By degrees they had made their way to Paris, going from town to town. Ann worked in some of the big houses, sometimes in gardens, often in the fields. Lucy plied the only trade for which she had any aptitude. And eventually they had come to Paris. But how changed was everything! She had hoped to find the King there, for she heard little news during her wanderings. She thought: He will not desert me. He will want to help me, if only for Jemmy’s sake.
But there were rumors in Paris. The King of England never came there now. The French were friendly with his enemies. The Queen of England and the Princess Henriette were rarely seen in the capital; they attended few state functions; they lived in obscurity.
And so here was Lucy in Paris, trying to find lovers who would support her and her children, feeling too old and too ill to struggle any longer.
She sat on the bank and stared at the river.
It would have been better, she thought, if I had stayed in London. Jenny, the brothel keeper, was right. I should have been better off had I followed her advice, for what is there for such as I when we grow old and ill and are no longer desirable!
She sat dreaming of her lovers. There were two whom she remembered best. The first because he was the first: she recalled the copse at twilight, the light in the sky, the shouts of Roundhead soldiers, and the sudden understanding of herself. She would never forget her first lover, and she would never forget Charles Stuart.
“Charles,” she murmured, “where are you now? Yes, the most exalted of them all, would be the one above all others to help me now.”
She thought of the children. What would become of them when she died?
Panic seized her, for she knew that she must soon die. She had known others who had contracted this disease which now threatened her life. She had seen how death came. It was the result of promiscuous pleasure. It was inevitable, mayhap, when one took lovers indiscriminately.
She must get back to her lodgings—the miserable room in a narrow cobbled street; she must get there quickly and talk to Ann. Ann was a good woman—a practical woman who loved the children. When Lucy died Ann must take them to their fathers and make sure that they were well cared for.
She struggled to her feet, and began to walk away from the river. As she neared that part of the town where she had her lodging, a fishwife, from whom now and then Ann bought scraps, called to her: “Have you heard the news then?”
“What news?”
“You’ll be interested … since you are English. Cromwell is dead.”
“Cromwell … dead!”
“Aye! Dead and buried. This will mean changes in your country.”
“That may be so,” said Lucy in her slow, laborious French, “but I’ll not be there to see them.”
She mounted the stairs to her garret and lay exhausted on the straw.
“This will mean changes for him,” she murmured.
When Ann came in with the children she was still lying there.
Ann’s face fell into the lines of anxiety habitual to it now. She had been excited when she came in, and Jemmy was shouting: “Cromwell’s dead … dead. Cromwell is dead!”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “Cromwell is dead. Ann, there is something I want you to do without delay. I want you to leave at once … with the children. Find out where the King now holds his Court. Go to him. Tell him what has befallen me.”
“We’ll all go,” said Ann.
“Where shall we go?” demanded Jemmy.
“We are going to the King’s Court,” Ann told him.
“To the King’s Court?” cried Jemmy. He seized his sister’s hand and began to dance round the garret. He was so strong and healthy that the life of poverty had scarcely had any effect upon him.
“Ann,” said Lucy quietly, “mayhap the King will be going to England now. Who knows? You must find him quickly. You must not rest until you have found him and taken the children to him. He will do what has to be done.”
“Yes,” said Ann, “he will do what has to be done. Would to God we had never left him.”
“Ann … leave soon. Leave … now.”
“And you?”
“I think I can fend for myself.”
“I’ll not leave you. I’ll never leave you.”
Lucy heard Jemmy’s shouts. “Cromwell is dead. We are going to see the King. You are Cromwell, Mary. I am the King. I kill you. You’re dead.”
“You have a fever,” said Ann to Lucy.
“Leave tomorrow, please, Ann. It is what I wish … for the children.”
“I’ll never leave you,” said Ann, and the tears started to run down her cheeks.
Lucy turned away. She said: “It has to end. All things have to end. It was a happy life, and all will be well for Jemmy and Mary. He will see to that. He is a good man, Ann, a good gay man … for a gay man can be as good as a somber one.”
“There is none to equal him,” said Ann.
“No,” agreed Lucy. “None to equal him.”
She lay still for a long time; and she fancied he was beside her, holding her hand, telling her not to be afraid. Life had been gay and merry; let there be no regrets that it had come to its end.
She whispered as she lay there: “In the morning, Charles, Ann will set out to bring the children to you … Jemmy who is yours, and Mary … who ought to have been yours. Look after Jemmy and see that Mary is well cared for. You will do it, Charles, because … because you are Charles … and there is none to equal you. In the morning, Charles …”
All night she lay there, her throat hot and parched, her mind wandering.
She fancied she heard the voices of people in the streets; they seemed to shout: “Cromwell is dead! Long live the King! God bless him!”
“God … bless … him!” murmured Lucy.
And in the morning Ann, with the two children, set out for the King’s Court, for poor Lucy no longer had need of her.
SEVEN
It was almost two years since the death of Cromwell, yet the people of England showed no sign of recalling Charles Stuart to his throne, having installed Oliver’s son Richard as Protector.
The excitement at the news of Oliver’s death had still thrilled the King and his Court, who were then in Brussels, when Ann had arrived with the children.
Charles was silent for a few moments when he heard of Lucy’s death. He embraced Jemmy warmly and, when the little girl, Mary, waited with such expectancy, there was nothing he could do but embrace her also.
He laid his hand on Ann Hill’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Ann. Lucy was fortunate in you … more fortunate than in some others. Have no fear. We will do our best to see you settled.”
Ann fell on her knees before him and kissed his hand; she wept a little, and he turned away because the tears of all women distressed him.
Later he sent for Lord Crofts—a man whom he admired—and said to him: “My lord, you have this day acquired a son. I command you to take him into your household and bring him up as one of your own. I refer to my son James.”
Lord Crofts bowed his head.
“I thank you with all my heart,” said the King. “I know I cannot leave Jemmy in safer hands. Henceforth it would be better for him to be known as James Crofts.”
“I shall obey Your Majesty’s commands to the best of my ability,” said Lord Crofts.
And so Jemmy was handed over to Lord Crofts to be brought up as a member of his family and to be taught all that a gentleman of high quality should know.
There still remained Mary.
“God’s Body!” cried the King. “That child is no responsibility of mine.”
He sent for Henry Bennet.
“Your daughter is at Court. What do you propose to do about her?” he demanded.
“Alas, Sire, I know of no such daughter.”