by Mary Hooper
The writer of the new play was a friend of Nell’s, a dramatist named Aphra Behn, and the play was called Secret Love.
‘’Tis a handsome piece – a romance and a comedy,’ Nell said as they entered the theatre, ‘and what’s more, the playwright is female.’
‘A woman!’ Eliza said, much surprised. ‘Aphra Behn is a woman?’
Nell nodded. ‘And I think the first to write plays and books and have them published. The clergy are scandalised,’ she said, giggling with delight. ‘Just think: first women are allowed on the stage, then one of them produces a play. To their mind, the only thing a woman should produce is a child.’
Eliza was introduced to Aphra, who was a small, serious-looking woman. She had hardly a penny to her name, Nell told Eliza in a whisper, and was living entirely on borrowed money, but all that would change if her play was a success.
Nell was to act the role of a woman named Sophia. This was a part which called for Nell to disguise herself as a youth wearing short breeches and tights, a disguise calculated to please the men in the audience. While Eliza and Nell sat with the script at the side of the stage, other members of the cast were being put through their paces, several pastoral landscapes were being painted on the scenery boards behind them, and some people were singing accompanied by a lute. All was disordered, a pleasant muddle, and Eliza, looking around her, thought that she had seldom felt herself quite so content as on this day.
Into all the chaos a young man strode down through the seats and leapt up on stage. He was accompanied by what appeared to be a girl, though she was so heavily cloaked and hooded that neither her face nor form could be seen, just some pale green kid leather shoes which protruded from under her cloak.
The youth looked dishevelled but was handsome, with dark eyes and high cheekbones. He appeared vaguely familiar to Eliza, but it was only after a few moments that she realised he was the third youth – the one who’d been with Valentine Howard and Henry Monteagle the first day she’d ever begged money in Clink. She didn’t fear that he’d recognise her, however, for he’d hardly glanced at her that first time and was brusque and impatient now, seemingly anxious to do what he’d come for and be on his way.
One of his arms supported the girl, while the other held his feathered hat. ‘Mistress Gwyn. Mistress Behn,’ he said, making bows in different directions towards the two most important women there.
‘William Wilkes!’ Nell said. ‘What brings you to the theatre so soon? You are – what? – some five days early for my next performance.’
‘I beg your indulgence, madam,’ William Wilkes said to Nell. ‘If we may speak in private …’
Eliza saw Aphra give Nell a weary look, and Nell smiled and shrugged. She beckoned the youth and the mysterious, cloaked person over to where she and Eliza were sitting, two chairs were called for and they sat down. The cloaked girl’s dress, Eliza noted, was of delicate watered silk, green to match her shoes, and there was a broad border of expensive lace around the hem.
‘You may speak in front of Eliza, my companion. She’s but recently arrived from Somersetshire and knows nothing of intrigue,’ Nell said, but neither of the two figures even glanced at her.
William began to speak earnestly to Nell as, in the centre of the stage, Aphra clapped her hands for the rehearsals to continue.
‘Briefly, the case is this,’ he began. ‘I’ve formed a strong attachment in which my own family rejoice, but which my lady’s family think unsuitable. The consequence is we’ve been forbidden to see each other.’
‘Oh, how very romantic, William!’ Nell said, and Eliza looked at her curiously, thinking she’d heard an ironic tone in her voice.
‘Possibly. Although my lady’s father would rather run me through with a rapier than wish me the time of day. And so we’ve eloped and intend to hide out in London for a while and then buy our passage on a boat set for overseas.’
Eliza, thinking of the enormity of what the girl had done and how scared she must be, tried to see under her hood and give her a reassuring smile, but could make out no more than a few wispy fair curls and the tip of a delicate nose.
‘I fear my lady’s father and brother will pursue us,’ William went on, ‘so I wish to hide her away here in the theatre until the time is right for us to take passage. If her family come to seek me out, they’ll find me alone in my house and presume she’s gone elsewhere.’
‘I see,’ Nell said. She addressed the girl. ‘And do you wish this too – to be taken away from your family?’
The hood of the cloak nodded. Eliza heard a girl’s voice say fervently, ‘Oh, with all my heart!’
‘And is marriage your intended aim?’ Nell asked William, somewhat sternly.
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘And you wish me to find her lodgings?’
‘I’ll give you a sum of money to cover her expenses; just keep her hidden while I work out what’s to be done for the best,’ William said. ‘She has an excellent speaking voice and can read and write, so maybe she may take some small part in a production and earn her keep.’ He looked down into the face of the girl and gave her an encouraging nod, and after a moment the girl raised a trembling white hand and pushed the hood back off her head, revealing a pretty face framed with silky blonde hair.
‘And your name is?’ Nell asked.
‘Lady Elizabeth Jemima –’ the girl began, but William interrupted hastily, ‘I think we may just call you Jemima here. ’Tis best.’ He bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I leave you in good hands, sweeting. Mistress Gwyn will see you want for nothing.’
‘Darling William!’ the girl said, and Eliza saw her eyes fill with tears. ‘Please don’t go.’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I must. I’ll return soon – and in the meantime keep close within the theatre and don’t go abroad much. The fewer people who see you, the better.’ He bowed to Nell. ‘Your servant, madam,’ he said, and then he was gone.
Jemima – as she was to be called – promptly burst into tears.
Nell sighed. ‘Take her into the tiring room, Eliza. I’ll come in a while.’
Amid the chairs and dressing tables, Jemima wept for some time, until Eliza almost wept in sympathy. Then, her breath catching in her throat, she told Eliza her story – how she’d met William at church when he’d been visiting his family home, and how they’d fallen desperately in love, and how her father had forbidden her to see him because she was set to receive money and lands from her grandfather’s will and he thought that William was after her inheritance.
‘But indeed he isn’t!’ she said. ‘He says he’d love me just as much were I as poor as a rag-picker.’
Eliza listened, enthralled.
‘I’m sure he loves you for your sweet self alone,’ she said, and thought to herself how romantic it would be to have a man willing to leave his home and country for you …
‘He’s after her fortune for certain,’ Nell said when she and Eliza were on their way back from the theatre that evening.
‘Surely not,’ Eliza said, dismayed.
Nell nodded. ‘His father has gambled most of the Wilkes money away, and William’s drunk the rest. An heiress in the family is just what they need.’
‘But Jemima cannot suspect any of this. She truly loves him!’
‘And he truly loves her money! A marriage made in heaven, don’t you think?’
‘But it may work out, surely?’
‘It may,’ Nell conceded. ‘But I’d feel more confident if William Wilkes hadn’t already deflowered two such maidens and left them by the wayside.’
‘He has scandals against his name already?’ Eliza gasped.
Nell nodded. ‘And he’s only eighteen.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It would be nice to think that this time might be different, but I wouldn’t wager my petticoats on it.’ She smiled wryly. ‘She seems a delicate little thing – keep an eye on her will you, Eliza? I’ve too much already on my mind what with the king, the play and how to bid a fond fare-the
e-well to Charles Hart.’
‘So where will Jemima stay?’ Eliza asked.
‘With Mrs Trott: one of the theatre seamstresses. She’ll be safe there – her father will never think of looking in a dingy hole like that. And then we’ll see if William comes and takes her away, or just robs her of what he can and leaves her.’
Eliza sighed. ‘Poor Jemima.’
‘Poor Jemima indeed.’ Nell slipped her arm through Eliza’s. ‘So be sure not to fall in love with one of the king’s gang of wits, for it can only lead to heartbreak.’
‘I won’t,’ Eliza promised, and vowed that she’d forget – or at least make some small effort to stop thinking of – Sir Valentine Howard.
The two of them stopped in a tavern to eat a plate of pork and roasted potatoes on their way home from the theatre, so it was almost dark by the time they approached their lodgings. When a little, grimy figure jumped out at them from behind a pile of rubble, Eliza screamed in fright.
‘Is it Eliza Rose?’ the figure piped, and Eliza saw that it wasn’t any sort of foul fiend at all, but a little boy of about eight.
She nodded, her heart beating fast.
‘I got to tell you that yer father come to Guild’all today and will be there tomorrer,’ he said.
For a moment Eliza was too overcome to speak, then she asked him to repeat what he’d just said.
‘Yer father come to Guild’all today and will be there tomorrer.’
‘Is he well? Did anyone tell him that I was looking for him? Does he lodge nearby?’
‘Yer father come to Guild’all today and will be there tomorrer,’ the boy said stubbornly.
Nell laughed. ‘He’s learned that as the parrots do,’ she said. ‘Best to go there tomorrow and see for yourself.’
‘Oh, I shall!’ Eliza said fervently, and didn’t sleep a wink that night.
Chapter Twelve
There were two reasons Eliza didn’t sleep. One was that she was excited because she might soon be able to go home; the other was that she didn’t actually want to go home at that moment.
One part of her thought longingly about the security and safety of her dear Somersetshire, about the pleasant, peaceful greenness and about being amongst her brothers and sisters, but the other part thought of the tedious life she’d lived there – of the sullen ways of her stepmother, of endless hours spent carding wool, minding children or helping with the washing at the big houses. She also mused on the fact that, living in such a small village with very little choice of beaux, she would probably be required to marry a red-necked farmer’s son; someone who wore rough wool clothes and worked on the land. Most people in Somersetshire never strayed far from the village where they were born, much less to London. As for the theatre – well, she doubted if they’d even heard that women were now allowed on the stage.
Here in London she’d long ago stopped crying every day. She loved being part of theatre life, found Nell excellent company, enjoyed the shops even if she couldn’t afford to buy much and looked forward with great excitement to being at the opening of the new play when the king might be in the audience. And there was also Valentine Howard, of course …
Perhaps, she thought, she might ask her father if she could return home within a month or two. Or perhaps a little longer. But wouldn’t that sound strange? How could she make him understand that she wanted to go home, but not quite as desperately as she had done before. Could she ask, maybe, that her role as eldest daughter be left open, so that she could return when she’d had enough of London?
Sleepless still, she resolved to let her father’s reaction to her dictate what she said and did. If he was overjoyed to see her, said that he’d send a message forthwith to her stepmother to say that she must be allowed home – then go home she would. Very soon.
Dressing the next morning, Eliza decided to wear the second-best gown. Her father was, after all, a country man, and he might think the flowered one – which had a low neckline – improper. She’d have to wear the wig under her cap, of course. Suppose he thought what Nell had joked of, that she’d lost her hair when being treated for the pox? She’d get over that by telling him quickly that she’d sold it to enable her to buy food. Which was true, in a way. And it was best that he didn’t know about Clink prison, or about the mermaid, or discover that she was working in the theatre as an orange girl. He’d be bound to think the worst.
Reaching Guildhall, she was told that her father was now working with a score or more masons on the rebuilding of St Columbus Church, which had gone down in the Fire. She couldn’t find out if anyone had told him that his daughter was looking for him, however, so didn’t know if he’d be prepared for the meeting.
St Columbus Church was, as yet, little more than an odd-looking collection of walls and pillars, for the roof had not yet been put on and the windows weren’t in place.
Her father was within the shell of it, loading up a wheelbarrow with stone blocks as she approached. She called ‘Father!’ first and, when he didn’t turn, used his full name, ‘Jacob Rose!’
He turned and saw her, and she saw shock writ large on his face. He didn’t know of her mission, then, for he was rubbing his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
‘Yes, it’s me, Father!’ Eliza said joyfully. Whether or not she wanted to go home, it felt wonderful to see the long-familiar face and have that dear reminder of her childhood.
‘Eliza?’ he gasped. ‘Is it really you?’
Eliza nodded, smiling, taking in his every feature. Although pale with shock then, he had the same blue eyes and strong, straight nose as her brothers, the same golden thatch of hair, now mixed with grey.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked, looking at her as if she’d been transported by witchcraft.
Eliza shrugged. ‘Cart and boat and on foot. All sorts of ways!’
‘But why did you come?’ he asked urgently. ‘Is your stepmother ailing?’
Eliza shook her head. ‘No, no, indeed. She’s well.’
‘The children, then. Who is it? Is one of them –’
Eliza put her hand on his arm. ‘None of them are ill, Father. They’re all perfectly well and happy. They send you their love.’
‘Then I cannot believe nor understand why …’
His voice trailed away and Eliza took a deep breath. She’d rehearsed this speech many times and had decided that it wouldn’t do to blame her stepmother too much nor speak disrespectfully of her, in case her father thought it was a mere case of them disliking each other.
‘I came to find you to ask you to intercede between me and my stepmother,’ she began. She coughed nervously. ‘As your oldest daughter –’
Here, she couldn’t help but notice how he suddenly started, as if he’d been stung.
‘As your oldest daughter,’ she repeated nonetheless, ‘I feel a special obligation towards you and my stepmother. I know it will be me who’ll tend you in your old age, and who’ll oversee the running of the house should any illness befall either of you.’
Her father didn’t speak, but a strange expression came over his face.
‘But my stepmother,’ Eliza continued, ‘seems not to want me to take this role in the household, nor indeed wants me at home at all, for she’s forbidden me the house. She told me to leave!’
Still her father didn’t speak, although when Eliza had rehearsed the speech to herself she’d always thought he would query things here, ask her if there had been an argument between the two of them which had caused her stepmother to say such a thing.
Slightly discomfited, Eliza went on, ‘And so I resolved to come to London and find you, so that you could send a message to her that I must be allowed home again and … and must be …’ She faltered and stopped, because her father’s lips had formed themselves into a straight, grim line and he was shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ he said gruffly, ‘but your stepmother spoke to you on my orders.’
Eliza was struck dumb.
>
‘She spoke as I had requested. She carried out my instructions.’
‘No! You can’t mean that!’ Eliza cried.
‘’Tis true and I’m sorry for it, but there it is.’
He went to turn away, but Eliza held on to his arm. ‘You must tell me why … why you no longer want me in the house!’
He looked at her solemnly. ‘I’ve my reasons.’
‘But Father, why?’
‘Why?’ He hesitated, then said abruptly, ‘Because you’ve been a cuckoo in my nest since the day you were born and I no longer see any reason to let you lodge there.’
‘A cuckoo?’ Eliza repeated stupidly. ‘But Father –’
His eyes suddenly burned with fire. ‘Do not call me that!’ he said, stressing every word with terrible emphasis. ‘I am not your father and never have been!’
Eliza stared at him uncomprehendingly, then shook her head and burst into tears. Running beyond the confines of the church, she went to a corner of the churchyard, threw herself down and sobbed out her misery.
‘Well, then,’ Nell said later that evening in their lodgings, ‘at least it’s made things easy for you. You were undecided about whether you should go home; now you know you won’t.’
‘But where is my home?’ Eliza asked with a sigh. ‘I’ve no home to go to.’
‘Your home is here for the time being, but you’ll make another home for yourself soon! Some rich young man will set you up in a house and you’ll be a made woman.’
‘I don’t want –’ Eliza began, and then sighed again and burst out, ‘And who’s my father?’
‘Who’s mine?’ Nell retaliated calmly. She picked up a bowl containing sugar water and moved to sit on the chair before Eliza. Dipping a comb in the water, she held it up to her.
Eliza stopped crying. ‘You don’t know your father either?’
‘No,’ Nell shrugged. ‘And I never felt the lack.’
Eliza dabbed her eyes on a corner of her gown, then took up the comb to begin wetting Nell’s hair.
‘At least you had a happy childhood … did you not?’ Nell said.