by Jean Plaidy
“Poor Charles! Is your purse quite empty?”
“Very nearly.”
“I have brought twenty thousand pistoles for your use.”
“Mary, you are an angel! One day I shall pay you back. That’s a promise.” He smiled wryly. “I would give you a fortune if I had one; alas, all I have to lay at your feet is a promise.”
“One day you will in truth be King of England. I am sure of it, Charles. One day you will be restored to the throne. The people of England are not pleased with Puritan rule. How could they be? You know how they love gaiety. Now the theaters are closed; there is no singing, no dancing, nothing to do but contemplate their sins and wail for forgiveness. It is not the English man’s or woman’s way meekly to accept such constraint. They love pageantry above all things. They will soon decide to have no more of puritanism. They decided they would have no more Catholic rulers at one time; they will be equally firm, when the time comes, to ban puritanism. The Englishman does not like his religion to interfere with his pleasure.”
“I am beginning to think,” said Charles, “that I make a very good Englishman.”
“You do indeed. And soon the English will realize this. Then they will implore you to return. They’ll go down on their knees and beg you to return …”
“They will have no need to. They have but to lift a finger, to throw a smile to poor Charles Stuart, and he will be entirely at their service. Now let us talk of the family. It is so rarely that we meet and can be alone together. Let us indulge ourselves, Mary.”
“I wish it were a happier subject. I am a little disturbed about James and Anne Hyde. Perhaps I should never have taken the girl with me.”
“James … and Anne Hyde?”
“He has a fancy for her. She is a good girl, Charles.”
“And James … is not so good?”
Mary sighed. “I can only hope that no ill comes of it. I think of our mother and what she would have to say.”
“Poor Mam! We do not want her declaring that she will not see James’ face again.”
“She is so ambitious for us all. She has been plaguing Mademoiselle … trying to persuade her to take you.”
Charles groaned. “No! Not again!”
“And Mademoiselle spoke quite emphatically. I think, Charles, that you have fascinated her a little. If you were not an exile, willingly would she marry you.”
“There are hundreds who would willingly marry the reigning King of England, Mary. It is only when they consider Charles Stuart the exile, that they find him such an unattractive fellow.”
“Never that!” said Mary fondly. “Threadbare and empty of purse you may be, but you are the most fascinating man in Europe. Mademoiselle’s problem is that she would like to marry you, but her pride won’t let her.”
“True! And I thank God that Mademoiselle’s pride is there to protect me from Mademoiselle.”
“And, of course, our mother has hopes of Louis for Henriette.”
“That is what I would wish for, Mary. It is a cherished dream of mine. Dear sweet Minette … the Queen of France! How think you she would feel about it? I should not care to see her unhappy.”
“Louis is magnificent, Charles. He is physically perfect … a little stupid perhaps, by Stuart standards.” They laughed together. “But he is so beautiful and not unkind. I think Henriette is fond of him. In fact I do not see how she could help being fond of him. She compares him with you. I know it. I know of it by the manner in which she speaks of you both in the same breath.”
“Then must Louis’ perfections be more obvious than ever!”
“No, Charles. That is not so. In her eyes you are perfect. I said to her: ‘How perfectly Louis dances!’ She answered: ‘He dances well, but he is not so graceful as Charles.’ I said: ‘Louis is surely the most handsome man in the world.’ She smiled and said: “That may be so. I am no judge. But he has not the wit of Charles.’ It is always Charles. It should not be so: a Princess so to love her brother!”
“Dear Minette! She should not. I shall write to her and scold her for loving me too well. But I do not think she loves me one whit more than I love her. If ever I become King I shall bring my family home. We shall all be together. That is what I long for more than anything.”
“But,” said Mary pensively, “I do not think she is untouched by Louis’ charm. Indeed, I think she is very fond of him. He is a charming boy and of good character. He must be, for never was one more flattered, and yet his arrogance is not overpowering, and he always gives the impression of wishing to do what he considers right.”
“I doubt that he would marry Henriette while I am still an exile. Oh, Mary, if I regained my kingdom, what a difference that would make, eh? I doubt not that then my little Minette would become the Queen of France. What an excellent thing that could be for our two countries! What an alliance! For I would love the French more than ever if Minette were their Queen.”
“And you would take Mademoiselle for wife?”
“Ah! I doubt it. I doubt it very much. There is a great obstacle which I feel may prevent Mademoiselle and me from joining hands at the altar. While I am an exile she cannot contemplate marrying me; and if I had a crown fixed firmly on my head I could not bring myself to take her. Now let us drink to the future. Let us hope that our dreams will come true.”
“Our first step will be to put you on the throne of England, where you belong.”
“Our first step! But what a step! Yet, who knows … one day it may come to pass.”
When Lucy arrived in London she found that a great change had taken place in the city since she had left it.
Now the clothes of the people were drab, and the people themselves were, for the most part, suppressed and sullen. Those who were not, seemed to wear an air of perpetual complacency. All the ballad singers had disappeared, and there were no spontaneous outbursts of pageantry which had been a feature of the old days. The only places which still flourished were the brothels, and their inmates still chattered to each other from windows of rooms which projected and almost met over the cobbled streets.
Lucy found rooms over a barber’s shop near Somerset House. She was warmly received by the barber and, as she called herself Mistress Barlow, no one knew of her connection with the King, nor that the bright-eyed little boy was Charles’ son.
Ann Hill had taken charge, and told the barber that her mistress was a lady who had been living abroad and been trying for a long time to return to her native country.
They had a little money, and for a few days Lucy was content to lie in the room looking out on the street; but she soon began to long for a lover.
Each day Ann discovered more of the changes which had befallen London. All the taverns were closed; bull-baiting was suppressed; all the pleasure gardens were closed except the Mulberry Garden. There had been no Christmas festivals in the churches for a long time. There was no dancing in the streets on May Day.
“Why did we come back?” wailed Lucy. “There was more fun at The Hague and in Cologne.”
A few days after her arrival she dressed herself with great care and went out. Everyone stared at her; she was different from other women. She looked like a foreigner. She soon found a lover—a high-ranking soldier of Cromwell’s Ironsides; but she did not enjoy her relationship with him as she had with the merry Cavaliers in exile. He was conscious of sin the whole time he was with her, and he felt compelled to make love under cover of darkness, slipping into the rooms over the barber’s shop at dusk, and leaving before it was light. Lucy was beautiful, and beauty, she believed, was not meant to be hidden by darkness. She was restive. She was wishing she had not come to London.
Finally, she told her lover that she had had enough of him and his preoccupation with sin, and that he had best take himself off to repentance.
After that it had become her habit to go out and wander disconsolately in the Mulberry Garden; it was not what it had been, of course; but it was still a place in which to sit and watch the world go by,
to take a little refreshment under the trees and perhaps pick up a lover.
She did not meet a lover in the Mulberry Garden; but as she sat at one of the tables a woman approached and asked if she might join her.
“I saw you sitting there,” she said, “and I thought I should like to join you. It is rarely one sees such ladies as yourself in the Mulberry Garden in these days.”
“Ah, these days!” said Lucy incautiously. “In the old days, it was different, I can tell you.”
“I could tell you too!” sighed her companion. “The old days! Will they ever come back, do you think?”
“You would like to see them back?”
“Who would not? I was fond of the play. I was fond of a bit of fun … a bit of gaiety in the streets. Now it is nothing but prayer meetings … all day and every day. Will you take a little refreshment with me?”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, warming to the company. The woman was rather flashily dressed; she was no Puritan; that much was clear.
They ate tarts with a little meat, which they washed down with Rhenish wine.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” said Lucy’s new friend.
Lucy smiled her acknowledgment of the compliment.
“And very popular with the men, I’ll warrant!”
“Are there any men left in this town?” asked Lucy ironically.
“Yes. A few. They visit my house near Covent Garden occasionally. You must pay us a visit.”
“I’d like to.”
“Why not come along now?”
“I have a family who will be waiting for my return.”
“A family indeed!”
“A boy and a girl. I have left them with my maid.”
“Where do you live then?”
“Near Somerset House. Over a barber’s shop.”
“It hardly seems a fitting lodging for a lady like you.”
“Oh, I have had some fine lodgings, I can tell you.”
“I don’t need to be told. I can guess.”
“You would be surprised if I told you where I have lodged.”
“You have been in foreign parts, eh?”
“Yes. At The Hague and Paris. And … Cologne.”
“There were Englishmen at those places, were there not?”
“Indeed there were!”
“Real gentlemen, I’ll warrant.”
“You would be surprised if you knew.”
“Nothing would surprise me about a beautiful woman like yourself.”
“You are very kind.”
“I but speak the truth.” The woman lifted her glass and said: “I will drink to the health of someone whose name should not be mentioned.”
Lucy seized her glass and tears shone in her eyes. “God bless him!” she said.
“You speak with fervor, madam.”
“I do indeed. There is none like him … none … none at all.”
“You knew him … in The Hague and Paris …?”
“Yes, I knew him well.”
The woman nodded, then said: “Do not speak of it here. It would not be safe.”
“Thank you. You are kind to remind me.”
“It is good to have a friend. I hope we shall meet again. We must meet again. Will you visit my house tomorrow?”
“If it is possible, perhaps.”
“Please come. Come in the evening. We make merry then. What is your name?”
“Barlow. Mistress Barlow.”
“Mistress Barlow, I hope we shall be great friends. I see we are two who think similar thoughts in this drab place our city has become. My name is Jenny. Call me Jenny. It’s more friendly.”
“I am Lucy.”
“Lucy! It’s a pretty name, and you have a pretty way of speaking. That’s not the London way.”
“No. I come from Wales.”
“Barlow! Is that a Welsh name?”
“Yes. It is, and so is Water … my maiden name.”
“Water, did you say?”
“Yes. My name before I married … Mr. Barlow.”
“Lucy Water … recently come from The Hague. You will come to see me tomorrow, please. I shall look forward to your visit.”
Lucy went home not ill pleased with her visit to Mulberry Garden. Perhaps she would go to Jenny’s house next day. It would be interesting to meet some merry company again.
Lucy did go, and it was a merry evening. She awoke next morning in a strange bedroom, and when she opened her eyes she was slightly perturbed.
Ann would guess that she had stayed the night, not caring to face the streets at a late hour, and she would look after the children, so there was nothing to fear on that score; but Lucy’s lover of last night had not entirely pleased her. She missed the pleasant manners of the Court gentlemen. Yes, that was it; last night’s lover had been too crude for Lucy.
There was another discovery she had made. Jenny’s home was nothing but a bawdy house. She had begun to realize that, not long after she had entered it; but already by then she had drunk a little too much and felt too lazy—and, of course, it would have been very impolite—to leave abruptly.
As she lay there she understood that she had not enjoyed last night’s lover. Love, such as undertaken in Jenny’s establishment, was quite different from that which she had hitherto enjoyed. She had always been fastidious in choosing her lovers; something in them had attracted her or made a strong appeal to her sensuality. This was quite different. This was lust, to be bartered for and haggled over. Lucy was not that kind of loose woman.
Now she knew why Jenny had been so friendly in the Garden, why she had been so eager for her to visit her home. She was glad her companion of last night was no longer with her. She would rise and dress, thank Jenny for her entertainment and slip away, never to see the woman again.
She was dressed when there was a knock at her door.
“Come in!” she cried; and Jenny entered.
“Good morrow to you, Lucy. Why, you look as pretty by morning light as by candlelight, I swear. Were you comfortable in this room?”
“Yes, thank you. I was quite comfortable.”
Jenny laughed. “I notice you took the most amusing of the gentlemen, Lucy.”
“Was he the most amusing?”
“I could see that from the moment you set eyes on him, no other would do.”
“I fear I drank too freely. I am not accustomed to overmuch wine.” “Are you not? It is good for you, and it gives you such high spirits, you know.”
“My spirits have always been high enough without. Now I must thank you for my lodging and be off.”
“Lucy … you’ll come again?”
Lucy was evasive. She was telling herself that if she had not drunk so much wine, if she had not been so long without a lover, what had happened last night would never have taken place.
“Mayhap I will,” she said.
“Lucy, I’ll make you very comfortable here. Those rooms over the shop … they must be most unsuitable for a lady used to the comforts you enjoyed at The Hague and Cologne.”
“I manage very well. I have my faithful servant to look after me, and my children to consider.”
“You could bring them all here. I could use a new servant, or you could keep her merely to wait on you. The children would be welcome here. We are a very happy family in this house.”
The woman was breathing heavily. Lucy smelt the stale gin on her breath, and was aware of the avaricious gleam in her eyes. Lucy was not clever, but she now understood that she had behaved with the utmost folly. Doubtless there had been gossip bandied about as to the life Charles led on the Continent, and her name might well have been one of those which were mentioned in connection with him; and she, stupidly, had betrayed who she was, and perhaps last night had babbled even more.
No wonder this woman was eager to make her an inmate of her brothel! She could imagine what a draw the mistress of Charles Stuart would be.
Then Lucy wanted to get away. She wanted to wipe the shame of the place from h
er mind. She wanted to forget that she had spent the night in a brothel. All her love affairs had been so different. She had discovered that last night—half tipsy though she had been.
She drew herself away. “Well, I will say goodbye now.”
“But you’ll come again?”
“I … I’ll see.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She was not going to let Lucy escape as easily as that.
Ann was reproachful. She guessed that Lucy had spent the night with a man. She said nothing, but she was a little frightened. Glad as she was to be in London, she was quicker than Lucy to realize that, in more ways than one, this was not the same London which they had left more than eight years ago.
Jenny called. She was wheedling, and then faintly threatening. She hinted that one who had come rather mysteriously from across the water and had clearly been a close friend of people who were regarded as the enemies of the Commonwealth, might find it convenient to shelter in the house of a good friend who would protect her.
“I am very comfortable here,” Lucy told her.
“You may not always be so,” retorted Jenny. “You may be glad of friends one day, and that day soon!”
“I shall not join you at your brothel,” declared Lucy firmly.
Jenny’s eyes gleamed. “You may find there are worse places than my house, Lucy Water.”
“I have never been in one,” said Lucy carelessly.
“You’ll change your mind.”
“Never!” cried Lucy, and for once her mouth was set into lines of determination.
The woman left, and Lucy lay thoughtfully nibbling sweetmeats.
Jenny called again on two other occasions; she sought to placate Lucy, but Lucy’s determination not to join her household brought more veiled threats.
A few days later two men called at the rooms over the barber’s shop. They were soberly clad, grim-faced men, servants of the Commonwealth. They came to search the rooms and Mistress Barlow’s belongings, they said.
“For what reason?” demanded Ann on the threshold.
“For this reason,” answered one of the men. “We suspect that the woman who occupies these rooms has recently come from the Continent, and that she is a spy for Charles Stuart.”
Lucy rose from her bed, her flimsy draperies falling about her; but these men were not Court gallants to be moved by beauty in distress. They began to search the room, and in a box they found the King’s promise to pay Lucy four hundred pounds a year.
