The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose (22 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you well?’ Eliza asked her.

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

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

‘He has a
wife
there with him.’

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

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

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

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

‘But Jemima …’

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

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

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

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

Jemima shook her head.

‘How often?’ Eliza demanded.

There was no reply.

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

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

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

‘No! It’s not that. It’s –’

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

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

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

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

‘But he must be told!’

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

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

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

‘I do not!’ Eliza said in dismay. ‘And indeed I can’t have a child’s life – or
your
life – on my hands. We must have proper help.’

Jemima burst into fresh tears but Eliza didn’t allow them to sway her. ‘First we must take you back to Mrs Trott’s and then –’

‘Not there! Let’s go to your lodgings, where no one knows me.’

Eliza shook her head. ‘We can’t,’ she said briefly. She thought of her room in the Star; the innkeeper’s wife would be sure to know of a midwife nearby. ‘We are best to go to a nearby inn,’ she began, but Jemima
burst into such a torrent of tears that she feared hysteria might set in if she didn’t give way. ‘Very well,’ she said, troubled almost to tears herself, ‘if you refuse to move you’ll have to lie-in here. But we must send out for help.’

Jemima didn’t reply, for another pain had seized her, and when it had retreated Eliza half-pulled and half-carried her across the tiring room, along a corridor and into a small dressing room which Nell sometimes used. It had no bed nor settle, but contained several chairs and a quantity of cushions, and was very light, with three casement windows open to the sky.

‘This will be more private,’ Eliza said, and she gathered together some of the cushions and laid a sheet over them on the floor, then encouraged Jemima to get on to this makeshift bed while she went to seek out a midwife. She also promised her that she’d send word to William, and accordingly gave a shilling to an errand boy and instructed him to go to the Wilkes’ household in Whitehall, request to see the master in person and tell him his presence was sought urgently.

The cost of Mistress Reynolds, the midwife, was two pounds, which she said crisply was for a live or dead birth. She lived close to the theatre and had come recommended by a nearby apothecary, although the matter was urgent enough for Eliza to have taken more or less anyone she could find.

She was a short, wiry woman and hard-faced, but clean-looking and decent.

‘This is a strange place to give birth,’ she said, looking around the room. ‘Hasn’t the girl got any
mother to help her? No sisters or cousins to attend the occasion?’

Eliza shook her head. ‘She wants to be very private,’ she said, dabbing Jemima’s forehead with a damp cloth.

‘Is it a natural child?’ the midwife asked in a low voice.

‘No!’ Jemima cried. ‘I have a husband and we are legally wed!’

Mrs Reynolds and Eliza exchanged glances over Jemima’s head.

‘Of course you are, my sweeting,’ Mrs Reynolds said soothingly, opening her bag. As well as clean rags, bowls and scissors, she’d brought with her a piece of jasper with a hole in it, and she tied this round Jemima’s thigh, saying it would help hasten the birth. She’d also brought a birthing stool made of sturdy oak, its seat cut away to leave a new-moon shape, which Jemima would be required to sit upon in the final stage of labour.

She told Jemima that until then she should keep moving as much as possible, so Eliza was engaged to walk the room with Jemima leaning on her heavily and digging her fingernails into her forearms whenever the pains came. Periodically she’d lie down on the cushions and writhe around, or sometimes take a little cordial. Every once in a while she’d beg Eliza to go to the front of the theatre and see if word had come from William, and Eliza would agree, only too pleased to have an excuse to leave the overheated room where the perilous process of childbirth was being enacted.