“What a plucky thing you are,” said Jane. “Come, let me bind your wounds, little warrior.” The other girls clucked with sympathy while Jane fetched a basin of water and a cloth and gently wiped the grit from the scrapes on Nell’s hands and knees, crying out all over again at the red and purple blotches that already bloomed on her soft skin.
It was after noon when Madam Ross returned.
“Harry’s gone to ask for the king’s help,” she told the girls. “He’ll come here as soon as there’s word.”
So there was nothing to do but wait. Robbie went on to the City. Exhausted by the strain of waiting, Nell went upstairs to Rose’s room and climbed into bed. She could smell Rose’s scent on the bedclothes and pulled them tightly around herself. Wrapped that way, she could close her eyes and believe that Rose lay next to her. Surely Rose was safe and would be back. But fear clutched at her, and she sobbed, finally falling asleep on the tear-dampened pillow.
THE BLEAK AFTERNOON HAD TURNED TO WINTRY DARKNESS WHEN Nell awoke. She raised her head to see Rose coming through the door into the little bedchamber with Harry Killigrew. He was uncharacteristically subdued and stood by awkwardly as Rose flung herself into Nell’s embrace and began to sob.
“Oh, Nelly,” Rose finally whispered, “I was so frightened. I was afeared they was going to turn me off.”
“I tried to get you out,” Nell cried. “But I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” Rose was half laughing and half crying. “Oh, little one. You have the heart of a lion and nought to be sorry for. It took a pardon from the king himself to get me free.”
She nodded toward Harry and, reminded of how much she owed to his help, launched herself into his arms.
“I’ll leave you to your sister,” he said. “I’ll come tomorrow to see how you’re faring.”
When he had gone, Nell tucked Rose into bed and dashed out to the nearest cookhouse for a couple of hot pies. She and Rose sat together in the warm bed, the golden light of the candle in its wall bracket reflected in the black of the icy windowpane. Rose begged Nell to stay the night with her, and they nestled side by side in the darkness.
“When I went there today, it made me think of Da,” Nell whispered.
“Aye. I thought of him, too,” Rose answered. “I cannot bear the thought that he died alone in such a place.”
She drew a shuddering breath.
“When they took me in, I could hear such awful moans and sobbing and screaming. Like souls in hell. And Nell …” She paused.
“They took me down this horrible passage, all dank and gray. And past this little room. And in it I could see arms and legs that had been chopped off, and heads and other parts. Like a butcher shop for men.”
Nell had no words for the horror of the image the words forced into her mind. She thought again of the traitors’ deaths suffered by the men who had killed the first King Charles, and the black and featureless things she had seen on pikes on London Bridge and at the City gates, which she knew were the tarred heads and quarters of executed men. Like souls in hell, Rose had said. But Nell could not imagine a hell that could be any worse than a world in which such things were possible. She slept uneasily that night and dreamed again of the door slamming shut, of being left alone and terrified in a cold and hostile landscape.
It was not until morning that Nell asked Rose the question that had been gnawing at the back of her mind.
“Did you, Rose? Did you pinch the watch?”
“No,” Rose said. “But I think Jack did.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROSE CAME SMILING INTO NELL’S LODGING ONE MORNING A FEW weeks after her deliverance from Newgate.
“Harry’s got a way for me to get out of Madam Ross’s!” she said. “When the playhouse opens, there will be need of two wenches to sell oranges and sweetmeats. Harry says he can get me one of the situations, and you can have the other, if you want it.”
“When do we start?”
“Not ’til May,” Rose laughed. “And Orange Moll has to give us the nod.”
“Who’s she?”
“Mary Meggs is her proper name. She holds the license to sell fruits and nuts and such. But Harry says he’ll make it all come right.”
NELL STOLE A QUICK LOOK AT ROBBIE THAT NIGHT AS HE ATE. “ROBBIE,” she said, “Rose has got me and her work at the playhouse. Selling oranges and so on.”
“You have no need of work.”
“But I could earn my keep. And perhaps I’d meet gentlemen who would want to do business with you.”
Robbie snorted. “Who would want to do business with you, more like.”
Nell held her tongue. First she had to meet Orange Moll. If all went well and the job was hers—well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
A FEW DAYS LATER, SHE AND ROSE PRESENTED THEMSELVES AT WILL’S, the fashionable coffeehouse in Russell Street at Covent Garden, to be inspected by the formidable Orange Moll. Harry was there with her, lounging against the bar. Nell surmised he must have made some impudent remark, for he roared with laughter, while Moll struggled to assume a look of dignified disapproval rather than the chuckle of flattered amusement that threatened to erupt.
Harry hailed the girls, and Moll turned to look at them. She was very round, billowing over the stool on which she sat, her capacious bosom overflowing the low neckline of her dress. Nell noted the shrewd evaluation in the quick glance. She felt like a heifer at Smith-field Market, but could tell that Moll was pleased with what she saw.
“Aye,” Moll said. “They’re comely-looked wenches, both of them. I’ll warrant you’ve been peddling more than oysters, have you not?”
Before Nell could think how to respond, Rose, at an almost imperceptible nod from Harry, looked Orange Moll straight in the eye, and said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m at Madam Ross’s. And Nell was lately, too.”
“Well, that’s all to the good,” said Moll. “A pretty mab who know how to catch a gentleman’s eye, and how to jest and flirt, will sell far more than a prim stick who thinks herself above it. Very well, we’ll give you a try. The plays begin at three. You’ll work from noon until the show is over and the folk have gone. Oranges are sixpence, and a ha’penny of that’s yours to keep.” She gave the girls a knowing smile.
“And there’s more of the ready to be made, for a girl who has her eyes open and her wits about her. Now. Have you ever et an orange? No? Well, here’s your first, then.”
She gave Nell and Rose each an orange and showed them how to peel off the dappled skin to get at the pulp beneath. Nell inhaled the pungent scent and bit into a segment. The sweet tang of the juice was wonderful, different from anything she had tasted.
“Sweet Seville oranges,” said Moll. “All the way from Spain, where it’s warmer.”
The golden oranges, like little suns, conjured in Nell’s mind images of a sultry land of constant languorous summer.
ROBBIE LOOKED GRIM WHEN NELL MENTIONED THE PLAY HOUSE AGAIN that night as they lay in bed. She had been bursting all day with the anxiety of talking to him and the fear of what he would say.
“Let me try it,” she begged. “You’ll see, no ill will come.”
“You may try it for a week,” he said finally. “But I don’t like it a whit. And if you come to any mischance in that time, you’ll stop, and no argument.” He turned his back to her and pulled the covers over his head, and Nell reckoned she had best leave it at that.
THE NIGHT BEFORE SHE WAS TO BEGIN AT THE PLAYHOUSE, NELL’S head was too full of thoughts of the next day for sleep to come. Robbie snored softly next to her in the dark. She slipped out of bed and padded to the window. The moon hung low and bright in the warm night sky. She regarded the stars in wonder. So many of them. She recognized some patterns that she knew—the Great Bear, the Small Bear, the Hen and Chickens—and wondered how many people had looked up at that same moon and stars since time began.
A watchman passed below, crying out, “Two o’clock of a fair, clear night, and all is wel
l.” All was well. Whatever the next day might bring, it must be good. The stars stood guard over her fortunes. And maybe somewhere, too, her father watched.
IN THE MORNING NELL DRESSED IN THE BEST CLOTHES SHE HAD, A skirt and body in russet. She had washed her shift and it peeped out clean and white at her elbows and neckline. She took out her precious ribbon knot of blue and gold from the small box under the bed where she kept her few treasures—the shard of mirror; her little doll; a silk handkerchief left behind in her room at Madam Ross’s by some man; a pink rose she had plucked and hung upside down by a thread to dry, its papery petals giving off a sweet scent, like memories of another day.
Rose arrived, flushed and smiling, her brown curls and blue eyes set off by a saffron-colored gown. As soon as she knew she had work at the playhouse, she had left Madam Ross’s and moved into a room above the nearby Cat and Fiddle Tavern, and she looked happier than Nell remembered seeing her.
It wasn’t far to the playhouse, but as Rose and Nell stepped into Bridges Street, the familiar thoroughfare seemed altogether different. A parade of fine carriages choked the way, and Nell realized with a start that their destination must be the theater. She had not thought about so many people going to hear the play. But it stood to reason that everyone would want to be present for the first performance at the fine new Theatre Royal. And she would be a part of it! She felt a thrill, and then a stab of doubt. What made her so sure of herself? Maybe Moll would decide that she had made a mistake, that she wanted someone older, taller, fairer. Someone better. After all, who was she but a ragamuffin from the squalid streets?
“Have done with staring, chicken,” Rose chided her merrily. “We’ve work to do.” The words brought Nell back to earth. She had worked more days than she could remember, and surely she could do this job, too.
“YOU’LL FIND HER RIGHT THROUGH THERE,” SAID THE MAN AT THE stage door. As Nell and Rose followed where he pointed, Nell thought back to the day when she had crept into the unfinished playhouse and met Dicky One-Shank. Now she stood in a big room that must be just behind the stage. Charles Hart and a few other actors were lounging at a table, some of them eating. A fair-haired girl sitting across from Hart was speaking to him in a low voice so that Nell could not catch her words. On the other side of the room were racks holding swords, and a table neatly laid out with cushions, books, wine bottles, cups, and other items Nell guessed must be for the play. Nearby a man was mending the torn seat of a chair. Nell thought she would burst from the excitement.
THE GIRLS FOUND ORANGE MOLL IN A SMALL CUBBYHOLE BUILT under a staircase, its shelves stacked with baskets of oranges, lemons, nuts, and brightly colored sweetmeats. Moll gave them each a great round basket and showed them how to fill it with an array of goods.
“Look out sharp for pickpockets,” Moll warned. “Now, then. Before the play begins and during the intervals, you can cry your wares from the stage. When the play has done, come back here so I can count your takings and give you your pay. And if you’ve any thought of trying to fleece me, put it out of your mind. I can smell a prigger at fifty paces.”
Rose flushed, and Nell wondered if Harry Killigrew had told Moll about Rose’s confinement in Newgate.
“You can have an orange each today, gratis, and if you want them in future it’ll cost you a ha’penny. Now, time to get to work.”
Nell followed Moll and Rose through a door and found herself in the public part of the playhouse. She stopped and stared. She had never seen a place of such grandeur. Above a curtain of wine red at the back of the forestage, the royal coat of arms stood out proudly, supported by cherubs and surrounded by nude goddesses and billowing bunting, all worked in plaster. A glazed cupola high overhead let in the daylight, but the theater blazed with dozens of candles, on huge wheel-like chandeliers, bathing the place in a warm and magical glow. Boxes flanked the stage, and two levels of horseshoe-shaped galleries ran all the way around the pit. Though there was yet three hours until the play began, the theater was quite full and echoed with voices and laughter.
Nell had thought the Red Bull exciting, and the Vere Street theater grand, but they were nothing compared to this. Ladies, some with their faces covered by black silk masks, preened and fanned themselves. Gentlemen took pinches of snuff from little jeweled boxes, posed languidly with tall gold-headed walking sticks, ran ringed fingers through the long curled locks of their wigs as they chatted and watched the crowd.
Music began—a sprightly dance tune. Nell turned and saw that a consort of about a dozen musicians was seated before and under the stage. The rich river of strings and woodwinds was something altogether different from anything she had ever heard, and thrilling. It must be to music like this that the king danced.
She was startled from her reverie by the realization that two handsomely dressed young sparks were waving to get her attention. She went to them quickly and bobbed a curtsy.
“How much for your oranges, sweeting?” asked the darker of the two, in a silk suit the color of honey.
“Sixpence, sir.”
“A sice for an orange?” asked the other, his fair ringlets cascading over his plum-colored coat.
“Aye, sir, but you may believe me that it’ll be the second-best sixpence you’re like to spend in your life.” She gave him an impish smile, and he laughed.
“Indeed! And what would the best-spent sixpence get me?” His eyebrows rose in challenge.
“Halfway to heaven, sir. But only a little more might get you through the pearly gates.”
The two men roared, and bought four oranges. Nell realized that if she wished, she could probably make a profitable assignation. But it was so much more pleasant to keep to an exchange of wit.
“Let’s send her to George,” said the fair-wigged man.
“’Sdeath! A most excellent notion,” agreed his friend. “Do you see yon gentleman in blue? Here’s another sixpence for you, if you go and say to him what you have said to us. Only you must tell him that his money will be wisely spent, because an orange will give him pleasure but not leave him pissing pins and needles.”
“He lately lay with a slattern who proved to be poxed,” explained the other, “and he has laid out far more money on the cure than he spent to take a stroke in the first place.”
Nell carried out the jest as ordered and was sixpence the richer. She soon found that her customers were apt to make the same remarks, and began to develop stock lines that were sure to provoke a laugh and earn extra coin for her.
“I’ll call thee Orange Blossom,” an old man quavered, to which she replied, “You may call me anything you will, sir, and you buy my oranges.”
When she noticed a gentleman surveying her bosom as well as her oranges, she said pertly, “Sixpence for anything in the basket, sir, but the goods in the apple dumpling shop are not for sale.”
By the time an hour or two had passed, Nell felt that she was a dab at this business. Selling oranges was not much different from selling oysters, after all, and it was far easier to hold her basket of fruit, heavy as it was, than to trundle the oyster barrow through the streets. She sang out an occasional cry of “Oranges to sell, who will have any oranges?”
Her old habit of raillery with her customers was good for business, as it had been when she sold oysters, and it was much more enjoyable now that she was bantering with richly dressed and handsome gentlemen. This felt much different from her interactions with men at Madam Ross’s. There, she had had no choice. The bargain had been made and the end was known. But these men had no control over her, and the future held infinite possibilities.
BY THREE O’CLOCK, THE PIT, BOXES, AND GALLERIES WERE FILLED TO capacity. The expectant crowd fanned itself in the muggy warmth of the May afternoon and the combined body heat of five hundred people. The basket of fruit that had not seemed so heavy to begin with now felt burdensome, its supporting strap cutting into Nell’s shoulders, and she longed for a chance to set it down.
There was a stir, and all eyes turned to one o
f the lower boxes at the side of the stage. Nell realized with a surge of excitement that King Charles was entering, and that the small dark lady beside him must be Queen Catherine. They stood waving their reply to the cheers of welcome.
The audience turned its attention to the stage as a finely dressed gray-haired man entered through one of the two doors at its side. He strode to the front of the forestage and waited, a hint of a smile on his lips, as the hubbub subsided. Nell faded into a corner at the back of the pit, setting her basket down behind her, out of the way of thieves.
The man bowed deeply to the king and queen, then to the audience. He stood for a moment, his piercing dark eyes sweeping the packed playhouse.
“Your Majesties, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. I am Thomas Killigrew, and it is with great pleasure, and very deep gratitude to His Majesty, that I welcome you to the Theatre Royal.”
The playhouse erupted into cries of “God save the king.”
“This day has been many years a-coming,” Killigrew continued. “Some of us thought it would never come. No doubt some of us thought so more than others.” He cast a puckish glance toward the royal box. The king laughed along with the rest of the crowd.
“I say again, welcome. We hope for the frequent pleasure of your company. And now, I give you The Humorous Lieutenant.”
Killigrew withdrew to resounding applause, and a girl pranced through one of the doors at the side of the stage and forward onto the apron. She was dark haired, her buxom prettiness enhanced perfectly by her golden gown. Illuminated by the candlelight against the deep red of the curtain behind her, she seemed to glow. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled with amusement, and then she spoke, addressing the crowd directly.
The Darling Strumpet Page 9
