The Darling Strumpet (37 page)
Read The Darling Strumpet Online
Authors: Gillian Bagwell
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General
CHARLES AND LOUISE KISSED, TO THE APPLAUSE AND RAUCOUS CALLS of the crowd. To the delight of all, Lady Arlington had arranged that the evening should culminate in the mock marriage of the couple. Croissy had given away the bride, leading her forward and giving her hand into the hand of the king with a pride and triumphant excitement that almost eclipsed Louise’s. With Lord John Vaughan serving as Lord of Misrule and priest in proxy, Charles and Louise had stood before the rapt congregation and exchanged vows—in voices too low to be heard, but of an unmistakable fervor.
Dancing followed, and when everyone was heated to a fever pitch, Charles had hoisted Louise’s skirts to reveal her shining white silk stockings and the creamy smoothness of the thighs above, and removed one of her blue ribbon garters. Raising it above his head, a trophy of his conquest to come, he had thrown it to the throng of men, who had jostled and shoved to be the one to catch the prize. Triumphant and catlike, the Earl of Mulgrave had caught it and pinned it to the breast of his waistcoat like the favor of a lover.
And now, as the candles burned to their nubs and the guests were sodden with liquor and the evening’s increasingly erotic undertones, the public rites were drawing to a close and the wedding night approached.
“It is late,” Charles remarked, yawning ostentatiously for the benefit of his grinning audience, “and time for bed.”
“Your Majesty?” Lord Arlington was at the king’s elbow, bowing and smiling. Charles offered Louise his arm. She simpered and lowered her eyes with a maidenly blush, and allowed him to lead her behind Arlington up the broad staircase.
The musicians and guests followed, the fiddles keeping up a jaunty country dance tune as if the nuptials celebrated were those of some farmer lad and his milkmaid bride.
The crowd halted as Arlington threw open the doors of Louise’s bedchamber. Red rose petals were scattered over the snowy damask of the sheets and pillows on the huge bed and their perfume mingled with the honey-sweetness of the candles. The bedroom glowed with a soft and magical light, enhanced by the silver moonlight cascading through the leaves of the trees rustling outside the open windows.
The revelers surged in behind as Charles and Louise followed Arlington into the room. But as if unexpectedly ushered into a sanctuary, the musicians faltered into silence and the chattering and laughter died away. All eyes were on the king, who stood to the side of the bed, burning eyes on Louise, who stood hardly breathing only a few inches from him. Slowly and deliberately, he removed his coat and held it out. Someone rushed forward to receive it, and others stepped forward to unbutton his waistcoat, remove his shoes, disencumber him from his stockings, garters, sashes, and sword belt.
A crowd of ladies engulfed Louise. The layers of satin and brocade were peeled away until she stood in only a shift of the most delicate lawn and a pair of stays in an exquisitely pale blue silk, embroidered in gold. Her dark hair tumbled onto her shoulders, her dark eyes glowing as she faced her lord.
Charles, now clad in only his long shirt and breeches, took Louise in with a hungry glance.
“Out,” he commanded, and there was a surge toward the door.
Alone with his long-sought prize, Charles grasped a handful of her hair, pulled her head back, and devoured her mouth, his other arm grappling her body to him as he lowered her onto the bed.
A SLASH OF LIGHTNING SHREDDED THE NIGHT SKY, FOLLOWED A SECOND later by a cataclysmic boom of thunder. Nell jerked awake and was half out of bed before she realized what had woken her. Gasping for breath, she clutched the covers around her. Outside the window the lightning crackled and a savage wind whipped the branches of the trees, dark tentacles lashing the shadowed grayness of the storm clouds.
She had been having the dream again. The door closed in her face, solid and unyielding to her desperate pounding. She was shut out. Forsaken and afraid.
The room smelled faintly of wood smoke, the beeswax candles, and the lavender of the bedding. It should have been homey and comforting, but Nell felt tiny and lost, and she longed for strong arms to hold her.
“Charles,” she whispered into the darkness. “Charles.”
TUTTY WRIGGLED UP TO BUCKINGHAM, AND HE OBLIGINGLY SCRATCHED the dog’s ears before seating himself. Nell settled herself heavily as Bridget brought in coffee and cakes.
“You’re looking well,” Buckingham said.
“You’re a liar, Your Grace. I’m looking as big as a frigging house,” she snorted.
“In a good cause. The king loves his children, loves your little Charlie.” He seemed about to say something else, but instead tasted his coffee, added a spoon of sugar to his cup, and drank again.
“Well, George,” said Nell. “You’re my chronicle these days, as I am not fit to show myself in society. What’s the new news?”
“The usual. Barbara has moved on from Dryden and taken William Wycherley to her bed, they say.”
The reference to beds hung heavy in the air.
“And Louise?”
Buckingham sighed. “Yes, she’s finally given the king her maiden-head, if that’s what you mean.”
Tutty nosed at Nell’s knee, and she hoisted the dog onto her lap and nestled her check against his, stroking the soft fur.
“Oh. I thought she was still dreaming of a crown.”
Buckingham shrugged. “I think she knows now that will never be. Louis sent her to influence Charles on behalf of France, and that she cannot do if he loses patience with her.”
Nell felt a dart of cold fear in the pit of her stomach. “And what am I to do?”
Buckingham smiled gently at her. “All will be well. She’s led him a longer dance than most, but in the end she’ll be no more than just another passing fancy.”
Nell hugged the dog’s face to her cheek. “She’s already more than that.” She glanced around the room. The rich wooden paneling of the walls, the fine hangings, the sumptuous Turkey carpet, her clothes, the very coffee and cakes on the table were paid for by Charles. And if she lost him?
She looked at Buckingham, and followed his glance out the window. They watched the progress of a young wench pushing a heavy barrow of oysters before her. The dart of fear clenched into a knot in her stomach.
“Help me, George. The enemy is at the gates. And like this”—she gestured helplessly to her belly—“I can do nothing. I cannot hope to compete against her beauty. I cannot even be at court.”
“I don’t think you’ll lose him. You have his child; you have another soon to come. At the very worst he would provide for them, and for you. What you must do is carry on. When he’s here, make your company a joy. Make him comfortable and happy. Provide a refuge. As you always do. On no account act jealously or shrewishly. He’ll tire of her. She’s like some dainty sweet—compelling, but not food to live on. You are that to him. I know it. You must remember it.”
When he rose and kissed Nell good-bye, she impulsively took his hands. “Thank you, George. I will heed your advice, as always.”
“Good. And take heart—you must be brought to bed very soon now, and can reenter the lists.”
“Not soon enough. Six weeks or more.”
“Oh.” He glanced at her belly. “I had thought you were further along than that.”
BEFORE DAWN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, NELL’S LABOR BEGAN. IT WAS harder than her first, and when the baby finally came and she was assured that he was whole and healthy, she fell gratefully into an exhausted sleep, leaving the tiny dark-haired boy in the capable care of Rose, Bridget, and the midwife. She woke in the dark of the night to find Bridget dozing in a chair by her beside, and the baby asleep in his cradle. Bridget woke as Nell stirred, and brought the baby to her. As Nell nursed him, his eyes closed tight and his cheeks working, she thought that he was worth whatever pain and sorrow his coming had cost.
Charles cooed over his newest son and was pleased with Nell’s wish to name the child James, in honor of his brother. He joined Nell for a cozy supper in her bedroom and was solicitous of her health and happiness to a degree that relieved her of her fears. He stayed into the evening, kissing her tenderly when he took his leave, and promising to return the next day.
The Duke of York called to admire his namesake, bearing lavish gifts, and his uncharacteristic warmth made Nell feel more fondly toward him than she would have thought possible. Even so, within a few days the baby had come to be called Jemmy, and when his half brother the Duke of Monmouth visited, Nell whispered to him that it was really he for whom little Jemmy had been named.
LITTLE CHARLIE TODDLED ACROSS THE CARPET TO ROSE, WHO HELD baby Jemmy in her arms, and stood holding on to her skirts.
“That’s a brave little man!” Rose cried, leaning down to kiss him. “Nell, they are the most beautiful boys. Perhaps a sweet girl next time, eh?”
Nell shook her head. “No next time for me. Mademoiselle Buttock shows no signs of retreat, and I cannot compete for Charles’s affections while I’m shut away with a great belly and a swollen face. I’ll not take that chance again.”
AT THE END OF JANUARY, THE THEATRE ROYAL BURNED BEYOND repair, along with all its scenery and costumes. Worse, an actor died in the fire. Nell had acted with Richard Bell in
Tyrannick Love
and
The Conquest of Granada
and he had been well-liked among the company.
Tyrannick Love
and
The Conquest of Granada
and he had been well-liked among the company.
Nell wept at the news. The playhouse had been her true home for so long, the place where her life had been transformed, that it felt like a part of herself had been lost. She kept recalling details—the green leather of the benches in the pit, the narrow stairs to the tiring rooms, the board in the stage floor just off left that squeaked, the comforting smell of paint and sawdust, the little cubby where Orange Moll had kept her wares, and where the fire was supposed to have started. Impossible that it should all be gone.
Nell thought of the actors, suddenly out of work. Recalling her fear and uncertainty during the theater’s long closure because of the plague and the fire, she sent to ask Hart to visit her. He was limping slightly when he arrived but waved away her concern.
“Gout, that’s all,” he said. “I’m turning into an old man, Nell.”
“That you can never be. You’re as handsome as ever, Hart. No matter how old we may be, I’ll always think of you as I first saw you. Took my breath away, you did, that night in Lewkenor’s Lane.”
“What a tiny little mite you were then. Little did I think you’d steal my heart.”
“What will you do?” Nell asked as they settled before the fire. “What’s to become of the company?”
“We’ll rebuild,” Hart said. “Killigrew’s already talking to Christopher Wren about the designs. And in the meantime, it looks as if we’ll move back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. You know the Duke’s Company has just moved to their new theater, so the Portugal Street place stands empty. We should be able to get a show open in a month or so.”
“Have you seen the new playhouse?” Nell asked.
“Oh, yes. Magnificent. There’s nothing they can’t do with scenery or effects there, and it’s right on the river, you know. Once again they’ve got us scrambling to keep up.”
“Take this,” Nell said, handing him a purse. “That none of the actors shall be hard-pressed until they can play again.”
Hart hefted the bag in his hand. “Jesu, Nell, how much is in here?”
“A hundred pounds. Is it enough to pay the company’s wages for a few weeks?”
“And then some,” Hart said, looking in disbelief at the gold that glinted in the bag.
“Good,” said Nell. “No need to tell anyone where it came from. Just let them know they’ll not go hungry.”
“Nell,” Hart said, “there’s another problem you ought to know of. Dicky One-Shank. He soldiers on, does the best he can, but he’s growing too old to work. I haven’t the heart to turn him out, but the company can’t afford to keep him idle, either.”
“Send him to me,” Nell said. “I’ll give him a comfortable berth, as he’d say, and truly I’d welcome his company.”
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