The Darling Strumpet (30 page)
Read The Darling Strumpet Online
Authors: Gillian Bagwell
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General
“Did he go after her—them—the queen, I mean?” Nell asked, dreading the answer.
“No, by God, that’s the best of it,” Samuel chortled. “He never turned a hair. Just clapped, which got the crowd applauding, then went straight to Mistress Moll, picked her up out of her curtsy, kissed her most freely, and led her straight off to his chamber for a private dance that went on all the night, or so I’m told.”
“THE KING HAS BOUGHT MOLL A HOUSE IN SUFFOLK STREET!” BETSY Knepp cried to Nell in the tiring room the next afternoon. “And a ring worth six hundred pounds. And she’s sent her parts back to the theater and says she’ll act no more!”
Over the next few days, it was all Nell could do to keep from screaming. It seemed everyone she met wanted to tell the news. There were numerous variations of the tale. Sometimes the ring was worth seven hundred pounds. Sometimes the king had sworn his love to Moll. Sometimes it was said that Mr. Betterton had begged Moll not to leave the Duke’s, had offered to double her wages. But whatever embroidery the story gained, the essentials remained the same.
There was nothing for it but to get on with life, Nell realized. Candlemas came, and she celebrated her eighteenth birthday with Rose and her new husband, their mother awkwardly joining them. She slogged her way through another of the tragedies she hated so much,
The Duke of Lerma
. Only the humorous prologue she spoke with Betsy made the show tolerable.
The Duke of Lerma
. Only the humorous prologue she spoke with Betsy made the show tolerable.
Even that equanimity was shattered when she overheard a group of the scenekeepers sharing a raucous laugh one cold dark afternoon.
“What d’ye say to that, Nell?” Richard Baxter called out.
“To what?”
“To the news that my Lady Castlemaine has taken our very own Charles Hart to her bed. Can’t get enough of him, apparently, and heaps him with gewgaws and gifts.”
Nell turned away, tears stinging her eyes. Not only did the king prefer Moll Davis’s company to hers, but Hart had taken up with the woman who all England considered to be the epitome of beauty and glamour. She had never felt more defeated.
THE FURIOUS WINTER COLD OF FEBRUARY SEEPED INTO NELL’S BONES, and her heart felt as frozen as the river. With the first days of March came a thaw. Each day brought a few more minutes of sunshine, and Nell gradually felt her spirits begin to lift. By late March there were the first hints of spring. Delicate green shoots braved their way through patches of bare earth, and tight blossoms clung to the tree branches, holding their breath until it should be safe to open.
As always, Nell’s mood lifted as the days began to lengthen and the weather grew warmer. By April, with a promising slate of roles ahead of her, she had almost convinced herself that it was just as well she had not heard from the king. But when Buckingham appeared at the door of the tiring room, her hopes soared.
“Aye, His Majesty was angry about the duel,” Buckingham agreed over dinner. “But a prince’s anger is like the thunder—it clears the air a great while after. I hear that Moll Davis has lost some of her charm for him. I think he’d welcome your company, if we do but remind him he misses you. He and the Duke of York will be at the Duke’s Playhouse tomorrow for
She Would if She Could
. And so will you be.”
She Would if She Could
. And so will you be.”
“And then what?” Nell asked in exasperation. “Am I to throw an orange at him to get his attention?”
“Nothing so obvious. Though it might work, at that. I’ve a cousin who’ll accompany you, and ensure that you’re seated conveniently near to the king.”
“I’d rather it was you.”
“Not this time. He must not know he’s being led. And he’ll bridle if he gets any whiff that I’m involved.”
THE SCHEME SEEMED SO FAR-FETCHED THAT NELL COULD SCARCE believe it when the king and the Duke of York took their places in the royal box next to where she sat with Buckingham’s cousin. And she found it still more astonishing when a royal page bowed before her a moment later with the king’s request that they join him and the duke at supper after the show.
“ ‘If this were played upon a stage now,’ ” she muttered, “ ‘I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.’ ” Mr. Villiers, a rabbit-faced gentleman whose innocuous personality was ideally suited to the evening’s plot, gave her a quizzical look but did not question her.
“WE’LL SLIP IN SOMEWHERE FOR A BITE AND I CAN LEAVE THE WATCH-DOGS behind,” the king said after the play was over. So servants and carriage waited near the playhouse, and Nell found herself entering the White Hart behind Mr. Villiers, with the king and the Duke of York in tow, their hats pulled low over their brows.
Soon the party was laughing as they tucked into a fricassee of rabbit and chicken, and when the king squeezed Nell’s leg under the table, she had no doubts about the success of the evening.
An hour later, after a plentiful feast, the landlord, innocent of the identity of his patrons, presented the bill. The king felt his pockets.
“By God,” he said. “But I’ve forgotten—I have no money. Jimmy, I’d be obliged if you’d help me out.”
Now it was the duke’s turn to clap his hands to the skirts of his coat, looking sheepish.
“I would if I could,” he said, “but I’ve nothing either.”
“’Od’s fish!” cried Nell, in a creditable imitation of the king. “But this is the poorest company I ever was in!” The red-faced landlord exhaled in irritation and turned to poor Mr. Villiers, who gamely drew out his purse.
In the street outside, Nell whooped with amusement.
“I thought the man would have an apoplexy,” she crowed. “And poor bastard, if he’d only known who he was about to take to task.”
“BY GOD, BUT I’VE MISSED YOU, NELLY,” THE KING SAID AN HOUR LATER, smiling down as he moved on top of her. “Don’t let it happen again, will you, that you deprive me of your company for so long?”
MAY DAY DAWNED CLEAR AND FINE. NELL AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF music in the street below, and, from her window, watched milkmaids dance their way down Drury Lane to a fiddler’s tune. What changes in her life a twelvemonth had wrought. Last year at this time she had been debating the wisdom of leaving the stage for Dorset’s bed. This year, she had spent more nights in the past fortnight in the king’s bed than in her own. She had no thoughts of giving up the playhouse this time, though. She could go to the king as often as he called her, and the experience with Dorset had made her cautious about casting off her only source of steady income.
Besides, such an array of roles stretched before her that she had no mind to leave. Charles Sedley’s comedy
The Mulberry Garden
would be followed by
Philaster
, another breeches role that put her legs on display and once more paired her and Hart as battling lovers. Then would come
The Virgin Martyr
and further performances of the perennial favorite
The Humorous Lieutenant
.
The Mulberry Garden
would be followed by
Philaster
, another breeches role that put her legs on display and once more paired her and Hart as battling lovers. Then would come
The Virgin Martyr
and further performances of the perennial favorite
The Humorous Lieutenant
.
Buckingham was, miraculously, back in favor with the king and, having dispatched Lord Shrewsbury, was now unrestrained in enjoying the company of his widow, the beautiful Anna Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury. Perhaps conscious of having overplayed his hand in advising Nell to ask Charles for an allowance so soon, and relieved at having succeeded in getting her back into the royal bed again, he was cautious in his counsel to Nell.
“It’s more than just a matter of keeping him happy in bed, Nelly. Never be a burden. There’s a never-ending queue of people making demands upon the king. You must be a welcome respite from all that. Make him laugh. Make him forget his cares. Make him believe you care for him.”
Buckingham’s advice was given in cynicism, but Nell found that she could follow it without dissembling. She did care for Charles. Behind the laughter there lay a deep sadness that touched her heart.
“I’M SORRY I’VE NOT SEEN YOU THESE LAST DAYS,” THE KING APOLOGIZED, as Nell lay in his bed for the first time in more than a week. “The queen has miscarried again.”
“Oh, Charles, what a grief for you!” Nell passed her hand over his brow, the lines there seeming more deep-set than usual. “I wish that I could ease your pain.”
“You do, sweetheart. You do.”
Nell put her arms around him and held him to her, rocking. Though he was twenty years older than she, she could see in him the vestiges of the boy scarred by war and years in exile, the losses of his father and his crown, and now this new loss, and she felt as tenderly toward him as she might toward a child.
NELL FELT ODDLY PRIVATE ABOUT HER FEELINGS FOR CHARLES. BUT it was impossible to ignore the fact that the liaison was widely known. She received more callers than ever after performances, but there was a deference now that had been lacking before. “Meat for my master, she cries.” The line from
The Humorous Lieutenant
sprang into her mind as the Earl of Mulgrave bowed over her hand. He was one of a dozen gentlemen who were crowding the tiring room, and they were not seeking to bed her now, but to keep her good opinion.
The Humorous Lieutenant
sprang into her mind as the Earl of Mulgrave bowed over her hand. He was one of a dozen gentlemen who were crowding the tiring room, and they were not seeking to bed her now, but to keep her good opinion.
“I declare, you grow prettier every day,” Sam Pepys grinned, kissing her cheeks. He held her out at arm’s length to admire her. Her costume for the role of the page boy Angelo consisted of breeches that displayed her calves in their silk stockings, and a neatly cut jacket that did nothing to disguise the fact that she was in truth a girl.
Pepys cast a glance at Beck Marshall, who was halfway out of her gown, her shoulders and a dangerous amount of bosom bare as she bantered with Rochester and George Etherege.
Sometime that summer, Nell’s name in the playbill at the theater was transformed from mere Nell Gwynn to Mrs. Eleanor Gwynn. She snorted with derision when Betsy told her about the change, but within, her reaction was more complicated. Though it was the name bestowed on her at birth, she had never been addressed as Eleanor in her life. Eleanor was her mother. There was an element of fear that lurked, too. What would become of Nelly if Mrs. Eleanor Gwynn now inhabited her form?
Even people at the playhouse treated her differently. Though Nell was sure her conduct had not changed, the other actresses kept more aloof.
“I fear they hate me,” she confided in Aphra.
“You great goose,” Aphra chided. “You can have no conception of how winning and cheerful your company is, else you would stop your fretting. You’re a sunny soul who brings light wherever you go. If they stand off, it’s only because they wish they were in your shoes. Sure the king likes you well enough, else he would not send for you. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
Nell was warmed by Aphra’s encouragement, but the one person that could truly bring her comfort, and in whose presence she felt wholly at home, was Rose. Rose was happy these days. Although Rose would never quite say so, Nell thought the rumors that her husband John got his living from highway robbery were probably true. He certainly had more flash than most laboring men. Whatever the case, he was often gone at night, and Nell spent frequent evenings with her sister.
Summer brought five or six new roles for Nell, and of course the plays already in the repertoire were revived regularly. As Hart had long ago predicted, she now carried almost twenty parts in her head, ready to perform with only a little dusting off.
Pepys visited Nell backstage one evening in October, burning to tell the latest gossip.
“The story is all over Whitehall,” he said, plopping himself down beside her at the dressing table. “The king lent Lady Castlemaine the crown jewels to wear in a performance of
Horace
at court last night. He made for her apartments this morning to collect the jewels and spied a man—John Churchill, they say—coming out of her bedchamber, and far too early for a mere social call it was. The poor man froze at the sight and bowed nearly to the ground. But the king only laughed and said, ‘I forgive you, for I know you do it for your bread!’ ” Pepys laughed nearly till he cried at his own story. “Oh, and did you hear the latest story of your old friend Lord Dorset?”
Horace
at court last night. He made for her apartments this morning to collect the jewels and spied a man—John Churchill, they say—coming out of her bedchamber, and far too early for a mere social call it was. The poor man froze at the sight and bowed nearly to the ground. But the king only laughed and said, ‘I forgive you, for I know you do it for your bread!’ ” Pepys laughed nearly till he cried at his own story. “Oh, and did you hear the latest story of your old friend Lord Dorset?”
“You mean my Charles the Second?” Nell asked archly. Pepys chuckled.
“Indeed. And your other friend Charles, as well. Sedley, that is. High flown in drink, they stripped off most of their clothes and tore through the streets with their arses bare, singing and shouting, and at last fell to brawling with the watch.”
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