The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose

by Mary Hooper

  Eliza pushed at it desperately. ‘I’ll see you get double the rent!’

  ‘I’ll see you in the debtors’ prison!’ came the reply.

  Eliza went back to examine her door again and found that the padlock was weighty and the planks had been hammered home with heavy nails. Even if she’d had the right tools she’d never have had the strength to prise them out.

  Despairing, she sank to the floor in the hall. She couldn’t lodge with Jemima, for Mrs Trott’s house was tiny and Jemima already shared a bed with young Matilda Trott, and neither could she sleep overnight at the theatre, for there were nightwatchmen who patrolled it. She had no money – absolutely none at all – so couldn’t take even the meanest room in an inn. She was hungry, too. Inside Nell’s room was milk, bread, cheese and some hard sausage, but she had no hopes of getting to these. Nor could she reach her best gown or any of her other trinkets, which might be pawned in order to raise a little money.

  How fragile her existence was, she realised. How easily she might find herself in the gutter. Even her friendship with Nell was based on her being able to arrange hair – what sort of foundation was that for someone’s life? As if she’d not suffered hardships enough, she thought: no family, no real friends, no money – and now no home …

  She gave way to a few tears, then forced herself to dry her face on her petticoat and go through everyone she knew in London from whom she might borrow money. After some considerable thought, however, the only name which came to mind was Old Ma Gwyn’s. But what would the old trugmouldy expect her to do in return?

  Eliza sat there pondering the matter for some time, then quickly resolved that she’d go over to Coal Yard Alley at once, before she ended up having to sleep in a shop doorway. Ma Gwyn surely couldn’t turn her away – and if she expected her to do something disagreeable in return for her accommodation, then she’d just walk out.

  Hurrying along Henrietta Street, Eliza happened to glance over to the royal bootmaker’s shop and noticed that, as before, a small crowd was standing outside. Crossing over, she peered through the window and wasn’t too surprised to see Claude Duval, dressed in an elegant dove-grey velvet riding coat, deep in conversation with the shopkeeper.

  Immediately it came to her. Of course! He’d lend her some money. He knew Nell very well, and Nell would ensure that he was recompensed as soon as she returned.

  Boldly Eliza stepped past the gaggle of onlookers and into the shop, where she was charmed to be bowed over and have her hand kissed by Monsieur Duval, there to collect the boots he’d ordered the month before. After he’d settled matters with the shopkeeper, Eliza asked if they might have a word in private before going outside.

  ‘For I’ve a particular favour to ask of you,’ she added.

  ‘Of course,’ Claude Duval replied gravely. ‘Any matter which distresses a lady – and I see by your so-beautiful green eyes that you are troubled – distresses me.’

  Eliza, blushing at his words, told him how Nell had gone away with the king but had forgotten to pay her rent beforehand.

  ‘Ah – of course, I remember now,’ he said. ‘You are the friend of Mistress Nelly. I met you in this very shop.’

  Eliza nodded. ‘That’s right. And, you see, Nell’s landlord has boarded up the room and I’ve no way of getting my food and clothing – and nowhere to sleep.’

  Claude Duval smiled playfully. ‘So you wish to sleep with me?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Eliza cried, embarrassed. ‘Not that!’

  ‘Would that be so bad?’

  ‘I assure you, sire, I didn’t mean –’

  He smiled. ‘I’m teasing you, but now I take pity on your blushes and your maidenly ways … you want to borrow some money, is that it?’

  Eliza nodded. ‘Please. Just until Nell returns.’

  He looked at her consideringly for a moment, then said, ‘I’m not a moneylender. I don’t believe in lending or borrowing money.’

  Eliza bit her lip. She hadn’t thought that he would actually refuse, or she wouldn’t have dared ask in the first place.

  ‘I see,’ she said, swallowing hard. It was back to Old Ma Gwyn, then.

  ‘I will give you some money. But you will have to do something to earn it.’

  Eliza looked up at him, aware of the crowd in the doorway nudging and murmuring to each other as they stared at the tall highwayman.

  ‘What … what would I have to do?’

  ‘Carry out a small job with me.’

  ‘A robbery?’ Eliza gasped.

  He shook his head. ‘Not exactly a robbery. Look, I’ll buy you something to eat in a coffee house – we can call it an advance of your fee – and explain.’

  And to Eliza’s intense pleasure he bowed, offered her his arm and they walked out of the shop together, the gaggle outside the shop melting away before them.

  Eliza had never been into a coffee house before and found it fascinating: the smoky air, the rich, enticing smell of the roasting beans, the glint of the brass on the coffee-making equipment, the velvet banquettes and the proliferation of interesting pamphlets and even more interesting clientele.

  The men within – they were all men, Eliza noticed – glanced up as the couple arrived and then went back to their gossip and their intrigues. Claude Duval ordered two dishes of coffee and Eliza gingerly began to sip from hers. It was very hot, strong and rather bitter and she wasn’t sure that she liked it, but she persisted with it, thinking it all part of the experience. Food was ordered – a thick grouse soup, followed by crimped cod and oyster sauce – and whilst they were eating, Claude Duval explained that he’d been involved in a card game the previous evening and lost a deal of money.

  ‘Four hundred and twenty guineas, to be precise,’ he concluded.

  Eliza’s eyes and mouth both opened in shock. ‘Four hundred …’ she gasped.

  Duval smiled. ‘This is nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost one thousand guineas and my horse at a game before now. I didn’t have my wits about me last night, however – mostly because I was constantly plied with strong spirits – and I was finally hoodwinked by a cheating young rascal who used marked cards.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Eliza asked. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Passing well,’ Duval said. ‘But I shall not tell you his name – that might be dangerous for you.’ He smiled. ‘Instead, as he is a sitting target, we shall call him the duck.’

  Eliza nodded.

  ‘I didn’t find out about the marked cards until he’d gone. But now I want my money back.’

  ‘So … so will you hold him up on the road?’ she asked, rather thrilled at the idea.

  ‘Possibly. But it’s like this: the carriages of the aristo-ducks don’t always stop at pistol point now, instead they drive straight on in the hopes that the highwayman won’t fire indiscriminately.’ He shrugged. ‘Either that or they have an armed outrider with them.’

  Eliza nodded, nervously wondering what he was going to ask of her.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘if a beautiful young lady was standing crying at the side of the road, then a carriage would stop.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eliza.

  ‘And that, my dear, is where you come in …’

  At nine o’clock, shaking with cold and nerves, Eliza stood on one of the turnpike highways out of London. To one side of the road, idly nibbling at the grass verge, was Master, Claude Duval’s horse, a tall and powerful beast with heavy leather panniers but no marking or colours on its blanket. The highwayman had got intelligence from someone in ‘the duck’s’ household that he was leaving London that evening to join the king and court in Newmarket and had also worked out, by learning at what time the man had ordered his carriage to be ready, at approximately what time he’d be passing this particular spot.

  There was a flaming torch on a wall at the side of the road and Eliza stood just outside its light, being coached by Claude as to what she should do. Some adjustments were made to her appearance (a smear of mud on her face, a torn bodice an
d her cap dislodged) and she was ready.

  ‘Now stand back from the light and wait until you hear my whistle,’ Claude said. He lowered his black mask into place across his eyes and settled his hat on his head. ‘I shall be further up the road on Master and won’t make a sound until I recognise the duck’s coat of arms on the side of his coach.’

  Eliza nodded, shivering, hardly believing she was doing such a thing. To aid and abet a highwayman! He made it sound all so easy, but if she was caught she knew full well that she could be hanged. And a plea that she’d just been assisting a friend who’d been cheated wouldn’t help at all.

  She breathed deeply. It was just like acting, she told herself. Another acting job. Only, of course, much more dangerous.

  ‘Remember, you just have to make his carriage halt, then you can go. Run off as fast as you can and I’ll meet you back at the coffee house at ten o’clock.’ Swiftly, Claude raised Eliza’s hand to his lips. ‘Here’s to our success at netting the duck,’ he said before melting into the shadows.

  It was ten minutes later when Eliza heard a low whistle, like that of a night-jar, and just a few seconds after that a carriage trundled into view. It wasn’t a large carriage, but one built for speed rather than comfort, and because of this Eliza was pleased to see that there was just a single driver in the front seat.

  She ran out to where she could be seen and stood by the roadside with her arms wrapped around herself, bent over, crying.

  ‘Help!’ she cried as it drew near. ‘Oh, help me, please!’

  The driver glanced sideways at her, but didn’t rein in the horses. As the carriage drew level she saw, though, that the carriage window was open slightly and its curtain only partially pulled across.

  ‘Oh, please help a poor maiden!’ she cried just at the opportune moment. ‘I’ve been attacked!’

  For a split second she didn’t think it was going to work, but then she saw a movement within the carriage as it passed. A head appeared at the window and a youth shouted, ‘Hold up there, driver! Whoa!’

  The reins were jerked back and there was a neigh from the horses. The carriage skewed a little on the dusty road, then came to a halt. Before it had fully stopped Claude Duval came thundering up on Master and brandished his pistol through the open window.

  ‘Your money, or your life,’ he said curtly. ‘I would like, if you please, to take exactly four hundred and twenty guineas from you.’

  There came a series of oaths from within the carriage. ‘Damn you, Duval!’ a voice said. ‘Damn your bones. It is you, I know it!’

  Eliza heard these words in terror and agitation, then turned and began running as fast as she could through the trees and bushes at the side of the road. Reaching the City gates she slowed to a walk and tried to compose herself. Tucking her hair behind her ears she retied her cap, then made her way to the coffee house. She knew it would not have been seemly for her to have gone in on her own, so she stayed in the shadows outside, waiting for Claude Duval, her heart still thumping fit to burst.

  Had she been seen? Had she been recognised? Closing her eyes, leaning against the wall, she tried to calm herself and force her heart to stop its pounding. How strange, how frightening, that she’d actually known the youth in the coach – for it had been none other than the king’s son: James, the Duke of Monmouth.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eliza found herself in possession of twenty guineas, more than she’d ever had – more than she’d ever seen– in her life. After leaving Claude Duval, she was first of a mind to go to Lewkenor’s Lane and settle with the landlord, but then, passing the Star, a large and notable tavern on the Strand, decided on a whim that she’d book herself in, for it was growing late and she thought Nell’s landlord might not be willing to get his tools and reopen the room at such an hour.

  Feeling very grand, for the Star was a tavern which attracted a fashionable trade, she went in and asked to take a room. ‘A good-sized single room, mind, with clean linen, feather bed and some candles,’ she requested of the innkeeper’s wife, trying to sound as if she stayed in taverns every day of her life. Noticing that in the huge fireplace a hound was walking a treadwheel which turned a fine suckling pig on a spit, she also asked that some hot sliced pork be sent up. This didn’t get eaten, however, for after taking a glass of wine and lying back on the bed, Eliza was filled with such a weary relief that all had gone well that she did no more than close her eyes and begin to drift towards sleep. Monmouth, she thought, surely couldn’t have recognised her. She’d been well back from the light – and besides, he’d only seen her a couple of times before that, and always in a crowd.

  The next morning she was still undecided about what to do. If she’d known that Nell was coming back to London soon, then a decision might have been easier, but there was every chance that the king and court might go on to York after Newmarket, or decide to pass some time in Windsor, and the idea of staying at the Star was a lot more appealing than being on her own in Nell’s dingy room.

  Putting off the decision for the moment, Eliza decided to go to Jemima’s lodgings, see how she was faring and if she’d yet had word from William about their intended passage. She also badly wanted to confide in someone about her situation – about the fact that not only was her father not her father, but that her mother wasn’t her mother either. It didn’t seem likely that Jemima would be able to offer any advice on the subject, but Eliza felt an overwhelming need to speak about it.

  Jemima was not at Mrs Trott’s, however, so from here Eliza went to the theatre, thinking this the only other place she was likely to be. As expected, she found Jemima in the tiring room, staring listlessly at nothing, her capacious cloak swept both around her and the chair she was seated upon so that almost no part of her body could be seen.

  ‘Are you well?’ Eliza asked her.

  Jemima nodded, rocking backwards and forwards aimlessly in her seat. ‘I’m just waiting for something to happen. For William to come for me, or to hear that we have passage on a ship. I’m endlessly waiting,’ she said bleakly.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be long,’ Eliza said, thinking the very opposite. ‘For surely he must see that you’re … you have …’ Her voice faltered, then faded away, and she wished she hadn’t started the sentence, for she knew Jemima would clam up if a certain subject was mentioned. ‘I wonder how Nell fares in Newmarket?’ she said instead. ‘I wonder if the king has other mistresses there with him?’

  ‘He has a wife there with him.’

  ‘He has,’ Eliza agreed. ‘And that would be enough for some men.’

  A moment went by without either of them speaking, and the only sound was Jemima’s chair creaking as she rocked. Suddenly, though, she gave a strange, strangled cry and Eliza looked over to see her face screwed up with pain.

  ‘What is it? What ails you?’ she asked urgently.

  Jemima shook her head, her face still contorted. ‘It’s … nothing. A cramp.’ She panted a little as she spoke. ‘I hurried here this morning and twisted something … something inside me.’

  ‘But Jemima …’

  The girl turned her face away suddenly. ‘I’m looking forward to the next production here,’ she said, her voice high and strained. ‘It’s going to be another play by Wycherley, did you hear?’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘I didn’t know that.’ As she spoke she looked at Jemima anxiously, wondering if it was her time, trying to think of some ordinary subject on which to speak. ‘Nell will be sure to take the lead in it, don’t you think?’

  ‘If she has enough time what with attending to the king,’ Jemima said, and then gave another cry, louder than before, and bent over double in the chair.

  ‘Jemima!’ Eliza cried. As she ran to help her, Jemima slid sideways off the chair and fell to her knees. Reaching her and putting her arms around her Eliza asked urgently, ‘How often are you getting these pains?’

  Jemima shook her head.

  ‘How often?’ Eliza demanded.

  There was
no reply.

  The spasm passed and, trembling all over, Jemima tried to hoist herself back on to the chair. She failed, ending up on the floor again.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s nothing …’ she said weakly.

  ‘It is something,’ Eliza said, determined that she wouldn’t be put off. ‘You’re in labour with your child, Jemima.’ She waited for this to sink in and added, ‘I was present at my stepmother’s birthings and I know the signs.’

  ‘No! It’s not that. It’s –’

  ‘Don’t be so stubborn!’ Eliza said, feeling very frightened – and cross enough with Jemima to defy her. ‘You’re about to have your child, and if we don’t act quickly it’s like to end up on the tiring room floor.’

  As she spoke, she held Jemima under her arms and braced her gradually upwards until she regained the chair. Once seated, Jemima burst into frightened tears.

  ‘Get William,’ she said. ‘Oh, please get William! He should be here with me.’

  ‘William can do no good here,’ Eliza said. ‘This is women’s work.’

  ‘But he must be told!’

  ‘He’ll be told,’ Eliza said briefly, casting her mind back to when her stepmother had last been in labour and trying to remember the different stages to be passed through. She’d hardly noticed these at the time, however, for Louise’s birth had been attended, as was the custom, by a bevy of local women: gossips, neighbours and Lady Acland from the big house – as well as an experienced midwife. Eliza’s duties had merely been to dab her stepmother’s forehead with lavender water and make an endless supply of chicken broth to sustain her.

  ‘Have you consulted anyone?’ she asked her friend and, as the girl shook her head, felt annoyed with herself for not anticipating the inevitable. Jemima was still in denial, but she should have found out the name of a midwife from a quack or one of the theatre women in readiness. Oh, why hadn’t she done so? ‘Do you think Mrs Trott will know of a midwife?’ she asked now.

  ‘Oh, please!’ Jemima curled into another spasm and, when it had passed, said, ‘Let’s deal with it ourselves. You can help me, I’m sure. There’s no need for anyone else. You know what to do!’