The Darling Strumpet (47 page)

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Authors: Gillian Bagwell

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

BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
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“We should be off, Nell,” Savile said. “So we do not miss the tide.”
“I know.” She stood and watched while a groom helped Jemmy up into the saddle, the enormous black horse dwarfing him. She reached up and kissed him once more, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. The party set off down Pall Mall, and Jemmy turned to wave as they rounded the corner and she could see him no more.
 
 
 
“THE KISS OF JUDAS,” CHARLES MURMURED AGAIN INTO HIS WINEGLASS. “My own son, in league against me with that misbegotten whoreson Shaftesbury.”
“But the bill didn’t pass, did it?” Nell asked, moving closer to him in the bed and stroking his forehead.
“It passed the Commons,” Charles said. “And would have passed the Lords if Monmouth had his way.”
“I still don’t understand,” she ventured. “How can Parliament claim they should decide who is to succeed you? Surely that is beyond their power.”
“It should be,” Charles agreed, kneading her thigh absently. “But such is the pass we are come to. My idiot brother James was not content to follow his conscience in private, but must parade his Papist beliefs for all to see, and now Parliament will do all it can to ensure that he does not come to the throne, even if it means that Monmouth, bastard though he is, becomes king.” He sighed deeply and drained his glass. “At least juries are beginning to return acquittals for some of those poor wretches accused by Oates.”
“But you closed Parliament for the session, did you not?” Nell murmured, pouring him more wine. “Perhaps next year will be better.”
“Perhaps.” There was not much enthusiasm in his response.
“I had a letter from Jemmy today,” Nell said, hoping to get his mind on happier thoughts. “He says the French countryside is pretty, but ‘not a patch on England.’ ”
“Does he so?” Charles chuckled. “The little imp. I shall be glad to have him home again, though no doubt it’s good for him to have this time abroad.”
“I miss him most desperately,” Nell said, tearing up. “The sight of his handwriting, so careful and fine, made me weep for longing to hold him again.”
“Soon enough,” Charles said, taking her into his arms and nuzzling her hair. “Soon enough.”
 
 
 
ROSE GAVE BIRTH TO A DAUGHTER, LILY, AS THE WINTER COLD WAS starting to dissipate. The infant, so perfect and tiny, squalling fretfully in her cradle, waving her fat little hands, reminded Nell of how much she loved babies and almost made her long for another. But no, she thought. She could not face that again—the enforced isolation, the helpless loneliness, the fear that in her absence Charles would find another bed he preferred to hers. Though in truth it had been long since she had worried now. Maybe the battles with Louise, Hortense, and Barbara had worn him out. Maybe he could no longer be bothered with the hunt. As often as not when he came to her bed he was content to hold her, and when they did couple, it was with tenderness and ease, not the fire of earlier years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
 
 
N
ELL WAS EXHAUSTED. SHE FELT THAT SHE HAD NEVER BEEN well since the start of the year, and now it was spring and she was sick again. She opened her eyes at the sound of a knock at her bedroom door, and Buckingham came in.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, sitting at her bedside.
“A bit. My God, we’re old, George.”
“Is that what it is? I thought it was just a broken heart, and being tired and disappointed.” The loss of Anna Maria, now married to George Bridges and mother of a child, had shaken Buckingham to his core, Nell thought, and she doubted he would ever truly recover.
“I can scarce believe I’m thirty now,” she said, sorry she had raised a subject that dispirited him.
“Ah, best take care, then. A wench is good flesh when she’s fresh, but she’s fish when she’s stale.” He gave her a mischievous smirk, and she tossed a pillow at him, knocking his wig askew.
“When was that wig last combed, George? It looks as though rats have nested in it.” He pulled it off and regarded it sadly, scratching the grizzled stubble on his head, and then set it back on, still crooked.
“Never mind,” Nell said. “Help me to get Lord Ormonde to wring some money from my Irish properties and I’ll buy you a new one. And some shoes. Afore God, what a stink those ones let off! Have you stepped in something?”
“Very likely,” Buckingham said. “Or perhaps it’s just my stockings. They’re probably due for a wash.”
“What did the boys have to say?” Nell asked. She had wanted to see Dorset and Sedley but hadn’t felt up to the task of making herself presentable. “Anything good?”
“Oh, they were full of some brangle and brawl at the Duke’s Playhouse. Charles Deering and a Mr. Vaughan quarreled, and presently took the stage with swords in hand.”
“That must have brought the show to a standstill.”
“Yes, but the crowd got their money’s worth all the same. Deering was dangerously wounded and Vaughan was held and taken away by the bailiffs lest the injury should prove mortal.”
“The poor actors,” Nell said. “Hard to carry on after that.”
“Oh, and word has come that Johnny’s very poorly,” Buckingham continued. Nell thought of Rochester, at home with his wife in Adderbury.
“Poor Johnny,” Nell said. “So far from London. He hates the country so much. What ails him?”
“The drink,” Buckingham said. “What else? He’s been drinking hard these many years.”
“Aye,” said Nell. “Drinking with a purpose. As if he wanted it to kill him.”
“He’ll soon get his wish, then. The Charlies say Bishop Burnet is visiting him, and he’s making his peace with God.”
“Hell and death,” Nell said. “He must be bad off. I’d go to see him did I not feel like I’m ready to be put to bed with a shovel myself.”
 
NELL LAY STRETCHED LUXURIOUSLY ON A CHAISE IN THE DAPPLED shade of the terrace at the back of the house, the afternoon sun playing on the trees of the orangerie. She had woken that morning feeling stronger than she had in weeks, and longing to get out of the house. She did not yet feel well enough to want to venture to the palace, to the playhouse, to see friends. But this was perfect. She loved her garden, especially at this time of year. The heavy sweet scent of orange blossoms wafted on the warm breeze. Butterflies danced and flitted over the green grass that stretched away to the far wall of the grounds. The sky overhead was a sharp and clear blue, with a few sheeplike clouds far overhead. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sunshine’s gentle warmth.
She became aware of voices coming from the house and wondered vaguely who it could be—she was not expecting anyone. She opened her eyes as she heard footsteps coming across the terrace and was surprised to see Buckingham making his way toward her with Thomas Otway behind him, and with them, another man. Henry Savile. At the sight of Savile, Nell felt at first confusion, followed instantaneously by dread. Savile was in Paris with little Jemmy. How could he be here, and no Jemmy at his side?
The expressions on the men’s faces did nothing to allay Nell’s sudden fear. Buckingham looked grim, Otway shaken, and Savile like a man going to the gallows. And he was dressed for traveling; indeed, the mud-spattered high boots and dusty cloak spoke of hard riding.
Nell pulled herself upright as the trio arrived in front of her. Buckingham stooped to one knee, took her hands in his. Nell willed him not to speak, to turn and go, to leave her in the sunlight, taking away the black fear that clutched her heart.
“Nell, I’m sorry,” Buckingham began, and Nell heard herself crying “No!” even before he continued.
“Jemmy was taken ill. He had a sore leg, which seemed at first no great matter. But he grew rapidly worse. He—he died three nights since.”
Nell found herself senselessly trying to recall what she had been doing three nights ago, as if the knowledge could summon back that time, could give her the power to prevent what had happened, to call Jemmy in from the night and danger to warmth and safety.
She gaped at Buckingham, at Otway, at Savile, hearing as if at a distance her own cries and sobs. The men exchanged agonized and helpless glances, and Savile knelt before her, knelt as one in penance, in supplication, in prayer, the tears cutting clean rivulets through the grime on his cheeks.
“I swear to you I did all that I could.” His voice was urgent, pleading, and he grasped her hands, kissed them, held them to his chest. “I beg of you to believe me. He had the best of doctors. The fever came on of a sudden and consumed him like a fire. By the time it was clear how serious his condition was, there was no time to send word.”
“No,” Nell cried, and again, “No,” as if the word could repel him, could refute the truth she saw in his eyes. She was shaking, couldn’t breathe, was suddenly conscious of her stays binding her and cutting off the breath. She raised her fists to flail at Savile, to beat him away, and then she fell, fainting forward onto him.
 
 
 
NELL LAY ON HER STOMACH, HER FACE PRESSED AGAINST THE PILLOW wet from her tears. She had not known that she could cry so much, that anyone could cry so much. Vast salt oceans had been emptied in service of her grief, and still the tears came. Her head ached and her throat was raw with the sobbing. Her nose ran and yet was so stopped that she could not breathe.
She clutched to her a little shirt that Jemmy had outgrown. His scent clung to it still, and she buried her nose in it, inhaled, as if by smothering herself in his smell she could recall him to her.
Outside her bedroom window, the sun still shone on the beautiful summer evening. The endless day seemed a mockery. Was it possible that all she had felt had passed and that it was still the same day, that night had not yet come to blot out the glaring light? And yet, what difference if and when night came? The night would bring its own terrors, and it would be followed by another day. And another. Endless days and nights, stretching into eternity. Endless pain and sorrow.
She had cried out for little Charlie as soon as she had recovered consciousness, had tried to be brave and comforting for his sake, but in the end could do nothing but hold him to her, telling him over and over that she loved him. He had cried for little Jemmy, but she knew he was also crying for her, that the intensity of her suffering frightened him, and she had been grateful when Rose had taken him gently by the hand and led him off to where they could grieve together.
Bridget sat just outside the door, ready if she should call. Buckingham had been there for hours, with Otway and Savile. Other friends had come, word of the terrible news having spread fast. Even now she could hear low voices outside her door. And yet she felt utterly alone.
For the hundredth time, she pictured little Jemmy in his final moments, fevered, frightened, far from home. Had he called for her? How could she not have heard, even from the distance of Paris?
She rolled onto her back and pressed the pillow into her eyes, wishing for oblivion. For the thousandth time she told herself that she should never have let him go, he was too young, Paris was too far, Savile was not the man to have entrusted him to. Charlie, even at that age, had been more intrepid, stronger, had thrown off her motherly concerns. But her little Jemmy had always been more frail, more fearful. Had he wanted not to go? Had he wished to remain at home, and stifled the plea, not wanting to disappoint, to be thought unmanly? The thought of his gentle eyes, the baby cheeks, and lips set in determination, broke her heart anew. Hot tears came from the place within, and she gave herself up to them once more.

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