The Darling Strumpet (36 page)
Read The Darling Strumpet Online
Authors: Gillian Bagwell
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General
Nell watched Charles and Evelyn walk on and realized that they were headed for Barbara Palmer’s house. But that put no fear into her now. Charles had told her, almost with relief, she thought, that Barbara was now Dryden’s mistress. Bound perhaps by their long history or their children, Charles and Barbara had settled into an amicable truce, but the fire of passion had burned out.
NELL LOUNGED AGAINST A PILE OF PILLOWS, NAKED BUT FOR A GOSSAMER piece of white silk draped across her lap and her hair flowing over her shoulders. She had been sitting so for an hour, and could not stop herself from moving her head to release the tension. Sir Peter Lely looked up from his canvas.
“Not much longer today. It’s coming splendidly.”
“I should hope so. Why, Charles!”
Lely stood and bowed as the king entered and advanced, grinning, to examine the canvas and then the original posed before him.
“Gorgeous. Both of them.”
Nell laughed. She didn’t know whether Charles meant both her and the portrait, or both of her breasts, grown fuller and rounder in her pregnancy, but she was happy all the same. Charles tossed his hat onto a table, helped himself to a glass of wine, and straddled a stool.
“Where’s the little one?” he wanted to know. Charlie was to be in the painting, as a little cherub.
“We do not need him today, Your Majesty,” said Lely. “When I have Mrs. Nelly well set, then I will paint him in. Too tiring for a baby to sit still for so long.”
“And for me!” Nell said.
“Here,” said Charles. “Revive your flagging spirits.” He squatted and tilted his wineglass to her lips. A drop splashed onto her nipple, and he put his mouth to her breast and sucked it clean.
“I think I’ll hang the picture in the Banqueting House,” he said. “So it will be the first thing that foreign ambassadors see when they present themselves.”
Nell giggled. “So you’d share me with them, then?”
“Share, no. Let them have a peek, so they can envy what I’ve got, yes.”
IN AUGUST, BUCKINGHAM AND ANNA MARIA’S LITTLE SON DIED SUDDENLY. Under her veil, Anna Maria’s face was a mask of devastation, and Buckingham’s pallor stood out from his clothes of solid black. The little earl was laid to rest in the Villiers family vault in the Henry VII Chapel of Westminster Abbey, as the stones echoed with Anna Maria’s sobs. Nell ached for her and longed to get home to hold little Charlie in her arms and know that he was safe. She would not survive such a loss, she thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY
C
HARLES LOVED HIS SOJOURNS TO NEWMARKET, WHICH HAD become regular excursions each spring and fall, and Nell loved to be with him there. He was so much more relaxed than in town. He lived for the races, and went early each morning to consult with his trainers and jockeys about how his beloved horses were coming on and to be sure that the great sleek animals were being fed their particular mix of soaked bread and eggs. During the day he delighted in strolling the town, chatting to whoever approached him, jesting with blacksmiths and dairymaids as easily as he did with dukes and earls.
HARLES LOVED HIS SOJOURNS TO NEWMARKET, WHICH HAD become regular excursions each spring and fall, and Nell loved to be with him there. He was so much more relaxed than in town. He lived for the races, and went early each morning to consult with his trainers and jockeys about how his beloved horses were coming on and to be sure that the great sleek animals were being fed their particular mix of soaked bread and eggs. During the day he delighted in strolling the town, chatting to whoever approached him, jesting with blacksmiths and dairymaids as easily as he did with dukes and earls.
So pleased had Charles been by his first visit to Newmarket that he had commissioned Christopher Wren to build him a house in town. It was finally finished, and Nell and Charles had retreated there after a glorious day, summer’s warmth just beginning to hint at the fade to autumn. It was pleasant to have had a quiet supper alone, and now Nell lay in bed with her swelling belly and breasts pressed against Charles’s back. Their breathing was quiet and slow, in time with each other. Outside, rain pattered on the trees. Nell thought that there was no place in the world she would rather be.
Through the window, the moon was just coming into view. The stars were banked with clouds, the twinkle of their fire only intermittently visible.
Nell had thought Charles was asleep, but he stirred, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers. He sighed deeply and Nell kissed his shoulder.
“What, my love?”
“Nothing. Just—memories.”
“Of what?”
Charles was silent for a moment before answering. “It was on this day twenty years ago that we lost the battle at Worcester.”
“Tell me.”
“Have I not told you the story?”
“No.”
He rolled to face her, stroking the curls tumbled about her face. His eyes were sad and tired. She took his hand and kissed it, then pressed it to her cheek. He pulled her to him so that her head was cradled on his chest.
“I was in Scotland. In Perth, godforsaken Perth, reduced to depending on the Scots. Cromwell and his army were to the north and began to advance on us, and the time seemed right to push into England. The people would rally to us, it was said, send Oliver’s troops scurrying like rats. So we set forth, and I was proclaimed king in Penrith and Rokeby. But as we drew farther south, it was the Scots soldiers who scurried from our ranks, and none came to take their place.”
As though a dam had broken, the words now poured from Charles, and Nell saw written on his face long-banished memories.
“There were spies among us who betrayed our positions and plans, and hundreds—nay, thousands—were arrested. And seeing this, those who might have come lost heart and stayed away. We pressed on, and limped into Worcester.”
He paused, staring intently into the darkness, as if planning again his strategy.
“Cromwell soon came with a vast army. And seasoned men, not the weakened rabble that we were. I was glad of the chance to fight instead of waiting and running, and we charged upon them with the fury of despair and rage. But they captured Fort Royal and turned our own guns upon us; our losses were heavy, and we had no choice but to retreat. Many of my men threw down their arms, aweary of the fight. I urged them on, cajoled, threatened, wept. But it was no use.”
He covered his eyes with his hand, as if to block out the sights in his mind’s eye. Nell stroked his cheek.
“I would that I had been there,” she said. “I would gladly have died with you a hundred times before I would have left you to fight alone.”
“I know you would. You’ve a stouter heart than many a soldier.”
Nell poured him wine, and he drank absently, his mind still in the past.
“What then?” Nell prompted.
“Dark was coming on. The city was surrounded, and Cromwell’s men were searching for me. Although I had no great wish to live, I could not let myself be taken captive, and so become the pawn of the enemy. And so I flew, and not a moment before time. As I was leaving by the back door of the house where I had been staying, the troops were at the front.”
“And so you went to France?” Nell asked.
“Aye, after six weeks of hiding and terror and hunger, my feet bloody with walking. But that’s a story for another time. Truly I do not know how or why I was preserved, except by the hand of providence. And I live every day with the thought of the thousands who were lost.”
He gave a choking sound. Nell stroked the stubble of his cropped head.
“Oh, my love. You did all you could, and no man could have done more. And your salvation has meant the salvation of so many.” She pulled him close to her breast as she did their son, murmuring consolation and love, until his sobs ceased.
IN THE MORNING, NELL WOKE FEELING WRETCHED. HER BURGEONING belly, aching back, and swelling feet made her constantly uncomfortable, and she craved the comfort of her own house.
“You will not mind if I go back to London a few days early, will you?” she asked Charles. “I’m not fit to be seen in public, and I had rather be at home with Rose’s company than sit here while you spend your days at the races and your nights dancing.”
“No, lambkin,” he assured her. “You go, and I’ll be back in town by the end of the week.”
So Nell went home, but a fortnight passed, and still Charles remained at Newmarket.
LAUGHTER POURED FROM THE OPEN WINDOWS OF EUSTON HALL, breaking the calm of the warm autumn evening and the steady chirp of crickets. The light from hundreds of candles spilled forth, too, making the grand house a beacon in the warm darkness of the surrounding grounds.
The musicians struck up a dance tune, and rhythmic clapping accompanied the clatter of heels on the wooden floor of the great hall and the swish and rustle of silks as the dancing couples paraded.
On the terrace outside, Lady Arlington and the French ambassador Colbert de Croissy watched the merrymaking through one of the tall windows. Lady Arlington smiled. The king headed the dancers, leading Louise de Keroualle down the length of the room, a crowd of revelers flanking them. Louise was flushed with wine, the heat of the dance, and, unmistakably, erotic excitement tinged with pride at her public triumph in capturing the king’s attentions so wholly. For there was no doubt about the intensity of his gaze at Louise’s dimpled smirk and heaving décolletage.
Lady Arlington turned to Croissy, who was also watching the king and Louise with a knowing smile.
“It will be tonight,” she purred. “At last.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And she does not need a throne to rule. Only a bed.”
NELL COULD NOT SEEM TO SIT STILL. SHE STARTED AS THE BELL OF A nearby church struck ten, and Rose looked at her sharply.
“You’re not yourself tonight.”
They had sat for some time in silence in front of the hearth. Nell’s thoughts had been racing, anxiety clawing at her mind.
“Oh, Rose. I’m afraid. Charles is still at Newmarket, and so is that little French wagtail. I’ve left him a clear path to her bed.”
“Well, and what then?” Rose asked. “How many other beds has he graced these past years? Yet he comes back to you.”
“True. But this one feels different. The queen, Barbara—they were here before me. It irked me to share him with Moll Davis and the others who’ve passed his way, but I never felt as I do now. That I might lose him.”
Rose came to stand behind Nell’s chair, stroking the russet curls, and bent to kiss the top of her sister’s head.
“You’ll not lose him. He cares for you, Nell. He adores little Charlie, and he’ll adore the second child. Louise may have his eye at the moment, but not forever. You feel it more because you’re with child.”
Nell nodded, and reached up to hold her sister’s hand.
“No doubt. But it’s real enough. And as I am now, I can do nothing. Just sit and wait. While she triumphs. And everyone laughs.”
Rose shook her head. “This I promise you, Nell. No one is laughing at you. There’s nothing you can do for the moment. But soon you’ll have another royal baby. And eventually he’ll grow tired of Louise and see her for what she is—vain, shallow, and with her own interests first and always in her heart. But your heart is good, and full of love for the king. And he knows it.”
Nell cradled her sister’s hand to her cheek. “I pray you’re right. Why are you so good to me, Rose?”
Rose laughed. “I’m only telling you the truth, pigwidgeon. You’ll see.”
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