The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose

by Mary Hooper

  ‘I’ve a message for Nelly Gwyn,’ he said in a timid voice. ‘But someone shouted at me to go away and now I don’t know what to do.’

  Eliza opened the door wider. ‘It’s all right,’ she reassured the child. ‘You can give it to Nelly yourself. She won’t shout at you.’

  He tiptoed in and Nell, seeing him and seeing, also, the king’s seal on the back of the folded parchment, let out a scream of joy. She snatched up the letter.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said, thrusting it at Eliza. ‘Read it and tell me what he says!’

  Eliza dutifully read out:

  My dear Nelly,

  Our compliments on the beauty and success that we are certain you brought to the role of Sophia today.

  We, being overrun with foreign ambassadors, must provide them with entertainment, therefore the queen is holding a musical event this evening and we would be glad of your presence from nine o’clock.

  Your Charles

  Nell let out another scream and the child scurried for the door holding on to his turban.

  ‘Tell His Majesty we’ll be there!’ Nell shouted after him.

  Eliza gasped with excitement. ‘We?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course we,’ Nell said. ‘If the king’s wife has twelve ladies-in-waiting, the king’s whore must be allowed at least one!’

  ‘But do you think the velvet, or the satin?’ Nell asked, holding first one then the other gown in front of her.

  Eliza considered the matter carefully. The burgundy velvet gown was stately, grand and elegant, having a low neckline encircled by pearls which continued down to form a sharp V just below the waist. The skirt of the gown was full and swept out at the back in a train, showing an underskirt of pearl-white satin. By contrast, the sapphire-blue satin was more informal, had its bodice embroidered with red roses and its full skirt ruched up about the hem to show a crimson underskirt.

  ‘I think … the velvet,’ Eliza said at last. ‘And then I can do your hair in pearls and white ribbons to match.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Nell said. ‘And you must wear the other gown.’

  ‘Indeed I could not!’ Eliza said, overwhelmed by such an idea.

  ‘No. I insist,’ Nell said. ‘It mustn’t be thought that the king’s mistress can’t afford to dress her companion decently.’

  It took several hours to get prepared for the occasion, for Nell was insistent that every part of her that was on show should be as perfect as possible. Eliza thus had to run to the shops three times: once to the apothecary’s for a muslin cloth impregnated with a lotion which made the complexion clearer and whiter, next for a dressing for the hair to make the ringlets immovable, and finally for the latest innovation from France: a small brush to cleanse and polish the teeth.

  Both girls being ready at last, they set off in Nell’s shiny pink coach for the short ride to Whitehall Palace. Their progress through the streets was unimpeded, for the usual traffic jam of hackney carriages, sedans and horses had cleared from around the theatre. Eliza was rather sorry about this, for, resplendent in Nell’s gown, she would have loved them to have drawn the eyes and curiosity of the passing crowds.

  ‘But tell me,’ she asked Nell nervously, for she was anxious about how they would be received at Whitehall, ‘does the queen really know about you?’

  Nell shrugged. ‘Of course! She knows the king has women friends.’

  ‘But a certain sort of woman friend?’

  ‘Oh, yes. ’Tis expected of a king,’ Nell said robustly. ‘Imagine a king who didn’t avail himself of whatever woman he wished! That wouldn’t be considered at all kingly.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Although King James, of course, loved men. They called him good Queen James. Did you know that?’

  Eliza, smiling, confessed that such tales had not spread to Somersetshire. ‘But Queen Catherine really doesn’t mind?’ she persisted.

  ‘If she does she keeps quiet about it. And indeed she cannot care overmuch, for Barbara Castlemaine is allowed to keep her own apartments at Whitehall with a nursery for all her royal bastards.’ Nell paused and thought a little. ‘But it must be a sadness for the poor lady queen that she can’t have an heir, when Castlemaine drops them like kittens.’

  The two girls were silent for a while, looking out of the carriage on to the darkened streets of London, then Nell said, ‘And speaking of kittens, what of Jemima?’

  Eliza shook her head and shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to say. I tried to talk of it again yesterday, asked if she had things laid by and her childbed linen prepared, but she changed the subject by saying that the summer had flown and autumn would soon be upon us. When it comes to her condition, I can’t get any sense out of her at all.’

  Nell tutted. ‘I must try and speak to William,’ she said, and then both girls forgot about Jemima because they were driving through the magnificent Holbein Gate and into the grounds of Whitehall Palace.

  The carriage entered a grand square lit with flaming torches and drew up beside a flight of stone stairs leading up to large carved oak doors. These were open and allowed light from the myriad candles within to reflect off the pale silk walls and spill on to the shiny marble steps. Alighting from the carriage, Eliza stood for a moment looking around her. How she wished that she had some family to tell about this moment. Her mother – her real mother – would have been so proud to tell the neighbours that her daughter had been to Whitehall Palace and met the king and queen!

  ‘This is just one of the squares within the palace,’ Nell said. ‘There are – oh, I don’t know how many others, for the buildings stretch down Whitehall and in all there is said to be over two thousand rooms.’ She spun round, pointing in all directions. ‘Over there are the queen’s apartments, and that is the banqueting hall, and there’s the privy garden and that’s the gallery and the chapel and the great hall …’ She paused for breath and wrinkled her nose. ‘Pooh! And those are Barbara Castlemaine’s private apartments. They say she has forty rooms of her own!’

  Eliza gazed about her, entranced, trying to take it all in.

  ‘Mesdames!’ cried the flunkey on the door. ‘Please to come through where the entertainment awaits!’

  He spoke in a heavy French accent and Nell smirked at him as they passed. ‘He’s no more French than you or me,’ she said, ‘for I swear I’ve seen him selling chicken livers down Smithfield market.’

  Another manservant began to lead them along a seemingly endless corridor. ‘I’ve never been in this part before,’ Nell confessed to Eliza in a whisper. She assumed an aristocratic accent. ‘’Tis verry faine, eh, what?’

  Eliza giggled, but was too consumed with awe and admiration to speak. The carpet – well, she’d been in a house with a carpet before, but this one was thick and soft, like walking on grass. The walls were covered in paintings and there were little tables holding small statues, shiny bowls, a huge shell, a clock or a carved head. Each of these tables was illuminated by a flaming torch on the wall above and Eliza longed to stop and examine the treasures more fully, but the manservant was proceeding at a good pace and Nell was keeping close behind him, so she had no option but to follow them both.

  They were led up a sweeping staircase, along another corridor and finally joined a large group of people in an antechamber.

  Eliza, nervously looking at what the other females were wearing, was thankful that Nell had lent her the sapphire gown, for everyone was most exquisitely dressed in satins and silks and sarsenets and her own best dress would have looked shabby and old-fashioned in comparison. The young men, too, looked very fine, dressed in the latest French fashion of gaily coloured silk shirts under tight doublets and ballooning breeches festooned with ribbons.

  ‘Oh!’ The exclamation escaped Eliza’s lips before she could stop it, for the youth whose breeches she’d been studying so intently had turned and she found herself looking straight into the eyes of Valentine Howard. He gave her a distinct wink – which, to her vexation, made her blush – and then the double doors opened and the ass
embled company went through into the queen’s music room.

  Eliza’s first impression was of a dazzle of light, for candles in glass holders stood on every surface and a vast chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the white flowers massed in silver containers. Colourful tapestries hung from the walls, and the floor held a deep carpet patterned all over with blue and white flowers. The whole effect was very fresh and pretty, making Eliza gasp with pleasure.

  The company already in the room had just come from the dining hall, and had evidently wined and dined most agreeably. As everyone swarmed about, the king and queen took their places on a little dais at the top of the room, sitting on grand chairs with a canopy over them. Around their feet were four or five baskets each containing at least two small brown and white spaniels. The rest of the guests arrayed themselves either close to the royal couple or further off, according to their social standing.

  ‘That man there is Doctor Deane, the royal astrologer,’ Nell said, nodding in the direction of a dusty-looking middle-aged man in the garb of an Oxford scholar. ‘The king does nothing without consulting him. And those are the ladies-in-waiting,’ she continued, seeing that Eliza was staring at the eight or so girls who were smoothing the queen’s dress, passing her a fan or bending to whisper in her ear. ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘They are all very pretty,’ Eliza said, fascinated by their butterfly-like fluttering around the queen.

  ‘The king thinks so too and he can’t keep his hands off them. Although I can’t see the new French one there,’ Nell muttered. She sniffed. ‘If I were queen I’d have the greasiest old hags from Dog and Bitch Lane for my ladies – certainly not beauties for my husband to ogle.’

  ‘But who is the tall and haughty woman?’ Eliza asked suddenly, noticing a woman standing apart from the others.

  ‘Ah,’ Nell said. ‘That is Barbara Castlemaine.’

  Eliza’s eyes lit up with interest as she stared at the woman standing there resplendent in red satin, her rich auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders and her large, dark eyes taking in the scene. She appeared arrogant and aloof, Eliza decided, yet somehow decadent at the same time. She could quite see how any man might be in thrall to her.

  ‘’Tis rumoured that she’s had half the male servants in the palace,’ Nell hissed. ‘If there’s one can match the king in lust, it’s her.’

  ‘I thought you said he was tiring of her?’

  Nell shrugged. ‘When he starts looking elsewhere, she gets herself with child. He likes women who’re having his children.’ She looked up at Eliza questioningly. ‘But are the pearls and ribbons in my hair still in place? Do I look as fine as she does?’

  Eliza assured her that she did indeed, for although Nell lacked Barbara’s handsome demeanour she had a pretty vivacity which few could match.

  ‘We’ll be presented to the queen soon,’ Nell said. ‘You must tell me what you think of her.’

  Queen Catherine, Eliza noted on getting closer to the woman, was not really the king’s equal in either presence or appearance. She was short and rather plain, with ears that stuck out slightly and an elaborate hairpiece that seemed to swamp her. She was also French and spoke with a heavy accent that was difficult to understand, so Eliza was thankful that she didn’t get asked anything when she was presented, just received a smile and a nod. She seemed, Eliza concluded, dull but quite pleasant. Indeed she felt sorry for the woman; imagine having a husband who laid with anyone he had a mind to.

  A group of musicians was playing on a raised stage at the far end of the room and people perambulated gently up and down, joining one group or another and telling jokes, whispering gossip, laughing extravagantly and looking at each other critically to judge how finely dressed they were. Out of the corner of her eye Eliza was very aware of the presence of Valentine Howard. She saw him kissing the hand of one of the ladies-in-waiting, flirting with Barbara Castlemaine, bowing and engaging in a brief conversation with an older man, throwing one arm around the ghastly Henry Monteagle as they shared a joke. If only he was an ordinary person and not a sir, she thought; if only he was a manservant or a merchant. Or failing that, if only she weren’t quite so ordinary. She glanced at the king again. Might it be possible that he and her mother had been lovers?

  She thought of her mother: her sweet, homely, rounded mother, and then tried to imagine her with the sophisticated, aristocratic and educated Charles. She inwardly shook her head. No, as wonderful as it would be, it was just not possible …

  A soloist was singing from an opera on the stage when Nell suddenly appeared and gripped Eliza’s arm.

  ‘Look, there she is!’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘The new lady-in-waiting – Louise de … de something or other I can’t pronounce.’ Nell lifted her nose in the air. ‘Just look! Now, why would the king want her?’

  Eliza looked. The girl was maybe a year or two older than herself, with fluffy blonde hair which stood out in a halo around her head. She wore white muslin and was rather plump. Eliza thought she was extremely pretty, but wasn’t tactless enough to say so to Nell.

  ‘She is disgustingly upper class and a French Catholic,’ Nell said, ‘so the people won’t like her.’ She giggled a little. ‘She also has a squint in her eye.’

  ‘Has she?’ Eliza asked. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘One of my spies told me.’ Nell looked at Eliza and went cross-eyed, making her laugh. ‘The king calls her Chubbs, but I shall call her Squintabella.’

  Towards the end of the evening, when the queen and some of her ladies-in-waiting had retired, the king called for ‘his Nelly’ to dance. She demurred at first, saying that she was too grandly dressed and that her hair would tumble down and make her look a fright, but the king insisted – and of course Eliza knew that Nell relished the idea of performing in front of Barbara Castlemaine and Louise.

  The musicians struck up a jig and Nell began to dance lightly, daintily, lifting her gown, pointing her feet and hardly moving from the one spot, and Eliza was reminded of the first time she’d seen her dance in Old Ma Gwyn’s downstairs room. How different the circumstances were now …

  Nell danced until she was breathless, then twirled around for a final time and gave a low, deep curtsy to the king, making him and the audience break into spontaneous clapping and cheering.

  Following Nell’s performance, Eliza was rather hoping that the king might notice her and ask her to sing, but he didn’t. Instead, wishing the company a good night, he got up and went out, surrounded by a sea of little dogs.

  People began to disperse, carriages were sent for, last-minute assignations were made. Just as Eliza and Nell were about to leave the room, Chiffinch appeared.

  ‘Madam,’ he said to Nell in a low voice, ‘the king requests your company in his chamber tonight.’

  Nell’s eyes gleamed and she raised her eyebrows at Eliza. ‘You must take the carriage home on your own, Eliza, and then send it back to me here after,’ she whispered.

  Eliza thanked her excitedly. To travel on her own in the carriage! That almost made up for not being asked to sing.

  As Nell followed Chiffinch out of the room, Eliza was disconcerted to be approached by Valentine Howard, who asked if she required transport home. Their paths hadn’t crossed all evening and she was about to reply graciously that she didn’t, thank-you-kindly, when Henry Monteagle lurched towards them.

  He looked at Eliza disparagingly. ‘I do believe that’s one of the orange girls!’ he said. ‘Good God, Val, don’t you care who you lay with? ’Tis certain she’ll have the pox.’

  Valentine Howard glanced at his friend, looking as if he was about to say something in reply, but Eliza gave him no chance. Sweeping by, she inclined the merest nod in his direction and gave him an aloof, ‘Goodnight to you, sires.’

  A swell of laughter broke out in her wake. ‘Snubbed by an orange girl, eh, Val?’ Henry Monteagle jeered. ‘She ought to pay for that.’

  But Eliza
didn’t wait to hear if there was any response.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As they sat together in the tiring room of the theatre, Eliza glanced at Jemima’s slim white hands: dainty hands which had never washed a dish, peeled a vegetable or cleared ashes from a fire. A narrow gold band on the left hand said that she was a married woman but, Eliza thought, for the amount of times she had seen William Wilkes since the marriage ceremony, she might just as well have not been.

  Eliza looked around them. ‘’Tis dreadful tedious without Nell,’ she said, sighing, and Jemima nodded and added a sigh of her own.

  The theatre was quiet apart from cleaners and a handful of women seamstresses working in the costume department, for there was no play running at present. Secret Love had been a week-long success, but now most of the theatre company had gone off to provide entertainment for the king and his court whilst they took the waters in Tunbridge Wells. The queen, apparently, had been behind this excursion, for the waters were said to be beneficial in the conceiving of a child.

  ‘Shall we take a stroll?’ Eliza asked, looking now at Jemima’s pale, drawn face. ‘I am sure some air would do you good.’

  Jemima’s hand went to her stomach, embracing the swelling there.

  ‘Do you feel … all right?’ Eliza asked tentatively.

  The hand was quickly removed. ‘Of course!’ Jemima said with a semblance of brightness. ‘I’m perfectly well.’

  ‘Then shall we walk?’

  ‘But where?’

  Eliza shrugged. ‘To see the wild animals in the Tower? Or to see the lunatics at Bedlam?’

  Jemima shuddered.

  ‘Shall we shop, then?’ she asked, and then, remembering that she only had a few coins for food and they had to last until Nell came back, added, ‘Or at least look in the windows? Shall we go to the Bridge and see the new shops?’

  Jemima shook her head. ‘’Tis too far off. I don’t wish to walk that far and I have no money for a sedan.’