Nell clasped her hands together and smiled ecstatically at her sister. “And I am to do this?”
“I know not. You go too fast. Did you not always? If Mary Meggs makes up her mind that you will suit her, and if she has not already found her girls … well then, doubtless you will serve.”
“Take me to her. Take me to her now. I must see Mary Meggs. I must! I must!”
“There is one thing you must not do—and that is squint. Mary Meggs wants pretty girls in the pit. No gentleman would pay sixpence for a China orange to a girl who squints.”
“I shall smile … and smile … and smile….”
“Nell, Nell, don’t smile so downstairs, or you’ll look too pretty.”
“Nay,” said Nell. “I shall look like this as I serve the waters.” She made a hideous grimace, squinting diabolically, puffing down her lids with her fingers, and drawing her mouth into a snarl.
Rose doubled up with laughter. Rose laughed easily nowadays. That was because she was thinking of her lover, Harry Killigrew. Life was wonderful, Nell decided; one never knew what was coming. Poor Rose had been frightened of the cellar and the gentlemen, and now that work had brought her Harry Killigrew; and his connection with the King’s players was to give Nell an introduction to Orange Moll Meggs and bring her near to her heart’s desire.
Rose was sober suddenly. “There is no need for you to hurry to Mary Meggs. Harry will say: ‘Mrs. Nelly is to sell oranges in the King’s Theater because Mrs. Nelly is the sister of my Rose.’”
Nell flung herself into her sister’s arms, and they laughed together as they had often laughed in the past, laughed for happiness and relief, which, Nell had said, were so much more worth laughing for than a witty word.
Henry Killigrew did not come to the cellar that night. Rose was always anxious when he did not come. Nell was anxious now. What if he never came again? What if he forgot all about Rose and her sister Nell? What if he did not realize how vitally important it was that Nell Gwyn should become one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls?
Nell moved among the gentlemen with an abstracted look, but she was ever ready to elude their straying hands. She was sorry for poor Rose; for if her lover did not come, Rose would be forced to take another, provided he would pay the price her mother demanded.
Rose was no longer indifferent, because Rose was in love. It was as important now for Rose to elude those straying hands as it was for Nell to do so.
Nell felt sudden anger against a world which had nothing better than this to offer a girl, when others—such as those ladies in velvet and cloth of gold and silver—whom she had seen about the King on his triumphal entry into his Capital, had so much. But almost immediately she was resigned. Rose had her lover, and those ladies riding with the King had not seemed more radiant than Rose when she had been going to meet Henry Killigrew; and when she, Nell, was one of Mary Meggs’ orange-girls she would know greater happiness than any of those women could possibly know.
Now her eyes went to Rose. A fat man with grease on his clothes—doubtless a flesh-merchant from East Cheap—was beckoning to her, and Rose must perforce go and sit at his table.
Nell watched. She saw the big hands touching Rose, saw Rose recoiling with horror, her eyes piteously fixed on the door, waiting for the entry of her lover.
Nell heard her say: “No … No. It is not possible. I have a gentleman waiting for me.”
The flesh-merchant from East Cheap stood up and kicked the stool on which he had been sitting across the cellar. Others watched, eyes alert with interest. This was what they liked—a brawl in a bawdy-house when they could throw bottles at one another, wreck the place, and enjoy good sport.
Madam Gwyn had come from her corner like an angry spider. She raised her slurring gin-cracked voice. “What ails you, my fine gentleman? What do you find in my house not to your liking?”
“This slut!” shouted the flesh-merchant.
“Why, that’s Mrs. Rose … the prettiest of my girls … Now, Mrs. Rose, what has gone wrong here? You drop a curtsy to the fine gentleman and tell him you await his pleasure.”
The flesh-merchant watched Rose and his little eyes were cruel.
“He’s planning to hurt her,” shouted Nell in panic.
Rose cried: “I cannot. I am ill. Let me go. There is a gentleman waiting for me.”
Rose’s mother took her by the arm and pushed her towards the flesh-merchant, who gripped her and held her to him for a few seconds; then he was roaring with rage, shouting at the top of his voice. “I see it now. She has my purse, the slut!”
He was holding a purse above his head. Rose had stepped back, staring at the purse with fascinated eyes.
“Where did you … find that?” she asked.
“Inside your bodice, girl. Where you put it.”
“’Tis a lie,” said Rose. “I never saw it before.”
He had caught at the drapery at Rose’s neck, cut low to show her pretty bosom. He tore the charming dress which was a present from her lover.
“Lying slut!” cried the merchant. “Thieving whore!” He appealed to others sitting at the tables. “Must we endure this treatment? ’Tis time we taught these bawds a lesson.”
He kicked the table; it was cheap and fragile, and it was smashed against the wall.
“I pray you, good sir,” soothed Madam Gwyn, “I pray you curb your anger against Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Rose is ready to make amends….”
“I never saw the purse,” cried Rose. “I did not take the purse.”
The merchant paused and ceremoniously opened the purse. “There’s ten shillings missing from it,” he said. “Come, give me what you’ve taken, slut.”
“I have not had your money,” protested Rose.
The man took her by the shoulders. “Give it me, you slut, or I’ll bring a charge against you.” His little pig’s eyes were glistening. His face, thought Nell, was like a boar’s head which had been pickled for several days. She hated him; if she had not grown accustomed to keeping herself under control in the cellar, she would have rushed at once to Rose’s defence. But she was afraid; for that which she saw in the man’s eyes was lust as well as the desire for revenge; and she was afraid of lust.
He had turned now to the company. He shouted: “Look to your own pockets. They lure you here; they drug their waters; how many of you have left this place poorer men than when you entered it? How many of you have paid too dear for what you’ve had? Come! Shall we allow these bawds to rob us?”
One of the men shouted: “What will you do, friend?”
“What will I do!” he screamed. He had caught Rose by the shoulder. “I’ll take this whore and make an example of her, that I will.”
Madam Gwyn was beside him, rubbing her fat hands together. “Mrs. Rose is my prettiest girl, sir. Mrs. Rose is longing for a chance to be kind to you.”
“I doubt it not!” roared the man. “But she comes to her senses too late. I came here for a good honest whore, not a jailbird.”
“I’m no jailbird!” cried Rose.
“Is that so, Miss?” snarled the man. “Then you soon will be. Come, my friends.”
And with that he dragged Rose to the door. The men who were sitting about the tables rose and formed a bodyguard about him. “Take the thief to jail!” they chanted. “That’s the way to treat a thief.”