Lucy went home not ill pleased with her visit to Mulberry Garden. Perhaps she would go to Jenny’s house next day. It would be interesting to meet some merry company again.
Lucy did go, and it was a merry evening. She awoke next morning in a strange bedroom, and when she opened her eyes she was slightly perturbed.
Ann would guess that she had stayed the night, not caring to face the streets at a late hour, and she would look after the children, so there was nothing to fear on that score; but Lucy’s lover of last night had not entirely pleased her. She missed the pleasant manners of the Court gentlemen. Yes, that was it; last night’s lover had been too crude for Lucy.
There was another discovery she had made. Jenny’s home was nothing but a bawdy house. She had begun to realize that, not long after she had entered it; but already by then she had drunk a little too much and felt too lazy—and, of course, it would have been very impolite—to leave abruptly.
As she lay there she understood that she had not enjoyed last night’s lover. Love, such as undertaken in Jenny’s establishment, was quite different from that which she had hitherto enjoyed. She had always been fastidious in choosing her lovers; something in them had attracted her or made a strong appeal to her sensuality. This was quite different. This was lust, to be bartered for and haggled over. Lucy was not that kind of loose woman.
Now she knew why Jenny had been so friendly in the Garden, why she had been so eager for her to visit her home. She was glad her companion of last night was no longer with her. She would rise and dress, thank Jenny for her entertainment and slip away, never to see the woman again.
She was dressed when there was a knock at her door.
“Come in!” she cried; and Jenny entered.
“Good morrow to you, Lucy. Why, you look as pretty by morning light as by candlelight, I swear. Were you comfortable in this room?”
“Yes, thank you. I was quite comfortable.”
Jenny laughed. “I notice you took the most amusing of the gentlemen, Lucy.”
“Was he the most amusing?”
“I could see that from the moment you set eyes on him, no other would do.”
“I fear I drank too freely. I am not accustomed to overmuch wine.” “Are you not? It is good for you, and it gives you such high spirits, you know.”
“My spirits have always been high enough without. Now I must thank you for my lodging and be off.”
“Lucy … you’ll come again?”
Lucy was evasive. She was telling herself that if she had not drunk so much wine, if she had not been so long without a lover, what had happened last night would never have taken place.
“Mayhap I will,” she said.
“Lucy, I’ll make you very comfortable here. Those rooms over the shop … they must be most unsuitable for a lady used to the comforts you enjoyed at The Hague and Cologne.”
“I manage very well. I have my faithful servant to look after me, and my children to consider.”
“You could bring them all here. I could use a new servant, or you could keep her merely to wait on you. The children would be welcome here. We are a very happy family in this house.”
The woman was breathing heavily. Lucy smelt the stale gin on her breath, and was aware of the avaricious gleam in her eyes. Lucy was not clever, but she now understood that she had behaved with the utmost folly. Doubtless there had been gossip bandied about as to the life Charles led on the Continent, and her name might well have been one of those which were mentioned in connection with him; and she, stupidly, had betrayed who she was, and perhaps last night had babbled even more.
No wonder this woman was eager to make her an inmate of her brothel! She could imagine what a draw the mistress of Charles Stuart would be.
Then Lucy wanted to get away. She wanted to wipe the shame of the place from her mind. She wanted to forget that she had spent the night in a brothel. All her love affairs had been so different. She had discovered that last night—half tipsy though she had been.
She drew herself away. “Well, I will say goodbye now.”
“But you’ll come again?”
“I … I’ll see.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She was not going to let Lucy escape as easily as that.
Ann was reproachful. She guessed that Lucy had spent the night with a man. She said nothing, but she was a little frightened. Glad as she was to be in London, she was quicker than Lucy to realize that, in more ways than one, this was not the same London which they had left more than eight years ago.
Jenny called. She was wheedling, and then faintly threatening. She hinted that one who had come rather mysteriously from across the water and had clearly been a close friend of people who were regarded as the enemies of the Commonwealth, might find it convenient to shelter in the house of a good friend who would protect her.
“I am very comfortable here,” Lucy told her.
“You may not always be so,” retorted Jenny. “You may be glad of friends one day, and that day soon!”
“I shall not join you at your brothel,” declared Lucy firmly.
Jenny’s eyes gleamed. “You may find there are worse places than my house, Lucy Water.”
“I have never been in one,” said Lucy carelessly.
“You’ll change your mind.”
“Never!” cried Lucy, and for once her mouth was set into lines of determination.
The woman left, and Lucy lay thoughtfully nibbling sweetmeats.
Jenny called again on two other occasions; she sought to placate Lucy, but Lucy’s determination not to join her household brought more veiled threats.
A few days later two men called at the rooms over the barber’s shop. They were soberly clad, grim-faced men, servants of the Commonwealth. They came to search the rooms and Mistress Barlow’s belongings, they said.
“For what reason?” demanded Ann on the threshold.
“For this reason,” answered one of the men. “We suspect that the woman who occupies these rooms has recently come from the Continent, and that she is a spy for Charles Stuart.”
Lucy rose from her bed, her flimsy draperies falling about her; but these men were not Court gallants to be moved by beauty in distress. They began to search the room, and in a box they found the King’s promise to pay Lucy four hundred pounds a year.
One of them said: “Mistress, prepare yourself to leave this place at once.” He turned to Ann. “You also. We are taking you all to another lodging.”
Trembling, Ann prepared herself and the children, who were making eager inquiries.
“Where are we going?” said little Mary. “Are we going for a walk?”
“You must wait to see where we are taken,” Lucy told her.
“Mama,” cried Jemmy, “do you want to go? If you don’t, I’ll run them through with my sword.”
The men looked at Jemmy without a smile. Jemmy hated them. He was used to caresses and admiration. He drew his sword from his belt, but Ann was beside him; she caught his arm.
“Now, Master Jemmy, do as you’re told. That is what is best for your mother … and for us all. It is what your father would wish.”
Jemmy fell silent. There was something in Ann’s face which made him pause to think; he saw that his mother was in earnest too. This was not a game.
In a very short time they had left the barber’s shop and were being taken towards the water’s edge, to where a barge was waiting for them.
Slowly they slipped down the river, and soon Jemmy was pointing out the great gray fortress on its banks. “There’s the Tower!” he cried.
“That’s so,” said one of the men. “Take a good look at it from the outside, my boy. Mayhap you’ll be seeing nothing but the inside for a long time.”
“What do you mean?” cried Lucy.
“Just that we are taking you to your new lodging, Mistress, your lodging in the Tower … the rightful place for friends of Charles Stuart who come to London to spy for him.”