last week. Quarrell’s Miscellany, that’s it. Now slip your stockings on . . . no, not that pair, you sweet slattern. You’d think you were kept by the pig-man. Find a set without holes. Thank heaven you’re so lovely that no one cares if your hair’s a mess, but do wipe that smudge of coal dust off your nose. There!”

  Nelly was careless as a fairy, and always assumed she looked stunning—and she did.

  When they stepped out onto the street, Eliza flung back her head as if she were about to howl at the gibbous moon, and took a great breath of the foul London air. “I’d rather be a London commoner than a prince of Araby,” she said, and stumbled over the cobblestones when she tried to walk with her head up to the smoggy stars. “Isn’t it a grand life?”

  “Are you tipsy already?” Nelly asked.

  “Only on life. Oh, how glorious to be free! Is that the theater?” she asked a moment later. An inked sign was pasted on the wall, advertising a variety show starring Pious Philadelphia, depicted with a high stiff collar and a prim mouth.

  Nelly looked at it dubiously. It didn’t strike her as her sort of entertainment—or Eliza’s. “Perhaps this is a better entertainment for a Sunday morning,” she hinted, but Eliza dragged her in.

  “Come on, the doors are about to close. Trust me, from what I heard, you won’t be disappointed.”

  They nudged themselves a bit of space on an already crowded bench and swayed to see the dimly lit stage. Most of the men wore low-crowned hats that didn’t interfere with the tiered seating, but the fellow in front of them wore a high Puritan hat. Eliza nudged the portly man in the kidney with her boot and said, “Doff your cap, sir. The lady can’t see.”

  The man half turned, then snorted dismissively when he saw it was no more than a fashionably dressed youngster, and said, “I remove my hat before my God and my king, young man. Tend to your own cares.”

  He was obviously a provincial; a town man would have offered either a more polite response or one far more cutting, with his hand on his sword to follow cut with cut. An ill word could lead to a duel . . . or an anonymous midnight assault that might end with a lopped-off ear. Honor was a fine point, and one never knew when the fop sitting behind might be a deadly swordsman.

  But the Puritan had nothing to fear from Eliza. Though she wore a sword, even if she had the skill or the inclination she was in no state to use it. She had shrunk back, clutching Nelly’s hand painfully, her eyes wide with shock. She knew that profile, that voice . . . why, she knew that very hat, black beaver with the bit of Flanders point, steamed to curl just so to sit above a set of prominent ears.

  It was Eliza’s father.

  She was terrified. She might have told her friends she had her father under her thumb, but now that
he was unaccountably here, in the flesh, she grew weak at the thought of what he’d do to her if he found her out. At the very least, he’d take her back to the country, and that was as good as a death sentence to Eliza now. He might have her thrown in an institution. Like many of the courtiers, she’d toured Bedlam, laughing at the crazed inmates who thought themselves birds or clouds, the men who swore they were women, the women who strutted like men. No, however furious, he’d never open himself up to that kind of shame. He’d have her quietly bundled into a coach by three strong ruffians and carted off to Scotland to be kept under guard for the rest of her life. Then he’d marry some hussy and get himself a son, and forget all about her.

  “Are you unwell?” Nelly asked her benefactress.

  Eliza took a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself. To rise now would attract unwanted attention. She was just glad the theater was too dim for her father to recognize his own daughter in male guise. There was nothing for it but to hold fast and wait for the end of the show, when she could leave quickly and be lost in the crowd.

  As the show progressed she began to gain a measure of confidence. He’d never recognize her, and if he did, why, she was such a deft hand at cozening the fond old fool, she’d just spin him some fabulous story and he’d accept it. What could she say, now? Something near the truth—that she was here on the queen’s orders. He’d certainly ask the queen about it himself, and the queen was not adept at lying, but if Eliza could get to her first and give her a little coaching, she’d certainly confirm that she and the ladies in waiting had taken an interest in saving an unfortunate girl from the degradation of the streets. Yes, that had a pious ring to it. Almost assured now, she settled against Nelly and tried to enjoy the show.

  I’m as free as ever, she thought. Even though my father sits before me, I still manage to do exactly as I please, and the devil take any who stand in my way!

  The first act featured a man who played the viol with his feet, which struck Eliza as unnecessary because he had a perfectly good set of hands. His music was atrocious, so perhaps he found people more forgiving of his instrument’s caterwauls when they were produced with the wrong appendages. Then came a man with a pair of marionettes, and he was likely very good, but he spoke in Italian and she couldn’t follow the plot the jigging dolls acted out. Then a man swallowed swords, a woman ate fire, and a dwarf did nothing at all save be diminutive.

  Last would come the main act, the Pious Philadelphia.

  In front of her, Eliza’s father spoke in querulous tones to his companion, a man whose face Eliza could not see.

  “This isn’t at all what I expected, Lord Ayelsworth. The handbill led me to believe this was to be a performance of hymns and devotions, yet all I see are tricks fit for a heathen and freaks of nature.”

  The young man pulled at his collar and said, “Believe me, sir, I had no idea. I am as flummoxed as your good self.”

  Ayelsworth . . . she knew that name from somewhere. It rushed back to her: the insincere compliments, the blob of ink on his multihued petticoat breeches, the look of terror when she obliquely threatened his cods. It was her most recent suitor!

  She hardly recalled him as a distinct entity. So many men had courted her, or tried to, for a day or two at most until she drove them away. He was like every other—vain, egoistic, dandified, a parrot of popular wit without an original thought in his head. What on earth was her father doing with him?

  “Ah well, it makes me appreciate a quiet country life . . . and yet it makes me yearn all the more to have a hand in state affairs, so that perhaps in years to come, London and all of England can learn to find pleasure in more decorous pastimes. Why, damnation aside, can you imagine the cost of keeping London alight at all hours of the night? A nation that goes to bed with the sun would save money enough to feed the destitute and fund an army!” Her father shook his head, gray wisps of hair a trembling nimbus in the candle and rushlight. “How long, d’you think, before I can make a difference? You say once you are wed you can get me a position close to His Majesty?”

  “In a heartbeat, sir.”

  “And I won’t have to do anything . . . degrading?”

  “You won’t have to do anything at all. Particularly if all you care for is a job title and access to the king. A sinecure without a salary is as easy to come by as a bawd in a brothel. Er . . . ahem . . . as a novice in a nunnery. Once I marry your daughter you’ll have a real connection to the throne. I’m thirty-third in line, you know. Ah, no, thirty-fourth, because my great-uncle’s new bride has whelped a boy, but you know how precarious childhood is.”

  Eliza’s face became ghastly, and she didn’t hear the rest. Marry that poxy Ayelsworth? Was her father mad? Senile?

  She almost leaped to her feet on the spot. It had been an easy matter to dismiss him once. Surely she could do it again. Then she remembered her clothes, the hour, and the fact that she was in the company of a woman who, while not exactly a whore, would certainly be taken for one.

  It would be a weak position for attack, to say the least.

  She took a deep breath, glad she wasn’t wearing boning and busk that would have prevented it. It was vexing, certainly, but she could talk her way out of it as soon as she saw her father under more appropriate circumstances. If necessary, she could even hint that she was on the verge of arranging an even more splendid alliance for herself, or that the queen valued her service too much to let her go for at least another year. Failing that, she could threaten Ayelsworth’s cods again. That did the trick to a nicety almost a year ago. He just needed a reminder.

  Somewhat calmer, she settled down to enjoy a round of juggling before Philadelphia came onstage. After all, he couldn’t force her to marry. She had to sign the paper and speak the words, and no manner of threats or cajolement could induce her to say “I do” to simpering, mealy Lord Ayelsworth.

  “Are you certain she will marry me, sir?” Ayelsworth asked. “She seemed . . . reluctant before.”

  “She was but a child. By now she’s likely struck with the green sickness herself, and eager to be wed. But if not, no matter. I’ve put up with her objections long enough. No one was good enough for her. At that rate I’d never have grandchildren—and proper heirs! What use is a girl, after all, except to get boys?” Eliza’s fists clenched. “Get a few sons on her and she’ll forget she ever objected to you. By then I’ll have the king’s attention and finally put my fortune to some use for this poor benighted nation of ours. For England’s sake, I must have access to the court, and the only way I can do it is by allying Eliza to a nobleman close to His Majesty. You wait, Lord Ayelsworth. In a year or two you’ll see some changes here. No more debauchery and license. Why, I heard the queen was once seen in trousers! Pah! They say she’s barren, too. Perhaps I can convince him to do as Henry did and get himself a good, honest, fruitful English girl for his bed and bride. They say there’s a Frances Stewart . . .”

  But supplanting a royal, even an unpopular queen, was treason, and Ayelsworth steered the conversation back to his reluctant wife-to-be. “What if she protests, or pleads her case with the king?”

  Eliza heard her good, honest, loving Puritan father laugh and say, “A draft of datura, two strong men to bind and carry her, a fast carriage, and you can have her wedded and bedded before she knows what she’s about. There’s no annulment then. Keep her drugged and you can even get my first grandson for me before she can naysay you. I’ve waited long enough for her to make up her mind. She’s been so carefully raised, almost cloistered, that she fears consummation like the devil. But virginity does no woman any good for long. What’s a treasure that’s never spent, eh? Won’t have my girl be a medlar, rotten before she’s ripe!”

  Ayelsworth chuckled and Pious Philadelphia stepped onstage, prim and saintly, as assistants assembled a sort of box around her lower half.

  Eliza didn’t know what to do. She wanted to crack their two heads together. She wanted to dissolve into tears. She wanted to flee and she wanted to lea
p on the stage and denounce her father for a hypocrite who preached goodness but planned to have his daughter drugged, kidnapped, and raped.

  But she did nothing, because she realized what she should have known all along: she was powerless.

  She might don masculine guise and strut through the night. She might write as well as any male playwright, with her work to be put on by the King’s Company that very autumn. She might have the mind, and the courage, to do anything her heart desired . . . and yet because she was a woman, she could be raped into marriage and, once bound, not be able to do a thing about it. Why, even the king would take my father’s side, she thought bitterly. He needs my father’s money. He’ll forget that I’ve cared for his wife, that he’s danced with me and exchanged pleasantries.

  What her father had proposed was not strictly speaking legal, but it was a common enough occurrence. Young girls with fortunes were cajoled, coerced, and yes, even abducted into giving themselves and their fortunes. And most of the time, at least one parent was complicit. Marriages were arranged, and though in theory consent was necessary, in practice a proposal was less a case of Will you? than You will.

  “The Pious Philadelphia will now recite from the Bible, beginning with the forty-fifth Psalm,” said the announcer. “She is so holy, so devout, so pure and saintlike in her nature that nothing will distract her from her devotions. As the Christians in Rome prayed with the light of heaven in their eyes even as lions rent their bones, so does Philadelphia ignore mere flesh and keep her mind on higher things.”

  “This is more like what I came to see,” Eliza’s father said, and settled back with a saintly air.

  “Now we but need three volunteers from the audience, to test her faith. You sir, and you, and yes, you lad, if you can free your hand from your miss’s pocket. Do whatever you wish, gentlemen. I vow she won’t know or care.”