“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.”
"Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord" отзывы
Отзывы читателей о книге "Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord". Читайте комментарии и мнения людей о произведении.
Понравилась книга? Поделитесь впечатлениями - оставьте Ваш отзыв и расскажите о книге "Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord" друзьям в соцсетях.