Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

ONE

All through the spring of that year there had been growing tension in the streets of London. It had communicated itself to aged and young alike. The old woman with her tray of herrings on the corner of Cole-yard where it turned off Drury Lane, watched passersby with eagerness as she called: “Good herrings! Come buy my good herrings.” If any paused, she would demand: “Is there news? What news?” The children, ragged, barefoot and filthy, playing in the gutters or trying to earn a coin or two by selling turnips and apples or helping the old woman dispose of her herrings, were alert for news. If any stranger rode by they would run after him, fighting each other for the privilege of holding his horse, demanding with their own brand of Cockney impudence: “What news, sir? Now Old Noll’s departed, what news?”

Every day there were rumors. The observant noticed changes in the London they had known for the last ten years and more—small changes, but nevertheless changes. The brothels had flourished all through the Commonwealth, but discreetly; now, passing through Dog-and-Bitch Lane, it was possible to see the women at the windows, negligent in their dress, beckoning to passersby and calling to them in their harsh London voices to come inside and see what pleasures they might enjoy. Blood-sports were gradually coming back to London once again.

“We are getting back to the good old days,” people said to one another.

On the cobbles outside one of the hovels in Cole-yard, three children sprawled. They were unusually good-looking, and none of them was marked by the pox or any deformity. The two elder children—a girl and a boy—were about twelve years old, the younger, a girl, aged ten; and it was this ten-year-old who was the most attractive of the three. Her bones were small and she was delicately formed; her hair fell in a tangle of matted curls about her shoulders; it was of a bright chestnut color; her hazel eyes were full of mischief; her nose, being small and retroussé, added a look of impudence to her face. For all that she was the youngest and so much smaller than the others, she dominated the group.

Beside the boy lay a torch. As soon as it was dark he would be at work, lighting ladies and gentlemen across the roads. The elder of the two girls was casting anxious glances over her shoulder at the hovel behind her, and the young girl was laughing at the elder because of the latter’s fear.

“She’ll not be out for a while, Rose,” she cried. “She’s got her gin, so what’ll she want with her daughters?”

Rose rubbed her hand along her back reminiscently.

Her young sister jeered. “You should be smarter on your feet, girl. Shame on you! You an active wench, to be caught and pasted by an old woman full of gin!”

The child had leaped up; she found it hard to remain still for any length of time. “Why,” she cried, “when old Ma turned to me with her stick I ran straight in to her … thus … caught her by the petticoat and swung her round till she was so giddy with the turning and the gin that she clutched me for support and begged me stop her from falling, calling me her good girl. And what said I? ‘Now, Ma! Now Ma … You take less of the gin and be more ready with a kiss and a good word for your girls than with the stick. That’s the way to have good and loving daughters.’ She sat flat on the floor to get her breath, and it was not till she was fully recovered that she thought of the stick again. Then ’twas too late to use it, for her anger against me had sped away. That’s the way to treat a drunken sot, Rosy girl, be she who she may.”

As the girl had talked she had changed from the role of drink-sodden old woman to sprightly mischievous child, and each she had performed with an adroitness that set the others laughing.

“Give over, Nelly,” said Rose. “You’ll have us die of laughter.”

“Well, we all have to die one day, whether it be of laughter or gin.”

“But not yet, not yet,” said the boy.

“Mayhap twelve years is a little too young, cousin Will. So I’ll have mercy on you, and you shall not die of laughing yet.”

“Come, sit down and be quiet awhile,” said Rose. “I heard tales in Longacre Street this day. They say the King is coming home.”

“If he comes,” said Will, “I shall be a soldier in his Army.”

“Bah!” said Nell. “A soldier to fight the battles of others? Even a link-boy fights his own.”

“I’d have a grand uniform,” said Will. “A beaver hat with a feather to curl over my shoulder. I’d have a silver chain about my neck, riding boots to the knee, and a red velvet cloak. I’d be a handsome gallant roaming the streets of London.”

Nell cried: “Why not be the King himself, Will?” Will looked crestfallen and she went on kindly: “Well, Will, who knows, mayhap you shall have your beaver hat and feather. Mayhap when the King comes home ’twill be the custom for every link-boy, from Aldgate Pump to Temple Bar, to have his beaver hat and feather.”

“Nelly jokes,” said Rose. “My girl, one day your jokes will land you into trouble.”

“Better be landed in trouble by jokes than felony.”

“You are too smart for your years, Nell.”

There was a clatter of horse’s hoofs as a man came riding by. All three children got to their feet and ran after the man on horseback who was pulling up at a house in Drury Lane.

“Hold your horse, sir?” said Will.

The man leaped down and threw the reins to Will.

Then he looked at the two girls.

“What news, sir?” asked Nell.

“News! What news should such as I have to give to a drab like you?”

Nell dropped a curtsy. “Drabs who would be ladies, and serving men aping their lords all have a right to news, sir.”

“Impudent beggar’s whore!” said the man.

Nell stood poised for flight.

“I am too young for the title, sir. Mayhap if you pass this way a few years later I shall have earned it.”

The man laughed; then feeling in his pocket flung a coin at her. Expertly Nell caught it before it fell to the ground. The man passed on. Will was left holding his horse, while Nell and Rose studied the coin. It was as much as Will would earn for his labor, and Rose remarked on this.

“The tongue is as useful as a pair of hands,” cried Nell.

“What will you do with the money?” asked Rose.

Nell considered. “A pie, a slice of beef mayhap. Mayhap. As yet I have decided on one thing only: It shall not buy gin for Ma.”

As they strolled back to Cole-yard, their mother appeared suddenly at the door of the hovel.

“Rosy! Nelly!” she screeched. “You lazy sluts, where are you? I’ll wallop you till you’re black and blue, you lazy good-for-nothings, both of you. Come here at once … if you want to live another hour. Rosy! Nelly! Was ever a good woman cursed with such sluts?” Suddenly she saw them. “Come here, you two. You, Rosy! You, Nelly! You come here and listen to your own mother.”

“Something has happened to excite her,” said Rose.

“And for once it is not the gin,” added Nell.

They followed Madam Eleanor Gwyn into the dark hovel which was their home.

Their mother sat down panting on a three-legged stool. She was very fat, and the effort of coming to the door and calling them had tired her.

Rose pulled another stool up to her mother’s; Nell spread herself on the floor, her legs and tiny feet swaying above her recumbent body, her vital heart-shaped face supported by her hands.

“There are you two, roaming the streets,” scolded Mrs. Gwyn, “never giving a thought to the good days ahead.”

“We were waiting for you to come out of your gin sleep, Ma,” said Nell.

Mrs. Gwyn half rose as though to cuff the girl, but thought better of it.

“Give over with your teasing, Nell,” she said, “and listen to me. There’s good days coming, and shouldn’t we all share in them?”

“The King’s coming home,” said Rose.

“You two don’t remember the old days,” said Madam Gwyn, lapsing into one of the sentimental moods which often came to her after consuming a certain quantity of gin. Nell found them less tolerable than her other phases, preferring a fighter any day to a maudlin drunkard. But now her keen eyes saw that this mood was a passing one. Her mother was excited. “No, you don’t remember the good old days,” she went on. “You don’t remember the shops in the Royal Exchange, and all the merry girls selling their wares there. You don’t remember seeing the young cavaliers about the streets. There was a sight for you—in their silks and velvets and feathers and swords! There was a life for a girl. When I was your age there was good sport to be had in this old city. Many’s the time I’ve stood at a pillar in St. Paul’s and met a kind and generous gentleman.” She spat. “Kind and generous gentlemen—they went out with the King. They all followed him abroad. But things is different now—or going to be.”

“The King’s coming home!” cried Nell. She was on her feet, waving her arms and bowing. “Welcome, Your Majesty. And what difference are you going to make to two skinny girls and their gin-sodden bawd of a mother?”

“Be silent, Nell, be silent,” warned Rose. “This is not the time.”

“Anytime’s the time for the truth,” said Nell. She eyed her mother cautiously. Madam Gwyn returned her stare. Nell was too saucy by half, Madam Gwyn was thinking; but the girl was too spry to be caught and beaten, and in any case she wanted Nell as an ally now; she herself was the one who had to be careful.

And to think she’s but ten years old, pondered Nell’s mother. Her tongue’s twice that age for all her small body and her child’s face.

Madam Gwyn was filled with self-pity that she, a loving mother, always thinking of her girls, should be so treated by them; with cupidity, in assessing the value of these two girls in her proposed venture; and with admiration for herself because of the livelihood with which she was going to provide them.

“Nelly’s right,” she said placatingly. “It’s always best to have the truth.”

“When the King comes home,” said Rose, “London will change. It’ll be like the old London Ma knew as a girl. And if things change for London, they change for us. But it’s a long time since Noll Cromwell died, and the King is still not home. I can remember, when he died, everybody said, ‘Now the Black Boy will be home.’ But he didn’t come.”

“The Black Boy!” cried Nell. “How black is he? And is he such a boy?”

“It’s his swarthy skin and his way with women. He’s as dark as a blackamoor and always a boy where the girls are concerned,” said Madam Gwyn. She began to laugh. “And Kings set fashions,” she added significantly.

“Let’s wait till he’s here before we line the streets to welcome him,” said Rose.

“No,” said Nell. “Let’s welcome him now. Then if he does not come we’ve had the fun of welcome all the same.”

“Put a stop to those clacking tongues,” said Madam Gwyn, “and listen to me. I’m going to make this place into a nice house for gentlemen … There’s the cellar below, where we’ll put a few chairs and tables, and the gentlemen will come in to take their fill.”

“Their fill … of what?” said Nell sharply.

“Of pleasure,” said Madam Gwyn, “for which they’ll pay right well. I’ll let some of the girls hereabouts come in and help me build up a nice little house, and it’ll all be for the sake of my girls.”

“And a little extra gin,” murmured Nell.

Rose was silent and Nell, who knew her sister well, sensed the alarm in her. Even Nell fell silent. And after a while Madam Gwyn dozed, and Nell and Rose went to the old herring-woman on the corner to help sell some of her wares.

They lay side by side on their pallet. Close to them, on hers, lay their mother. She was fast asleep, but Rose could not sleep; she was afraid; and Nell sensed Rose’s fear.

Nell’s tongue was sharper than Rose’s and Nell was bright enough to know that there were some things about which Rose must be—on account of her two years’ seniority—better informed than herself.

Rose was alarmed at the prospect of the “house” which her mother was planning; and Nell knew that Rose was thinking of the part she would be called upon to play in it. This meant entertaining men. Nell knew something of this. She was so small that she appeared to be younger than she was, but that had not protected her from the attentions of certain men. Her pert face, framed by abundant curls, had not passed unnoticed. On more than one occasion she had been beckoned into quiet places and had gone, hoping to earn a groat or two, for Nell was often hungry and the smell of roasting flesh and hot pies which filled certain streets was at such times very tantalizing; but she had quickly retreated after inflicting kicks and a bite or two, and there had been a great terror within her which she had hidden by her indignant protestations.

“Rose,” she whispered consolingly, “mayhap it won’t come.”

Rose did not answer. She knew Nell’s way of not believing anything she thought might be unpleasant. Nell would play at the pageants and the excitement of the King’s return over and over again, but of these plans of her mother’s which might prove unpleasant she would declare—and believe—they would come to nothing.

Nell went on, for Nell found it difficult to hold her tongue: “Nay, Ma’s house will come to naught. ’Tis many years since there has been this talk of the King’s return. And is he here? Nay! Do you remember, Rose, the night of the storm? That was years and years ago. We lay here clinging one to the other in the very fear that the end of the world had come. Do you remember, Rosy? It had been a stifling hot day. Ugh! And the smell of the gutters! Then the darkness came and the thunder and the wind seemed as though it would tear down the houses. And all said: ‘This is a sign! God’s angry with England. God’s angry with the Puritans.’ Do you remember, Rosy?”

“Aye,” said Rose. “I remember.”

“And then just after that old Noll died and everybody said: ‘God is angry. He sent the storm and now He’s taken old Noll. The Black Boy will be home.’ But that was long, long ago, Rose, and he’s not here yet.”

“It was two years ago.”

“That’s a long time.”

“When you’re ten it’s a long time. When you’re as old as I am … it’s not so long.”

“You’re only two years older than I am, Rose.”

“It’s a great deal. A lot can happen to a girl in two years.”

Nell was silent for a while; then she said: “You remember when the General came riding to London?”

“That was General Monk,” said Rose.

“General Monk,” repeated Nell. “I remember it well. It was the day after my birthday. It was a cold day. There was ice on the cobbles. ‘A cold February,’ everyone was saying. ‘But a hard winter can mean a good summer, and this summer will surely bring the Black Boy home.’”

“And it looks as though it will,” said Rose.

“What excitement, Rosy, when the General rode through London! Do you remember how they roasted rumps of beef in the street? Oh, Rosy, don’t you love the smell of roasting rumps of beef? And there’s one thing I like better. The taste of it.” Nell began to laugh.

“Oh, what a time that was, Rosy,” she went on. “I remember the bonfires—a line of them from St. Paul’s to the Stocks Market. I thought London town was burning down, I did indeed. There were thirty-one at Strand Bridge. I counted them. But best of all were the butchers and the roasting rumps. That was a day, that was. I always thought, Rose, that it was for my birthday … coming so soon after it, you see. All those fires and good beef! I went with the crowd that marched to the house of Praise-God Bare-bone. I threw some of those stones that broke his windows, I did. And someone in the crowd said to a companion: ‘What’s it all about, do you know?’ and I answered up and said: ‘ ’Tis Nelly’s birthday, that’s what it is, though a bit late; but Nelly’s birthday all the same.’ And they laughed in my face and someone said: ‘Well, at least this child knows what it’s all about.’ And they laughed more and they jeered and were for picking me up and carrying me nearer to the bonfire. But I was scared, thinking they might take it into their heads to roast me in place of a rump … so I took to my heels and ran to the next bonfire.”

“Your tongue again, Nell. Guard it well. That was the end of the Rump Parliament, and the General was for the King.”

“It was not so long ago, Rose, and this time he’ll be home. Then there’ll be fun in the streets; there’ll be games in Covent Garden, Rose, and there’ll be fairs and dancing in the streets to the tunes of a fiddler. Oh, Rose, I want to dance so much I could get up now and do so.”

“Lie still.”

Nell was silent for a while. Then she said: “Rose, you’re afraid, are you not? You’re afraid of Ma’s new ‘house.’” Nell threw herself into her sister’s arms. “Why, Rose?” she demanded passionately. “Why?”

This was one of those rare moments when Nell realized she was the younger sister and begged to be comforted. Once they had been more frequent.

Rose said: “We have to make a living, Nell. There are not many ways for girls like us.”

Nell nodded fiercely; and a silence fell between them.

Then she said: “What shall I have to do in Ma’s house, Rose?”

“You? Oh, you’re young yet. And you’re small for your age. Why, you don’t look above eight. Keep your tongue quiet and none would think you were the age you are. But your tongue betrays you, Nell. Keep a fast hold on it.”

Nell put out her tongue and held it firmly in her fingers, a habit of her very young days.

“You’ll be well enough, Nell. Just at first you’ll be called upon to do nothing but serve strong waters to the gentlemen.”

The two sisters clung together in silence, rejoicing that whatever the future held for them, the other would be there to share it.

Nell was there in the streets when the King came home. Never in all her life had she witnessed such pageantry. She had climbed onto a roof—urging Rose and her cousin Will to climb with her—the better to see all that was to be seen.

Nell’s eyes shone with excitement as others, following her example, climbed the roof to stand beside the three children; Nell jostled to keep her place and let out such streams of invective that those about her were first incensed, then amused. She snapped her fingers in their faces; she was used to such treatment; she knew the power of her tongue which always made people smile in the end.

From where she stood she could see St. Paul’s rising high on Ludgate Hill and dominating the dirty city, the hovels of which clustered about the fine buildings like beggars about the skirts of fine ladies. Even the wide roads were so much in need of repair that they were full of potholes; the small streets and alleys were covered in mud and filth. The smells from the breweries, soap-makers and tanneries filled the air, but Nell did not notice this; these were the familiar smells. On the river were boats of all descriptions—barges, wherries, skiffs, anything which could float. Music came from them, and shouting and laughter filled the air. Everyone seemed to want to talk of his pleasure in this day so loudly as to shout his neighbor down.

The bells were ringing from every church in the city; the roughness of the roads was hidden by flowers which had been strewn along the way the King would come; tapestry was hung across the streets and from the windows. The fountains were running with wine. All the people seemed to be congratulating each other that they had lived to see this day.

Over London Bridge and through the streets the procession came on its way to the Palace of Whitehall. There were all the fine ladies and gentlemen, all the noblemen and women who surrounded the King.

Nell leaped with excitement and was warned by Rose and Will that if she did not take greater care she would fall from the roof.

She paid no heed, for at that moment the cheering and shouting of the people had become so loud that she could no longer hear the pealing of the bells. Then she saw the King ride by, tall, and very dark—a veritable Black Boy—bareheaded with his black curls falling over his shoulders, his feathered hat in his hand as he bowed and smiled to the crowds who were shouting themselves hoarse in their welcome.

The dark eyes seemed to miss no one. All about her Nell heard the whisper: “He smiled at me. I swear it. He looked straight at me … and smiled. Oh, what a day is this! The King has come home, and England will be merry again.”

Behind the King came all those who had followed him from Rochester, determined to accompany him into his capital, determined to drink his health in the wine flowing from London fountains, determined to show that not only in London did people welcome the King to his own.

Nell was quiet as she watched the rest of the procession. She was wishing she was one of the fine ladies she saw riding there. Those little feet of hers would look well in silver slippers. She longed for a velvet gown to replace her coarse petticoat; she would have liked to comb the tangles out of her hair and wear it in sleek curls as those ladies did.

Rose was wistful too. Rose had changed lately—grown secretive. Rose was now working in her mother’s house, and Rose was reconciled. She was pretty and many men who came to the house asked for Mrs. Rose. Nell, hurrying from one table to another serving strong waters, eluded those hands stretched out to catch her; she could not curb her tongue and she knew how to use it to advantage—not to charm those men with the ugly lustful faces who gathered in her mother’s cellar, but to anger them, so that they felt more inclined to cuff that slut Nelly than to caress her.

It was seven of the clock by the time the procession had passed and they could fight their way back to Cole-yard, where Madam Gwyn was waiting for them. There was free wine in the fountains that day, but all the same she anticipated good business in her cellar.

It was early morning and there were still sounds of revelry in the streets.

Rose was not in the house in Cole-yard. She had gone off with a lover. “A fine and gallant gentleman,” mused Madam Gwyn. “Ah, what I do for my girls!”

It was not easy to sleep. Nell lay on her pallet and looked at that mountain of flesh which was her mother. She had never loved her. How was it possible to love one who had cuffed and abused for as long as one could remember? What did Ma want now but a life of ease for herself—ease and gin, of course. She was meant to keep a bawdy-house. Sugary words came easily to her tongue when she talked to the gentlemen, just as abuse came when she scolded her daughters. All her hopes were in Rose—pretty Rose who already had found a lover from the casual callers at the house.

And, mused Nell, what else was there for a girl to do? Sell herrings, apples, turnips?

Rose had a fine gown given her by her lover, and she looked very pretty when she sauntered out into Drury Lane. The other girls were envious of Rose. Yet Nell did not want that life. Nell was going to remain a child—too young for anything but to serve strong drinks—for as long as she could.

“Ma,” she said softly, “are you asleep?”

“There’s too much noise outside for sleep.”

“It’s good noise, Ma. It means the King’s home and things will change.”

“Things will change,” wheezed Madam Gwyn. Then she said: “Nell … there’s nothing left in this bottle. Get me another.”

Nell leaped up and obeyed.

“You’ll kill yourself, Ma,” she said.

Madam Gwyn spat, and snatched the bottle roughly. Nell watched her, wondering whether when she was young she had ever looked as pretty as Rose.

“I deserve my fancies,” said Madam Gwyn. “’Twas a goodly night. If all nights were as good as this one I’d be rich.”

“Mayhap they will be, Ma, now the King’s come home.”

“Mayhap. Mayhap I’ll have a true brothel. There’s more to be made in a brothel than a bawdy-house. Mayhap ere long I’ll have a place in Moor-fields or Whetstone Park. Why should such as Madam Cresswell, Mother Temple, and Lady Bennet do so well, while I have my cold cellar and just a few sluts from the Cole-yard?”

“Well, Ma, you’ve done well. You’ve got the whole of this place now, and the rooms above this bring much profit to you.”

“You’re growing up, Nell.”

“I’m not very old yet, Ma.”

“I once thought you’d be every bit as good as your sister. I’m not so sure now. Don’t none of the gentlemen ever have a word with you?”

“They don’t like me, Ma.” Madam Gwyn sighed, and Nell went on quickly: “You’ve got to have someone to serve the brandy, Ma. You couldn’t get round quick enough with it yourself. And would you trust any but me with that fine Nantes brandy?”

Madam Gwyn was silent, and after a while she began to cry. This was the maudlin mood, and for once Nell was glad of it. “I’d have liked something better for my girls,” mused Madam Gwyn. “Why, when you were born …”

“Tell me about our father,” said Nell soothingly.

And her mother told of the captain who had lost all his money fighting the King’s battles. Nell smiled wryly. All poor men in these days had lost their money fighting the King’s battles; and she did not believe this story of the handsome captain, for what handsome captain would have married her mother?

“And he would give me this and that,” mourned Madam Gwyn. “He spent all he had as soon as he got it. That was why he died—blessing me and his two girls—in a debtors’ prison in Oxford town.”

Madam Gwyn was crying noisily; outside in the streets the merrymaking continued, and Nell lay wide-eyed yet dreaming—dreaming that some miraculous fate took her from her mother’s bawdy-house in Cole-yard and she became a lady in a gown of scarlet velvet and silver lace.

Nell stood watching the builders on that plot of land between Drury Lane and Bridge Street.

Will was with her. Will knew most things that went on in the city.

“You know what they’re building here, Nelly?” he said. “A theater.”

“A theater!” Nell’s eyes sparkled. She had been to the play once in Gibbon’s Tennis Court in Vere Street. It had been an experience she had never forgotten, and swore she never would. When she had left the place the enchantment had lingered and, having memorized most of the attractive roles, she had continued to play them out ever since, partly for the benefit of any who would listen and watch, chiefly for her own satisfaction.

What more exciting than to prance on a stage, to have all the people in the theater watching you, to hear them laugh at your wit, always knowing that their amusement might as easily turn to scorn. Yes, those laughs, those tender languishing glances from young gallants, might easily be replaced by bad eggs or offal, filth picked up in the streets. Nell’s eyes sparkled still more as she thought of what she’d have to say to any who dared insult her.

And now they were building a new theater. Because, said Will, the King cared greatly for the theater and actors; he liked men who could make him laugh, and actors who could divert him with their play.

Gibbon’s Tennis Court was no longer considered good enough for a King’s Theater, and this was to be built. So Will had heard two gentlemen say, when he had lighted them across the road. It was going to cost the vast and almost unbelievable sum of one thousand five hundred pounds. “Mr. Killigrew is making all arrangements,” added Will.

“Mr. Killigrew!” said Nell, and she laughed loudly. Rose had a new lover. He was a gentleman of high degree and his name was Killigrew—Henry Killigrew. He was employed by the Duke of York, the King’s brother; but, more important still, he was the son of the great Thomas Killigrew, friend of the King, Groom of the King’s Bedchamber and Master of the King’s Theater. It was this great Thomas Killigrew who was responsible for the building of the new theater, and the fact that Rose’s lover was his son gave Rose added luster in Nell’s eyes.

She could scarcely wait to reach home and tell Rose what she had discovered, so bade a hasty farewell to Will, who looked hurt. Poor Will, he should be accustomed to her by now. Will was fond of her; he was afraid that one day her mother would succeed in making her work in the house as Rose worked, even though Nell was determined not to. Nell had her eyes on another life. It was not like her to be secretive, but this she kept to herself. She had started to dream ever since she had watched the King ride into his capital and had seen the fine ladies in their silks and velvets. She had wanted to be as they were and, perhaps because she knew that the nearest she could get to being a lady of quality was to act the part—and this she believed she could do so that none would know her home was a bawdy-house in Cole-yard—she had made up her mind to be an actress.

When she arrived at the house she realized with dismay that soon the gentlemen would be crowding into the cellar, and she would be running from table to table serving brandy, wine or ale, avoiding the hands that now and then sought to catch her, making use of her nimble feet either to kick or to run, and scowling—squinting too—to distort her pretty face.

She went to the room where the girls sat when they were not in the cellar. Rose was there alone.

Nell cried: “Rose, they’re building a theater by Drury Lane and Bridge Street.”

“I know,” said Rose, smiling secretly. He told her, thought Nell.

“It’s Henry’s father, who is the King’s Theater Master,” said Nell. “He is having this done.”

“’Tis so,” said Rose.

“Does he talk to you of the theater, Rose?”

Rose shook her head. “We don’t have time for talking much,” she said demurely.

Nell began to jig round the room. Rose looked at her intently. “Nelly,” she said, “you’re growing up.” Nell stood still, some of the color drained from her face. “And … in your way …” said Rose, “you’re a pretty wench.”

The horror had frozen on Nell’s face. “Mayhap,” went on Rose, “you would miss my luck. ’Tis not every girl from Cole-yard who could find herself a gentleman.”

“That’s so,” agreed Nell.

“You love the theater, do you not? You would like to go often. Why, I’ll never forget the way you were when you came home after seeing the players—nearly driving us all crazy and making us die of laughing. Nell, how would you like to be in the theater while the players act?”

“Rose … what do you mean? Rosy, Rosy, tell me…. Tell me quickly or I’ll die of despair.”

“That’s one thing you’d never die of. Listen to me: I know this, for Henry told me. The King’s company have granted to Mrs. Mary Meggs the right to sell oranges, lemons, fruit, sweetmeats, and all manner of fruiterers’ and confectioners’ wares. That will be when the new theater opens. Oh, it’s going to be such a place, Nelly!”

“Tell me … tell me about Mary Meggs.”

“Well, she will need girls to help her sell her wares, that is all, Nelly.”

“And you mean … that I …”

Rose nodded. “I told Harry about you. He laughed fit to die when I told him how you squinted for fear the gentlemen should be after you. He said he had a mind to try you himself. But he did not mean that,” added Rose complacently. “I told him how you wanted to be in the playhouse all the time, and he said, ‘Why, she’d make one of Orange Moll’s girls.’ Then he told me about Mary Meggs and how she wanted three or four girls to stand there in the pit and chivy the gentlemen into buying China oranges.”

Nell clasped her hands together and smiled ecstatically at her sister. “And I am to do this?”

“I know not. You go too fast. Did you not always? If Mary Meggs makes up her mind that you will suit her, and if she has not already found her girls … well then, doubtless you will serve.”

“Take me to her. Take me to her now. I must see Mary Meggs. I must! I must!”

“There is one thing you must not do—and that is squint. Mary Meggs wants pretty girls in the pit. No gentleman would pay sixpence for a China orange to a girl who squints.”

“I shall smile … and smile … and smile….”

“Nell, Nell, don’t smile so downstairs, or you’ll look too pretty.”

“Nay,” said Nell. “I shall look like this as I serve the waters.” She made a hideous grimace, squinting diabolically, puffing down her lids with her fingers, and drawing her mouth into a snarl.

Rose doubled up with laughter. Rose laughed easily nowadays. That was because she was thinking of her lover, Harry Killigrew. Life was wonderful, Nell decided; one never knew what was coming. Poor Rose had been frightened of the cellar and the gentlemen, and now that work had brought her Harry Killigrew; and his connection with the King’s players was to give Nell an introduction to Orange Moll Meggs and bring her near to her heart’s desire.

Rose was sober suddenly. “There is no need for you to hurry to Mary Meggs. Harry will say: ‘Mrs. Nelly is to sell oranges in the King’s Theater because Mrs. Nelly is the sister of my Rose.’”

Nell flung herself into her sister’s arms, and they laughed together as they had often laughed in the past, laughed for happiness and relief, which, Nell had said, were so much more worth laughing for than a witty word.

Henry Killigrew did not come to the cellar that night. Rose was always anxious when he did not come. Nell was anxious now. What if he never came again? What if he forgot all about Rose and her sister Nell? What if he did not realize how vitally important it was that Nell Gwyn should become one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls?

Nell moved among the gentlemen with an abstracted look, but she was ever ready to elude their straying hands. She was sorry for poor Rose; for if her lover did not come, Rose would be forced to take another, provided he would pay the price her mother demanded.

Rose was no longer indifferent, because Rose was in love. It was as important now for Rose to elude those straying hands as it was for Nell to do so.

Nell felt sudden anger against a world which had nothing better than this to offer a girl, when others—such as those ladies in velvet and cloth of gold and silver—whom she had seen about the King on his triumphal entry into his Capital, had so much. But almost immediately she was resigned. Rose had her lover, and those ladies riding with the King had not seemed more radiant than Rose when she had been going to meet Henry Killigrew; and when she, Nell, was one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls she would know greater happiness than any of those women could possibly know.

Now her eyes went to Rose. A fat man with grease on his clothes—doubtless a flesh-merchant from East Cheap—was beckoning to her, and Rose must perforce go and sit at his table.

Nell watched. She saw the big hands touching Rose, saw Rose recoiling with horror, her eyes piteously fixed on the door, waiting for the entry of her lover.

Nell heard her say: “No … No. It is not possible. I have a gentleman waiting for me.”

The flesh-merchant from East Cheap stood up and kicked the stool on which he had been sitting across the cellar. Others watched, eyes alert with interest. This was what they liked—a brawl in a bawdy-house when they could throw bottles at one another, wreck the place, and enjoy good sport.

Madam Gwyn had come from her corner like an angry spider. She raised her slurring gin-cracked voice. “What ails you, my fine gentleman? What do you find in my house not to your liking?”

“This slut!” shouted the flesh-merchant.

“Why, that’s Mrs. Rose … the prettiest of my girls … Now, Mrs. Rose, what has gone wrong here? You drop a curtsy to the fine gentleman and tell him you await his pleasure.”

The flesh-merchant watched Rose and his little eyes were cruel.

“He’s planning to hurt her,” shouted Nell in panic.

Rose cried: “I cannot. I am ill. Let me go. There is a gentleman waiting for me.”

Rose’s mother took her by the arm and pushed her towards the flesh-merchant, who gripped her and held her to him for a few seconds; then he was roaring with rage, shouting at the top of his voice. “I see it now. She has my purse, the slut!”

He was holding a purse above his head. Rose had stepped back, staring at the purse with fascinated eyes.

“Where did you … find that?” she asked.

“Inside your bodice, girl. Where you put it.”

“’Tis a lie,” said Rose. “I never saw it before.”

He had caught at the drapery at Rose’s neck, cut low to show her pretty bosom. He tore the charming dress which was a present from her lover.

“Lying slut!” cried the merchant. “Thieving whore!” He appealed to others sitting at the tables. “Must we endure this treatment? ’Tis time we taught these bawds a lesson.”

He kicked the table; it was cheap and fragile, and it was smashed against the wall.

“I pray you, good sir,” soothed Madam Gwyn, “I pray you curb your anger against Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Rose is ready to make amends….”

“I never saw the purse,” cried Rose. “I did not take the purse.”

The merchant paused and ceremoniously opened the purse. “There’s ten shillings missing from it,” he said. “Come, give me what you’ve taken, slut.”

“I have not had your money,” protested Rose.

The man took her by the shoulders. “Give it me, you slut, or I’ll bring a charge against you.” His little pig’s eyes were glistening. His face, thought Nell, was like a boar’s head which had been pickled for several days. She hated him; if she had not grown accustomed to keeping herself under control in the cellar, she would have rushed at once to Rose’s defence. But she was afraid; for that which she saw in the man’s eyes was lust as well as the desire for revenge; and she was afraid of lust.

He had turned now to the company. He shouted: “Look to your own pockets. They lure you here; they drug their waters; how many of you have left this place poorer men than when you entered it? How many of you have paid too dear for what you’ve had? Come! Shall we allow these bawds to rob us?”

One of the men shouted: “What will you do, friend?”

“What will I do!” he screamed. He had caught Rose by the shoulder. “I’ll take this whore and make an example of her, that I will.”

Madam Gwyn was beside him, rubbing her fat hands together. “Mrs. Rose is my prettiest girl, sir. Mrs. Rose is longing for a chance to be kind to you.”

“I doubt it not!” roared the man. “But she comes to her senses too late. I came here for a good honest whore, not a jailbird.”

“I’m no jailbird!” cried Rose.

“Is that so, Miss?” snarled the man. “Then you soon will be. Come, my friends.”

And with that he dragged Rose to the door. The men who were sitting about the tables rose and formed a bodyguard about him. “Take the thief to jail!” they chanted. “That’s the way to treat a thief.”

Rose was pale with horror.

Everyone was leaving the cellar. They could visit a bawdy-house at any time; but it was not so often that they could see one of the patrons drag a girl to jail.

“I’ve been robbed here more than once, I swear it,” declared a little man.

“And I!” “And I!” the cry went up.

Nell moved then; she ran after the group who were pushing their way into the street. Already down in Cole-yard the flesh-merchant was calling out where he intended taking Rose, and crowds were gathering.

“A pickpocket whore!” Nell heard the words. “Caught stealing money.”

“’Tis a lie. ’Tis a lie!” cried Nell.

Nobody looked at her. She fought her way to Rose. Poor Rose, bedraggled and weeping so bitterly, her pretty gown ruined, her pretty lips begging, pleading, swearing that she was innocent.

Nell caught at the flesh-merchant’s arm. “Let her go. Let my sister go!”

He saw her, and as she clung to his arm he raised it and swung her off her feet.

“It’s the imp who serves strong waters. I’ll warrant she’s as quick with her fingers as the other. We’ll take her along with us, eh, my friends?”

“Aye, take her along. Take the whole lot along. Have them searched, and have them hanged by the neck, as all thieves should be.”

Nell caught one glimpse of Rose’s anguished face. Nell’s own was distorted with rage. She dug her teeth into the flesh-merchant’s hand, gave him a kick on the shin, and so startled him that, letting out a cry of pain, he relaxed his hold on her.

She screamed: “Run, Rose. Run!” as she herself darted through the crowd. But Rose could not so easily make her escape; the crowd saw to that; and in a few seconds the flesh-merchant had regained his hold upon her, and the shouting crowd carried Rose Gwyn to Newgate.

Nell had never known such fear as now was hers. Rose was in jail. She was a thief, the flesh-merchant had declared; he had discovered his purse on her, and ten shillings were missing from it. There were even men to come forward and say they had seen Rose take the purse.

Rose had a fine dress, it was remarked. By what means had she, a poor girl in a low bawdy-house, come by such a garment? She had stolen the money to pay for it, of course.

Those who were found guilty of theft suffered the extreme penalty.

Nell walked the streets in her misery, not knowing which way to turn for comfort. Her mother drank more and more gin, and sat weeping through the day and night, for few people came to the cellar during those days. The rumor had spread that if you went into Mother Gwyn’s house you might lose your purse. There had been many lost purses, and now Mother Gwyn as a result was going to lose her daughter.

Rose … in prison. It was terrible to think of her there—Rose who such a short while ago had been so happy with her lover, the man who thought so highly of her that he had promised to make her sister one of Orange Moll Meggs’ girls.

There was only one person who could offer Nell comfort, and that was her cousin Will. They sat on the cobbles in the yard and talked of Rose.

“There’s nothing can be done,” said Will. “They’ve declared her a thief, and they’ll hang her by the neck.”

“Not Rose!” cried Nell, with the tears running down her face. “Not my sister Rose!”

“They don’t care whose sister she is, Nelly. They only care that they hang her.”

“Rose never stole anything.”

Will nodded. “It matters not whether she stole or not, Nelly. They say she stole, and they’ll hang her for that.”

“They shall not,” cried Nell. “They shall not.”

“But how will you stop them?”

“I know not.” Nell covered her face with her hands and burst into loud sobs. “If I were older and wiser I would know. There is a way, Will. There must be a way.”

“If Mr. Killigrew had been there it would not have happened,” said Will.

“If he had been there, he could have stopped it. Will, mayhap he could stop it now.”

“How so?” said Will.

“We must find him. We must tell him what happened. Will, where can we find him?”

“He is Groom of the Bedchamber to the Duke.”

“I will go to the Duke.”

“Nay, Nelly. You could not do that. The Duke would never see you!”

“I would make him see me … make him listen.”

“You would never reach him.” Will scratched his head. Nell watched him eagerly. “I saw him last night,” added Will.

“You saw him? The Duke?”

“Nay, Henry Killigrew.”

“Did you tell him about Rose?”

“I tell him? Nay, I did not. I was holding a torch for a gentleman close by Lady Bennet’s, and he came out. He was as close to me as you are now.”

“Oh, Will, you should have told him. You should have asked his help.”

“He has not been to Cole-yard since, has he, Nelly? He’s forgotten Rose.”

“I’ll not believe it,” declared Nell passionately.

“Rose used to say you only believed what you wanted to.”

“I like believing what I want to. Then I can make it happen mayhap. Does he go often to Lady Bennet’s?”

“I heard it said that he is mighty interested in one of the girls there.”

“That cannot be. He is interested in Rose.”

“Such as he can be interested in many at a time.”

“Then I will go to Lady Bennet’s, and I will see him and tell him he must save Rose.”

Will shook his head.

Nell was the wildest thing he had ever seen. He never knew what she would do next. There was one thing he did know: it was folly to dissuade her once she had set her mind on something.

So the small raggedly clad girl waited in the shadows of Lady Bennet’s house. None of the gentlemen passing in and out gave her a second glance. She looked much younger than her thirteen years.

She knew that she would find Henry Killigrew there. She must find him there, and she must find him quickly, for Rose was in acute danger. If she could not find him at Lady Bennet’s, then she would at Damaris Page’s. She could be sure that it would be possible to find such a profligate as Rose’s Henry undoubtedly was, at one of the notorious brothels in London.

Nell felt that she had grown up in these last days of her grief. She was no longer a child but a woman of understanding. Nothing she discovered of Henry Killigrew would surprise her as much as the fact that he had ever come to Cole-yard.

And it was outside Lady Bennet’s that she came face-to-face with him. She ran to him, fell on her knees before him, and took his hand in hers. There was another gentleman with him who raised his eyebrows and looked askance at his companion.

“What means this, Henry?” he asked. “Who is the infant?”

“God’s Body! I swear I’ve seen the child somewhere ere this?”

“You keep strange company, Henry.”

“I’m Nell,” cried Nell. “Mrs. Rose’s sister.”

“Why, now I know. And how fares Mrs. Rose?”

“Badly!” cried Nell in sudden rage. “And that seems small concern of yours.”

“And should it concern me?” he asked flippantly.

His companion was smiling cynically.

“If you are not knave it should,” retorted Nell.

Henry Killigrew turned to his companion. “This is the child who serves strong waters at Mother Gwyn’s bawdy-house.”

“And strong words with it, I’ll warrant,” said the other.

“A sharp-tongued vixen,” said Henry.

Nell cried suddenly: “My sister is in prison. They will hang her.”

“What?” said Henry’s companion languidly. “Do they then hang whores? It will not do.”

“Indeed it will not do,” cried Henry. “Shall they hang all the women of London and leave us desolate?”

“God preserve the whores of London!” cried the other.

“They will hang her for what she has not done,” said Nell. “You must save her. You must take her out of prison. It is on your account that she is there.”

“On my account?”

“Indeed yes, sir. She was hoping you would come; you did not, but another did. She refused him and so he accused her of this crime. He was a flesh-merchant of East Cheap. Rose could not endure him … after your lordship.”

“The vixen sets a drop of honey in the vinegar, Henry,” murmured his friend, flicking at the lace of his sleeve.

“Do not mock,” said Henry, serious suddenly. “Poor Rose! So this flesh-merchant had her sent to prison, eh …?” He turned to his friend. “Why, Browne, we’ll not endure this. Rose is a lovely girl. I meant to call on her this very night.”

“Then call on her in jail, sir,” begged Nell. “Call on her—and you, being such a noble gentleman, can of a certainty procure her release.”

“The little vixen bath a good opinion of you,” said Browne.

“And it shall not be misplaced.”

“Where go you, Henry?”

“I’m going to see Mrs. Rose. I’m fond of Rose. I anticipate many happy hours with her.”

“God will reward you, sir,” said Nell.

“And Rose also, I pray,” murmured Browne.

They walked away from Lady Bennet’s while Nell ran beside them.

Life was truly wonderful.

There was no longer need to hide her prettiness. Now she washed and combed her hair; it hung down her back in a cloud of ringlets. There was no longer need to squint and frown; she could laugh as often as she liked—an occupation which suited her mood more readily than any other.

On the day she walked into the King’s Theater, she was the proudest girl in London. Lady Castlemaine, for all that she was the King’s pampered mistress, could not have been happier than little Nell Gwyn in her smock, stays, and petticoat, her coarse gown and her kerchief about her neck; and she was actually wearing shoes on her feet. The chestnut curls hung over her bare shoulders; she looked her age now. She was thirteen, and even if it was a very small thirteen it was a very dainty one.

The men could look as much as they liked now, for, as Nell would be the first to admit, looks were free and any man who was prepared to pay his sixpence for one of her oranges could take his fill of looking.

If any tried to take liberties they would meet a torrent of abuse which seemed startling coming from one so small and so enchanting to the eye. It was said in the pit and the middle and upper galleries that the prettiest of all Moll Meggs’ orange-girls was little Nelly Gwyn.

Nell was filled with happiness, for Rose was home now. She had been saved by the two gallants whom Nell had called in to help her. What a wonderful thing it was to have friends at Court!

A word from Henry Killigrew, Groom of the Bedchamber, to the Duke, a word from Mr. Browne who, it appeared, was Cup-bearer to the same Duke, and Rose was granted a pardon, and had merely walked out of her jail.

Moreover Mr. Browne and Henry Killigrew had been somewhat impressed by the wit and resource of Rose’s young sister whom they addressed with mock ceremony as Mrs. Nelly; and Henry had been only too ready to see that Mrs. Nelly became one of Orange Moll’s girls, for, as he said, it was such girls as Mrs. Nelly for whom Orange Moll was looking—and not only Orange Moll. He intimated that when he strolled into His Majesty’s Theater he also would not be averse to taking a glance at Mrs. Nelly.

Nell shook her curls. She felt that she would know how to deal with Henry Killigrew, should the need arise.

In the meantime her dearest wish had been granted. Six days of the week she was in the theater—the King’s Theater—and it seemed to her that, in that wooden building, the pageant of life at its most exciting passed before her eyes. She did not know which delighted her more, the play or the audience.

It was true that the King’s Theater was a drafty place; its glazed cupola let in a certain amount of daylight, which in bad weather could make it somewhat uncomfortable for the occupants of the pit; sometimes it was cold, for there was no artificial heating; sometimes it was stiflingly hot from the press of bodies, and this heat was augmented by the candles on the walls and over the stage.

These were trifling matters. Gazing at the stage it was possible to forget that her home was still the bawdy-house in Cole-yard; here she could live in a different world by aping the actors and actresses; she could see the nobility, for often the King himself came to the playhouse. Was he not its chief patron, and did not all the actors and actresses of the King’s house call themselves His Majesty’s Servants? So, it was natural that he should often be there, sometimes with the Queen, sometimes with the notorious Lady Castlemaine, sometimes with others. She would see the Court wits—my lord Buckingham, my lord Rochester, Sir Charles Sedley, Lord Buckhurst. They all came to the play, and with them came the ladies who interested them at the time.

She had heard wild stories concerning them all, and to these she listened with relish. She had seen the Queen sail up London river with the King after his marriage; she had been with the crowd which had witnessed their arrival at Whitehall Bridge, while the Queen Mother, who was on a visit to her son, waited to receive the royal pair on the pier which had been erected for the occasion; and all were so gorgeously clad that the spectators had gaped with wonder.

She knew, too, that the King had forced the Queen to accept Lady Castlemaine as one of the women of her bedchamber. All London talked of it—the resentment of the Queen, the flaming arrogance of Lady Castlemaine, and the stubbornness of the King. She was sorry for the dark-eyed Queen, who looked a little sad at times and seemed to be trying so hard to understand what the play was about, laughing a little too late at the jokes, at which, poor lady, she might have blushed instead of laughed had she understood them.

Then there was the arrogant Lady Castlemaine, sitting with the King or in the next box and speaking to him in her loud imperious voice so that the audience in the pit craned their heads upwards to see and hear what she was at, and the galleries looked down for the same reason; for when Lady Castlemaine was in the playhouse few paid attention to the players.

There was often to be seen in their boxes those two rakes, Lord Buckhurst and Sir Charles Sedley. Lord Buckhurst was a good-natured man, a poet and a lover of wit, whose high spirits very often drew him into prominence. Sir Charles Sedley was a poet and a playwright as well. He was so slight in stature that he was nicknamed Little Sid. These two were watched with alert interest by the house. With Sir Thomas Ogle they had recently behaved with reckless devilry at the Cock Tavern, where, having eaten well and drunk still better, they had gone to the balcony of the tavern, taken off all their clothes, and lectured the passersby in an obscene and offensive manner. There had been a riot and as a result Little Sid was taken to court, heavily fined, and bound over to keep the peace for a year. So the audience watched and waited, no doubt hoping that these three rakes would repeat here in the theater the performance they had given at the Cock Tavern.

Here was Nell’s first glimpse at the high life of the Court. And, in addition to watching at close quarters the highest in the land, she could practice her repartee on the gay young men in the pit. All those with a strain of puritanism, left over from the fifties, stayed away from the theater which, they declared, was nothing more than a meeting place for courtesans and those who sought them; and indeed the noblemen in the pit and the boxes, and women from the Court together with the prostitutes, made up the greater part of the audience. The women wore vizard masks (which were supposed to hide their blushes when the dialogue on the stage was too outspoken) and the lowest aped the highest; they chatted with each other, noisily sucked China oranges, threw the peel at each other and the players, showered abuse on the actors and actresses if they did not like the way the play was going, fought one another, and added to the general clamor. Courtiers, and apprentices aping courtiers, made assignations with the vizard masks. The side boxes, which cost four shillings, were filled with ladies and gentlemen of the Court and were only slightly raised above the pit, where the price of a seat was two shillings and sixpence. In the middle gallery where a seat cost a modest eighteen pence sat the quieter folk who wished to hear the play; and in the shilling gallery were the poorest section of the audience, and here coachmen and footmen, whose masters and mistresses were in the theater, were allowed to enter without charge towards the end of the play.

Each day Nell found full of incident. Never could one guess what would happen next at the playhouse, what great scandal would be talked of, or what great personage would quarrel with another during the course of the performance.

She could listen to the loud and often lewd conversation between courtiers in their boxes and vizard masks in the pit, conversation in which the rest of the audience would often join as they combed their hair or drank noisily from the bottles they brought in with them; some stood on the benches and jeered at the players, quarreled with the sentiments of the play, or even climbed onto the stage and attempted to fight an actor for his dastardly conduct in the play or mayhap on account of some real grievance.

It was all clamor, and color, and Nell loved it. Nor was this the sum of her excitement; for her, by no means least of the theater’s attractions was the play itself.

And when the handsomest actor of them all, who was considered by many to be the company’s leading man, played his parts he could often quiet the noisiest of the audience. He would strut the stage, not as himself, handsome Charles Hart, but as the character he played; and if that character were a king it would seem that Charles Hart was as much a king as that other Charles who sat in his box, alert and appreciative of one who aped his royalty with such success.

Nell thought Charles Hart godlike as he came from the back stage and stepped onto the apron stage, and by his magnetic presence demanded attention. She would stand very still watching him, forgetting her load of oranges, not caring if Orange Moll should see her staring at the stage instead of doing all in her power to persuade someone in the audience to buy a fine China orange. Nell had spoken to the great man once or twice. He had bought an orange from her. He had noted her dainty looks with appreciation, for Charles Hart was appreciative of beauty. He had never yet been made aware of the agility of Nell’s tongue, for she had been reduced to unaccustomed silence in the presence of the great man. Yet he must have known that she had a ready gift of repartee since no orange-girl could have survived long without it.

This day he was playing the part of Michael Perez in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and many from the Court had come to see him. Nell was in a daze of admiration as she went into the tiring room to see if she could sell an orange or two to the actresses.

Several gallants were already there, for they were admitted to the tiring room on payment of an extra half-crown, and there it was possible for them to have intimate conversation with the actresses, perhaps make love to them there or make assignations for such lovemaking in more private places.

Nell was greatly attracted by the tiring room; she had heard that actresses were paid as much as twenty to fifty shillings a week—a fabulous sum to a poor orange-girl; they looked quite splendid off the stage as well as on it, for they had beautiful clothes which were given by courtiers—and even the King himself—for use in their plays. The gentlemen fawned on them, pressed gifts on them, implored them to accept their invitations; and the actresses gave answers as pert as any they used to their stage lovers.

“A China orange, Mrs. Corey?” cooed Nell. “So soothing, so cooling to the throat.”

“Not for me, wench. Go along to Mrs. Marshall. Mayhap she’ll get one of her gentlemen friends to buy her a China orange.”

“I doubt she’ll get much more from him!” cried Mary Knepp.

And Mrs. Uphill and Mrs. Hughes went into peals of laughter at Mrs. Marshall’s expense.

“Here, wench,” called Mrs. Eastland, “run out and buy me a green riband. There’ll be a groat or two for your pains when you return.”

This was typical of life in the green tiring room. Nell ran errands, augmenting her small income, and very soon took to wondering what Peg Hughes and Mary Knepp had that she lacked.

It was when she had returned with the riband and was making her way backstage, where Mary Meggs kept her wares under the stairs, that she came face-to-face with the great Charles Hart himself.

She curtsied and said: “A merry good day to Mr. Perez.”

He paused and, leaning towards her, said: “Why, ’tis little Nell the orange-girl. And you liked Michael Perez, eh?”

“So much, sir,” said Nell, “that I had forgot till this moment that he was an even greater gentleman—Mr. Charles Hart.”

Charles Hart was not indifferent to flattery. He knew that he—with perhaps Michael Mohun as his only rival—was the best player among the King’s Servants. All the same, praise from any quarter was acceptable, even from a little orange-girl, and he had noticed before that this orange-girl was uncommonly pretty.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly. “Why,” he said, “you’re pretty enough to grace a stage yourself.”

“One day I shall,” said Nell; and in that moment she knew she would. Why should she not give as good an account of herself as any of the screaming wenches in the green room?

“Oh,” he said, “so the girl hath ambition!”

“I want to play on the stage,” she said.

He looked at her again. Her eyes were brilliant with excitement. There was a vitality which was rare. God’s Body! he thought. This child has quality. He said: “Come with me, girl.”

Nell hesitated. She had had similar invitations before this. Charles Hart saw her hesitation and laughed. “Nay,” he said, “have no fear. I do not force little girls.” He drew himself up to his full height and spoke the words as though he were delivering them to an audience. “There has never been any need for me to force any. They come … they come with the utmost willingness.”

His fluency fascinated her. He spoke to her—Nell—as though she were one of those gorgeous creatures on the stage. He made her feel important, dramatic, already an actress, playing her part with him.

She said: “Willingly will I listen to what you have to say to me, sir.”

“Then follow me.”

He turned and led the way through a narrow passage to a very small compartment in which were hanging the clothes which he wore for his parts.

He turned to her then, ponderously. “Your name, wench?” he asked.

“Nell … Nell Gwyn.”

“I have observed you,” he said. “You have a sharp tongue and a very ready wit. Methinks your talents are wasted with Orange Moll.”

“Could I act a part on the stage?”

“How would you learn a part?”

“I would learn. I would learn. I would only have to hear it once and I would know it.” She put down her basket of oranges and began to repeat one of the parts she had seen played that afternoon. She put into it the utmost comedy, and the fine lips of Mr. Charles Hart began to twitch as he watched her.

He lifted a hand to stop her exuberance. “How would you learn your parts?” he said. Nell was bewildered. “Can you read?” She shook her head. “Then how would you learn them?”

“I would,” she cried. “I would.”

“The will is not enough, my child. You would be obliged to learn to read.”

“Then I would learn to read.”

He came to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “And what would you say if I told you that I might have room for a small-part player in the company?”

Nell dropped on her knees, took his hand, and kissed it.

He looked at her curly head with pleasure. “’Od’s Fish!” he said, using the King’s oath, for he played the part of kings now and then and had come to believe that in the world of the theater he was one, “You’re a pretty child, Mrs. Nelly.”

And when she rose he lifted her in his arms and held her so that her animated face was on a level with his.

“And as light as a feather,” he said. “Are you as wayward?”

Then he kissed her lips; and Nell understood what he would require in payment for all that he was about to do for her.

Nell knew that she would not consider anything he demanded as payment. She had already learned to adore him from the pit; she was ready to continue in that adoration from a more intimate position. She laughed, signifying her pleasure, and he was satisfied.

“Come,” he said, “I will go with you to Mary Meggs, for it may be she will by now be too ready to scold you, and it is my wish that you should not be scolded.”

When Mary Meggs caught sight of Nell she screamed at her: “So there you are, you jade! What have you been at? I’ve been waiting here for you this last quarter-hour. Let me tell you that if you behave thus you will not long remain one of Orange Moll’s young women.”

Charles drew himself up to his full height. Nell found herself laughing, as she was to laugh so often in times to come at this actor’s dignity. In everything he did it was as though he played a part.

“Save your breath, woman,” he cried in that voice of thunder with which he had so often silenced a recalcitrant audience. “Save your breath. Mrs. Nelly here shall certainly not remain one of your orange-girls. She ceased to do so some little time ago. Nelly the orange-girl is now Nelly the King’s Servant.”

Then he strode off and left them. Nell set down her basket and danced a jig before the astonished woman’s eyes. Orange Moll—none too pleased at the prospect of losing one of her best girls—shook her head and her finger at the dancing figure.

“Dance, Nelly, dance!” she said. “Mr. Charles Hart don’t make actresses of all his women—and he don’t keep them long either. Mayhap you’ll be wanting your basket back when the great Charles Hart grows Nelly-sick.”

But Nell continued to dance.

Now Nell was indeed an actress. She quickly left her mother’s house in Cole-yard and most joyfully set up in lodgings of her own; she took a small house next to the Cock and Pye Tavern in Drury Lane opposite Wych Street. Here she was only a step or two away from the theater, which was convenient indeed, for the life of an actress was a more strenuous one than that of an orange-girl. Charles Hart was teaching her to read; William Lacy was teaching her to dance; and both, with Michael Mohun, were teaching her to act. Mornings were spent in rehearsing, and the afternoons in acting plays which started at three o’clock and went on until five or later. Most of Nell’s evenings were spent with the great Charles Hart who, delighted with his protégée, initiated her into the art of making love, when he was not teaching her to read.

Rose was delighted with her sister’s success and she became a frequent visitor at the lodgings in Drury Lane. Nell would have liked to ask her to come and live with her; but Nell’s small wages just kept herself—and as an actress it was necessary for her to spend a great deal of her income on fine clothes. Moreover Rose had her own life to lead and often a devoted lover would take her away from her mother’s house for a while.

Harry Killigrew was one of these, as was Mr. Browne; and in the company of these gentlemen Rose met others of their rank. She was as eager to avoid flesh-merchants from East Cheap as she ever was, and continuously grateful to Nell who, she declared, had saved her from a felon’s death.

Nell played her parts in the theater—small ones as yet, for she had her apprenticeship to live through. Charles Hart proved to be a devoted lover, for Nell was an undemanding mistress, never a complaining one; her spirits were invariably high; and she quickly learned to share Charles Hart’s passion for the stage.

There were times when he forgot to act before her and would talk of his aspirations and his jealousies, and beg her to tell him without reserve whether she believed Michael Mohun or Edward Kynaston to be greater actors than he was. He often talked of Thomas Betterton, one of that rival group of players who called themselves The Duke’s Men, and who performed in the Duke’s Theater. It was said that Betterton, more than any man living, could hold an audience. “Better than Hart?” demanded Charles Hart. “I want the truth from you, Nell.”

Then Nell would soothe him and say that Betterton was a strolling player compared with the great Charles Hart; and Charles would say that it was meet and fitting that he, Hart, should be the greatest actor London had ever known, because his grandmother was a sister of the dramatist, Will Shakespeare—a man who loved the theater and whose plays were often acted by the companies, and which, some declared, had never yet been bettered, surpassing even those of Ben Jonson or Beaumont and Fletcher.

Sometimes he would tell her how he had been brought up at Black-friars and, with Clun, one of the other members of the company, had, as a boy, acted women’s parts. He would strut about the apartment playing the Duchess in Shirley’s tragedy The Cardinal, and Nell would clap her hands and assure him that he was the veriest Duchess she had ever seen.

He liked to pour his reminiscences of the past into Nell’s sympathetic ears. And Nell, who loved him, listened and applauded, for she thought him the most wonderful person she had ever known, godlike in his ability to raise the orange-girl to the green room, a tender yet passionate lover to introduce her into a milieu where, she was aware, she would wish to play a leading part.

She allowed him to tell his stories again and again; she would demand to hear them. “Tell me of the time you were carried off and imprisoned by Roundhead soldiers—taken while you were actually playing, and in your costume, too!”

So he would throw back his head and adjust his magnificent voice to the drama or comedy of the occasion. “I was playing Otto in The Bloody Brother…. A fine play. I’ll swear Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote a better….”

Then he would forget the story of the capture and play Otto for her; he would even take the part of Rollo, the Bloody Brother himself, and it was all vastly entertaining, as was life.

And in the boxes at the theater there appeared at this time the loveliest woman Nell had ever seen: Mrs. Frances Stuart, maid of honor to the Queen. The King gazed at her during the whole of the play so that his attention strayed from Charles Hart, Michael Mohun, and Edward Kynaston; and, what was more remarkable, neither tall and handsome Ann Marshall, nor any of the actresses could hold his gaze. The King saw no one but Mrs. Stuart, sitting there so childishly pretty with her fair hair, great blue eyes, and Roman nose, so that my lady Castlemaine was in such a high temper that she shouted insults to the actors and actresses—and even spoke churlishly to the King himself, to his great displeasure.

It all seemed remote to Nell; she had her own life to lead; and if it was less grand than those of these Court folk in their dazzling jewels and sumptuous garments, it was lively, colorful, and completely satisfying to Nell; for one of her great gifts was to be able to enjoy contentment with her lot.

And there came a day when she thought her joy was complete.

Charles Hart came to her lodging and, when she had let him in and he had kissed her, declaring that she was a mighty pretty creature in her smock sleeves and bodice, he held her at arms’ length and said in his loud booming voice: “News, Nelly! At last you are to be an actress.”

“You are insolent, sir!” she cried in mock anger, her eyes flashing. “Would you insult me? What am I indeed, if I am not an actress!”

“You are my mistress, for one thing.”

She caught his hand and kissed it. “And that is the best part I have yet been called upon to play.”

“Sweet Nelly,” he murmured as though in an aside. “How this wench delights me!”

“As yet!” she answered promptly. “I beg of you to tell me quickly. What part is this?”

But Charles Hart never spoiled his effects. “You must first know,” he said, “that we are to play Dryden’s Indian Emperor, and I am to take the part of Cortes.”

She knelt and kissed his hand in half-mocking reverence. “Welcome to the conquering hero,” she said. Then she leaped to her feet. “And what part for Nelly?”

He folded his arms and stood smiling at her. “The chief female role,” he said slowly, “is Almeria. Montezuma will sigh for her favors; Mohun will play Montezuma. She however longs for Cortes.”

“She cannot help that, poor girl,” said Nell. “And right heartily will she love her Cortes. I will show the King and the Duke, and all present, that never was man loved as my Cortes.”

“Ann Marshall is to play Almeria. Nay, ’tis not the part for you. You are young yet to take it. Oh, you are learning … learning … but an orange-girl does not become an actress in a matter of weeks. Nay, there is another part—a beautiful part for a beautiful girl—that of Cydaria. I have said Nelly shall play Cydaria, and I have made Tom Killigrew, Mohun, Lacy, and the rest agree that you shall do this.”

“And this Cydaria—she is of small account beside that other, played by Mrs. Ann Marshall?”

“Hers is the sympathetic part, Nelly. There is a pink dress come from the Court—a present from one of the ladies. You will well become it and, as you are the Emperor’s daughter, you shall wear plumes in your hair. There is something else, Nelly. Cydaria wins Cortes in the end.”

“Then,” declaimed Nell, dropping a curtsy, “I must be content with Cortes-Hart and revel in this minor part.”

She was dressed in the flowery gown, her chestnut curls arranged over her shoulders. In the tiring room the others looked at her with envy.

“An orange-girl not long ago,” whispered Peg Hughes. “Now, fa la, she is given the best parts. She’ll be putting Mrs. Marshall’s nose out of joint ere long, I’ll warrant.”

“You know the way to success on the stage surely,” said Mary Knepp. “No matter whether you be actress or orange-girl—the way’s the same. You go to bed with one who can give you what you want, and in the dead of night you ask for it.”

Nell overheard that. “I thank you for telling me, Mrs. Knepp,” she cried. “For the life of me I could not understand how you ever came to get a part.”

“Am I a player’s whore?” demanded Mrs. Knepp.

“Ask me not,” said Nell. “Though I have seen you acting in such a manner with Master Pepys from the Navy Office as to lead me to believe you may be his.”

Ann Marshall said: “Stop shouting, Nelly. You’re not an orange-girl now. Keep your voice for your part. You’ll need it.”

Nell for once was glad to subside. She was sure that she would acquit herself well in her part, but she was experiencing a strange fluttering within her stomach which she had rarely known before.

She turned from Mrs. Knepp and whispered her lines to herself:

“Thick breath, quick pulse and beating of my heart,

All sign of some unwonted change appear;

I find myself unwilling to depart,

And yet I know not why I should be here.

Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast …”

These were her words on her first meeting with Cortes when she falls in love with him at first sight. She thought then of the first time she had seen Charles Hart. Had she felt thus then? Indeed she had not. She did not believe she would ever feel as Cydaria felt; Cydaria is beside herself with passion; wretched and unhappy in her love for the handsome stranger, fearing her love will not be returned, jealous of those whom he has loved before. There was no jealousy in Nell; love for her was a joyous thing.

She could wish for a merry part, one in which she could strut about the stage in breeches, make saucy quips to the audience, dance and sing.

But she must go onto the stage and play Cydaria.

The audience was dazzling that day. The King was present, and with him the most brilliant of his courtiers.

Nell came on the stage in her Court dress, and there was a gasp of admiration as she did so. She glimpsed her companions with whom she had once sold oranges, and saw the envy in their faces.

She knew that Mary Knepp and the rest of them would be waiting, eagerly hoping that she would be laughed off the stage. They would, backstage, be aware of the silence which had fallen on the audience as she entered. There was one thing they had forgotten; orange-girl she may have been a short while ago, but now she was the prettiest creature who ever graced a stage, and in her Court dress she could vie with any of the ladies who sat in the boxes.

She went through her lines, giving them her own inimitable flavor which robbed them of their tragedy and made a more comic part of the Princess than was intended; but it was no less acceptable for all that.

She enjoyed the scenes with Charles Hart. He looked handsome indeed as the Spanish adventurer, and she spoke her lines with fervor. When he sought to seduce her and she resisted him, she did so with a charming regret which was not in the part. It called forth one or two ribald comments in the pit from those of the audience who followed the course of actors’ and actresses’ lives with zest.

“Nay, Nelly,” called one bright fellow. “Don’t refuse him now. You did not last night, so why this afternoon?”

Nell’s impulse was to go the front of the stage and retort that it was no wish of hers to refuse such a handsome fellow and she would never have thought of doing it. The fellow in the pit must blame Master Dryden for that.

But Cortes’ stern eyes were on her. My dearest Cortes-Charles, thought Nell; he lives in the play; it is this story of Princes that is real to him, not the playhouse.

“‘Our greatest honor is in loving well,’” he was saying. And she smiled at him and came back with:

“Strange ways you practice there to win a heart

Here love is nature, but with you, ’tis art.”

No one had taken any notice of the interruption. There was nothing unusual in such comments on the actors and their private lives, and the play went on until that last scene when Almeria (Ann Marshall) brought out her dagger and, for love of Cortes, prepares to stab Cydaria.

There were cries of horror from the pit, cries of warning: “Nelly, take care! That whore is going to stab thee.”

Nell reeled, placed the sponge filled with blood which she had concealed in her hand on her bosom, and squeezed it; she was about to fall to the floor when Cortes rescued her. There was a sigh of relief throughout the house, which told Nell all she wished to know; she had succeeded in her first big part.

When Almeria stabbed herself, and Charles Hart and Nell Gwyn left the stage arm-in-arm, the applause broke out.

Now the actors and actresses must come back and make their bows.

“Nelly!” cried the pit. “Come, Nelly! Take a bow, Nelly!”

And so she came to the apron stage, flushed in her triumph; and if her acting was not equal to that of Mrs. Ann Marshall, her dainty beauty found an immediate response.

Nell lifted her eyes and met those which belonged to a man who leaned forward in his box. His dark luxuriant curls had fallen forward slightly. It was impossible to read the look in the sardonic eyes.

But for those few moments this man and Nell looked at each other appraisingly. Then she smiled her impudent orange-girl smile. There was the faintest pause before the sensuous lips curled. Others in the theater noticed. They said: “The King liked Nelly in her new part.”

Now Nell was well known throughout London. When people came to the King’s Theater they expected to see Mrs. Nelly, and, if she did not appear, were apt to ask the reason why. They liked to see her dance and show her pretty legs; they liked to listen to her repartee when someone in the pit attacked her acting or her private life. They declared that to hear Mrs. Nelly giving a member of the audience a rating was as good as any play; for Nell’s wit was sparkling and never malicious except in self-defense.

There were many who believed she was well on the way to becoming the leading actress at the King’s Theater.

Often she thought of the King and the smile he had given her. She listened avidly to all news of him. It was a great thing, she told herself, to perform before the King.

Elizabeth Weaver, one of the actresses, had a tale to tell of the King. Elizabeth held herself aloof, living in a state of expectancy, for once the King had sent for her. Nell had heard her tell the tale many times, for it was a tale Elizabeth Weaver loved to tell. Nell had scarcely listened before; now she wished to hear it in detail.

“I shall never forget the day as long as I live,” Elizabeth told her. “My part was a good one, and a beautiful dress I wore. You reminded me of myself when you played Cydaria. Such a dress I had….”

“Yes, yes,” said Nell. “Have done with the dress. It’s what happened to the wearer that interests me.”

“The dress was important. Mayhap if I had another dress like that he would send for me again. I’d played my part; I’d taken my applause; and then one of the footmen came backstage and said to me: ‘The King sends for you.’”

“‘The King sends for you.’ Just like that.”

“Just like that. ‘For what?’ I said. ‘For what should the King send for poor Elizabeth Weaver?’ ‘He would have you entertain him at the Palace of Whitehall,’ I was told. So I put on a cloak—a velvet one, one of the company’s cloaks; but Mr. Hart said to use it since it was to Whitehall I was to go.”

“Have done with the cloak,” said Nell. “I’ll warrant you weren’t sent for to show a cloak!”

“Indeed not. I was taken to a grand apartment where there were many great ladies and gentlemen. My lord Buckingham himself was there, and I’ll swear ’twas my lady Shrewsbury with him and …”

“And His Majesty the King?” said Nell.

“He was kind to me … kinder than the others. He is kind, Nell. His great dark eyes were telling me all the time not to be afraid of them and the things they might say to me. He said nothing that was not kind. He bade me dance and sing, and he bade the others applaud me. And after a while the others went away and I was alone with His Majesty. Then I was no longer afraid.”

Elizabeth Weaver’s eyes grew misty. She was looking back, not to the glories of Whitehall, not to the honor of being selected by the King, but to that night when she was alone with him and he was just a man like any other.

“Just a man like any other,” she murmured. “And yet unlike any that I have ever known. He gave me a jewel,” she went on. “I could sell it for much, I doubt not. But I never shall. I shall always keep it.”

Nell was unusually quiet.

She is waiting, she thought, waiting and hoping that the King will send for her again. He never will. Poor Bessie Weaver, she is no longer as pretty as she must have once been. And what has she ever had but her youthful prettiness? There are many youthful pretty women to surround His Majesty. So poor Elizabeth Weaver will go on waiting all her life to be sent for by the King.

“A sorry fate,” said Nell to herself. “Give me a merry one.”

But she often found her thoughts going back and back again to the King who had smiled at her; and in spite of herself she caught her breath when she asked herself: “Will there ever come a day when the King will send for Nelly?”

In the days following her success as Cydaria, Nell reveled in her fame. She would wander through the streets smiling and calling a witty greeting to those who spoke to her; she liked to stand at the door of her lodgings, watching the passersby; she would stroll in St. James’ Park and watch the King and his courtiers at the game of pelmel, in which none threw as the King did; she would watch him sauntering with his courtiers, feeding the ducks in the ponds, his spaniels at his heels. He did not see her. If he had would he have remembered the actress he had seen at his playhouse? There were many to watch the King as he walked in his park or rode through his Capital. Why, Nell asked herself, should he notice one young actress?

But each day she hoped that he would come to see her perform.

Fate was against Nell then. She was ready to rise to the top of her profession, and suddenly the happy life was no more.

During the weeks which followed the production of The Indian Emperor there were rumors in the streets. The Dutch were challenging England’s power on the high seas. That seemed far away, but it proved capable of altering the course of a rising young actress’s life. When Nell saw a Dutchman whipped through the streets for declaring that the Dutch had destroyed the English factories on the coast of Guinea, she was sorry for him. Poor fellow, it seemed harsh punishment for repeating a tale which proved to be false. But a few days later England declared war on the Dutch, and then she began to realize how these matters could affect her life. The theaters were half empty. So many of the gallants who had sat in the pit and the boxes had gone to fight the Dutch on the high seas; the King came rarely to the theater, having matters of state with which to deal; and since the King did not come, neither did all the fine ladies and gentlemen. Thomas Killigrew, Michael Mohun, and Charles Hart, who had shares in the theatrical venture, began to look worried. Charles Hart recalled the days of the Commonwealth when it had been an offense to act, and actors had been deprived of their livelihood. Those were grim days, and even Nell’s naturally high spirits were quelled by acting to half-empty houses and by a lover turned melancholy. Yet, ever ebullient, she prophesied a quick defeat of the Dutch and a return to prosperity. But that April there occurred an even more disastrous event than the Dutch war. Like the Dutch war it had broken gradually upon the people of London, for even towards the end of the year 1664 there had been rumors of deaths in the Capital which were suspected of being caused by the dreaded plague. With the coming of the warm spring and summer this fearful scourge broke out afresh. The gutters choked with filth, the stench of decay which filled the air and hung like a cloud over the city, were the best possible breeding conditions for the terror; it increased rapidly, and soon all the business of the town was brought to a standstill. A short while ago Nell and her companions had played to half-filled houses; now they had no audiences at all. None would dare enter a public place for fear that someone present might be infected. The theaters were the first places to close and Nell was deprived of her livelihood. Charles Hart was plunged into melancholy, more at the prospect of being unable to act than because of the danger of disease. He declared that they must leave London and go farther afield. In the sweeter country air it might be possible to escape infection.

“There are my mother and sister,” said Nell. “We must take them with us.”

Charles Hart had seen her mother; he shuddered at the prospect of even five minutes spent in her company.

“’Tis quite impossible,” he said.

“Then what will become of her?”

“Doubtless she will drown her sorrow at losing you, in the gin bottle.”

“What if she takes the plague?”

“Then, my little Nell, she will take the plague.”

“Who would care for her?”

“Your sister doubtless.”

“What if she also took the plague?”

“You waste precious time. I wish to leave at once. Every unnecessary minute spent in this polluted place is courting danger.”

Nell planted her small feet on the floor and, placing her hands on her hips, struck what he called her fish-wife attitude, since it was doubtless picked up when she sold fresh herrings at ten a groat.

“When I go,” she said, “my family goes with me.”

“So you choose your family instead of me?” said Hart. “Very well, Madam. You have made your choice.”

Then he left her, and when he had gone she was sad, because she loved him well enough, and she knew that being unable to act he was a melancholy man. And she was a fool. What, she asked herself, did she owe to the gin-sodden old woman who had beaten and bullied her when she was able, and whined to her when she was not?

She went to Cole-yard; and as she passed into that alley Nell’s heart was merry no longer, for on many of the doors were painted large red crosses beneath which were written the words “Lord have mercy upon us.”

Nell stayed in the cellar, with Rose and her mother, for several days and nights. Occasionally either Nell or her sister went out into the streets to see if they could find food. There was scarcely anyone about now, and grass was growing between the cobbles. Sometimes in their wanderings they would see sufferers by the roadside, struck down as they walked through the streets, displaying the fatal signs of shivering, nausea, delirium. Once Nell approached an old woman, because she felt she could not pass her by without offering help, but the woman had opened her eyes and stared at Nell, shouting: “You’re Mrs. Nelly. Stay away from me.” Then she tore open her bodice and showed the terrible macula on her breast.

Nell hurried away, feeling sick and afraid, aware that she could do nothing to help the old woman.

They lived this cellar existence for some weeks, occasionally venturing out and returning, feeling desolate and melancholy to see a great city so stricken. During the night they heard the gloomy notes of the bell which told them that the pest-cart was passing that way. They heard the sepulchral cry echoing through the deserted streets: “Bring out your dead.” Nell had seen the naked bodies passed out of windows and tumbled into the cart just as they were, body upon body since there was no time to provide coffins; there were no mourners to follow the dead to their graves; the cart went its dismal way to the burial ground on the outskirts of the city where the bodies were thrown into a pit.

Then one day Nell cried: “We can no longer stay here. If we do we shall die of melancholy if not of the plague.”

“Let us to Oxford,” said her mother. “Your father has relations there. Mayhap they would take us in till this scourge be gone.”

And so they made their way out of the stricken city. That night they slept in the shelter of a hedge; and Nell felt her spirits lifted in the sweet country air.