The Perfect Royal Mistress (32 page)

A
CROWN GOLDEN IN SHOW IS BUT A WREATH OF THORNS.

—John Milton

C
HARLES
sat alone in his small, private writing cabinet, beside his bedchamber, where the light filtered in across diamond-shaped red-and-blue windowpanes. He thought of it as Minette’s room, because it was here, in a space arranged precisely the same in each of his homes, that he wrote to his dearest sister, who he had consigned to a loveless marriage in France. She had done it in order to keep the door open wide enough with Louis XIV. He had heard back from Arlington that the French king was not at all pleased by his proposition of money for loyalty against the Dutch. Buckhurst had written the same as well. Although that fool Buckhurst, he thought, could be trusted no further than he could be thrown. The echo of an ink dipped pen scratching paper filled the silence.

My dearest Minette…

Thoughts of Buckhurst brought his mind back to Nell. She had been gone from Windsor for four days, and he could do nothing but think of her, long for her. He closed his eyes for a moment, the pen poised over the paper. Ah, the things they had done together! Her naked body stretched out before him, her raucous laughter, her quick, bawdy tongue…images moved across his mind as he tried to write to his sister.

I am at Windsor where memories of you and I hiding as children together in the maze, the sound of your laughter, always bring me such a spark of happiness when I allow myself thoughts of those carefree days. But life is no longer carefree for you and I, and the images of our childhood have begun to fade into all the layers of duty…

Buckingham was pressuring him again to consider divorcing Catherine, and she had come to Windsor to say she would not contest an annulment due to the shame of her barrenness. She knew what a laughingstock she was in the taverns and the fine salons of London—the only woman in the world, it seemed, upon whom the king could not get a child. They did not speak of that painful detail, but Charles knew it was there in the depth of those wide brown eyes, always just on the brink of tears, eyes he could not quite look into for the guilt he felt. Even as he had gone one more time to her bed, the night before last, and tried to get her with a child who would survive, and end all of the speculation about divorce, it all lay between them.

He wanted to be free of her, of all of it, but in the end, he still simply could not divorce her or annul their marriage. He had told her that she was his wife in the eyes of God Almighty, and there she would remain until death parted them.

Your husband, I hear, has been ill and that you have been as kind a nurse to him as he could ever hope for, and I wait for word of your own health. You must tell him to allow you a visit home so that you may tend to your own heart as you have done so well for him. There is such a great deal I want to tell you, so much has happened, that only a sister
who knew of the fields behind Greenwich, and who shares with me the memory of our father’s caress, and his loss, could ever understand…

He wrote the last with a determined flourish, knowing how true it was, and how much he missed her counsel, not just their recollections. Minette would chide him about his obsession with yet another actress. But in the end, she would ask all about Nell, and she would even wish to meet her if she made her brother happy. There was no one else in the world he could trust with the truth of an honest answer as Minette would give him in all things.

I think of you always, and pray for you daily.

Darling sister, you possess my love as no other.

Your devoted brother always,
C
HARLES

After he had signed it, Charles pressed the chair back and stood. A long, elaborate supper in the queen’s honor awaited him, as well as a puppet show afterward. Following that, there would be an endless evening of cards with Rochester, Buckingham, and Catherine, who loved nothing so much as a game of basset, and the poetic wit of Rochester, who today would be tamed mightily to recite for the queen. Then he would spend the night with his wife, hoping against hope that it would make him long even a little less for Nell.

He knocked on the cabinet wall, and a moment later the paneled door swung back on its hinges. William Chiffinch stood straight spined and ready to take the letter and affix the royal seal. “Did you send the string of pearls to Mrs. Gwynne?” Charles asked as his closest servant moved toward the writing table.

“Indeed, sire. It was done immediately.”

“And what of the play? Has she been a success in London?”

“Indeed, she has. A rousing success. The theater is packed, they say, every afternoon. Killigrew and Hart are planning to hold the production over for another week.”

“Splendid, then,” he said. But his voice lacked enthusiasm.

“Is Your Majesty all right?”

“Alas, boredom is not a malady, or by now I would likely be buried in Westminster Abbey,” the king sighed.

“If you would permit the impertinent thought, sire,” Chiffinch ventured calmly. “My wife has met the loveliest young girl, daughter of a tailor here in Windsor, most eager to meet Your Majesty, and—”

“I will accompany the queen this evening, William, and only the queen.”

Chiffinch nodded deeply. “Of course, sire.”

Charles turned, and the two men stood facing each other in the small room, although Chiffinch busied himself with ensuring the seal on the letter was dry.

“Yet I am reminded, sire, that the queen does so like to retire early with this country air.”

“Does the girl’s family approve of her visit here?”

“They consider the prospect to be the greatest honor, as would any family, Your Majesty.”

Charles closed his eyes. This was not the answer, he knew that. But it was a diversion. Yes, at least it was that. “Arrange it, then,” he said flatly. “But see to it she uses the privy stairwell. And I will want her out before dawn.”

Chapter 19

F
ATE NOW FOR HER DID ITS WHOLE FORCE ENGAGE
, A
ND FROM THE PIT SHE MOUNTED THE STAGE
. T
HERE
I
N FULL LUSTRE DID HER GLORIES SHINE
, A
ND LONG ECLIPS’D SPREAD THEIR LIGHT DIVINE.

—The Earl of Rochester

“F
IVE MINUTES
, Nelly!”

It had been almost a month since she had heard the queen was pregnant. At last, the country chanted, there would be an heir. Nell stood and adjusted her skirts. The costume, a gown once belonging to the Duchess of Argyll, too big by half, was bound by a belt. The sleeves as well were too long, but Nell was accustomed to making do, and thriving.

“Are you ready?” asked Richard Bell. The revival of
The Sisters
was a smashing success; he was finally playing the second lead. He stood now in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a gray wig and the costume of an old country squire. Nell turned and smiled at her old friend, happy to be with him again, old admissions and disappointments forgotten.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You were divine yesterday,” he smiled. “Let’s give it to ’em again today just like that!”

“Agreed. Only better!” she laughed, the first time in days.

The theater was a solace to Nell, the place where she was happy to be herself. Bold. Funny. Flirtatious. A place where everyone encouraged her, where they accepted her. She was so accustomed to the process of acting before hundreds of people now that she could speak her lines with total believability, yet look out among the audience, see theatergoers she knew, and enjoy bringing out their each and every response to her lines.

In the theater, like nowhere else in the world, Nell was in control.

As the performance came to an end, and flowers were tossed onto the stage, from the pit and from the boxes, and as Nell tossed kisses to the crowd, she saw Lord Rochester and his friend Henry Savile. They sat three rows back, on a bench in the pit that was thick with old orange rinds. Both of them were leading the ovation with hoots and whistles as Nell took her curtsies, which had become a performance itself, with her lifting the hem of her dress, demurely pressing her fingers to her chin, and bobbing comically. It was not at all like the one she had been taught to perform by Mary Chiffinch. It was good, Nell thought, looking at Rochester and Savile, not to be forgotten by those who knew the king. They were a small tie back to that other world she had left, but which she was not entirely ready to abandon.

After she had gone backstage, as the wardrobe mistress was removing her costume, and Nell was daubing the perspiration from her chest, a young stagehand came to her with a stiff white calling card. Beck Marshall, now in her petticoats, with a celery-green shawl tossed across her shoulders, glanced over at her from her own dressing table. “That didn’t take long,” she laughed.

“What didn’t?”

“Why, replacing the king with a new string of suitors, of course.”

“Don’t be daft,” Nell said, tossing the card onto her dressing table with the collection of jars, bottles, and boxes there. “These are friends who wish to come back and congratulate us.”

“I would doubt they care a whit about me, Nell.”

“Nonsense. Like every other man in London, they’re taken by all pretty actresses.”

As she stood, John Wilmot, who was Lord Rochester, and Henry Savile, his baby-faced, blond friend, arrived. “Mrs. Gwynne, you were absolutely brilliant just now!” Rochester flattered.

“I’ve never laughed so much in my life,” Savile concurred, then he glanced at Beck.

“My Lord Rochester, Mr. Savile,” said Nell properly, as she had learned to do at court. “May I present my friend, and fellow actress, Mrs. Marshall.”

Henry Savile took her hands in his own. “I am beyond charmed, Mrs. Marshall.”

Beck’s smile, as she looked at him, was as silly as a child’s, her wide eyes and long lashes fluttering at him. Nell bit back a smile. “And Mrs. Gwynne,” said Rochester. “I shall forever be charmed by
you.
No one has ever set those women on their ears at court quite as you did. I do believe they are
still
as perplexed by your allure as we were the day we met.”

“It’s true. He’s even written a poem about you!” Savile and Rochester exchanged a glance, and then both of them began to laugh. “Although, with John’s sense of humor, and prurient verse, that’s more a warning than a compliment.”

They all laughed before Lord Rochester said, “Have supper with us, both of you. I know a wonderful tavern near here. The oysters and champagne are divine, and we are guaranteed the very best seat.”

Nell demurred. “Come to my home instead,” she suggested. “It will all be quite proper, I promise. We’ll even invite our friend Mr. Bell over there, to keep it aboveboard.”

“Now that would be a shame,” Rochester quipped. “A dissolute evening is so much more entertaining.”

“I ’ave a wonderful cook who came with the house, and I’ll serve you my own oysters and French champagne, but
only
if you recite poems for us,” Nell bartered.