The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose

by Mary Hooper

  Mol Megs, universally known as Orange Moll, had neither teeth nor much hair and was, at first sight, terrifying. She spoke kindly enough to Eliza, however, telling her that the oranges were to be sold for sixpence each and there was to be no haggling over the price. ‘An’ if you give a special smile to a gentleman and p’raps a kiss on the cheek, then you might find yourself earning extra,’ she added. Eliza nodded as she dropped Orange Moll a curtsy, privately thinking that she certainly didn’t intend to give any gentleman this encouragement.

  Eliza had gone to join the line-up in front of the stage. There were six other orange girls – although not all of them sold oranges. One sold apples and lemons, and another sweetmeats: sugared almonds, marzipan shapes and frosted rose petals. All had very low gowns, Eliza noticed. One girl’s was cut so deep, in fact, that when she bent over both bosoms obligingly appeared at the top of her dress. This, of course, didn’t go unseen by the boys lighting the candles on the chandeliers that hung across the stage or by the musicians, who kept throwing pennies at the girl and making sure that they landed on the floor.

  As two o’clock approached, Eliza glanced up at the stage, wondering what was going to happen between Nell and Mary. They were both dressed in the sylph-like costume that the role demanded and, standing one each side of the stage, were studiously ignoring each other. The musicians were tuning up, the stage manager was wringing his hands and the musical director, a fop named Fortesque, seemed unable to make a decision about who should dance on this most important opening performance.

  From outside the theatre there came shouts and noises from people hammering on the doors.

  ‘It’s well past one o’clock!’ came the nervous cry from the stage manager. ‘We must open the doors or have them broken in.’

  Nell and Mary each gave an uncaring shrug.

  ‘Ladies … ladies …’ said Fortesque, flapping his hands. ‘The public are about to be admitted and this matter must be decided between you without more ado!’

  ‘Mistress Gwyn cannot care for the play or she wouldn’t miss rehearsals the way she has,’ Mary said disdainfully. She was a tall girl, no older than Nell, with a froth of fair hair which had been fashioned into tiny ringlets. ‘And besides, Mr Fortesque, you said this morning that I was more suited to the role.’

  ‘That’s treason, Fortesque!’ Nell said, looking daggers at him. ‘You said you wrote the role with me in mind!’

  ‘I didn’t actually say –’ Fortesque began nervously.

  ‘And besides, the king is coming specifically to see me dance!’ Nell added.

  ‘He said the same to me,’ said Mary. She fingered a gold chain around her neck. ‘And has already given me this as a token of his great esteem.’

  Nell gave a short scream. ‘What lies! You got that from a peddler and ’tas already turned your neck black!’ She approached Mary, arms outstretched, but whether to strangle her rival or view the love token Eliza couldn’t determine. At that moment there was a banging and a crashing as the doors of the theatre finally gave way and a score of apprentice boys ran in, shouting and whooping to each other. They were followed, at a more sedate pace, by a body of well-dressed merchants, some businessmen, a party of sailors and an assorted crowd of London’s high- and low-born. Several daringly dressed women with patches on their faces, holding masks on sticks, made their way into the pit area beside the stage and, even from some distance away, Eliza could smell their sweet, cloying perfume.

  The orange girls began to wander around the theatre calling, ‘Fine, sweet oranges! Who’ll buy my oranges?’ and Eliza followed their lead. She wasn’t comfortable doing this, for she knew with what disdain everyone viewed orange girls, but she decided that she would treat it just as an acting job. Those on stage would play their parts and she would play an orange girl, just as she’d played a mermaid.

  ‘Fine sweet oranges! Sixpence, my oranges!’ she cried, turning it into a refrain, even though she feared little could be heard above the continual noise of the crowd and the tuning-up of instruments.

  A group of gallants swaggered in and were cat-called by the apprentices and addressed in effusive, honeyed terms by the masked women who, Eliza now realised, must be prostitutes. As the gallants circled the theatre, speaking to whoever they chose and once or twice kissing the hand of an attractive woman, Eliza looked at them more closely and all at once caught her breath as she recognised Henry Monteagle and Valentine Howard.

  Monteagle would recognise her, she thought in a sudden panic. He’d recognise her as the mermaid and Valentine Howard would further remember her as a beggar in prison, and then she’d be made a laughing stock in front of all the crowd, dragged through the streets in chains and returned to Clink.

  With a hand that was shaking slightly she adjusted her cap so that it sat a little further over her face and pulled at the wig so that some auburn curls showed. Then she tried to avoid the parts of the theatre which they were in.

  ‘Come buy my oranges!’ she called, a slight nervous quaver to her voice. ‘Juicy, fine oranges …’

  Fifteen or so minutes later most of the gallants, having tired of their socialising, had climbed up on to the stage where a special section had been boxed off for them by means of a low wooden partition. Having settled themselves, they removed their swords, flicked back their capes and began smoking, drinking and calling to their friends in the audience.

  There came a shout from one of them to Nelly, still poised prettily at the side of the stage. ‘Mistress Gwyn! You look very fine this afternoon.’

  Nell glanced at the man who’d spoken. ‘My Lord!’ she said, and Eliza knew she was pleased to have been addressed before Mary was. ‘May I return the compliment and say you look most handsome in your magenta waistcoat?’ And she dropped a mock curtsy, sinking very low.

  ‘Come and join us!’ one of them called to Nell. ‘There’ll be more fun to be had with us than play-acting on stage today!’

  ‘And the king won’t be in – he’s to Windsor for the races,’ said the first.

  Nell hardly paused. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘He told me so earlier. And I don’t care to dance without him here to watch me, so I shall ask Mistress Davis to entertain you. She can dance for us on those sturdy legs of hers!’

  Eliza heard this speech with some admiration. Nell had not only inferred that she was privy to the king’s movements, but also that she was responsible for deciding who would dance. Smiling at the gallants now, and lifting her dress to show her small feet and trim ankles, Nell stepped across the stage to join them.

  The performance began at half past two, although Eliza didn’t discern much difference in the audience’s behaviour either before or after curtain-up. They still talked, laughed, shouted and flirted – once there was even a stand-up fight. The orange girls carried on circling around – occasionally being shouted at for standing between the audience and the action – and their goods were either eaten and the peel tossed on to the stage, or thrown whole to attract the attention of someone in another part of the auditorium.

  Nell stayed with the gallants, drinking and laughing, and studiously turned her back and affected complete disinterest when Mary Davis was doing her final solo.

  By the end of the performance Eliza had sold all her oranges and was just reflecting, relieved, that her disguise had worked, when suddenly someone jumped down from the stage and made straight for her.

  ‘I see a new orange girl!’ Henry Monteagle said, his voice slurred with drink. ‘I’ve found a new girl and would have a kiss!’

  Eliza, shocked and alarmed, didn’t know whether to run for it or stand her ground. She saw Nell stand up swiftly. ‘Oh, someone do get Henry back before he paws that girl to the ground and gets himself banned,’ she called.

  Another youth jumped down and pushed through the crowd after Henry, catching him just as he reached Eliza.

  ‘A lovely new miss with auburn hair!’ Henry said, standing foursquare in front of Eliza with a ridiculous smile on his fa
ce, swaying backwards and forwards. ‘A del … delishous … new miss.’

  ‘Henry!’ It was Valentine Howard who’d come after his friend. ‘There’s a gaming table at the Two Magpies and the carriage is outside. Come on!’

  Henry, ignoring him, put an arm around Eliza. ‘First I must have a kish … a kish from this lovely new orange girl.’

  Eliza froze as his fleshy lips moved closer. And then he suddenly halted.

  ‘But are you really new, my pretty?’ he asked drunkenly. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

  ‘No, indeed, sire,’ Eliza said, deliberately thickening her accent. ‘I arrived from Somersetshire on the coach only two days ago.’

  ‘Let’s away, Henry!’ Valentine Howard said, pulling at his arm.

  ‘But Val, don’t we know this girl?’ Henry began, lifting up Eliza’s chin.

  ‘How could you, you blaggard?’ came the reply. ‘She’s just told you she’s off the coach from Somerset,’ and he gave Henry Monteagle a friendly shove to send him on his way back to the others.

  As Monteagle lurched off, Eliza managed to murmur her thanks to Valentine, turning away from him slightly and lowering her eyes.

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said.

  ‘But meant much to me,’ Eliza said, her voice shaky.

  With a finger he lifted her chin, making her look into his eyes.

  ‘You’re welcome to call on me at any time,’ he said, ‘for Valentine Howard will always help a mermaid.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘But what if Henry Monteagle comes to the theatre again?’ Eliza asked Nell as they left Nell’s lodgings and began to push their way through the market crowds.

  ‘What if?’ Nell asked with a smile. ‘Oh, he’ll come to the theatre again for certain, for now the king comes everyone wants to be there.’ She was in a good mood that morning, for she’d had a message from the king to say he was sorry that he’d missed her performance and would make arrangements to see her as soon as he arrived back in London.

  ‘And suppose Monteagle suddenly remembers where he first saw me …’

  ‘He won’t!’ Nell said dismissively. ‘For his brain is already half-turned into brandy. He may recall that he saw you somewhere, but he won’t remember where. Besides,’ she said, looking at Eliza in mock innocence, ‘you have Val Howard on your side now, have you not?’

  Eliza began to blush.

  ‘Sir Valentine Howard. There’s a noble name,’ Nell teased.

  ‘Yes, he seems … seems a fine youth,’ Eliza stammered. She waited until she felt her blush had subsided. ‘I expect he is betrothed?’ she asked, for she knew that the nobility often had their marriages arranged while the potential bride and groom were still in their cradles.

  ‘I should think so,’ Nell said. ‘I’ll wager that when his studies are over he’ll be married to some ugly foreign bride to secure his overseas investments. Or he’ll try his luck with some old dowager who’ll leave him all her money.’ She glanced at Eliza, amused. ‘But you don’t think of marriage, surely?’

  ‘No! Oh, no,’ Eliza said. ‘I know I’m much too young.’

  ‘Not so,’ Nell said, ‘for Anne Fitzroy, the king’s bastard daughter, is set to be wed when she’s thirteen.’ Then she added, ‘What I mean is, you surely don’t think of marrying so high?’

  Eliza, embarrassed, didn’t know what to reply. Of course she didn’t. Or only in the most childish, make-believe way.

  ‘The nobility may bed us, and they may even kidnap us, as Rochester has just kidnapped Elizabeth Malet – but they will never marry us,’ said Nell.

  ‘No, indeed,’ Eliza said, pulling herself together. She brushed down the pleats of her skirt and tried to hide her discomfort. Of course she didn’t – wouldn’t – ever dare to think that Valentine Howard harboured the least interest in her. Even though he’d begun to fill her thoughts when she lay awake on hot nights, she knew that the interest must all be on her side.

  ‘Instead you must aim to become his mistress!’ Nell said brightly. ‘’Tis not beyond you. I can teach you some artful tricks …’

  ‘Indeed I would rather not,’ Eliza said quickly, ‘for I couldn’t bear to be a mistress and see the man I loved marry someone else.’

  ‘How strangely you speak,’ Nell said, beginning to laugh. ‘’Tis certain you are from the country!’

  The two girls continued through Covent Garden towards the theatre, walking carefully on their pattens for, after a heavy fall of rain, the cobbles were thick with muck and debris.

  Fortesque’s musical had run its short course and the company had begun readings for another play. Nell, however, despite her many other undoubted skills, couldn’t read, so Eliza was accompanying her to the theatre to help her with her lines. She was happy to do this for, apart from being a small way of repaying Nell for her kindnesses, all the while there was no play being performed at the theatre she had no work selling oranges. Instead she ran errands for Nell and acted as her maid and companion, and enjoyed being employed like this very much. She’d even devised a way to tame Nell’s hair: dowsing it in sugar water and tying it into rag curls overnight meant that in the mornings it was a mass of glossy ringlets instead of a bird’s nest frizz, and Nell was very much taken with these hairdressing skills.

  Life with her was much nicer than it had been with Old Ma Gwyn, for Nell didn’t take life seriously and was always telling amusing tales about the nobility or finding things to laugh about. It was true there wasn’t much space in her lodgings, but certainly the food was better. At Ma Gwyn’s Eliza had inevitably dined on the pottage that was always bubbling over the fire, or oysters that Rose hadn’t managed to sell, but Nell loved to eat and would send out for food from eating houses and taverns: rabbit pies, lobsters, buttered asparagus, a dish of roasted pigeons or a chicken fricassée. Eliza noticed that often she didn’t have to pay for these things; innkeepers were pleased to have her custom. They knew her credit was good and that sooner or later one of her gentlemen admirers would settle her bill.

  As they walked through Henrietta Street, Eliza noticed that a small crowd had gathered on the pavement outside a bootmaker’s shop and was endeavouring to see through the bowed glass window. She pointed this out to Nell, wondering what was going on.

  ‘Oh, ’tis the shop where the king buys his riding boots,’ Nell said, beaming. ‘Perhaps he’s inside. If he is I shall go and speak with him!’

  She crossed the muddy lane and Eliza, vastly excited at the thought that she might meet the king of England, followed a pace behind, fervently wishing that she’d worn her best dress that day.

  On seeing Nell, the people melted back from the doorway, for she was becoming increasingly well known – especially there, in the theatre area. Eliza heard two people say, ‘’Tis Nelly!’ and a woman reached out to touch her dress, as if it might bring her luck.

  The tall man within the shop was having his feet measured by a harassed and excited shopkeeper. Hearing the stir outside, he turned, saw Nell and, flourishing his plumed hat, gave a low bow.

  ‘Mistress Nelly!’ he said, and he came up, bent low over her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Monsieur Duval!’ Nelly said, curtsying.

  Eliza, close behind her, bobbed a curtsy too. She was disappointed that it wasn’t the king, but nonetheless quite excited at seeing the dandy highwayman again.

  ‘May I present Mistress Eliza Rose,’ Nell said, ‘my companion and also my reader – she’s helping me learn my lines.’

  Claude Duval took Eliza’s hand and kissed it, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Your servant, Mam’selle,’ he said with the faintest trace of French accent, and so handsome and charming was he that Eliza knew immediately why so many girls had lost their hearts to him.

  ‘I’m to appear in a new play at the King’s Theatre next week,’ Nell went on. ‘You’ll come, won’t you, Claude?’

  He smiled. ‘Will the nobility be there?’

  Nell nodded. ‘They will.’

&nb
sp; ‘Then I won’t!’ He paused, smiling. ‘But maybe I shall see them on their way home from the theatre and relieve them of their spare jewels.’

  He winked at both girls as he spoke and Nell laughed. ‘You, sire, are outrageous!’ she said. ‘And now tell me what brings you to the king’s own outfitters.’

  Claude Duval smiled. ‘I was in need of a new pair of riding boots and thought that a place which was good enough for the king would be good enough for me.’

  ‘Please, sire!’ the shopkeeper said, for those outside were being slowly pushed into the shop and it was now half full of gawping onlookers. ‘May I have your other foot to measure?’

  ‘Of course. My apologies,’ Claude Duval said genially to the shopkeeper and, after bowing extravagantly once more to Nell and Eliza and kissing their hands, he returned to having his feet measured and they pushed their way out of the shop.

  ‘Such an excellent man!’ Nell sighed as they continued towards the theatre.

  Eliza nodded, deep in thought. ‘I’ve been wondering about him – about Claude Duval,’ she said. ‘He has a great price on his head and everyone knows who he is, so why is it that no one turns him over to the constables?’

  ‘Because the people of London love him!’ Nell said immediately. ‘They love him for holding up the coaches of the nobles and stealing from them, and also because he’s gracious and mannerly when he takes their money. Even the gang of wits admire him – I know that he plays the occasional hand of cards with them. And did you hear the tale of the coach he stopped at Turnham Green?’

  Eliza shook her head.

  ‘He stole four hundred golden guineas from the couple within – and then offered a hundred guineas back if the man would play the lute whilst Claude danced with his wife.’

  ‘And did the man allow it?’ Eliza asked, delighted.

  Nell nodded. ‘He did. He played a coranto while Claude and the woman – who was very beautiful, apparently – danced together on the grass verge beside the coach. They say that she’s now quite lost her heart to him.’