The Darling Strumpet (50 page)
Read The Darling Strumpet Online
Authors: Gillian Bagwell
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General
“I’m sure he’ll come,” she said.
THE DAY AFTER NELL RETURNED TO WINDSOR FROM WINCHESTER, Sam Pepys called at Burford House.
“Mistress Nell,” he said, bowing over her hand as he entered. “Such a pleasure to see you, as always. Allow me to offer you my condolences on the loss of your friend.”
“My friend?” Nell’s mind ran over the losses of the previous year, none so recent that they were news. Pepys’s face sagged with pain and alarm.
“I—I thought you would have heard or I should have spoken more carefully. I am so sorry to tell you. Charles Hart died this morning.”
EVERY ACTOR IN LONDON WAS AT HART’S FUNERAL AND NELL thought first how gratified he would be, and then in her mind’s eye saw him turning up the corner of his mouth in a wry smile and shaking his head. “I’d be a sight more gratified to be standing up to greet them than to meet them lying down,” he’d have said.
Mick Mohun, old Will Cartwright, Theo Bird, Kate Corey, and Anne and Beck Marshall were there from the old King’s Company, and the whole glittering complement from the Duke’s Company—Thomas and Mary Betterton, Elizabeth Barry, Henry Harris, along with the surviving Killigrews and Davenants. It felt almost like being at home to be with theater folk again, Nell thought, and she considered for one wild moment what it would be like to return to the stage. But no. Her world was gone, and she would not fit into the new one.
HART’S DEATH UNDID SOMETHING INSIDE NELL. SHE THOUGHT SHE had been bearing up well, but now, a few days after the funeral, she was again suffering from blinding headaches and nausea, and even rolling over in bed made her miserable. She could not stop weeping for Hart, for her youth, for the past. For Jemmy and Rochester and Lacy, for Killigrew and her mother, for the future and what further losses it would bring.
Rose sat with her in her darkened bedroom, stroking her forehead.
“I just want to die,” Nell whispered.
“No, no,” Rose murmured. “What would I do without you? And little Charlie, and the king? We need you, honey.”
“But it hurts so much,” Nell cried, her eyes filling with tears again. “More than I can stand.”
“You’ve been through a lot, sweetheart.” Rose dipped a cloth in cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on Nell’s forehead. “More than your share, I’d say.”
“And it will only continue,” Nell said. “How did you stand Johnny’s death? Senseless. Needless.”
“I don’t know, truly,” Rose said. “I suppose I believe that somehow things will get better, that there is a purpose to it all, though I can’t see it.”
“I wish I felt that. How did you come to think so?”
“I don’t know,” Rose answered. “I only know that despite it all, I have hope.”
“Hope,” said Nell, wondering if she could ever feel it again.
“Yes,” said Rose. “Hope cleaveth to the bottom of the box, and is not easily shaken out.”
NELL’S ILLNESS CONTINUED FOR WEEKS. SHE DID NOT HAVE THE strength of body or spirit to go out of the house. She feared perhaps she was dying, and then almost hoped she was dying, to be put out of her misery. She could not recall when she had felt well, and life abroad in public seemed like a distant dream.
Rose was with her constantly. Charles visited every day. Young Charlie frequently had his supper with her in her room. Buckingham and Dorset brought amusing stories of events at court and in town, and Aphra brought her news from the theater.
“I hate for you to see me like this,” Nell said, taking Aphra’s hand.
“Don’t be silly, Nell. We’re far too old friends for you to worry about putting on a brave face.” She sat in the chair at Nell’s bedside. “I’ve brought some books. I thought perhaps you would like me to read to you.”
“I would, very much. But not just yet. It’s so good just to see you, to sit and talk. You’re almost all that’s left of the old days now.”
“Yes,” Aphra said. “I was so sad to hear of Hart. I never knew him as you did, of course. I can’t think what a loss it must be to you, so many old friends.”
“I feel as though the earth has rocked beneath my feet,” Nell said. “He was always there, Hart. I can’t believe he’s gone. And I’ve been so ill that I scarce have the strength to sit up in bed, even. It really feels as though it’s more than I can bear.” She began to weep, ashamed to succumb to her grief, but too worn out to restrain herself.
“No need to stop your tears on my account,” Aphra said, putting her arms around Nell.
Her head on Aphra’s shoulder, Nell noted the sweet warm scent of her hair and found it comforting. At length her tears ceased.
“What does Dr. Lower say?” Aphra asked, handing Nell a handkerchief.
“Nothing useful,” Nell said, wiping her eyes and nose. “I fight him when he wants to bleed or cup me, for I’m sure that would only make me weaker. And instead I take the counsel of Rose and Bridget, who advise hot soup and possets and warming pans at my feet.”
“Quite right,” Aphra smiled. “Take only the treatments that rally your spirits and nourish your soul.”
Bridget came in with a covered cup on a plate, and Nell did feel stronger as she sipped the steaming broth and held the warm cup to her chest.
“And how is young Charlie?” Aphra asked. “Is he cheering you as he ought?”
“Oh, yes,” Nell smiled. “He is forever the bright spot in my life, you know. Did I tell you that Charles is going to make him Duke of St. Albans, and give him his own apartments at Whitehall?”
“Really!” Aphra cried. “Oh, Nell, I am so happy for you and for him. Well-deserved honor to a fine boy and his fine mother.”
WHEN NELL HAD BEEN SHUT IN THE HOUSE FOR TWO MONTHS, SAM Pepys called. He insisted on opening a window.
“What you need,” he said briskly, “is fresh air. Fresh sea air. A little cruise would do you a world of good.”
“Cruise?” Nell laughed weakly. “I can scarce get out of bed to piss, Sam; how am I to go a-cruising?”
“It gave me the will to live when I lost my poor wife. But give me leave and I shall arrange it,” he urged, and Nell, encouraged by his optimism, gave in.
Sam put the full force of the Navy Board behind the project of Nell’s convalescence, and he arrived a few days later with four sailors and a litter to carry Nell down to a coach, which took her to Whitehall Stairs and a waiting yacht. The sailors took her aboard and set her gently on a daybed that had been lashed to the rail, where she sat propped against a bank of pillows.
“I feel like an old grandam,” Nell laughed as Sam tucked a cover up around her chin.
“The prettiest grandam I’ve e’er seen,” he assured her.
Nell had never been farther downriver than the royal dockyards at Woolwich, and was excited as the yacht sailed out the mouth of the river and onto the open sea. White crests topped the aquamarine waves, and billowing clouds scudded across the bright sky. A fresh breeze made the yacht’s sails belly out and her pendants ripple high atop the masts.
“Oh, Sam.” Nell grinned, breathing in the tang of the salt air. “You were right. I thank you. You’ve saved my life.”
BY EASTER, NELL FELT STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE THE SHORT RIDE to the palace, and, sitting in the chapel, she could barely keep from weeping with pride and happiness as she looked at young Charlie, standing beside Charles to take communion. He was fourteen, nearly a man, already showing that he would have his father’s height and build. Two of his half brothers, Barbara’s son George, the seventeen-year-old Duke of Northumberland, and Louise’s eleven-year-old son Charles, the Duke of Richmond, stood beside him. They were handsome boys all, Nell thought, but Charlie far outshone them in appearance and manner. He looked like a prince. Straight and proud, with Charles’s dark, curling hair. And yet she could see her own face in his features as well—the lush eyelashes that framed his hazel eyes, and the full mouth. A man for women to swoon over, he would be.
After the service, young Charlie came and kissed her. “You mustn’t wear yourself out with standing, Mother. Go home, and I’ll come to see you this afternoon.” He spoke the words with pride. He had his own apartment at the palace now, his own household of servants and retainers. Yes, he was truly a gentleman, her son was, Nell thought as he returned to his brothers.
Charles came to her side.
“Fine boys,” he said. The shadow of little Jemmy lay between them, the pain in the heart that never went away. “Our Jemmy would have been so, too,” he said, taking her hand. They watched the three young dukes laughing together and then tearing out into the sunshine.
“It’s time Charlie was betrothed,” Charles said, walking Nell outside. She was startled, had not thought of Charlie marrying.
“But he’s so young.” They were outside now, and Charles motioned for Nell’s sedan chair to be brought.
“The wedding can wait until they’re older,” he said. “But I’ve found him a bride I think you’ll be pleased with, and there’s nothing to be lost by making the match now, if you’re agreed.” Shock rolled through Nell. This was more than a conceit, it was already a reality. How long had Charles been thinking on this? Why had he said nothing sooner? What if she said she did not agree? Would he pay her any mind?
Charles handed her into her chair and she was grateful for the seat under her, the comfort of the enclosed space.
“Who?” Nell asked. Who could be good enough for her Charlie? Two of Charles’s older sons had made great marriages. Catherine Pegge’s son, called Don Carlo, had married Lord Danby’s daughter, and Barbara’s son Henry had wed the daughter of Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, who had been one of Charles’s “Cabal ministry.” But their mothers were ladies.
“Lady Diana de Vere,” Charles said, smiling. “The eldest living daughter of the Earl of Oxford. They’re one of the oldest of the great families of England, Nell.”
Nell almost laughed. Aubrey de Vere, the twentieth Earl of Oxford, was the same man who had fathered a child with the actress Hester Davenport many years earlier, after having carried out what poor Hester soon discovered was a sham marriage.
“Aye, that was an ill trick,” Charles said, as if reading her mind. “But Diana is his rightly gotten daughter. This is no plot to fob Charlie off on another noble bastard. An Earl of Oxford signed the Magna Carta, you know, and the De Veres have held the earldom for five hundred years and more.”
“Truly?” Nell asked, awed.
“Truly,” Charles said. “’Tis a very good match.”
“Then I thank you, my love,” she said. “For you know that Charlie’s happiness and success is all my care.”
CHARLIE’S BETROTHAL TO DIANA TOOK PLACE A FEW WEEKS LATER at Windsor Castle. She was a sweet-looking girl of ten, golden-curled and pink-cheeked, shining in the reflected glory and adoration of her parents. Nell could not help but remember her own self at ten years old, her circumstances a world away from those of this happy child. She was pleased to see how Diana looked shyly up at Charlie and blushed happily as he took her hand. Charlie stood radiant in her admiration. They would be happy, Nell thought. Another miracle wrought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
T
HE OARSMEN PULLED SMOOTHLY, THEIR RHYTHM PRACTICED and steady, the regular splash of their oars in the water gentle and hypnotic. The river was calm and the tide on the ebb, which made the barge’s progress eastward serene.
HE OARSMEN PULLED SMOOTHLY, THEIR RHYTHM PRACTICED and steady, the regular splash of their oars in the water gentle and hypnotic. The river was calm and the tide on the ebb, which made the barge’s progress eastward serene.
Nell was not sure why Charles had asked her to accompany him on a visit to the royal dockyards at Deptford and Woolwich this afternoon, but she had readily agreed. He loved the sea, ships, and seamen, and was happy stumping around the muddy dockyards examining spars and rope and masts and inspecting the progress on the newest ships for his navy. And he always enjoyed the company of Sam Pepys, as she did, and Pepys would be their guide today.
The face of the river was dotted with traffic—wherries and other small boats carrying passengers across the river or up- or downstream, the sunburned faces of the watermen shining with sweat as they pulled; fishing boats bobbing placidly in the afternoon sun; and the long length of the Pool of London choked with innumerable ships anchored and waiting to be unloaded, their vast bulks towering impossibly over the water and the myriad smaller craft.
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