Ladies in Waiting (20 page)

“Yes,” Zabby said, “and the schemes I can’t control, and the jealousy. I’m not this person. I don’t want this love. I should have gone away at the start. I should leave court now.”

“It would follow you, though you never see him again. When I hadn’t seen Harry for—”

Eliza caught Beth’s slip. “Harry . . . hmm . . . Lord Stargate’s a Harry, and there’s the eldest Paget. Who is it you love, Beth?” Zabby’s outburst had unnerved her, and she wanted to change the subject to something more believable. Beth in passionate love she expected, but if rational Zabby could be torn asunder by her emotions, why, then, no one was safe.

Except me,
Eliza thought smugly.

“I . . . I can’t say.”

“Well, good thing you’re marrying an old man. I know nothing of that Thorne, but anyone past forty must be easy to cozen.” It seemed such a tremendous age to Eliza. “Marriage is but a business, a woman’s only business, so it seems to me she must find love elsewhere. Perhaps a few may be fortunate enough to love their work, but for most it is no more than a way to keep the body fed and clothed. The heart needs other food.”

“I’m not marrying Thorne,” Beth said.

“But your mother is telling everyone it is all arranged.” Eliza was quite practical when it came to anyone’s marriage but her own. “He’s astoundingly rich, from all I hear, and you’ll learn to bend him to your will in a fortnight, and have all the lovers you care for.”

“He’s not like that,” Beth said. “There’s something hard and dark about him, unnatural. He makes my skin crawl. I don’t think he’s the sort to let anyone control him, or even sway him. I was only in his company for a few minutes, and I hope never to be again.” She shuddered.

“Are you running off with your mysterious Harry? Your mother will only have you hauled back and annul whatever you’ve accomplished, though then perhaps the earl won’t have you after all.”

“That would be a mercy.”

“Indeed? Are you so pleased with your poverty? I don’t mean to sound hard, Beth, love, and you know I want you to be happy, but it seems to me marriage isn’t the way to achieve happiness. I mean, it matters little who you marry, so long as he’s well off. If you marry for love, you’ll only be brokenhearted when he takes a mistress or spends his days with dogs and horses, but if you marry a mere man, not a lover, why, you’re each free to follow your own heart, apart. At least, so it goes on the stage.”

“But life isn’t the stage,” Beth said. “You have no idea what it feels like to love someone. If I marry Harry I’ll be joyous forever. If I don’t, I’ll die. That’s that.”

“Now who’s talking out of a play? No one dies for love. Every woman must marry. What, lead apes in hell?” This was the proverbial fate of an old maid. “It is the way of the world.”

“Even for you?” Zabby asked. Her outburst vented, her tears brushed aside, she looked as calm as ever, her large tawny eyes examining Eliza quizzically. “I thought you had no wish to marry.”

“Oh, I’ll pick a likely old duke someday, one with three or four wives buried and a slew of heirs, one who won’t trouble me with childbearing and gives me free rein to write.”

“But will he let you dress in a man’s clothes and carouse as you do now?” Zabby asked. “A husband is a master.”

But Eliza wasn’t concerned. “I have practice enough managing my father. He wants a noble son, and grandson, but he made a vow on my mother’s deathbed not to marry me off against my will, and so long as I play the Puritan with him, he’s easy enough to control.” She affected a prudish voice. “Marry him, Father? But he takes the Lord’s name in vain. Him? Oh, laws, no, Father, he once hunted on a Sunday. No, he’ll never force me into a marriage. I’m free as long as I want to be, and I’m enjoying my life. When carousing and gambling and the company of loose women begin to pall, I’ll settle down with my nice gray gentleman. But for now, I do what I like!”

“Every person does what he likes,” Zabby said. “Only some decide they like to give in to what the world wants.”

“And what does the world want for you, Zabby?” Eliza asked.

For me to be queen,
she couldn’t help thinking.
For me to rule heart and mind at Charles’s side, and lead England to a glorious age of understanding.

“The world wants me to go to sleep,” she said with uncharacteristic crossness, and pulled the linen sheet over her face.

“Then you’d best give in,” Eliza said, and began to get ready for her night, stepping out of her petticoats and replacing them with a pair of snug breeches. “Ugh, I liked the full ones better, but times and fashions change. Here, Beth, hand me that waistcoat and my sword, would you? Don’t fret so, Beth, and certainly don’t listen to me. I know so little of the world.” She laughed at her own sarcasm, for she thought herself the worldliest of creatures. “Does your lad have money?”

“Some, and bound to get more.”

“Does he have a title?”

“I suppose. His father was a lord.”

“Eldest son? Then tell your beastly . . . I mean saintly mother and bed the boy before she can say no. Now, is my periwig straight? I’m off. Tell Catherine I have a headache tomorrow, if I’m still asleep when we’re called for. The way Nelly pours the brandy, I’m sure it will be true. Shows what an early education can do. Dream of your Harry, Beth, and you of your king, Zabby.”

“What’s the use?” she said from under the covers. “He doesn’t care a fig for me.”

“Oh, at least one fig, my dear. You could have him with a snap of your fingers.”

Zabby peeked out. She knew Eliza was just saying it to make her feel better. She knew she was too odd-looking, too awkward to attract Charles. She was smart, but not witty, and wit was what counted at court. That or otherworldly elfin beauty such as dimwitted, giggling Frances possessed. No, Zabby knew she was useful as an assistant in Charles’s elaboratory, nothing more. Oh, perhaps he was grateful to her for saving his life, but gratitude is a far cry from love, or lust.

She tossed and fretted beneath the covers for an hour, irrationally cross with everyone, even dear gentle Beth lying as still as a marble odalisque asleep at her side.
She may have to face down her dragon mother,
Zabby thought,
but if she’s brave she can have her Harry, whoever he is, and the world will think no worse of her in a month’s time. There’s no hope for me.

At last, Zabby drifted into a fitful sleep, and as soon as her breath came evenly, Beth slipped out of bed, pulled off the shift that covered her gown, and left to meet her lover.

Chapter 16

The Loving Father

E
LIZA SWUNG
her golden watch as she strolled through the torch-lit streets to Nelly’s house.
What a fine thing it is to have a kept woman,
she thought. Even if she did no more than provide a cheerful room and a soothing voice, and of course a cover for Eliza’s own masculine disguise. She began to appreciate why a man might want to keep something soft and pretty and always merry for his own private enjoyment, to chase away the cares of the world.

Not that I have a single care,
Eliza thought gaily as she walked. But she was worried about her friends.

Why doesn’t every woman choose to live like this?
she wondered, not troubling to think that she could do what she chose because she had money and leisure.
Every lass should put on a pair of breeches and seek out companions solely for their lively wit and conviviality.
She didn’t mind at all that none of her companions (save Nelly) knew she was a woman. She didn’t want to be appreciated for her womanly charms, such as they were, and knew that no matter how clever and poetic she might be, when she was clad in a gown a man would always see her handsome dowry first, her bosom second, and her talent last of all. But out here in the world of theaters and coffeehouses and rowdy inns, they heard her words first and hardly noticed her person. She could craft a subtle compliment or barb it with a malicious twist into the most cutting insult. She could extemporize satire on the court or praise the reigning beauty, to the delight of her audience, so that they didn’t care about her face, never looked under her weskit for bound breasts, and if they noticed she had a full purse, it was only in gratitude that her wealth could extend a pleasant party for another hour or two.

She’d been giving it a great deal of thought, and now resolutely decided she’d never marry at all.
Why should I?
she thought complacently as she smoothed her coat before letting herself into Nelly’s suite.
Even an oldfellow might put his foot down if he knew what a merry life I lead when the sun sets, and I’ll have no man’s foot on me! What good is a husband except to make money or give one a title? I’ve got the first, and don’t care for the second. Heirs? Mayhap when I’m a doddering old harridan of fifty I’ll adopt a splendid young buck and make him my heir. Or Nelly here.

“Hello, my sweet!” she said, and gave Nelly a kiss on the cheek. “Ye gads, what a sty this place is.”

“Sorry,” Nelly said with an impish grin. “I never had an instant to clean up from last night.” There were walnut shells on the floor and shrimp tails on the table, and every candle was burned to a stump with trailing widow’s weeds of beeswax. “You should really hire me a servant.”

“A servant knows all her master’s secrets, and I don’t want anyone knowing the master is a mistress and the mistress a free woman. At least, I trust you’re still free. You have been declining their offers, haven’t you?” Despite the public knowledge that the supposed Mr. Duncan had Nelly Gwynn in keeping, a great many men propositioned the delightful girl.

“Mostly,” she said. “Sedley gave me this.” She held out a gold ring with a little winking diamond chip. “But I haven’t done anything to earn it yet.”

“That cheap frippery shouldn’t buy him more than a smart slap. Don’t succumb to that impoverished beggar, my lass. If you mean to sell yourself, aim as high as you can. I see great things in your future—we all do, the queen included, or we wouldn’t trouble ourselves with you. You’re comfortable for now, and will be as long as you like. Take some time to look at the board before you make a play. Now, where shall we go tonight? Are there any parties? No? What about that show they’ve been crying up for the last week.
Quarrell’s Miscellany,
that’s it. Now slip your stockings on . . . no, not that pair, you sweet slattern. You’d think you were kept by the pig-man. Find a set without holes. Thank heaven you’re so lovely that no one cares if your hair’s a mess, but do wipe that smudge of coal dust off your nose. There!”

Nelly was careless as a fairy, and always assumed she looked stunning—and she did.

When they stepped out onto the street, Eliza flung back her head as if she were about to howl at the gibbous moon, and took a great breath of the foul London air. “I’d rather be a London commoner than a prince of Araby,” she said, and stumbled over the cobblestones when she tried to walk with her head up to the smoggy stars. “Isn’t it a grand life?”

“Are you tipsy already?” Nelly asked.

“Only on life. Oh, how glorious to be free! Is that the theater?” she asked a moment later. An inked sign was pasted on the wall, advertising a variety show starring Pious Philadelphia, depicted with a high stiff collar and a prim mouth.

Nelly looked at it dubiously. It didn’t strike her as her sort of entertainment—or Eliza’s. “Perhaps this is a better entertainment for a Sunday morning,” she hinted, but Eliza dragged her in.

“Come on, the doors are about to close. Trust me, from what I heard, you won’t be disappointed.”

They nudged themselves a bit of space on an already crowded bench and swayed to see the dimly lit stage. Most of the men wore low-crowned hats that didn’t interfere with the tiered seating, but the fellow in front of them wore a high Puritan hat. Eliza nudged the portly man in the kidney with her boot and said, “Doff your cap, sir. The lady can’t see.”

The man half turned, then snorted dismissively when he saw it was no more than a fashionably dressed youngster, and said, “I remove my hat before my God and my king, young man. Tend to your own cares.”

He was obviously a provincial; a town man would have offered either a more polite response or one far more cutting, with his hand on his sword to follow cut with cut. An ill word could lead to a duel . . . or an anonymous midnight assault that might end with a lopped-off ear. Honor was a fine point, and one never knew when the fop sitting behind might be a deadly swordsman.

But the Puritan had nothing to fear from Eliza. Though she wore a sword, even if she had the skill or the inclination she was in no state to use it. She had shrunk back, clutching Nelly’s hand painfully, her eyes wide with shock. She knew that profile, that voice . . . why, she knew that very hat, black beaver with the bit of Flanders point, steamed to curl just so to sit above a set of prominent ears.

It was Eliza’s father.

She was terrified. She might have told her friends she had her father under her thumb, but now that he was unaccountably here, in the flesh, she grew weak at the thought of what he’d do to her if he found her out. At the very least, he’d take her back to the country, and that was as good as a death sentence to Eliza now. He might have her thrown in an institution. Like many of the courtiers, she’d toured Bedlam, laughing at the crazed inmates who thought themselves birds or clouds, the men who swore they were women, the women who strutted like men. No, however furious, he’d never open himself up to that kind of shame. He’d have her quietly bundled into a coach by three strong ruffians and carted off to Scotland to be kept under guard for the rest of her life. Then he’d marry some hussy and get himself a son, and forget all about her.

“Are you unwell?” Nelly asked her benefactress.

Eliza took a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself. To rise now would attract unwanted attention. She was just glad the theater was too dim for her father to recognize his own daughter in male guise. There was nothing for it but to hold fast and wait for the end of the show, when she could leave quickly and be lost in the crowd.