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Authors: Gillian Bagwell

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General

The Darling Strumpet (14 page)

BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
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There was a stir, and all eyes turned to one of the lower boxes at the side of the stage. Nell realized with a surge of excitement that King Charles was entering, and that the small dark lady beside him must be Queen Catherine. They stood waving their reply to the cheers of welcome.
The audience turned its attention to the stage as a finely dressed gray-haired man entered through one of the two doors at its side. He strode to the front of the forestage and waited, a hint of a smile on his lips, as the hubbub subsided. Nell faded into a corner at the back of the pit, setting her basket down behind her, out of the way of thieves.
The man bowed deeply to the king and queen, then to the audience. He stood for a moment, his piercing dark eyes sweeping the packed playhouse.
“Your Majesties, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. I am Thomas Killigrew, and it is with great pleasure, and very deep gratitude to His Majesty, that I welcome you to the Theatre Royal.”
The playhouse erupted into cries of “God save the king.”
“This day has been many years a-coming,” Killigrew continued. “Some of us thought it would never come. No doubt some of us thought so more than others.” He cast a puckish glance toward the royal box. The king laughed along with the rest of the crowd.
“I say again, welcome. We hope for the frequent pleasure of your company. And now, I give you
The Humorous Lieutenant
.”
Killigrew withdrew to resounding applause, and a girl pranced through one of the doors at the side of the stage and forward onto the apron. She was dark haired, her buxom prettiness enhanced perfectly by her golden gown. Illuminated by the candlelight against the deep red of the curtain behind her, she seemed to glow. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled with amusement, and then she spoke, addressing the crowd directly.
Nell could not recall later what exactly it was that the girl had said. She knew only that it was charming and funny and that the wench held the audience in the palm of her hand, and that when she had done with her prologue she skipped off the stage to cheers and stamping and whistles. Nell felt she could hardly breathe, choked by a wrenching sense of longing to be able to accomplish such a thing of magic herself.
The great curtain rose as if by sorcery, revealing the grand hall of a palace. Theo Bird and Marmaduke Watson bustled onto the stage and began their scene. As the play went on, the decorous quiet that had reigned briefly was broken by a steady hum of chatter and laughter, by occasional outbursts of shouting from the top galleries, and by the calls of folk who wanted oranges.
Nell kept an eye on the play and followed the story as best she could. Charles Hart played a prince whose match with the girl he loved was hindered by his father’s attempts to seduce her for himself. Nell was both entranced and consumed with envy as she watched the golden-haired actress playing Hart’s love.
Wat Clun played a tough and taciturn soldier—the humorous lieutenant of the title—who somehow ended up drinking a love potion intended for the girl, and the audience roared with laughter at his giddy infatuation with the wicked king. Nell was pleased to see several other actors she knew.
The king appeared to be enjoying the play immensely, laughing with abandon and clapping his appreciation when actors left the stage after a particularly hilarious scene. But Nell was keenly aware that making a success as an orange seller was what would allow her to keep coming back to this place of enchantment, and zealously made the rounds of the pit.
The first interval came, and the musicians struck up. Nell gazed at the empty stage and longed to know what it felt like to stand there. Did she dare to try it? Moll had given her permission, so Nell clutched her basket to her and climbed the steps to the stage and surveyed the scene before her. She felt as if she were at the center of the universe. The galleries rose to the ceiling, enwreathing the space, and the sloped floor of the pit made it seem as if its benches were marching toward her. The theater was a swirling sea of movement. The king in his box was not ten paces away. She took a breath and sang out “Oranges! Fine oranges! Who will buy my oranges, fine Seville oranges?”
The king smiled and beckoned. Nell went to him, her heart in her throat.
“Will you have an orange, Your Majesty? They’re very sweet.”
“How could they be otherwise, with such a peddler? I’ll take two.” She held out two oranges, but the king took only one.
“One for you and one for me,” he said with a wink.
Nell’s scene with the king had been observed, and as she turned from him and sang her cry again, gentlemen pressed to the foot of the stage. By the end of the interval she had sold almost all that was in her basket.
 
 
 
WHEN THE PLAY WAS DONE, THE AUDIENCE STRAGGLED OUT, PLEASANTLY exhausted by the long, hot afternoon, and ready for real food and drink. Before Nell went to reckon up with Moll, she stood and looked around the emptying playhouse, breathing in the scent of perfume and the smell of hot wax and oranges and flowers and sweat. She imagined the gaze of hundreds of spectators watching her. Caught up in the fantasy, she dipped in a curtsy and was brought up short as she noticed two gentlemen watching her with amusement. She threw them a smile and scampered off to find Orange Moll, blushing and laughing with delight.
 
 
 
“YOU’VE DONE RIGHT WELL,” ORANGE MOLL NODDED AS SHE COUNTED Nell’s takings. “Here’s four pigs for you.” She smiled as she put four sixpenny coins into Nell’s hand. “Only three for you!” she said to Rose. “You’ll have to show up your little sister tomorrow, eh?”
Nell was elated and ravenous. She and Rose went to an eating house and treated themselves to a dinner of fricasseed rabbit followed by apple tart and washed down with good ale.
The sky glowed pink and orange with the sunset as Nell headed toward the Cock and Pie. Her supreme happiness at the day dimmed when she thought of Robbie, waiting at home.
He looked up from the table as she entered their room. He was eating cheese and the remainder of the wheat loaf from the previous evening’s meal. Nell thought with a pang that she should have brought him something to eat.
“I thought you’d have been home before now,” he said. “With my supper.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot, I was so excited.” She ran to him and kissed him. “Oh, Robbie, you should have seen it. The king and queen were there! And ever so many grand ladies and gentlemen. There were painted scenes on the stage—it began with a great palace that moved and gave way to a street, as real as anything. And look—I’ve two whole shillings!”
Robbie seemed not angry but sad.
“I know I’ll lose you to it, Nelly. When you came to me you were but a frightened little thing. But you’ll have no need of me now, and if you’re rubbing shoulders with the gallants of the town, you’ll find me dull company.”
Nell threw her arms around Robbie, desperate to reassure him.
“I won’t! Why do you not come tomorrow? Then you’ll see how fine it all is.”
But Robbie said only, “We’ll see.” And that night it was he who lay awake long after Nell had fallen asleep. He did not come to the playhouse the next day, or the day after, and push came to shove at the end of the week.
“I still don’t like it,” he said. “And I want you to stop.”
“No!” Nell cried.
“Then you’ve a choice to make. You can stay with me and I’ll gladly care for you. Or you can work at the playhouse. But you cannot do both.”
Nell was agonized at the thought of hurting Robbie. He had taken her in and prevented her from further harm at Jack’s hands. But her heart sank at the thought of endless days with no prospect of change or excitement. The playhouse, though—anything might happen there, and she could not bear to turn her back on its possibilities. So the next day she gathered her things and moved into Rose’s room at the Cat and Fiddle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
 
 
“
W
ELL, IF IT AIN’T LITTLE NELL!”
Harry Killigrew’s voice cut through the babble of the playhouse crowd. He lolled on a bench in the pit, flanked by a couple of richly dressed gentlemen Nell hadn’t seen before.
“Not so little,” commented one of the men, eyeing Nell.
“Will you not introduce me to your friends, Harry?” Nell asked, meeting the stranger’s gaze.
“Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, first Earl of Middlesex and sixth Earl of Dorset, is the one drooling at the sight of your bubbies.”
A lord, and captivated by her. Nell was thrilled.
“And this”—Henry waved a hand at the other man—“is Sir Charles Sedley. Who, now I look, also appears to be salivating more than is common.”
Dorset laughed and stretched himself lazily. He was handsome and golden haired, and he reminded Nell of the young lion she had seen once when the menagerie at the Tower was open to the public. Powerful and utterly assured.
“Damme, but the wench has the finest oranges I’ve ever seen,” he drawled. “They positively set me to hungering.”
He picked up an orange and rolled it in his hand, squeezing it, then brought it to his nose and inhaled its scent, his eyes never leaving Nell’s. He tossed the orange to Harry, trapped Nell’s hand between his, and pressed sixpence into her palm. The touch of his skin made her heart race. To her annoyance, she felt herself blushing, and she slipped away, Harry’s laughter in her ears.
That night, Nell remembered the pressure of Dorset’s hand on hers and how his gaze had made her catch her breath and look away. He stirred something within her, and it was clear that she had excited his interest as well, but her experience at Madam Ross’s had taught her that if she succumbed easily, even for a handsome price, he would lose interest and she would forfeit what power she had with him. She determined to keep her head when next she saw him and see what might befall.
The next day Nell watched Dorset as he stood with one booted foot on a bench, surrounded by Harry, Sedley, and a couple of other young bloods. The cut of his elegant clothes emphasized his well-muscled figure. The other men leaned in to listen to him, crowing with laughter and clapping him on the back. The leader of the pack, that’s what he was, she thought. And yes, one who would relish a chase.
“So you’re the dimber-damber, then?” she dimpled at him.
“I’m the what?” he asked, looking her over languidly.
“Dimber-damber. Top man. King of the thieves. Chief rogue of the crew.”
Dorset laughed. “Why, I suppose I am. And if I’m king,” he said, tracing a finger down Nell’s throat, “who’s to be my queen?”
“Only time will tell, my lord,” she said, batting his hand away. “Now, do you mean to buy any oranges of me today or am I to stand here all the afternoon listening to your fiddle-faddle?”
Nell was annoyed with herself that she was allowing Dorset to fascinate her, but she could not stop herself from thinking about him.
“What do you think of him?” she asked Rose one evening as they walked home. Rose blew out her cheeks and shook her head.
“A hellcat, born and bred. I swear I don’t understand these gents. Harry Killigrew says Dorset and Sedley have just done a translation of a French tragedy that brings tears to his eyes for the beauty and grace of the poetry, and yet the pair of them near caused a riot the other night.”
“Really?” Nell giggled. “What happened?”
“They were with Tom Ogle at the Cock Inn, drunk as dogs, and stood on the balcony, singing lewd verses. A crowd began to gather, and at length they stripped off their clothes, and Dorset and Ogle began to strike lascivious postures. When the people below cried out to them to behave decently, Sedley pissed on their heads. The folk in the street were so enraged that they started throwing stones, Harry said, and near tore down the house.”
Nell laughed, picturing Dorset and Sedley’s antics, and Rose looked at her sharply.
“You’d do better to keep clear of that one, Nell, is my opinion. He’ll bring you nothing but hurt.”
 
 
 
THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT
WAS A ROARING SUCCESS, AND PLAYED day after day. After the first performance, it was John Lacy instead of Walter Clun who played the lieutenant, and as funny as Wat had been, Lacy was even better. Nell never tired of watching him in the part, marveling at his transformation as the love potion took effect and the rangy, slow-moving lieutenant, inflamed with giddy passion, capered about the stage, long arms and legs a-spraddle with the ungainly appearance of a chicken in flight, howling, “Oh, King, that thou knew’st I loved thee, how I lov’d thee!”
BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
2.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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