He was holding a purse above his head. Rose had stepped back, staring at the purse with fascinated eyes.
“Where did you … find that?” she asked.
“Inside your bodice, girl. Where you put it.”
“’Tis a lie,” said Rose. “I never saw it before.”
He had caught at the drapery at Rose’s neck, cut low to show her pretty bosom. He tore the charming dress which was a present from her lover.
“Lying slut!” cried the merchant. “Thieving whore!” He appealed to others sitting at the tables. “Must we endure this treatment? ’Tis time we taught these bawds a lesson.”
He kicked the table; it was cheap and fragile, and it was smashed against the wall.
“I pray you, good sir,” soothed Madam Gwyn, “I pray you curb your anger against Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Rose is ready to make amends….”
“I never saw the purse,” cried Rose. “I did not take the purse.”
The merchant paused and ceremoniously opened the purse. “There’s ten shillings missing from it,” he said. “Come, give me what you’ve taken, slut.”
“I have not had your money,” protested Rose.
The man took her by the shoulders. “Give it me, you slut, or I’ll bring a charge against you.” His little pig’s eyes were glistening. His face, thought Nell, was like a boar’s head which had been pickled for several days. She hated him; if she had not grown accustomed to keeping herself under control in the cellar, she would have rushed at once to Rose’s defence. But she was afraid; for that which she saw in the man’s eyes was lust as well as the desire for revenge; and she was afraid of lust.
He had turned now to the company. He shouted: “Look to your own pockets. They lure you here; they drug their waters; how many of you have left this place poorer men than when you entered it? How many of you have paid too dear for what you’ve had? Come! Shall we allow these bawds to rob us?”
One of the men shouted: “What will you do, friend?”
“What will I do!” he screamed. He had caught Rose by the shoulder. “I’ll take this whore and make an example of her, that I will.”
Madam Gwyn was beside him, rubbing her fat hands together. “Mrs. Rose is my prettiest girl, sir. Mrs. Rose is longing for a chance to be kind to you.”
“I doubt it not!” roared the man. “But she comes to her senses too late. I came here for a good honest whore, not a jailbird.”
“I’m no jailbird!” cried Rose.
“Is that so, Miss?” snarled the man. “Then you soon will be. Come, my friends.”
And with that he dragged Rose to the door. The men who were sitting about the tables rose and formed a bodyguard about him. “Take the thief to jail!” they chanted. “That’s the way to treat a thief.”
Rose was pale with horror.
Everyone was leaving the cellar. They could visit a bawdy-house at any time; but it was not so often that they could see one of the patrons drag a girl to jail.
“I’ve been robbed here more than once, I swear it,” declared a little man.
“And I!” “And I!” the cry went up.
Nell moved then; she ran after the group who were pushing their way into the street. Already down in Cole-yard the flesh-merchant was calling out where he intended taking Rose, and crowds were gathering.
“A pickpocket whore!” Nell heard the words. “Caught stealing money.”
“’Tis a lie. ’Tis a lie!” cried Nell.
Nobody looked at her. She fought her way to Rose. Poor Rose, bedraggled and weeping so bitterly, her pretty gown ruined, her pretty lips begging, pleading, swearing that she was innocent.
Nell caught at the flesh-merchant’s arm. “Let her go. Let my sister go!”
He saw her, and as she clung to his arm he raised it and swung her off her feet.
“It’s the imp who serves strong waters. I’ll warrant she’s as quick with her fingers as the other. We’ll take her along with us, eh, my friends?”
“Aye, take her along. Take the whole lot along. Have them searched, and have them hanged by the neck, as all thieves should be.”
Nell caught one glimpse of Rose’s anguished face. Nell’s own was distorted with rage. She dug her teeth into the flesh-merchant’s hand, gave him a kick on the shin, and so startled him that, letting out a cry of pain, he relaxed his hold on her.
She screamed: “Run, Rose. Run!” as she herself darted through the crowd. But Rose could not so easily make her escape; the crowd saw to that; and in a few seconds the flesh-merchant had regained his hold upon her, and the shouting crowd carried Rose Gwyn to Newgate.
Nell had never known such fear as now was hers. Rose was in jail. She was a thief, the flesh-merchant had declared; he had discovered his purse on her, and ten shillings were missing from it. There were even men to come forward and say they had seen Rose take the purse.
Rose had a fine dress, it was remarked. By what means had she, a poor girl in a low bawdy-house, come by such a garment? She had stolen the money to pay for it, of course.
Those who were found guilty of theft suffered the extreme penalty.
Nell walked the streets in her misery, not knowing which way to turn for comfort. Her mother drank more and more gin, and sat weeping through the day and night, for few people came to the cellar during those days. The rumor had spread that if you went into Mother Gwyn’s house you might lose your purse. There had been many lost purses, and now Mother Gwyn as a result was going to lose her daughter.
Rose … in prison. It was terrible to think of her there—Rose who such a short while ago had been so happy with her lover, the man who thought so highly of her that he had promised to make her sister one of Orange Moll Meggs’ girls.
There was only one person who could offer Nell comfort, and that was her cousin Will. They sat on the cobbles in the yard and talked of Rose.
“There’s nothing can be done,” said Will. “They’ve declared her a thief, and they’ll hang her by the neck.”
“Not Rose!” cried Nell, with the tears running down her face. “Not my sister Rose!”
“They don’t care whose sister she is, Nelly. They only care that they hang her.”
“Rose never stole anything.”
Will nodded. “It matters not whether she stole or not, Nelly. They say she stole, and they’ll hang her for that.”
“They shall not,” cried Nell. “They shall not.”
“But how will you stop them?”
“I know not.” Nell covered her face with her hands and burst into loud sobs. “If I were older and wiser I would know. There is a way, Will. There must be a way.”
“If Mr. Killigrew had been there it would not have happened,” said Will.
“If he had been there, he could have stopped it. Will, mayhap he could stop it now.”
“How so?” said Will.
“We must find him. We must tell him what happened. Will, where can we find him?”
“He is Groom of the Bedchamber to the Duke.”
“I will go to the Duke.”
“Nay, Nelly. You could not do that. The Duke would never see you!”
“I would make him see me … make him listen.”
“You would never reach him.” Will scratched his head. Nell watched him eagerly. “I saw him last night,” added Will.
“You saw him? The Duke?”
“Nay, Henry Killigrew.”
“Did you tell him about Rose?”
“I tell him? Nay, I did not. I was holding a torch for a gentleman close by Lady Bennet’s, and he came out. He was as close to me as you are now.”
“Oh, Will, you should have told him. You should have asked his help.”
“He has not been to Cole-yard since, has he, Nelly? He’s forgotten Rose.”
“I’ll not believe it,” declared Nell passionately.
“Rose used to say you only believed what you wanted to.”
“I like believing what I want to. Then I can make it happen mayhap. Does he go often to Lady
Bennet’s?”
“I heard it said that he is mighty interested in one of the girls there.”
“That cannot be. He is interested in Rose.”
“Such as he can be interested in many at a time.”
“Then I will go to Lady Bennet’s, and I will see him and tell him he must save Rose.”
Will shook his head.
Nell was the wildest thing he had ever seen. He never knew what she would do next. There was one thing he did know: it was folly to dissuade her once she had set her mind on something.
So the small raggedly clad girl waited in the shadows of Lady Bennet’s house. None of the gentlemen passing in and out gave her a second glance. She looked much younger than her thirteen years.
She knew that she would find Henry Killigrew there. She must find him there, and she must find him quickly, for Rose was in acute danger. If she could not find him at Lady Bennet’s, then she would at Damaris Page’s. She could be sure that it would be possible to find such a profligate as Rose’s Henry undoubtedly was, at one of the notorious brothels in London.
Nell felt that she had grown up in these last days of her grief. She was no longer a child but a woman of understanding. Nothing she discovered of Henry Killigrew would surprise her as much as the fact that he had ever come to Cole-yard.
And it was outside Lady Bennet’s that she came face-to-face with him. She ran to him, fell on her knees before him, and took his hand in hers. There was another gentleman with him who raised his eyebrows and looked askance at his companion.
“What means this, Henry?” he asked. “Who is the infant?”
“God’s Body! I swear I’ve seen the child somewhere ere this?”
“You keep strange company, Henry.”
“I’m Nell,” cried Nell. “Mrs. Rose’s sister.”
“Why, now I know. And how fares Mrs. Rose?”
“Badly!” cried Nell in sudden rage. “And that seems small concern of yours.”
“And should it concern me?” he asked flippantly.
His companion was smiling cynically.
“If you are not knave it should,” retorted Nell.
Henry Killigrew turned to his companion. “This is the child who serves strong waters at Mother Gwyn’s bawdy-house.”
“And strong words with it, I’ll warrant,” said the other.
“A sharp-tongued vixen,” said Henry.
Nell cried suddenly: “My sister is in prison. They will hang her.”
“What?” said Henry’s companion languidly. “Do they then hang whores? It will not do.”
“Indeed it will not do,” cried Henry. “Shall they hang all the women of London and leave us desolate?”
“God preserve the whores of London!” cried the other.
“They will hang her for what she has not done,” said Nell. “You must save her. You must take her out of prison. It is on your account that she is there.”
“On my account?”
“Indeed yes, sir. She was hoping you would come; you did not, but another did. She refused him and so he accused her of this crime. He was a flesh-merchant of East Cheap. Rose could not endure him … after your lordship.”
“The vixen sets a drop of honey in the vinegar, Henry,” murmured his friend, flicking at the lace of his sleeve.
“Do not mock,” said Henry, serious suddenly. “Poor Rose! So this flesh-merchant had her sent to prison, eh …?” He turned to his friend. “Why, Browne, we’ll not endure this. Rose is a lovely girl. I meant to call on her this very night.”
“Then call on her in jail, sir,” begged Nell. “Call on her—and you, being such a noble gentleman, can of a certainty procure her release.”
“The little vixen bath a good opinion of you,” said Browne.
“And it shall not be misplaced.”
“Where go you, Henry?”
“I’m going to see Mrs. Rose. I’m fond of Rose. I anticipate many happy hours with her.”
“God will reward you, sir,” said Nell.
“And Rose also, I pray,” murmured Browne.
They walked away from Lady Bennet’s while Nell ran beside them.
Life was truly wonderful.
There was no longer need to hide her prettiness. Now she washed and combed her hair; it hung down her back in a cloud of ringlets. There was no longer need to squint and frown; she could laugh as often as she liked—an occupation which suited her mood more readily than any other.
On the day she walked into the King’s Theater, she was the proudest girl in London. Lady Castlemaine, for all that she was the King’s pampered mistress, could not have been happier than little Nell Gwyn in her smock, stays, and petticoat, her coarse gown and her kerchief about her neck; and she was actually wearing shoes on her feet. The chestnut curls hung over her bare shoulders; she looked her age now. She was thirteen, and even if it was a very small thirteen it was a very dainty one.
The men could look as much as they liked now, for, as Nell would be the first to admit, looks were free and any man who was prepared to pay his sixpence for one of her oranges could take his fill of looking.
If any tried to take liberties they would meet a torrent of abuse which seemed startling coming from one so small and so enchanting to the eye. It was said in the pit and the middle and upper galleries that the prettiest of all Moll Meggs’ orange-girls was little Nelly Gwyn.
Nell was filled with happiness, for Rose was home now. She had been saved by the two gallants whom Nell had called in to help her. What a wonderful thing it was to have friends at Court!
A word from Henry Killigrew, Groom of the Bedchamber, to the Duke, a word from Mr. Browne who, it appeared, was Cup-bearer to the same Duke, and Rose was granted a pardon, and had merely walked out of her jail.
Moreover Mr. Browne and Henry Killigrew had been somewhat impressed by the wit and resource of Rose’s young sister whom they addressed with mock ceremony as Mrs. Nelly; and Henry had been only too ready to see that Mrs. Nelly became one of Orange Moll’s girls, for, as he said, it was such girls as Mrs. Nelly for whom Orange Moll was looking—and not only Orange Moll. He intimated that when he strolled into His Majesty’s Theater he also would not be averse to taking a glance at Mrs. Nelly.
Nell shook her curls. She felt that she would know how to deal with Henry Killigrew, should the need arise.
In the meantime her dearest wish had been granted. Six days of the week she was in the theater—the King’s Theater—and it seemed to her that, in that wooden building, the pageant of life at its most exciting passed before her eyes. She did not know which delighted her more, the play or the audience.
It was true that the King’s Theater was a drafty place; its glazed cupola let in a certain amount of daylight, which in bad weather could make it somewhat uncomfortable for the occupants of the pit; sometimes it was cold, for there was no artificial heating; sometimes it was stiflingly hot from the press of bodies, and this heat was augmented by the candles on the walls and over the stage.
These were trifling matters. Gazing at the stage it was possible to forget that her home was still the bawdy-house in Cole-yard; here she could live in a different world by aping the actors and actresses; she could see the nobility, for often the King himself came to the playhouse. Was he not its chief patron, and did not all the actors and actresses of the King’s house call themselves His Majesty’s Servants? So, it was natural that he should often be there, sometimes with the Queen, sometimes with the notorious Lady Castlemaine, sometimes with others. She would see the Court wits—my lord Buckingham, my lord Rochester, Sir Charles Sedley, Lord Buckhurst. They all came to the play, and with them came the ladies who interested them at the time.
She had heard wild stories concerning them all, and to these she listened with relish. She had seen the Queen sail up London river with the King after his marriage; she had been with the crowd which had witnessed their arrival at Whitehall Bridge, while the Queen Mother, who was on a visit to her son, waited to receive the royal pai
r on the pier which had been erected for the occasion; and all were so gorgeously clad that the spectators had gaped with wonder.
She knew, too, that the King had forced the Queen to accept Lady Castlemaine as one of the women of her bedchamber. All London talked of it—the resentment of the Queen, the flaming arrogance of Lady Castlemaine, and the stubbornness of the King. She was sorry for the dark-eyed Queen, who looked a little sad at times and seemed to be trying so hard to understand what the play was about, laughing a little too late at the jokes, at which, poor lady, she might have blushed instead of laughed had she understood them.
Then there was the arrogant Lady Castlemaine, sitting with the King or in the next box and speaking to him in her loud imperious voice so that the audience in the pit craned their heads upwards to see and hear what she was at, and the galleries looked down for the same reason; for when Lady Castlemaine was in the playhouse few paid attention to the players.
There was often to be seen in their boxes those two rakes, Lord Buckhurst and Sir Charles Sedley. Lord Buckhurst was a good-natured man, a poet and a lover of wit, whose high spirits very often drew him into prominence. Sir Charles Sedley was a poet and a playwright as well. He was so slight in stature that he was nicknamed Little Sid. These two were watched with alert interest by the house. With Sir Thomas Ogle they had recently behaved with reckless devilry at the Cock Tavern, where, having eaten well and drunk still better, they had gone to the balcony of the tavern, taken off all their clothes, and lectured the passersby in an obscene and offensive manner. There had been a riot and as a result Little Sid was taken to court, heavily fined, and bound over to keep the peace for a year. So the audience watched and waited, no doubt hoping that these three rakes would repeat here in the theater the performance they had given at the Cock Tavern.
Here was Nell’s first glimpse at the high life of the Court. And, in addition to watching at close quarters the highest in the land, she could practice her repartee on the gay young men in the pit. All those with a strain of puritanism, left over from the fifties, stayed away from the theater which, they declared, was nothing more than a meeting place for courtesans and those who sought them; and indeed the noblemen in the pit and the boxes, and women from the Court together with the prostitutes, made up the greater part of the audience. The women wore vizard masks (which were supposed to hide their blushes when the dialogue on the stage was too outspoken) and the lowest aped the highest; they chatted with each other, noisily sucked China oranges, threw the peel at each other and the players, showered abuse on the actors and actresses if they did not like the way the play was going, fought one another, and added to the general clamor. Courtiers, and apprentices aping courtiers, made assignations with the vizard masks. The side boxes, which cost four shillings, were filled with ladies and gentlemen of the Court and were only slightly raised above the pit, where the price of a seat was two shillings and sixpence. In the middle gallery where a seat cost a modest eighteen pence sat the quieter folk who wished to hear the play; and in the shilling gallery were the poorest section of the audience, and here coachmen and footmen, whose masters and mistresses were in the theater, were allowed to enter without charge towards the end of the play.
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 3