The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose (21 page)

Doctor Cornelius shook his head with an air of finality. ‘Not this day. But if you wish, come
tomorrow and I’ll seek him again.’ He lifted the globe and placed it back on the shelf. ‘It’s most fatiguing seeking images in a glass,’ he said, glancing at the three coins Eliza had placed on the table. ‘
Most
fatiguing.’

‘I’ll try and get more money,’ Eliza said immediately. ‘I’ll get more and return another day.’

The doctor nodded sagely. ‘A gold coin is good,’ he said, ‘for the brightness of it attracts the spirits.’

‘Then that’s what I’ll bring!’ Eliza said, promising herself that – even though a gold coin might be as hard to come by as a unicorn’s horn – she’d obtain one and discover her father’s name.

My father! Eliza thought all the way home. My father, there in the glass. He was
seen
. I can find out his name. She smiled to herself: it didn’t appear that he was the king, then, for Doctor Cornelius would surely have recognised him straight away.

But what should I do when I know his name, she wondered. Go to him and declare myself, send a letter telling him I am my mother’s daughter, or get someone to speak to him on my behalf? What would be best? And how will I know where in the country to find him?

Pondering on these things, she arrived in Lewkenor’s Lane to find a letter waiting for her and, eagerly turning it over, immediately recognised her uncle’s seal on the back of the folded paper.

At
last
, she thought … but how strange that the reply from her aunt had come on the very day that she’d consulted Doctor Cornelius. There was some link here, surely; some miraculous connection between
the two incidents.

Anxiously she broke the seal, unfolded the paper and read the following:

My dear child
,

I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, and indeed I’ve pondered for some time as to whether it would do good for you to know that which I am about to impart
.

Finally, though, I decided that you should know the truth so that you can fully understand that you have no claim to either your father’s estate, nor your mother’s. To this end I must tell you that – as you have discovered – you are not your father Jacob’s child. But neither are you your mother’s
.

Eliza stopped reading at this point and, not understanding what her aunt could possibly mean, went back to the beginning of the letter and started again. Finally, still bewildered, she read on.

I understand little of the matter myself, and only became aware of it on your mother’s deathbed, when my dear sister confessed to me that Jacob wasn’t your father, nor had she given birth to you. I questioned her words, thinking she was delirious and asking, to humour her, if you were a faerie child, but she repeated the above assertion, telling me that she didn’t wish to die without telling the truth. She lapsed into unconsciousness shortly after this and didn’t speak another lucid word
.

Tragically, she died the following day, and with all the funeral preparations to be attended to, I never queried things nor thought it would be useful to raise the question of your provenance. By my observation of your looks, colouring and demeanour, however, so different from that of your brothers, I came to the conclusion that my sister was speaking the truth. I did try once to ask Jacob about the matter but found him completely uncommunicative on the subject, and since his remarriage have not sought to ask further, nor hardly had contact with him
.

My prayers go with you and I sincerely hope that you may overcome this sad accident of birth, find the strength to put it behind you and make your own way in the world. I can, however, throw no more light upon this subject
.

Thomasina Walker

Eliza read this letter through twice more, then ran upstairs and threw herself on to the bed in despair. She belonged to no one! She had neither father nor mother, brothers nor sisters, but had probably been left, unwanted, on a doorstep or in a church porch – a bastard child, for sure. She had no family, no status, no birthright, no name. She was no one!

With this knowledge came a sudden awareness of the truth about what Doctor Cornelius had said. How could she have been so witless as to just sit there believing everything he’d told her? Of course he hadn’t seen any figures in the glass – nor had he imparted anything which she herself hadn’t already told that so-friendly woman waiting outside his door.
The whole thing had been a charade designed to get money from her. Hadn’t she lived in London long enough to see through something like that? What a booby fool she’d been!

Chapter Nineteen

Another week passed. News came back to the theatre that the king and certain of his entourage had moved on to Newmarket to attend the races, and as Nell didn’t return to London, Eliza presumed she’d gone with them.

She kept herself busy as best she could: walking with Jemima or practising her writing, darning her stockings, washing her linen, cleaning. Sometimes she’d go to the theatre and find herself small jobs to do, just to keep occupied. She was scared that if she didn’t fill every moment then one day she’d find herself walking into the City again, seeking out the man she’d always thought of as her father and demanding to know where she’d come from. Reflecting on this, however, she realised that each time she discovered something about her background, the worse it got: it might have been better to have left things as they’d appeared to be when she’d left home. At least she’d had a name and a father then, and brothers and half-sisters. At least she
thought
she’d known who her mother was. Now she had no one.

Coming back from the theatre one evening she was dismayed to find the door of her room padlocked and barred across with four sturdy planks of wood. The
landlord, she knew, lived at the other end of the street in his own large house, and she went straight there to find out what had happened.

Angrily he told her that he’d done this because Nell had omitted to pay her rent.

‘I’ve given her weeks and weeks of credit and I’ve sent her bills,’ he said. ‘Now she’s out of the place – and you are, too.’

‘But Mistress Gwyn can’t read bills,’ Eliza said, staring at the fellow – a grubby, niggardly-looking man – with dislike. ‘I’m sure if she knew about it she’d have paid you.’

‘She doesn’t have to read to know she ain’t paid the rent for six months!’

‘She’s away at the moment with someone very important –’

‘I don’t care if she’s away with the king himself!’ the fellow said, his words making Eliza start and almost smile. ‘I don’t run a poor house. I don’t house folk for nothing!’

‘She’ll be back soon! Next week for sure. But in the meantime,’ Eliza put on her most appealing look, ‘I’ve nowhere to go.’

‘That’s your look-out!’ With that, he went to shut the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Would that be so bad?’

‘I assure you, sire, I didn’t mean –’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What … what would I have to do?’

‘Carry out a small job with me.’

‘A
robbery?
’ Eliza gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eliza nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh,’ said Eliza.

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