by Mary Hooper
‘Do that again,’ he said, ‘and I’ll cut your whore’s throat …’
There was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Eliza heard, ‘Monteagle! Hey, Henry!’ and Valentine Howard leapt down the last three steps to land beside them. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘What’s happening is that I’m teaching this bawd a lesson,’ Monteagle said, his voice slurred. He glanced at his friend. ‘Have you ever heard of an orange girl who didn’t want to do business, Val?’
The other shrugged. ‘Maybe she has other business.’
Eliza looked from one youth to the other, icy with fear and scared to move in case it provoked Monteagle further.
‘Wha’ do you mean?’ said Monteagle.
‘Her other business, to be precise, is an appointment with me,’ said Valentine Howard.
‘With you? This whore is yours?’
Valentine flicked a glance towards Eliza which told her not to speak. ‘She is. We had an arrangement to meet on the stairs but I was on a winning streak and forgot the time.’
Monteagle put his knife back in his belt and stepped back, looking her up and down with such disgust it was as if she’d fallen into a cow turd.
‘By all means take her if you must,’ he said. ‘Although there are fairer whores who are certainly more willing than this one.’
Valentine didn’t reply to this, but put his arm under Eliza’s elbow and began to guide her down the stairs. Reaching a door at the bottom, he opened this and they went through a small hallway, through an outside door and into a courtyard where there were several sedan chairs and carriages waiting.
Eliza, shaking all over, found she couldn’t speak – not even to thank the man who’d saved her.
‘I’m sorry I had to refer to you in that manner,’ he said, ‘but it was all I could think of at the time and it seemed the quickest way.’
‘I … I …’ Eliza began, but could go no further.
‘You must take my sedan home.’
Eliza drew in a deep, shaky breath.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Then we’ll speak of it another time.’ He whistled to a sedan, handed her in, and – though afterwards Eliza knew she must have imagined it – seemed to drop the lightest of kisses on to her head. He told the carriers to take Eliza wherever she wanted.
‘And now I must get back to my game,’ he said, and without another glance turned on his heel and went back in through the same door.
Eliza gave directions to one of the carriers and then sank back on to the cushions, feeling infinitely weary. She wanted to give way to tears, but longed first of all for the privacy of her own room to go over everything that had happened. Mostly she wanted to think about Valentine Howard, muse on what he’d done for her and why. Had that really been a kiss on her forehead? No, surely not …
The carriers ran the short distance to Pall Mall with Eliza anticipating the sweet safety of her own bed every step of the way. On reaching Nell’s house, however, she was appalled to see that there were three people at the front door engaged in a heated conversation. Alighting from the sedan and pulling her cloak tightly around her so that the torn bodice wouldn’t show, she saw that these were Mrs Pearce, recently engaged by Nell as cook–housekeeper, Nell’s sister Rose, and Old Ma Gwyn.
If she’d seen who was there a moment before, she would have asked the sedan carriers to take her round to the back door of the house, but Ma Gwyn, who was resplendent in the rag-market’s finest, had already noticed her and was calling her name.
‘It’s Little Eliza!’ she said, describing her so despite the fact that Eliza was a foot taller than herself. ‘Ah, Eliza will take our part and tell Mistress Impudence who we are!’
‘Well, thank the Lord,’ Rose said to Eliza. ‘For since we arrived we’ve had nothing but gross language and insults from madam here!’
Mrs Pearce, who was built almost as sturdily as Ma Gwyn but was markedly more refined, her stout shape contained in a well-fitting corset and her pale linen dress and apron spotlessly clean, appealed to Eliza.
‘These two ladies,’ she said, indicating she thought them anything but, ‘say they are mother and sister to Mistress Gwyn and wish to come into the house.’
Eliza stared at the three of them, bemused. She felt very strange: weary and tearful and all over cold, as if she was suffering from an ague.
‘Tell ’er!’ Ma Gwyn cried, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Tell ’er who we are. An’ you can tell her it was me what rescued you with me own money from Clink prison!’ She looked Eliza up and down. ‘Though to see you now done up like a French dog, a person would never know it.’
‘Our Nell said we was to come round any time and take a jar,’ Rose said. ‘And that’s just what we’re doing!’
‘Or tryin’ ter do!’ said Ma Gwyn.
‘Are these ladies related to Mistress Gwyn?’ Mrs Pearce asked Eliza.
‘They are,’ Eliza replied, nodding. ‘But Nell isn’t home at the moment,’ she said to Ma.
‘No matter, my girl,’ said Ma. ‘I daresay her beer and her whisky is at home!’
There was a tug at Eliza’s skirt and she looked down to see Susan. Susan with her carbuncle firmly in place.
‘I got four pence on the way over!’ she said, slipping it into her mother’s hand. ‘Four pence and a toffee apple.’
‘Good on yer, girl.’ Rose pocketed the four pence and looked at her daughter with pride. ‘There’s not a pissing place about the City that my Susan hasn’t begged in.’
‘Good heavens,’ Mrs Pearce said faintly.
Susan looked up at the house and found she had to step backwards to see it all properly. ‘Does our Nell live ’ere on all these floors?’ she said, astounded.
‘Yers, she does,’ Ma Gwyn replied proudly.
‘But how did she get such a place?’
No one answered this.
Mrs Pearce coughed delicately. ‘So these ladies are related to Mistress Gwyn – but should I really let them in?’ she asked Eliza.
Eliza shrugged. She didn’t know and much less cared. ‘Please could I leave it to you to decide,’ she said to Mrs Pearce and, pushing through the little group, she went to her room and climbed on to her bed. Instead of mulling over all that had happened and trying to make sense of things, though, she pulled the blanket over her head and fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.
Late the next morning, Eliza tapped on the door of Nell’s drawing room and went in, only to find her sitting before the window in a state of undress.
‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t realise you were …’ Her voice faded away awkwardly, for she was not quite sure what Nell was doing. From the waist up she was naked – or naked apart from a wisp of silk chiffon hanging over one shoulder. She’d not just risen from bed, however, for she was wearing several rows of pearls and some pearl and diamond drop earrings.
‘It’s all right, Eliza,’ Nell smiled. ‘Come in.’
Eliza went in and immediately realised they weren’t alone, for at the back of the room a brown-smocked artist stood in front of an easel.
‘Mr Lely,’ Nell said, ‘this is Eliza, my maid and companion. Mr Lely is painting my portrait.’
Eliza curtsied. She’d heard of Mr Lely, of course, for he was the most famous artist in England and had painted the royal family, all the leading actresses of the day and a fair number of the royal mistresses too.
‘May I move, Mr Lely?’ Nell asked. ‘I fear that my joints will set as stiff as an old dog’s if I don’t.’
‘You may, madam,’ Mr Lely said, and Nell gingerly climbed down from the window seat, stretched out her arms and rubbed at her legs.
‘I hear my mother and Rose came a-calling last night,’ she said to Eliza.
‘They did. Were you in time to see them?’
‘No,’ Nell said, ‘but they left a pile of empty bottles behind so I think they obtained what they came for.’ She looked at Eliza’s face closely. ‘But what is it – did you
sleep badly?’
Eliza shot a look at Mr Lely. He was mixing colours on a palette and didn’t seem interested in their conversation, however, so she felt able to tell Nell all that had passed at the palace.
‘That Monteagle is a lecher and a dog!’ Nell said fiercely when she’d heard the tale. ‘I pity the person he’s been contracted to marry.’ She squeezed Eliza’s hand. ‘But try not to think on it, for he behaves like that with all women. ’Tis his upbringing.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘To think that Duval is the son of a miller and acts the perfect gentleman, and Monteagle is the son of a wealthy lord and acts like the meanest muckworm.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Eliza agreed.
‘Why, Monteagle’s father owns half the county of Somersetshire.’
‘Really?’ Eliza said, disturbed that her home county should be in such hands.
‘Or he did. He died recently, so the estates and title now come to Henry. Not that the possession of so much will lighten his disposition, for he’s like to remain the perfect beast he’s always been.’
Eliza made fists of her hands. ‘I hate him!’ she said fiercely.
‘Of course you do,’ Nell soothed, ‘but look at it this way: he provided the means for Valentine Howard to come to your aid in the most courteous and genteel manner. So think on that instead of allowing yourself to dwell on the miserable wretch who tried to bring you down.’
‘I’ll try,’ sighed Eliza.
The following morning at rehearsal in the theatre, Nell clapped her hands in an effort to draw everyone’s attention to her.
‘I just want to tell you that a male companion of mine is playing the part of Brown Bear,’ she said, ‘but as he is fairly well known he wishes not to be seen until the end of the first performance. Until that time, therefore, his part will be taken by George Dunning.’
There was a little stir at this, for most of the theatre people had heard a rumour about who was going to play Brown Bear on opening night, and they fell to speculating excitedly. One did not, however. The wraith-like form of Jemima was seated at the side of the stage holding a script, her job being to prompt the cast when they forgot their lines. Eliza could see that her heart wasn’t in it, though, for she was staring unseeingly into the distance and constantly sighing.
At midday Eliza went to speak to her to suggest that they might go together for something to eat.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Jemima replied dully. Her face was almost grey, and there were dark rings the colour of blackberries under her eyes.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ Eliza asked, and was answered by a shake of the head. ‘You must try and eat something nourishing!’
‘Why should I?’
‘Well, we have a journey to Barnes on Friday to see little William. You must be strong for that, for I hear the roads are full of ruts and we are like to be jolted to a jelly.’
But Jemima didn’t smile at this attempt to cheer her, just sighed again and refused to be tempted outside to buy hot gingerbread or chestnuts or any other sort of delicacy. Eliza went on her own, therefore, and, leaving the theatre and hurrying down Long Acre to the market, was surprised when a smartly painted coach and four stopped just ahead of her and a lady called from its window, ‘Maria! Oh, thank goodness!’
Eliza looked behind her, thinking the woman must be calling to someone in a shop, then continued along the cobbles, picking her way carefully across the market rubbish and general filth, for it appeared that the night-soil man’s cart had been leaking all along the road.
‘Maria!’ The lady called again, and then, sounding agitated, flung open the door of the carriage. ‘Oh, Maria, do help me!’
Eliza stepped warily across to the carriage. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but my name’s not Maria.’
The lady, thin and pale, had a handkerchief to her mouth and nose – and indeed London did smell particularly bad that morning. ‘Oh!’ she said, sounding shocked, and then she looked Eliza up and down. ‘No. I can see now that you’re not. But you are very like a young woman I was recently introduced to.’ She stared at Eliza curiously for a moment, and then took a long sniff from the nosegay of flowers she held. ‘I’m fair overcome by London, do forgive me.’
‘Of course,’ Eliza said, then bobbed a curtsy and turned away.
‘But tarry a moment – you may be able to help,’ the lady said, ‘for my driver’s lost and I’m altogether weary. I’ve been trying to gain entry to the King’s Theatre and have been three times up and down the street without discovering the back door.’
‘I can help you there,’ Eliza nodded. ‘Tell your driver to follow me.’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ The lady sunk back on the cushions and Eliza, foregoing her shopping for the moment, crossed the road and turned back to the theatre, eventually pausing by one of its back doors.
The carriage stopped and its driver jumped down and lowered the steps. The lady alighted, looking nervously around as she did so.
‘Is it all right round here?’ she said to Eliza in a whisper. ‘I’m dreadfully afeared that some rag-tag beggar will steal my purse.’
‘I’ll see you safely inside,’ Eliza said, and then was suddenly reminded, by the lady’s very fair hair and nervous bearing, of Jemima. ‘Excuse me for being so bold,’ she asked, ‘but are you Lady Rotherfield?’
‘I am,’ said that lady, surprised, putting down her nosegay.
‘I’m Eliza Rose. Your daughter’s friend,’ Eliza said, her excitement gathering. ‘It was I who wrote to you; I hope you didn’t think me impertinent.’
‘I did not!’ the lady said, relief and delight spreading across her face. ‘For I’ve been searching for my daughter for many a long month. My dear, you will always have this mother’s grateful thanks!’
‘Shall I take you to her?’
Lady Rotherfield took one of Eliza’s hands in hers. ‘Oh, if you would! But how is my daughter?’
‘She’s very low,’ Eliza admitted, ‘but I think, with a mother’s care …’ She faltered here and could not go on with this sentiment. ‘But let me find Jemima and bring her so that you can have a little time together on your own,’ she finished.
Eliza asked her to wait in a small sewing room, then, in a flurry of joy, went to find Jemima. She would not, she decided, say who the visitor was, for Jemima might well refuse to see her mother – or even turn tail and run.
‘There’s someone to see you,’ she said on finding her friend. ‘Not William!’ she added quickly, for Jemima’s face had suddenly lifted. She bade Jemima wash her hands and face, made some attempt to arrange her hair and also put a blue shawl around her shoulders in an attempt to add some brightness to her drab appearance.
Jemima submitted to these attentions with no interest nor curiosity, then allowed herself to be led to the sewing room, where Eliza knocked and then pushed her inside.
There was a cry from Jemima – a cry of joy, Eliza decided – followed by a sob, and she heard Lady Rotherfield say, ‘Oh, my own darling!’ before she went on her way with brimming eyes.
Some half an hour later Jemima, her face stained with tears, came out of the sewing room with her mother’s arm about her shoulders.
‘I’m going home,’ she said to Eliza. She sighed and glanced at her mother. ‘Mamma says that Father will forgive me, in time.’
Lady Rotherfield’s arm tightened around her daughter. ‘You’ll return with us to the country and we’ll all live there quietly together.’ Her daughter smiled tremulously at this. ‘We’ll invent a story about you being widowed young, and as time passes you’ll be accepted back into society.’
Eliza’s heart thudded: no one had mentioned the child. ‘But there is …’ she began, and both Lady Rotherfield and Jemima looked up at her. ‘What about little William?’ she asked in a rush. ‘Will you take him as well?’
Lady Rotherfield smiled. ‘Of course, my dear. Did you think we’d leave without him? No, we’ll go to Barnes on our way home and collect him. We’ll take his we
t nurse too, if she’ll come.’
‘But surely Father won’t allow William in the house!’ Jemima said.
‘He will,’ Lady Rotherfield said firmly. ‘Like it or not, you’re his child and your child is his heir.’
Jemima’s grey face had begun to look considerably pinker as she and Eliza hugged each other goodbye. Nell was called for and hugged also, promises were made to keep in touch, then Jemima was taken outside to be taken home in the carriage.
As the coach rolled away, with Eliza waving until she could see no longer Jemima’s arm fluttering from the carriage, she felt a mixture of loss and relief wash over her. And a deeper feeling, too: sadness. Everyone, she reflected, had someone to look out for them, be it mother, father, brother, sister or friend.
Everyone had someone except her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Are you quite sure you’re rehearsing when you go to see the king at the palace?’ Eliza asked Nell with mock severity a few days later.
‘Of course!’ Nell said.
‘Really?’
‘A play called The Prince and the Courtesan? I’m definitely playing my part!’ Nell laughed. ‘Even though it sometimes ends with us speaking our lines as pillow-talk.’
‘And is the king still as keen on play-acting?’
Nell nodded. ‘Although he says he will act the role only once, for the great surprise will be when he reveals himself as king, and all that will be lost on subsequent nights.’
With Jemima back at home, Eliza had slipped into the role of prompter, for she was loath to take on the job of orange selling again. It was not, she reasoned, that she felt the work was beneath her, just that people – men – automatically equated the girls who sold oranges with being bawds and whores. Besides, being behind the scenes meant firstly that she wouldn’t be so easily noticed by Henry Monteagle, and secondly that she could have a bigger share in the excitement of the king’s stage debut.
By early in the afternoon of the first performance of The Prince and the Courtesan the theatre was overflowing with people and there were twice as many as usual crammed into the private boxes. The court took up the whole of the royal circle, those who were in on the secret having imparted their excitement to those who were not. The ordinary, regular theatregoers of London had somehow picked up that something unusual was going to happen, too, but theories of just what this was varied widely. There were those who thought that it was merely a new and controversial play, those who swore that a royal person was taking part, and those who said that it was due to the fact that the famous Nell Gwyn would be retiring shortly to have the king’s child, so this might be the last chance to see her.