Too Great a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  Two

  London Town

  After I’d spent half a year as an undernursemaid in the home of Mr. Thomas, a local doctor, Gammer found me a better situation in London. The prospect of visiting the bustling capital was as exhilarating as my departure from Gammer was painful.

  I’d never traveled anywhere before, much less on my own, and was unprepared for the unusual reception I encountered along the journey, though in some measure it reminded me of the days when I was even younger, a lass of eight or nine, peddling coal from my apron pockets. On occasion, after our transaction a gentleman would try to steal a kiss. I dared not tell him off, so as I curtsied I would turn my head, and his lips would land on my coal-smudged cheek instead. And oftentimes a lady remarked on my uncommon prettiness, coyly asking if I had a sweetheart yet, to which I could only stammer and blush, for at that age how could I imagine myself feverishly ponshyn anyone, which is what I thought sweet-hearts was all about?

  At the first posting inn, I thought they was all mutes, because I couldn’t hear a word of chatter once I stepped inside. The silence was so strange, it set my nerves aflutter. A sweaty serving wench cleared a table for me in a twinkling, as if I was a royal.

  “A plate of ponsh meip, if you please,” I said politely, wishing I’d more in my meager purse so that I might be able to afford a joint or a half dozen bangers instead of the mashed potatoes and turnips we ate all the time in Flintshire.

  A corpulent woman slapped her husband’s upper arm. “What’re your eyes poppin’ at? Am I no longer to your fancy after fourteen years?”

  “She’s so tall,” someone murmured as I tucked into my mash.

  “Have you ever seen hair like that?”

  I’d brushed it till it shone, like Gammer taught me, so I didn’t know what was so wrong with it. I stole a glance about the room at the other patrons, whose hair—wigged, dark, fair, and gray—peeked out from under their millinery. No one else’s hair was red with just a hint of brown. Nor were the women’s locks even half so long, but then I was a country girl of twelve and as far from fashionable as I was from living in Windsor Castle.

  “Look at ’er eyes, Mum,” a little girl whispered. “They’s almost two different colors.”

  The youth who brought me the mash remained, slack-jawed, by my table. He was staring at my face, though once or twice his gaze flickered a bit farther south.

  “This eye ’as always ’ad a spot of brown amid the bright blue,” I explained, thinking perhaps he was fearful of me. “Gammer used to say it’s a bit of mud from the Chester Road, so’s I’d never forget where I came from. Oh—I’m not a witch,” I assured him, suddenly realizing why they all regarded me so oddly, though in this modern day and age I should have thought they’d know better. “Red hair i’nt always a sign of witchcraft.”

  The boy went crimson. “It’s j-just that you’ve b-bewitched me, miss. You’re the prettiest miss I’ve ever seen.”

  And so it went, to my astonishment, heads turning each time I ventured into the posting inns, from the Golden Bowl to the Angel to the Red Lion to the Swan. The closer to London we got, the less people understood my dialect, though I apprehended their whispers and their whistles of approbation well enough, and soon learnt to be quick on my feet at the various posting inns, else through my petticoats my arse’d feel the pinch of some roving hand.

  The London coach rattled into the yard of the Nelly Gwynn in Covent Garden, its final destination. The miasma was so thick that you could scarce see more than a few feet in front of you. A distant church spire pierced the fog as if it were reaching for a breath of fresh air. The city stank to heaven of every imaginable odor: offal and dung, animal sweat, urine, frying fish, rotting meat, and roasting potatoes. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. The unfamiliar sights and smells—and the noise—were nothing akin to what I had known back in Hawarden. The Chester Market was but a country fair compared to Covent Garden: such a hubbub, what with the fruiterers, root vendors, ballad sellers, and flower girls; bunches of carrots and barrows of cress destined for the dinner table; cart after cart of turnips and onions, apricots, exotic dates and plump fresh figs; and the flies! Horrid black flies everywhere, landing with impunity on the barrels of beans, the piles of potatoes, the mounds of oranges and lemons, and on the bunches of roses. And I had never seen so many people in my life. Almost as many souls as flies! Pushing and jostling and all talking at once, shouting over one another, everyone eager to talk and no one willing to listen.

  I dragged my trunk through the narrow streets, asking passersby where I might find Chatham Place and the home of Dr. Richard Budd. The closer I got to the river, the more its smells enveloped me, eclipsing those of the market: fish, of course, and brine invaded my nostrils until they stung. Wood and pitch and turpentine. The Thames was nearly as crowded as the streets. Dozens of ferries and wherries transported goods and passengers from one place to another, and the small merchant vessels sailed so closely together, they seemed a giant’s toys, being pulled down the river and out toward the channel by an invisible string.

  At Chatham Place, I paused to catch my breath before I began my search for the great brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s head, marking the entry to Dr. Budd’s home.

  The building was handsome, though plain, yet the bricks looked as though they had been scrubbed with soot. Was everything in London so gray and grimy? Even in Hawarden, where one continually inhaled the dust from the fields and country roads, the air never painted things brown. Had I hoped for finer weather, expecting London to be some version of Paradise? In that respect, it was as dreary as North Wales, and just as damp, too. I climbed the steps and made use of the knocker, whereupon a mobcapped maid opened the door, and I introduced myself as Miss Emy Lyon of Chester.

  “The new norsery maid is here, sor!” Her Irish brogue was as thick as the miasma. “Come this way, gorl.” She ushered me inside and the door shut behind us with resounding finality.

  Dr. Budd’s home was much grander than Mr. Thomas’s. For one thing, it had more than one story and the high-ceilinged rooms seemed so airy and light. From the parlor on the second floor, one could look across the river and chronicle all the comings and goings, an endless parade of activity. Were I to live in that room, I should never look away from the window! I thought.

  But I rarely saw the daylight, much less the water, as the nursery was situated just under the eaves. I took my meals in the servants’ quarters belowstairs, whilst I slept in an alcove adjacent to the nursery in case one of the children should awaken during the night. So obstreperous were the Budd brood that though I was not quite thirteen years old, I was convinced that these unruly and ungovernable children were going to send me to an early grave.

  My saving grace proved to be Jane Powell, an underhousemaid a year or so older than I. Soon after I began my employment for the Budds, Jane befriended me, sensing in me a kindred spirit to her own wild temper. Our nocturnal adventures began after I had been in the household for nearly a month. Once the children were fast asleep (for only my lullabies could quiet them), I would creep down to the servants’ quarters, and Jane and I would climb through a window, tiptoe up the outer stairs to the street, and then make a mad dash across Blackfriars Bridge for the fairgrounds in Southwark, just across the river. It was there that I developed a taste for beer and revelry, and Jane and I never needed so much as a ha’penny in our pockets, for there was no dearth of gentlemen, young or otherwise, happy to treat a pretty girl to a glass or two. Then, giggling with beer and triumph, we would stumble back to Chatham Place in time to be in our beds before dawn. Thank heavens for Jane Powell, or I should have been entirely miserable at the Budds’.

  One day, she sneaked away from the house, swearing me to secrecy. On her return, she crowed, “I’ve been to see the managers at Drury Lane. But, shhhh, you mustn’t say a word to Dr. Budd, for I don’t know what’s to be. Mr. Sheridan’s father-in-law, Mr. Thomas Linley, is in charge of the musical direction, and he wanted t
o hear me sing. I sang for him once—just three days ago—and he suggested that I work a little harder before coming back so he might hear me again. O, Emy, you must help me practice!”

  “Singing?!”

  “Yes! Every night from now on, we’ll cross the river. At Cocksheath Camp we’ll claim that we’re ballad singers and stand on a wooden box with a collection basket at our feet!”

  But you can’t sing, I was about to say. Yet I needed no compelling excuse to attend a fair. I adored them: the gaiety, the music, the games of chance, the acrobats, and the smells, both sweet and savory, of roasting joints and fowl, of frying fish, and of viscous batter fried into airy sugar cakes that burnt your tongue for an hour if you didn’t wait for them to cool before you devoured them. How could one not enjoy a place where everyone acted so blithely? For a few brief hours, no matter who you were or where you came from, life was magnificent.

  That very night, I joined Jane in sneaking off to Southwark. Cocksheath Camp was bristling with energy. Tradesmen mingled with farmers, red-coated soldiers strolled the fairgrounds in pairs or trios, or sometimes on their own with a tart or two hanging off their arms, and no one minded if two pretty girls commandeered an old cress crate, upended it for a stage, and commenced to sing for their supper. We drew the listeners in with our renditions of “There Was a Lass of Islington” and “As Oyster Nan Stood by Her Tub.” The bawdier the lyric, the bigger the crowd. Though Jane was surely not going to favor Mr. Linley with her interpretation of “Blowzabella, My Bouncing Doxie,” the more she sang, the greater grew her confidence—as did the appreciation of two young gentlemen with unpowdered hair and scarce old enough to require a shave—whose eyes we had caught soon after we set up shop.

  “I’m fagged,” I complained to Jane after we had been singing for upward of an hour without respite. “And my windpipe is parched.”

  “May we suggest that a pint might be in order,” said one of our two admirers.

  Jane and I exchanged glances. “Well, I’ve ’eard tell that a glass of porter is good for the vocal cords,” I said boldly, and we descended our makeshift stage. The dew-laden grass was damp beneath my feet, so I removed my slippers against their becoming soaked through, and stowed them in our bag of coins.

  “I’m James Perry,” said the young man who had suggested the refreshment. He slipped his arm through mine. “And a young lady should never be unescorted in places such as these.”

  “And ’ow would you know that, Jimmy? You come ’ere often, then?”

  Mr. Perry blushed to his roots. “No—no,” he stammered. “In faith, this is the first time my friend and I—allow me to name Mr. Jonathan Beecham,” he said, indicating the cove who’d already managed to slide his arm about Jane’s waist.

  “Your secret is safe with us!” Jane assured him.

  The men bought us beer and sausages, and then suggested that we repair to a less crowded spot, the better to enjoy our repast. On a damp knoll a few yards from London Bridge, our cavaliers spread their cloaks and urged us to sit beside them. At first, they behaved quite properly, but soon the brew made them bolder. Jimmy found my hem and began to insinuate his way up my skirts, pressing against my thighs, caressing them on a too-direct path to the point twixt temptation and ruination.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, slapping my hand down over his, and startling him when I broke our embrace. “Excuse me. . . . I need to take a piss.”

  When I sprang to my feet, Jane jumped up as well. “It’s terribly dark down by the river, Emy. You shouldn’t go alone. You must let me accompany you.”

  I accepted her outstretched hand. “We shan’t be but a moment.” I gave our admirers my most angelic smile as Jane began to pull me toward the river.

  A shilling apiece purchased us the good offices of a wherry boatman, who was tickled to take part in our jest. As he rowed us away from the shore, we shouted to the young gentlemen on the bank. “Ho there, Jimmy and Johnny!”

  At the sound of our voices, they rose to their feet and raced along the bankside all the way to the center of London Bridge, cursing us as they gasped for breath.

  “Thought we was easy, didn’t you?” I called, thumbing my nose at them as we approached the bridge.

  “That’ll teach you!” cried Jane, mimicking my gesture.

  Flushed with the evening’s triumphs—of voice and virtue—and with a heavy bag of coins as proof indeed of our artistic talents, we laughed all the way back to Chatham Place, just as dawn was breaking over the dome of St. Paul’s.

  Three

  My First Love

  The following morning the Budds were quick to show Jane and me the door. I was done for indeed!

  “I’m going back to Drury Lane,” Jane announced bravely. “Could be this is God’s way of telling me I’m not meant to be in service.”

  “But what if Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Linley don’t take you?”

  “They will!” she insisted, as if the thought of rejection had never crossed her mind. “But where will you go, Emy?”

  There was just one person in London to whom I could turn.

  I had not seen my mother since I’d come to town, though I had heard she was working for the Earl of Warwick. Truth told, I had not seen my mam in years. I was dismayed to see how much hard work had left its marks upon her. Her brown hair, mostly hidden by her mobcap, had already begun to lose its luster. Although her cheeks still bore the pink of youth, her countenance showed traces of the lines of care and age. Her waist had thickened into matronliness, and to my great astonishment, I was now the taller of the two of us!

  “Hurry, put wood inth hole, afore someone sees you,” urged my mam, anxiously looking in every direction. I quickly shut the door to the earl’s kitchen and poured out my tale of woe between hysterical sobs.

  “I conna meke thee out, you’re crying so. Here, dry your eyes and start all over again.”

  “But we was really good, Jane and I. Look at all we took in!” I took the bag of coins from my skirts. “And this is but ’alf, as I shared it with Jane afore we parted ways this morning.”

  Mam didn’t take to my crowing over my success. “O, Emy, you got me tampin’! A singer indeed! Where’s your ’ead? You’ll ’ave to make those shillings stretch, my girl, until you can find someone else to take you in. Certain, Dr. Budd won’t be inclined to provide a kindly reference, neither.” She shook her head and sighed, deeply annoyed. “I’m moidered with myself just as much. I’m in part to blame for your wildness,” she added dolefully. “An I could, I would relieve you of your distress. But there’s no place for you in the earl’s ’ousehold. For me to force the situation would put us both in a bad light, and if I’m to do my best to make sure you don’t go starving, I can’t risk my place ’ere.”

  For the next few days, Mam found ways to sneak me food when she could, stowing away a blanket that I could unroll every evening by the kitchen door, having bribed the earl’s cook with some of her own saved wages. And at night Jane and I would return to Cocksheath Camp to sing our hearts out, more mindful now in choosing our male companions.

  When I met up with her at Blackfriars Bridge on the fourth night of our unintentional liberty, her face was aglow with enthusiasm. “I’ve done it, Emy! Mr. Sheridan engaged me! I’m just to be a supernumerary for now, but soon”—she glanced heavenward—“soon, I’ll be as famous as Nelly Gwynn! And I owe so much of it to you, Emy,” she added, throwing her arms about me. On learning how fearful I was at not having found a new situation, Jane insisted that I speak to Mrs. Linley, for between the management of her household as well as the theatre, there must surely be a place for a girl like me.

  At their house in Norfolk Street, just off the Strand, a red-eyed and harried Mrs. Linley, clad in mourning for her eldest son, was too distracted to conduct a proper interview. She asked merely if I had a good memory (to which I replied in the affirmative), then promptly took me on, sending me straight to the theatre with a message for their leading lady, Mrs. Pritchard, delivered in such a rapi
d torrent of words that I hoped I would be able to con it after all.

  “Tell her she can’t have a cloth-of-gold dress just for her Lady Macbeth. We aren’t made of money here. We’re in the business of entertaining folk—business—and I have the wardrobe of an entire company to supervise. Tell her I said the red gown she wore in The White Devil will suit just as well. While you’re about it, you can add from me that she might consider leaving off the beer and mutton if she wants to remain a credible Jane Shore: the character is supposed to be starving. And if she throws something at your head, duck.”

  In no way did the Linleys permit their grief to interrupt the business of running London’s greatest theatre. The bustle and hubbub never ceased, and I took to the glamour and gossip of their world like a canvasback to water. I adored the aromas of powder and paint, the majesty of brocade, the subtlety of damask, the sensuality of velvets, and the rustle of silks! How magical were the transformations! Within minutes a homely woman might become a tragic heroine, while a man with a face and figure so common you wouldn’t look at him twice in the lane outside the theatre could become, with a spirit-gummed beard and pasteboard crown, a king. Everyday troubles were laid aside in this world of make-believe. No wonder a lowly serving wench like Jane Powell dreamt of dwelling here forever.

  During rehearsals, I would wear out my slippers dashing hither and yon from Mrs. Linley’s private box to the dressing rooms backstage. And in between fetching fans, arranging flowers, combing out and dressing wigs, delivering all manner of notes, bearing the brunt of an actress’s temper—or worse, Mrs. Linley’s—locating mislaid scripts, and running interference for love-struck admirers with their painted ladies, I stole every spare moment to stand by the curtain man, silently observing the actors at work from his darkened offstage alcove. I did not think of becoming an actress myself; I was studying the behavior of the players both on and off the stage—for example, the way a woman with rustic roots could make a prince of the blood believe that she, too, was of his ilk. I marked how the actresses used the fans I fetched, how they walked, sat, balanced a teacup. It taught me that to act well-bred did not require breeding.