The Loves of Charles II (116 page)

“You’re an irreverent devil, Rochester,” said Charles.

“I see the royal lip curve in a smile, which I trust was inspired by my irreverence.”

“Nevertheless there are times when you try me sorely. I see, my lady Rochester, that you are a little tired. I think you are asking for leave to retire.”

“If it should please Your Most Gracious Majesty …” began Lady Rochester.

“Anything that pleases you, my dear lady, pleases me. You are tired, you wish to retire. So I will command your husband to take you to your apartments.”

This was the signal. They were all to go. The King wished to be alone with Nell.

Nell watched them all make their exit. This was performed with the utmost ceremony, and as she watched them she felt her heart beat fast.

When they had gone, the King turned to her, smiling.

He took her hands and kissed them.

“They amuse me … but such amusements are for those times when there are less exciting adventures afoot.”

Nell said tremulously: “I trust I may please Your Majesty.”

He replied: “My friends have put me in the mood to rhyme,” and he began to quote Flecknoe’s verse:

He paused, smiling at her, before he went on: “It continues, I believe:

“And ’tis written of you, I’ll swear, by one who knew you well.”

“By one, Sire, who but saw me on the stage.”

Charles drew her to him and kissed her lips. “’Twas enough to see you, to know it were true. Why, Nell, you are afraid of me. You say, This is the King. But I would not be a King tonight.”

Nell said softly: “I am but a girl from the Cole-yard, one of Your Majesty’s most humble servants.”

“A King should love all his subjects, Nell, however humble. I never thought to see you humble. I have noted your subduing of the pit.”

“Sire, I do not now face the pit.”

“Come with me and, for the sake of your beauty, this night let us forget that I am Charles Stuart, and you Nell of old Drury. Tonight I am a man; you a woman.”

Then he put his arm about her and led her into a small adjoining chamber.

And here it was that Nell Gwyn became the mistress of the King.

Nell left the Palace in the early hours of the morning. She was bemused. Never had her emotions been so roused; never had she known such a lover.

She was carried to her lodgings in a Sedan chair; it would not have been meet for her to have walked through the streets in the fine gown she had been wearing. She was no longer merely Mrs. Nelly, the play-actress. Her life had changed last night. People would look at her slyly; they would marvel at her; they would whisper about her; many would envy her; many would censure her.

And I care not! she thought.

When she reached her lodgings she kicked off her shoes and danced a jig. She was happier than she had ever been in her life. Not because the King had sent for her; not because she had joined the King’s seraglio; but because she was in love.

There was never one like him. It was not that he was the King. Or was it? Nay! All kings were not kind, gentle, passionate, charming, all that one looked for in a lover. He was no longer Your Majesty to her; he was Charles. She had called him Charles last night.

“Charles!” She said it now aloud. And: “Charles, Charles, Charles. Charles is my lover,” she sang. “The handsomest, kindest lover in the
world. He happens to be the King of England, but what matters that? To me he is Charles … my Charles. He is the whole country’s Charles … but mine also … especially mine.”

Then she laughed and hugged herself and recalled every detail of the night. She wished passionately then that she had never known any other Charles, never known Charles Hart; never known Charles Sackville.

There have been too many Charleses in my life, she mused. I would there had been only one. Then she wept a little, because happy as she was there was so much to regret.

The King forgot Nell for some time after that night. She was very pretty, but he had known many pretty women. Perhaps he had been disappointed; he had heard her wit commended by such as Buckingham; that did not count of course, as Buckingham had his own reasons for promoting Nell, which was the discomfiture of his cousin Barbara and doubtless the Howards. Yet Rochester seemed to have had some praise for her. Could it to be that Rochester had been or still was her lover?

The King shrugged his shoulders. Nell was just a pretty actress. She had been a very willing partner in an enjoyable interlude, as had so many. He fancied she was very experienced; he had heard of an escapade with Buckhurst. Doubtless the pretty creature was not averse to changing from Duke to King.

Moll Davies suited his present mood more frequently. Moll was so gentle; there had been no pretence of quick wits there; she was just a lovely young woman who could learn a part and speak it prettily; and she could dance as well as anyone on the stage.

He found he was sending more frequently for Moll than for any.

He had grown a little weary since the disasters. Was he ageing somewhat? Beneath the periwig he had plenty of silver showing among his dark hairs.

Now that Clarendon was gone he was missing him. He would have to form a new Council. Buckingham was pressing for a place and, of course, would have it.

State affairs claimed his attention; when he turned from them, little Moll Davies, who smiled so sweetly while speaking little, provided that which he needed. She was the completest contrast to Barbara. Then of course Will Chaffinch and his wife—who held the post of seamstress to the Queen—would often usher ladies up the back stairs to his apartments during the night, and lead them down to the river in the early hours of
morning when their barges would be waiting for them. Chaffinch was a discreet and wily fellow, and his apartments were situated near those of the King. He had for long looked after his master’s more intimate and personal business.

But now and then Charles remembered the sprightly little actress from his theater, and sent for her.

He enjoyed her company. She was mightily pretty; she was now becoming amusing, and often he would catch glimpses of that wit which had amused Buckingham.

Then he forgot her again; and it seemed that Moll Davies was going to replace Lady Castlemaine as the woman, among all his women, who could best please him.

Nell was sad and her chief task during those days was to hide her sadness. She was nothing to him but just another harlot. She realized that now. She had been mistaken. The courtly manners, the charm, the grace—they were generously offered to any light-o’-love who could amuse him for a night.

She was nothing more than one of dozens. Tonight it might be her turn—perhaps not.

For her there was no £700 ring. Moll Davies had won. The Howards were triumphant.

As for Buckingham, he had forgotten his intention to promote Nell. His object had been achieved by the Howards and Moll Davies, for his cousin Barbara flew into a flaring rage every time the girl was mentioned. Barbara’s pride had been lowered; Barbara knew that she must take care when she thought she might insult the great Duke of Buckingham—her cousin and one-time lover though he was. What part had Nell in Buckingham’s schemes? None at all. He had forgotten he had ever exerted himself to bring her to the King’s notice. Thus it was with all his schemes. He dallied with them for a while and then forgot. So Moll Davies was provided with beautiful clothes and jewels by the Howards, who brought her before the King whenever he seemed inclined to forget her, while Nell’s benefactor ignored her.

So Nell was desolate.

In the green room the women laughed together, their eyes on Nell, Nell who had enjoyed the privilege of being sent for by the King.

“Cole-yard,” whispered Beck Marshall, “could not go to Whitehall. ’Twas a mistake. His Majesty would be the first to realize it. Poor Nelly soon got her marching orders.”

“She has been called back once or twice,” said her sister Ann.

Peg Hughes, who was being courted by Prince Rupert, was inclined to
be kind. “And doubtless will be called again. The King was never a man to fix his love on one. Nell will remain one of his merry band, I doubt not.”

“She’ll be in the twice-yearly class,” said Beck.

“Well, ’tis better to play twice yearly than not at all,” said Peg quietly.

When Nell came among them, Beck said: “Have you heard the latest news, Nell? Moll Davies is to have a fine house and, some say, leave the stage.”

Nell for once was silent. She felt that she could not speak to them about the King and Moll Davies.

She had changed. She wondered: Shall I one day be like Elizabeth Weaver, waiting in vain for the King to send for me?

Early that year the Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged Buckingham to a duel on account of the Duke’s liaison with Lady Shrewsbury; the result of this was that Shrewsbury was killed. The King was furious. He had forbidden dueling, and Buckingham awaited the outcome in trepidation. He had now completely forgotten that he had decided to launch Nell at Whitehall.

In the summer she had the part of Jacintha in Dryden’s
An Evening’s Love; or the Mock Astrologer.
Charles Hart played opposite her.

Dryden, such an admirer of Nell’s, invariably had her in his mind when he wrote his plays, and Jacintha
was
Nell, so said all, “Nelly to the last y.”

The King was in his usual box and, as she played her part, Nell could not help gazing his way. Perhaps there was a mute appeal in her eyes, in her voice, in her very actions.

To love a King—that was indeed a tragedy, she had come to understand. She had no means of being with him unless sent for, no way of learning where she had failed to please.

Charles Hart as Wildblood wooed her on the stage before the King’s eyes.

“‘What has a gentleman to hope from you?’” he asked.

And Nell, as Jacintha, must answer: “‘To be admitted to pass my time with while a better comes; to be the lowest step in my staircase, for a knight to mount upon him, and a lord upon him, and a marquis upon him, and a duke upon him, till I get as high as I can climb.’”