Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

“Get yer arse out of here. And don’t come back, unless you want summat worse.” He dropped her, and she cried out as she landed on the cobblestones. All the fight gone out of her, Nell wanted only to flee before she shamed herself by crying. Robbie, gray faced and silent, helped her to her feet.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Nell knew he was angry and nodded without meeting his eyes, hot tears falling onto her cheeks.

“We’ll go to Madam Ross’s,” Robbie said shortly. “You can wait until there’s news.”

At Lewkenor’s Lane, Nell was relieved beyond measure that Ned was presiding over the bar and Jack was gone. The girls were gathered in the taproom like a flock of unsettled chickens, some crying, some railing against the cully who had turned Rose in, some taking a morbid enjoyment in the dramatic prospect of the execution of one of their own. They squawked and fluttered at the sight of Nell and Robbie.

“Nell!” Jane cried. “Whatever’s happened to you?”

“Nothing,” said Nell. “We tried to see Rose, is all, and the bandog flung me out on my breech.”

“The brute!” cried Jane.

“Aye, for shame!” chimed black-haired Nan. “What call had he to treat you so?”

“I tried to get past him. Came near to doing it, too,” Nell said, brightening.

“What a plucky thing you are,” said Jane. “Come, let me bind your wounds, little warrior.” The other girls clucked with sympathy while Jane fetched a basin of water and a cloth and gently wiped the grit from the scrapes on Nell’s hands and knees, crying out all over again at the red and purple blotches that already bloomed on her soft skin.

It was after noon when Madam Ross returned.

“Harry’s gone to ask for the king’s help,” she told the girls. “He’ll come here as soon as there’s word.”

So there was nothing to do but wait. Robbie went on to the City. Exhausted by the strain of waiting, Nell went upstairs to Rose’s room and climbed into bed. She could smell Rose’s scent on the bedclothes and pulled them tightly around herself. Wrapped that way, she could close her eyes and believe that Rose lay next to her. Surely Rose was safe and would be back. But fear clutched at her, and she sobbed, finally falling asleep on the tear-dampened pillow.

THE BLEAK AFTERNOON HAD TURNED TO WINTRY DARKNESS WHEN Nell awoke. She raised her head to see Rose coming through the door into the little bedchamber with Harry Killigrew. He was uncharacteristically subdued and stood by awkwardly as Rose flung herself into Nell’s embrace and began to sob.

“Oh, Nelly,” Rose finally whispered, “I was so frightened. I was afeared they was going to turn me off.”

“I tried to get you out,” Nell cried. “But I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Rose was half laughing and half crying. “Oh, little one. You have the heart of a lion and nought to be sorry for. It took a pardon from the king himself to get me free.”

She nodded toward Harry and, reminded of how much she owed to his help, launched herself into his arms.

“I’ll leave you to your sister,” he said. “I’ll come tomorrow to see how you’re faring.”

When he had gone, Nell tucked Rose into bed and dashed out to the nearest cookhouse for a couple of hot pies. She and Rose sat together in the warm bed, the golden light of the candle in its wall bracket reflected in the black of the icy windowpane. Rose begged Nell to stay the night with her, and they nestled side by side in the darkness.

“When I went there today, it made me think of Da,” Nell whispered.

“Aye. I thought of him, too,” Rose answered. “I cannot bear the thought that he died alone in such a place.”

She drew a shuddering breath.

“When they took me in, I could hear such awful moans and sobbing and screaming. Like souls in hell. And Nell…” She paused.

“They took me down this horrible passage, all dank and gray. And past this little room. And in it I could see arms and legs that had been chopped off, and heads and other parts. Like a butcher shop for men.”

Nell had no words for the horror of the image the words forced into her mind. She thought again of the traitors’ deaths suffered by the men who had killed the first King Charles, and the black and featureless things she had seen on pikes on London Bridge and at the City gates, which she knew were the tarred heads and quarters of executed men. Like souls in hell, Rose had said. But Nell could not imagine a hell that could be any worse than a world in which such things were possible. She slept uneasily that night and dreamed again of the door slamming shut, of being left alone and terrified in a cold and hostile landscape.

It was not until morning that Nell asked Rose the question that had been gnawing at the back of her mind.

“Did you, Rose? Did you pinch the watch?”

“No,” Rose said. “But I think Jack did.”

ROSE CAME SMILING INTO NELL’S LODGING ONE MORNING A FEW weeks after her deliverance from Newgate.

“Harry’s got a way for me to get out of Madam Ross’s!” she said. “When the playhouse opens, there will be need of two wenches to sell oranges and sweetmeats. Harry says he can get me one of the situations, and you can have the other, if you want it.”

“When do we start?”

“Not ’til May,” Rose laughed. “And Orange Moll has to give us the nod.”

“Who’s she?”

“Mary Meggs is her proper name. She holds the license to sell fruits and nuts and such. But Harry says he’ll make it all come right.”

NELL STOLE A QUICK LOOK AT ROBBIE THAT NIGHT AS HE ATE. “ROBBIE,” she said, “Rose has got me and her work at the playhouse. Selling oranges and so on.”

“You have no need of work.”

“But I could earn my keep. And perhaps I’d meet gentlemen who would want to do business with you.”

Robbie snorted. “Who would want to do business with you, more like.”

Nell held her tongue. First she had to meet Orange Moll. If all went well and the job was hers-well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

A FEW DAYS LATER, SHE AND ROSE PRESENTED THEMSELVES AT WILL’S, the fashionable coffeehouse in Russell Street at Covent Garden, to be inspected by the formidable Orange Moll. Harry was there with her, lounging against the bar. Nell surmised he must have made some impudent remark, for he roared with laughter, while Moll struggled to assume a look of dignified disapproval rather than the chuckle of flattered amusement that threatened to erupt.

Harry hailed the girls, and Moll turned to look at them. She was very round, billowing over the stool on which she sat, her capacious bosom overflowing the low neckline of her dress. Nell noted the shrewd evaluation in the quick glance. She felt like a heifer at Smith-field Market, but could tell that Moll was pleased with what she saw.

“Aye,” Moll said. “They’re comely-looked wenches, both of them. I’ll warrant you’ve been peddling more than oysters, have you not?”

Before Nell could think how to respond, Rose, at an almost imperceptible nod from Harry, looked Orange Moll straight in the eye, and said, “Yes, ma’am. I’m at Madam Ross’s. And Nell was lately, too.”

“Well, that’s all to the good,” said Moll. “A pretty mab who know how to catch a gentleman’s eye, and how to jest and flirt, will sell far more than a prim stick who thinks herself above it. Very well, we’ll give you a try. The plays begin at three. You’ll work from noon until the show is over and the folk have gone. Oranges are sixpence, and a ha’penny of that’s yours to keep.” She gave the girls a knowing smile.