“I doubt that he would marry Henriette while I am still an exile. Oh, Mary, if I regained my kingdom, what a difference that would make, eh? I doubt not that then my little Minette would become the Queen of France. What an excellent thing that could be for our two countries! What an alliance! For I would love the French more than ever if Minette were their Queen.”
“And you would take Mademoiselle for wife?”
“Ah! I doubt it. I doubt it very much. There is a great obstacle which I feel may prevent Mademoiselle and me from joining hands at the altar. While I am an exile she cannot contemplate marrying me; and if I had a crown fixed firmly on my head I could not bring myself to take her. Now let us drink to the future. Let us hope that our dreams will come true.”
“Our first step will be to put you on the throne of England, where you belong.”
“Our first step! But what a step! Yet, who knows … one day it may come to pass.”
When Lucy arrived in London she found that a great change had taken place in the city since she had left it.
Now the clothes of the people were drab, and the people themselves were, for the most part, suppressed and sullen. Those who were not, seemed to wear an air of perpetual complacency. All the ballad singers had disappeared, and there were no spontaneous outbursts of pageantry which had been a feature of the old days. The only places which still flourished were the brothels, and their inmates still chattered to each other from windows of rooms which projected and almost met over the cobbled streets.
Lucy found rooms over a barber’s shop near Somerset House. She was warmly received by the barber and, as she called herself Mistress Barlow, no one knew of her connection with the King, nor that the bright-eyed little boy was Charles’ son.
Ann Hill had taken charge, and told the barber that her mistress was a lady who had been living abroad and been trying for a long time to return to her native country.
They had a little money, and for a few days Lucy was content to lie in the room looking out on the street; but she soon began to long for a lover.
Each day Ann discovered more of the changes which had befallen London. All the taverns were closed; bull-baiting was suppressed; all the pleasure gardens were closed except the Mulberry Garden. There had been no Christmas festivals in the churches for a long time. There was no dancing in the streets on May Day.
“Why did we come back?” wailed Lucy. “There was more fun at The Hague and in Cologne.”
A few days after her arrival she dressed herself with great care and went out. Everyone stared at her; she was different from other women. She looked like a foreigner. She soon found a lover—a high-ranking soldier of Cromwell’s Ironsides; but she did not enjoy her relationship with him as she had with the merry Cavaliers in exile. He was conscious of sin the whole time he was with her, and he felt compelled to make love under cover of darkness, slipping into the rooms over the barber’s shop at dusk, and leaving before it was light. Lucy was beautiful, and beauty, she believed, was not meant to be hidden by darkness. She was restive. She was wishing she had not come to London.
Finally, she told her lover that she had had enough of him and his preoccupation with sin, and that he had best take himself off to repentance.
After that it had become her habit to go out and wander disconsolately in the Mulberry Garden; it was not what it had been, of course; but it was still a place in which to sit and watch the world go by, to take a little refreshment under the trees and perhaps pick up a lover.
She did not meet a lover in the Mulberry Garden; but as she sat at one of the tables a woman approached and asked if she might join her.
“I saw you sitting there,” she said, “and I thought I should like to join you. It is rarely one sees such ladies as yourself in the Mulberry Garden in these days.”
“Ah, these days!” said Lucy incautiously. “In the old days, it was different, I can tell you.”
“I could tell you too!” sighed her companion. “The old days! Will they ever come back, do you think?”
“You would like to see them back?”
“Who would not? I was fond of the play. I was fond of a bit of fun … a bit of gaiety in the streets. Now it is nothing but prayer meetings … all day and every day. Will you take a little refreshment with me?”
“Thank you,” said Lucy, warming to the company. The woman was rather flashily dressed; she was no Puritan; that much was clear.
They ate tarts with a little meat, which they washed down with Rhenish wine.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” said Lucy’s new friend.
Lucy smiled her acknowledgment of the compliment.
“And very popular with the men, I’ll warrant!”
“Are there any men left in this town?” asked Lucy ironically.
“Yes. A few. They visit my house near Covent Garden occasionally. You must pay us a visit.”
“I’d like to.”
“Why not come along now?”
“I have a family who will be waiting for my return.”
“A family indeed!”
“A boy and a girl. I have left them with my maid.”
“Where do you live then?”
“Near Somerset House. Over a barber’s shop.”
“It hardly seems a fitting lodging for a lady like you.”
“Oh, I have had some fine lodgings, I can tell you.”
“I don’t need to be told. I can guess.”
“You would be surprised if I told you where I have lodged.”
“You have been in foreign parts, eh?”
“Yes. At The Hague and Paris. And … Cologne.”
“There were Englishmen at those places, were there not?”
“Indeed there were!”
“Real gentlemen, I’ll warrant.”
“You would be surprised if you knew.”
“Nothing would surprise me about a beautiful woman like yourself.”
“You are very kind.”
“I but speak the truth.” The woman lifted her glass and said: “I will drink to the health of someone whose name should not be mentioned.”
Lucy seized her glass and tears shone in her eyes. “God bless him!” she said.
“You speak with fervor, madam.”
“I do indeed. There is none like him … none … none at all.”
“You knew him … in The Hague and Paris …?”
“Yes, I knew him well.”
The woman nodded, then said: “Do not speak of it here. It would not be safe.”
“Thank you. You are kind to remind me.”
“It is good to have a friend. I hope we shall meet again. We must meet again. Will you visit my house tomorrow?”
“If it is possible, perhaps.”
“Please come. Come in the evening. We make merry then. What is your name?”
“Barlow. Mistress Barlow.”
“Mistress Barlow, I hope we shall be great friends. I see we are two who think similar thoughts in this drab place our city has become. My name is Jenny. Call me Jenny. It’s more friendly.”
“I am Lucy.”
“Lucy! It’s a pretty name, and you have a pretty way of speaking. That’s not the London way.”
“No. I come from Wales.”
“Barlow! Is that a Welsh name?”
“Yes. It is, and so is Water … my maiden name.”
“Water, did you say?”
“Yes. My name before I married … Mr. Barlow.”
“Lucy Water … recently come from The Hague. You will come to see me tomorrow, please. I shall look forward to your visit.”