The Perfect Royal Mistress (52 page)

Everything at court was changing. At last, even Nell Gwynne.

In those first tentative years, with her poverty so newly abandoned, she had been grateful for any attention the king would show her. But now Nell understood that Charles needed her as much as she needed him. Her place in his life was secure, and accepting every slight dealt her without comment was no longer necessary.

Nell truly could be herself now without risking loss of favor.

If she was going to have to coexist in this odd triangle with the Carwell woman, as everyone still secretly called her, she was going to do it on her own terms. Over the months that followed the birth of Louise’s child, a son that she, too, not surprisingly, had named Charles, and into the autumn of 1672, they were regularly forced to endure each other’s company: at the theater, at court events, at the races in Newmarket. Nell tolerated each meeting with humor, Louise with tears. Both hoped to unseat the other. But only Nell realized it was unlikely. The king would give neither of them up, and he wished the two women in his life to forge some sort of alliance.

“Why d’you tolerate it?” Helena Gwynne asked one afternoon at her house at Windsor.

Nell sat at her dressing table cluttered with jars of cream, a silver patch box, and flagons of perfume, and slipped a pearl earring into the hole in her ear. She was preparing for dinner at Windsor Castle. She and Louise de Kéroualle were to be Charles’s only guests; the three of them were to dine together beneath a packed gallery of onlookers who were important enough to witness the daily royal meal.

“You ’ave security now with the children, and two amazing ’ouses, ’ere in Windsor and in London, that makes me wonder why you would let that ol’ Frenchy ’ave ’alf of your man?”

“Because I love him. Pure and simple, Ma. And, of course, I want to be the only one, but in this life, I’ll settle ’appily indeed for bein’ the last one.”

“’Tain’t proper, that’s all.”

Nell glanced at her. “You’re a fine one to go on about what’s proper!”

When Helena looked away, chastised, Nell turned from the mirror and caught her mother’s fleshy arm. It was doughy and warm beneath her fingers, and these past months it had become slightly reassuring. “I know you mean well, Ma, I do. But Charlie is my life. ’E’s given me more than I ever could ’ave dreamed, and ’e’s provided for our children
and
even the rest of my family. From me, at least, ’e’ll ’ave whatever ’e pleases. ’Tis just the way things are.”

But there was more than a mother’s concern in Helena’s declaration.

While Nell now had a palatial home on Pall Mall with a staff of ten servants, her own French coach, and six horses to lead it, a recent announcement from the palace lay between them. Louise de Kéroualle, by the grace of His Majesty, Charles II, and her own unrelenting manipulation, was now Duchess of Portsmouth. The Weeping Willow had won her battle to receive an English title. And Nell was still simply Mrs. Gwynne, the actress. Louise had won this round, all of London knew it, Helena knew it. But Nell had no intention of allowing her to win the war.

Nell wore her best new dress, sewn of scarlet silk, with bolstered confidence. At her throat was a string of rubies. The jewels were from her birthday, a gift from His Majesty. Beside her eye was a single black patch. The lace hem of her skirts met the heels of her new silver shoes and brushed along the polished parquet floor. Nowadays, she entered Windsor Castle lavishly, straight-backed, with guards before her, and servants behind. She headed toward the Great Banqueting Hall.

Her heart was racing, knowing what lay ahead. Knowing that Louise de Kéroualle lived here and that she did not.
They can smell your fear
…Those were Lord Buck’s words of long ago, and her own sentiment now. Her rival would
never
know her fear. God help her, she would smile and laugh and give them all her very best jests before that ever happened.

As she moved into the banquet hall Lady Shrewsbury, Lady Ashley, and the Duchess of Lauderdale lowered their heads respectfully to her as she passed. Flowers well past first bloom bent now on tired, overpainted stalks, Nell thought.

Across the room, she saw the new French Ambassador, de Ruvigny. Nell’s eyes met his. Sharp features, steel-gray eyes, silver hair, and a tiny bud of a mouth. He acknowledged her with a stiff nod, then averted his gaze. They would, all of them, wait in the gallery and be allowed to watch from a distance while she dined privately with the king and Carwell. Nell began to smile as she crossed the floor of the vast and empty banquet room, the lit candles casting everything in a creamy golden glow. It was very like the moments just before the curtain went up, she decided. The same fear. The same uncertainty. But she had won them over there, and she would win now. The curtain went up. She felt the same old moment of fear. Then the confidence returned, full force.

Charles and Louise already sat at the end of the table when Nell entered the room. Their hands were clasped, heads pressed together as if in some deeply private moment. As she drew near, Nell could see that Charles was coaxing Louise, bidding her to remain calm—to remain at all. She felt empowered. When she was close enough, she curtsied deeply before Louise, more deeply than was necessary. The gesture held a hint of mocking. “Your Grace,” Nell said to Louise, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

Louise looked up at her. “Why, Nelly, I do believe tonight in zat dress you look fine enough to be a queen,” she pressed, knowing how superior to the cockney girl the king had made her.

Cut me, will you? I think not.
“Aye Carwell, and you look just whore enough to be a duchess.”

Louise shot the king a brutal stare as Charles erupted with laughter, followed by the rest of the court, who had been watching from the gallery above. Nell nodded up to them, as if taking an understated curtain call.

“How
dare
you!” Louise grumbled as Nell, with great dramatic flourish and fluffing of her skirts, sat in the chair allotted to her. The ruby necklace glittered at her throat. Servants began to lay great silver platters before them.

“It was but a jest,
chérie.
If you would come to know Nell, surely you would see that.”

“I would rather do battle with a porcupine,” Louise answered in French. More laughter rose up from the onlookers, which only made matters worse. “Zat woman gets away wis
everything
!”

Charles responded in French. “I would like you to try. The reason for this meal together is to make a display of the unity in my household.”

“Impossible.”

Nell took a swallow of wine, then let her wide-eyed gaze wander the gallery. “A blessing, indeed, that Her Majesty finds herself at Hampton Court presently,” she could not stop herself from saying. “Or this table would be crowded indeed.”

Charles looked over at Nell and gave a snort of laughter again, which caused Louise to bolt from her chair in a huff, then cross her hands over her chest. “I weel not ’ave zees!”

“Zees?” Nell mimicked, eyes wide, her lashes fluttering. “And they say
I
have trouble speaking the king’s English.”

Louise stomped her foot, Charles fell into a new fit of laughter, and Louise stormed out of the banquet room to an uproar from those in the gallery. “Not all performances are best offered up on a public stage, Charlie.”

Charles glanced up, along with Nell, and nodded to the courtiers collected above them as though it had all been a great humorous jest. He was still laughing. “I really
did
hope the two of you could learn to get along,” he said.

“Should you go after her?”

“I suspect I should. But I’m not going to.” The king took up her hand and kissed it adoringly. “You absolutely enchant me, you know. You always have.”

“Are you enchanted enough to grant me one little wish then?”

“So long as it’s not the same wish my Lady Portsmouth doubtless has about now, for me to cast you off one for the other.”

“The truth is that as much as I enjoyed this little performance of ours, I do find myself ’earin’ the call of the real stage, Charlie. After Richard died, it was the furthest thing from my mind, but now—”

His smile fell. He leaned forward so only she could hear. “It’s out of the question, Nell. I need you near me all the time. Who the devil would there be to cheer me? Especially now, with the country at war, and all this confounded animosity about Catholics rising to a fever pitch. And if that were not enough, the constant money problems Parliament taunts me with, having me plead for every guinea!”

She leaned back in her chair more comfortably. “Well, I’ve got an answer for that as well, you know.”

“I’m almost afraid to hear it.”

“It’s simple enough. Send the French back to France, set me on the stage again, and lock up your codpiece!”

Charles pealed with a new burst of laughter, not just at the words, but at the clever way she managed to say something that would have angered him coming from anyone else. “I’m afraid I cannot give you back the stage, my sweetheart. You are far too important to me here. But what I will give you is enough of Sherwood Forest, the land and all the deeds, to add to your worth, as you can ride around before breakfast. How will that do?”

Nell smiled demurely. “Your Majesty’s generosity is boundless,” she replied. A title would certainly have been better, she thought, if only so she might fully match wits with Carwell. But Nell wisely chose not to say that. After all, she had been out of her league before, and, clever or not, in that regard, nothing had changed. She was still and always would be an orange girl dressed up like a lady.

The February cold crawled across London with deadly fingers. Outside the air was frigid, and icicles hung from the eaves. There was ice on the rooftops, and the Thames had frozen over when the court returned from Windsor. Everything was bare and gray. But in the center of her apartments at Whitehall, Louise stood warm and resplendent in folds of warm ermine and forest-green silk, surveying placement of two new French chairs near the fireplace hearth in her private reception hall. The walls had been changed from the brick and mortar of Henry VIII to smooth plaster.

Around her, the massive room was a hive of construction and activity. Workmen were mounting rich damask on the walls and removing the ancient tapestries on their heavy iron poles. Everything was to be changed, altered, or discarded. She waved a fan before her face and sighed. She was still waiting for the king. He was late again. Always late.

The child she had borne, who had changed her body and caused more hair to come out in her brush than she cared to see, did little to cement her relationship with His Majesty. He was still preoccupied with that tenpenny actress with her laugh like a hen and her distasteful mass of hair the color of a Bristol bonfire. Louise rolled her eyes at the thought. It would serve the king right if she were to take a lover, as Lady Castlemaine had so publicly done. He had told her once, back in the beginning, how angry that affair had made him. How betrayed she had made him feel. Good.

“This is all to change as well,
chérie?
” he asked suddenly, coming up behind her then.

“
Tout à fait, oui.
All of eet.”

“But I only just approved funds for that watered silk wallpaper you pleaded for and which they are now scraping away before my very eyes.”

Enormously pleased with herself, Louise turned around, smiled, and kissed his cheek. “Zat was last year, Charles. Zis ees all ze latest from Paris.”

He touched his mustache. “But you live in London now.”

Louise shrugged. “Some sings about each of us are not so easily changed. I’ve ’ad to learn zat well enough.” She watched the king survey the work. It really was very amusing, since she had learned all of the little tricks that worked so splendidly well on him.

“You can certainly change your penchant for decorating, my dear. At least slow it down to a reasonable pace.”

“And Your Majesty can change
your
penchant for Meesus Gwynne,
non?
”

Charles stood facing her. His mouth became a hard line. The mention of Nell had quickly infuriated him. She had pressed too hard, and done it too swiftly. It would do her no good in this. Only Nell seemed to have that unique ability to press without angering him. Louise switched to French. “For my sake,
chéri.
It really is the most humiliating thing to be faced with her.”