The Remarkable Life and Times of Eliza Rose Page 4

  ‘The crowds are ten deep outside!’ a wiry young fellow said to Eliza. He had an eye patch and a face pitted with smallpox scars. ‘They say that all the seats have been sold around the scaffold for weeks past.’

  ‘Is Jack Parley very famous, then?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘I should say! As brave and excellent a highwayman as ever there was. And one who has evaded capture by the constables for ten years! He’s the favourite of the ladies,’ went on the youth. ‘That is, apart from Claude Duval.’

  That name again. Eliza had never heard of these famous highwaymen before and reasoned that this was because the lanes of Somersetshire did not offer such rich pickings as those of London.

  ‘And is he here in Clink, too?’ she asked.

  The fellow laughed. ‘Never! The great Duval won’t ever be caught!’

  Eliza, intrigued, stayed in the yard, listening to the clamour from the citizens outside and the prisoners within. A woman beside the grille was reporting on the clothes worn by those on the other side of the prison gate, and her remarks were passed back through the crowd. ‘There’s a large woman wearing a Holland sprigged gown and blue satin shoes,’ Eliza heard. ‘A plain gentleman with a large nose wearing a heavily embroidered doublet over magenta hose,’ and ‘A woman, crying, wearing a cherry-coloured gown and petticoat with gold lacing.’

  As well as the general noise, Eliza could also hear the sellers of food outside, crying their wares to the crowd. Once she heard, ‘Fresh Somersetshire cherries! Come buy! Come buy!’ and her heart contracted with homesickness. How long would it be before she walked through the orchards picking cherries again?

  The bellman called ten o’clock and the chanting stopped. Eliza heard gates being clanged open and shut, and, from outside in the street, sounds of cheering and jeering in equal measure as Jack Parley and the other condemned men and women came out of the prison and, manacled together, were loaded on to the cart.

  ‘He’s wearing his best clothes, and has a white cap with black ribbons on it!’ a woman at the front called back to the other prisoners, and this was swiftly passed on. ‘He’s been given a nosegay of roses by someone in the crowd. One of the turnkeys is shaking his hand.’

  The horses being whipped into action, the cart began to trundle off and the crowd fell suddenly silent. It was quiet enough now for Eliza to hear the cartwheels turning on the cobblestones and one woman in the crowd, sobbing and calling, ‘Jack my darling!’ before the cart went into the distance and was swallowed up by the crowd following it to Tyburn.

  ‘He’ll be back before you know it!’ the fellow with an eye patch said to Eliza.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Eliza asked. ‘Is he to be reprieved, then?’

  He laughed. ‘No, he’s coming back as city surveyor!’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘I don’t understand your jest.’

  ‘You’re a country goose and no mistake!’ the fellow jeered. ‘Jack Parley has committed murder and so is sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered,’ he said, mimicking the actions of each word with his hands. ‘His parts will come back here to Clink, see, and they’ll stick his head atop of the prison gates so he’ll be able to see right across the city!’ On seeing Eliza’s horrified face he threw back his head and gave a bellow of laughter, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth.

  Eliza pushed past the fellow and went back inside, where she crouched on her low pallet and hugged her arms around herself, feeling sick. It was probably the subject matter, the fellow’s gross words, which had made her feel bad, she told herself; it wasn’t jail fever, for she knew that this started with a running cold. A cold … leading to a swift death. The previous summer, she’d heard, the conditions in the prison had been so bad, the jail fever so contagious, that over half the inmates had died.

  The following morning Eliza felt better and, having no sign of a cold, reasoned that jail fever hadn’t yet crept up on her. If only she could keep clear of it, keep reasonably healthy, until such time as her case was heard. Maybe the judge would be lenient; maybe he’d say that, having already served several weeks, she was free to go. Yes, she would think that, and not think of the boy of twelve who’d been hanged for stealing a silver ring, the woman shaved and branded on each cheek for adultery, the man sentenced to be burned alive for plotting against his master. She wouldn’t think about those harsh sentences, she’d just think about being free …

  Within a day or two, however, a rumour swept around the cells that the authorities weren’t going to hear any more cases until the end of the summer. For with fever rife in the two major prisons, Fleet and Newgate, the judges weren’t willing to be in such close proximity to the prisoners and risk catching disease. This meant, the rumour went on, that by the end of the summer the number of prisoners on remand in Clink and waiting to be sentenced would have more than doubled.

  Eliza, hearing this, became quite desperate. She had never – as Elinor had inferred she would – got any more used to the prison conditions, and the thought of being crammed into that dark cell with twice the number of stinking bodies hardly bore thinking about. Besides, she was finding it harder by the day to look clean and personable in order to attract a coin or two from passing gentlemen. Her hair was lank and greasy, her skin filthy, and there were dark creases on her hands and arms where the dirt was ingrained. She had rashes from flea bites all over her body, too, and couldn’t help but scratch herself constantly. No wonder that the newer, fresher girls were getting all of the attention and most of the money.

  To try and attract more alms – for she had a horror that one night she might find herself without money to buy a pallet to sleep on – she decided she’d devise a song, a plea for charity, which could be sung to the tune of a popular ballad. She knew she had a good voice, for she’d sung at merry-making in her village and in church on Sundays.

  After several hours’ thought she came up with:

  ‘Gentlemen, hear a poor maid’s plea,

  If I tell my story you’ll pity me.

  Cast out and hopeless I’m far from home

  Oh pity me, for I stand alone …’

  At first she’d felt discomfited at the thought of standing beside the grille and singing – but then, she reasoned, she’d thought this way about begging at first. Besides, many of the other prisoners devised their own cry in order to obtain aid. ‘Help save a poor woman from starvation!’ they’d call over and over again, and ‘Aid for a soul fallen on hard times!’ and really a song wasn’t so much different from that.

  She began to take her place by the grille much later, towards the evening of each day. It was cooler then, and most of the population of the prison had either been satisfied in their quest for alms or had given up, so the competition to be heard wasn’t so great.

  One warm evening, as she began yet again ‘Gentlemen, hear a poor maid’s plea’, a stout woman wearing a grubby shift tied round with a length of string paused by the grille and looked down on Eliza. When Eliza finished and paused, not knowing whether to sing again or no, the woman clapped mightily.

  ‘Yus! Bravo!’ she said, and the foreign word sounded strange with her London accent.

  Eliza looked up at her and nodded her thanks. She felt sure she wasn’t going to get anything from this woman – her appearance was as disagreeable as that of any of the prison inmates – and didn’t feel inclined to sing again.

  ‘Bravo,’ the woman repeated. ‘That, I believe, is what they says on the stage these days.’

  Eliza wondered whether to go inside, for there were precious few folk coming along the street now, but to do so while the old woman was trying to engage her in conversation seemed rude.

  ‘You’re a pretty one and no mistake,’ the woman went on. ‘Or you was, before you came in ’ere.’ She bent lower, heaving with the effort, and peered into Eliza’s face. ‘Is those eyes of yours green?’

  Eliza nodded, embarrassed.

  ‘There’s a thing. Such hair, too! I’m thinkin’ that it’s like a mermaid you are,
with those long dark curls. And you have the voice of a siren to send ships on to the rocks!’

  Eliza had heard enough. She bobbed a curtsy to the woman and, bidding her goodnight, made ready to go inside.

  ‘Wait!’ the woman said. ‘I been watching you awhile. Take this silver shilling, my pretty.’

  Eliza, astonished, took the coin that was passed through the bars and bit it to ensure it was real. ‘I … I thank you,’ she said, bobbing another, fuller curtsy to the woman. She looked half-mad, Eliza thought – but maybe she was rich as well.

  ‘Come again tomorrer and we’ll talk again,’ the woman said. ‘You’ll not be sorry you’ve met Old Ma Gwyn.’

  Chapter Five

  The following evening Old Ma Gwyn appeared at the grille and beckoned Eliza to come closer. ‘’Tis like this, see,’ she said, stooping low with difficulty, for her bulk was great. ‘I likes to ’elp gels such as you.’

  Eliza stared at her, thinking that in Stoke Courcey she’d have scorned to speak to such a dismal-looking object.

  The old woman shifted her position. ‘Look ’ere. Let me speak plain to you, my sweeting. ’Ow d’you like to come to live with me and my gels?’

  ‘Live with … your girls? Your daughters?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Yers. My daughters and my gels,’ she wheezed. ‘’Ow d’you like to live with us?’

  Eliza, confused, wondered what she meant. Where did she mean her to live, exactly? And on what basis? As a servant? How was she supposed to get out of the prison?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly. ‘Do you mean as a maid, or –’

  ‘A maid! Not as a maid! I means as a young lady of me ’ouse,’ came the proud reply. ‘There. What d’yer think of that?’

  Eliza didn’t know what to think.

  ‘I shall take you in as me own – for I can see that a pretty young thing such as you is suffering mightily from being ’ere. I shall feed you and clothe you and you shall ’ave the learning and be set up fine and la-de-da.’

  ‘But I’m not staying in London,’ Eliza said. ‘At least, not for long. I’ve come here to look for my father, and when I’ve sorted things out with him, then I’ll be going home.’

  ‘Yers. All in good time,’ Ma Gwyn said, waving these considerations away. ‘But in the meantime, my sweeting, you’ll be free. Out of this place!’

  Eliza stared at Ma Gwyn, hardly knowing what she was talking about. The thought of getting out, though, actually being free … it was that word that shone out like a lantern in the dark.

  ‘But how can this come about?’ she asked.

  The woman tapped her nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder,’ she said. ‘You just wait till tomorrer and leave it to Ma Gwyn. What’s your name, my pretty one?’

  Eliza told her and, the bellman calling nine o’clock, she said goodnight and went in from the yard. She looked back to the huge bulk that was Ma Gwyn, still standing beside the grille, and shook her head in bewilderment. Either she was totally mad, or she truly was a kindly benefactor who just wanted to rescue a girl in distress. Which was it? If only Elinor was still around she might tell her what to do …

  ‘Gentlemen, hear a poor maid’s plea …’ Eliza began the following evening. All day she’d waited for something to happen, for Ma Gwyn to appear again, but eventually she’d told herself that it never would happen and she’d been a fool to even listen to her. Why, the old crow was probably newly released from Bedlam.

  There were more prisoners in the yard than usual for that time of night, and the moment Eliza began her song she was roughly elbowed out of the way by a tall, thick-set woman who went by the name Annie Cut-purse. She was, Eliza had been told, the most famous woman pickpocket in London.

  ‘Stop yer caterwauling!’ she said. ‘And let your olders and betters get to the grille.’

  Eliza moved back quickly. She tried not to get involved in prison brawls and arguments, for she knew that cuts and sores seldom healed. As for broken limbs – well, she might as well be dead as be crippled and in constant pain from a limb that never mended. As she moved away, there came a piercing scream from outside the grille, where the bulky figure of Old Ma Gwyn had suddenly appeared.

  ‘Eliza! My Eliza as I live and breathe!’

  Eliza turned – as did everyone else in the yard, Ma Gwyn’s voice having a carrying quality.

  ‘Eliza!’ came the passionate cry again. ‘Is it really you, child?’

  Eliza, at a loss to know what to do, stayed where she was. Some jeering began from the other prisoners, a shouting that Eliza should answer up and be quick about it.

  ‘My poor child!’ Ma Gwyn shrieked. ‘She has been so brutalised by this place that she hardly knows her own kin! Her own aunt!’ This last word was delivered in such a meaningful tone that Eliza was left in no doubt as to what was expected.

  She ran towards the grille and bobbed a curtsy to Ma Gwyn. ‘Yes, Aunt, it is I,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Then come ’ere so I may embrace you!’ Ma Gwyn cried, pulling Eliza towards her while bending precariously over the grille. ‘You was stolen away by gypsies …’ she hissed in her ear. Straightening up, Ma Gwyn fanned herself theatrically. ‘Oh, my sweeting!’ she said. ‘I can scarce believe I’ve found you agin! I must go and secure your release. I’ll go to the bailiff of this prison this minute and gain freedom for my precious one.’

  Eliza, baffled, stayed where she was and, within a very few moments, a turnkey arrived to take her to the bailiff, a corpulent fellow wearing a most elaborate and varied set of clothes: a shirt, tunic, cravat, waistcoat, doublet and surcoat, all in different materials and clashing colours. Eliza had heard that he thought himself a dandy and that if he admired any prisoner’s clothes he would confiscate them for himself, and his appearance proved this true. She bobbed a curtsy, thinking how hot he must be in all the layers of garments he wore.

  ‘Oh, there she is, sire!’ Ma Gwyn said as she entered. ‘My poor precious child.’

  ‘So,’ said the bailiff, ‘what happened to you, child? Did you at one time live with this woman?’

  Eliza glanced at Ma Gwyn, whose great bulk was inadequately served by a small wooden chair. ‘Yes, and I was … was taken away by gypsies, sire,’ Eliza replied on receiving an encouraging nod.

  ‘Just as I told you!’ Ma Gwyn butted in. ‘I declares, sire, that this is my dear sister’s child that I was bringing up as me own when she was stole away from me. Oh, such a shock, sire, to see her amongst the common prisoners down there in the yard.’

  ‘And what offence have you committed to be in this prison?’ the bailiff asked.

  ‘I took a pasty, sire.’

  ‘That’s because they starved her!’ Ma Gwyn said with mighty indignation. She delved into her clothes, pulled out a pocket and produced a small money bag. ‘I ’ave some savings here, sire, what I was going to use to secure ’er release from the gypsies. Maybe this would go some ways …’ As she spoke she pushed the bag across the table towards the bailiff. So quickly did his hand dart out for it that halfway across it seemed to disappear.

  ‘I think we understand each other, madam,’ he said and, heaving himself upwards, he opened the door of his office and shouted something to a group of men standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Feeling dazed, Eliza followed Ma Gwyn down the wooden staircase. To the ill-smelling men sharing a jug of beer at the bottom, Ma Gwyn said, ‘Kindly hescort us safely through to where me coach and four are waiting.’

  ‘Oh, hoity toity!’ said the men, making mocking bows to Ma Gwyn. Eliza heard one say, ‘A coach and four? When the Thames boils!’ and the rest guffawed. A different man said, ‘Praise be! Another niece found!’ and added (Eliza was to worry on this later), ‘Set to join the other trulls in the bawdy house, I’ll be bound!’

  As the prison gates opened Ma Gwyn looked out and said loudly, ‘Lawks! Where’s me coach and four?’ and then, after making an elaborate play of looking up and down the road, proceeded to march a
s quickly as her bulk would allow her around the corner and out of sight of the turnkeys, who were watching proceedings with some amusement.

  Eliza felt odd: elated, confused and worried all at the same time. She had, she realised, absolutely no idea of where she was going or what was going to happen to her. She’d got out of Clink; that was all that mattered at the moment.

  The two of them jostled their way through the rabble of Southwarke: housewives coming back from market, apprentices running about their business, street hawkers crying their goods, messengers, sedan chairs, horsemen, carts, roped bears going to the bear-baiting. The streets were almost as crowded as the prison but Eliza, entranced and fascinated by the mob, enjoying her first fresh air for several weeks, didn’t mind any of it. This was the London she’d heard so much about.

  They passed music houses and theatres, bear gardens and taverns, going up alleys and down byways. Eventually Ma Gwyn stopped in front of a tall building with marble columns along its front.

  ‘Is this where you live?’ Eliza asked in awe, thinking that appearances were indeed deceptive, for judging by this house Ma Gwyn must be very rich indeed.

  ‘Gawd ’elp us, no,’ Ma Gwyn said, puffing from the effort of walking so far. ‘These is the baths.’

  Eliza looked through the pillars to sparkling stone and a brightly tiled floor. ‘Baths?’ she asked.

  ‘Baths!’ Ma Gwyn repeated. ‘Where yer bathe! ’Ere’s where I see what I’ve got for me money!’

  An intense curiosity, plus Ma Gwyn’s pokes from behind, made Eliza climb the steps up to the imposing doorway, and curiosity also led her through into a spacious, tiled area with many alcoves containing ladies and their maids and what seemed to be troughs of water. When Eliza was told by Ma Gwyn to remove all her clothing and step into such a trough, though, she declared that she would not.

  ‘Pish, madam!’ Ma Gwyn said. ‘Why so modest? There are no gentlemen here!’