by Diane Haeger
“This life of mine can last no longer than my beauty; and though ’tis pleasant now, I want nothin’ while I am Mr. Wellbred’s mistress, yet if ’is mind should change, I might even sell oranges for my livin’!” she exclaimed, hands on her hips and a broad, confident smile lighting her face.
The first rumblings of laughter rose from the pit, stunning her. For an instant, Nell was almost rising out of herself. Everyone in London knew the players—knew who were lovers, and which ladies were connected to which men. The reference had been lost to no one. Scene after scene unfolded after that, with Nell weaving herself into each of them with nothing more than a nod, a wink, or a sigh.
Afterward, Charles Hart was there to see her first, though a dozen others clambered at the tiring-room door. “You surprised me,” he said, a tone lower than usual.
“I surprised myself.”
“The audience loved you.” He moved nearer to touch her cheek. “Ten shillings a week raise, and tomorrow afternoon you play Lady Wealthy.”
“You’re replacin’ Mrs. Knepp?”
“You are replacing Knepp. I admit it, the role is perfect for you.”
She bit back a victorious smile. She would be clever enough to make what happened work to her advantage. “You’ll not be sorry Mr. ’Art. I’ll make you proud! I’ll make the theater proud, I promise!”
“I have no doubt,” he replied. “Nell, you are a delightful breath of air, one I am proud to have in the company. And who I would be even more proud to take into my heart.”
Her mind raced to think of something to say that would not offend him. “Mr. ’Art, I—”
“You must call me Charles.” He framed a canvas with his hand. “People will come from all over London to see us perform together.”
“Mr. ’Art—”
“I shall see that you have the best costumes and the wittiest lines.”
“But I—”
“The other girls will all envy you, and you will have to be cautious about the men and the gifts. Richard and Beck Marshall here can certainly warn you about all of that. And I will be your teacher. I shall teach you everything I know.”
Charles pressed a sensual kiss onto her earlobe, and the muscles in her throat constricted. But the choice was clear. It was a pivotal moment in her life, and there would not likely be many others like this. For a life of security, for herself and Rose, there was a price to be paid. Women always paid a price it seemed. This price. She drew in a deep breath, knowing all that lay before her, and all that her response implied. Nell was fully prepared to make Charles Hart think she found him attractive and that, since he had apologized, there was no real harm done from their “encounter.” The cost of security was high, but she would gladly pay it. “Mr. ’Art, I accept.”
After he had gone back to his own private tiring-room, and Nell felt herself breathe again, an actress with frizzled, tawny hair came forward, grinning. “I’m Beck Marshall,” she said. “Happy to have you on board our topsy-turvy little ship, tormented by high seas though it can be.” Nell felt an instant kinship with her. “And don’t worry about Mr. Hart. He’s far more interested in the business aspects of our little theater company than the women in it. Once he’s had you, most of the time he’ll let you alone.”
“You and Mr. ’Art—”
“Mr. Hart and every new actress in the company,” Beck Marshall said.
Chapter 6
TO THE KING’S HOUSE, AND THERE DID SEE A GOOD PART OF ‘THE ENGLISH MONSIEUR’ WHICH IS A MIGHTY PRETTY PLAY, VERY WITTY AND PLEASANT. AND THE WOMEN DID WELL, BUT ABOVE ALL LITTLE NELLY.
—The Diary of Samuel Pepys
THE next afternoon, as Lady Wealthy, Nell garnered three standing ovations and a brimming bouquet of lilacs, and not a single piece of fruit was tossed at her. It was proof positive, Richard Bell assured her, that she was a success. As she walked down the long, low-ceilinged corridor that led from the stage to the tiring-rooms, all of it lined with racks of costumes, hats, and props, she heard the whispers. Who was she? And from where had such a comic talent come? She smiled to herself and saw one thing clearly. She had gotten a thing of value after all from her mother—her stubborn nature.
“They’re calling for you, Nell!” Richard charged excitedly into the tiring-rooms after her third performance that week. “They’re absolutely mad for you!”
Exhilarated, and feeling triumphant, Nell sank back into the chair at her dressing table. She liked the stage, the command, the attention. As she gained some ease before the crowds, she watched what it was she did: the inflection on a line, the tilt of her head, whatever brought a laugh, and what did not. Each performance was an education. “Thanks, Richard.” She stretched her arms over her head.
“You know,” he said in a lowered tone, “the other ladies are none too happy. They say you are sleeping your way into the best roles.”
“Well, they’re right, I am. Just as all of them did before me,” she replied. She had accepted Hart as her lover, and was determined to enjoy the rewards, rather than regret what she had done. “But I’m also a better actress, and that’s what really bothers them.”
“That you are.”
Charles Hart was at the door, his smile broad and proud. “Come, Nell. They’re calling for you! The crowd is a hungry beast you’ve got to feed if you want it to keep a taste for you!”
Nell, with calculated seduction, pressed a kiss onto his cheek. “You’re the boss, Charlie.”
Around her, actresses whirled in their costumes of tired velvets and frayed silks, gleaned from some countess or duchess who had donated her castoffs. As she brushed past him to return to the stage, Nell pressed a finger to his crotch, giving him the promise for later she knew she must in order to keep her place. Lying with him was no longer the horror it had been at first, nor was it pleasant. Fortunately, he had not made her his only mistress. There were other actresses, and Nell would not lose the security she had gained from Charles Hart, no matter what it took.
She went back out onto the stage with the other actors, bobbed a curtsy with a quirky smile. The catcalls and applause rose up. She felt the sly grin on her face begin to grow, but she held it back. Wild laughter was the result, deep, rich laughter, far bigger than before. As her hands went onto her hips, and she leaned into it, a man from the pit called out, “Toss us a kiss, Nelly!”
“Yeah!” chimed another. “Somethin’ to hold us till we see ya tomorrow!”
She thought of what she had done in the tavern to get a laugh, and to have Patrick Gound go easy with her on the month’s rent when she did not have it to give. Then she lifted the hem of her skirt, just enough to show her calves, did a little shuffle step, and blew a large, exaggerated kiss. Just as the prop manager began to close the heavy velvet draperies, the still nearly packed house erupted in more laughter and more applause. At that same moment, Nell felt a broad hand clamp onto her arm and pull her from the stage.
“Always leave ’em wanting more,” said Richard Bell. “Besides, Mr. Hart is calling for you again.”
“Thanks for the warnin’! I’ll get out while I still can. Meet me at the Cock & Pye in ten minutes time?” she whispered. “I owe you an ale or two in thanks.”
“I’ll be there.”
The tavern beneath where Nell lived was crowded to capacity with drinkers and a few, in the back behind the frayed curtain, eating meat pies and lamb stew.
“If it isn’t our own prettiest little success story, Nelly Gwynne come home to us!” called out Patrick Gound from behind the bottle-strewn bar.
Nell made him a theatrical little curtsy, and was immediately surrounded.
“Did ye give ’em what they asked for, Nelly?”
“And then some, I did!”
“I’d fancy seein’ such a fine lady grace the stage,” swooned an older woman, missing a front tooth, her hair graying and frazzled.
Nell slapped the bar. “Then you’d best not be comin’ to see me! Fancy isn’t what they pay for with Nell Gwynne bef
ore them!”
Patrick Gound raised his own tankard, ale sloshing over the side.” Well, ye’re finer than this lot by half.”
“Which ain’t sayin’ much,” volleyed Nell.
Richard Bell came through the door, entering in a shaft of silvery light that was swallowed up quickly as the hinges squealed and the door closed with a deep thud. Everyone looked up. The laughter fell away. Nell looked as well. “It’s all right. ’E’s my guest,” she said.
“A fine-lookin’ gent!” a man called out.
“Bell’s no gentleman,” Nell corrected with a burst of deep, bawdy laughter. “He’s an actor, like me!”
After they had both had a tankard of ale, then two, Nell felt herself begin to breathe more deeply. “Does it ever grow tiresome, hearing that applause?” she asked Richard as they sat together. She leaned forward, elbows balanced on the tabletop. Her eyes were glittering in the lamplight, and her long, coppery hair lay in ribbons across her shoulders.
“Only if you grow weary of being adored.”
Nell took another long swallow of the comforting ale at the very moment that a woman approached them from the crowd near the bar. Her dark hair was done up into a fussy black hat with a little red plume that did not suit her face. Her dress was sewn of red silk, and she wore a little black jacket that reached her waist, and a huge ruby glittered at her throat. The voice was unmistakable, but Nell would have known her anyway.
“Evenin’ to you, Mrs. Davies,” she said.
“Smart you are, if not so terribly pretty,” Moll Davies replied.
“I happen to think Mrs. Gwynne is divine,” Richard defended. “And so does London. She’s already a sensation!”
“I ’ear she’s makin’ quite a name for ’erself on the stage, and I’ll warrant she ’as you to thank for it, Richard. You always was the quiet, resourceful type.” She took his hand, forcing him to stand and face her. Her smile, gap-toothed and yellow, revealed her commonness, as her voice did. “So, Richard Bell. Whatever brings you to a place like this?”
“I was going to ask the same of you.”
“And so you ’ave. As it were, I’m stayin’ nearby while my new ’ouse is being readied. The ’ouse the king has bought for me.”
Richard glanced over at Nell. “The king of England has bought you a house?”
“And don’t you believe I ’aven’t earned every floorboard! ’Tis a grand place, too! Right in St. James’s Square, where only the finest people reside!”
“I thought His Majesty had just fathered another child by Lady Castlemaine?”
“Times change. A king’s head turns.” She leaned forward, balancing her hands on the table so that her ample breasts plunged over her tight bodice. “Lady Castlemaine’ll not be the only one to benefit this year from royal progeny.”
“You?”
“As pregnant as a Cornwall sow, I am!” She sank into the empty chair behind them, her tone going low and gossipy. “Apparently ’e can make anyone pregnant ’e likes, except the queen!”
“Does he acknowledge your child as his own?”
“Why else would ’Is Majesty buy me a proper ’ouse? If you don’t mind my boastin’, the king is absolutely besotted by me. Apparently, the charms of elegant court ladies ’ave their limit.”
“Are you still onstage at the Duke’s Theater, then?” asked Richard, his eyes sliding to Nell, and then back to Moll Davies.
“For the moment, I am,” she replied with a shrug. Then she patted her still flat belly. “But that won’t be for long. I know we’re meant to be rivals, actresses at opposin’ theaters, Mrs. Gwynne—”
“Call me Nell, if you please.”
“Very well then, Nell.” Moll smiled condescendingly. “You make it easier to offer a friendly word of advice.”
“I don’t know she should be taking advice from an old jade like you,” Richard warned.
Moll slapped his arm playfully and smiled at him in a way Nell had seen her mother do too many times with new men. “’ow better is there to do in this life than be mistress to a king? Trust me, Nell, an actress’s life onstage is like ’er beauty: fleetin’ at best. The crowds are a fickle lot. They’ll always demand the newest thing. The prettiest fare. You’ve got to make plans for yourself. You’ve got to find yourself a well-placed man, then make ’im fall in love with you.”
“Child’s play for Nell,” said Richard. “I mean, it would be, if she wanted it, that is.”
“You’ll pardon me for tellin’ you what to do, but take it from me: You’ve got to learn to look like you want it, Nelly. And if you could convince a man you fancy the experience, in the same way you draw ’em in onstage, so much’ll be the better for those rapidly declinin’ years.”
Moll Davies was bawdy, crude, and obnoxious, but what she said did make sense. The thought of being at the beck and call of a self-centered man like Charles Hart for the rest of her life was a chilling prospect. And how different from her own mother’s life would hers truly be? That could not be her future. Not when she had come so far. “Well, there is only one king of England,” said Nell on a laugh, “and I don’t suppose I’d fight you for ’im.”
“Can you imagine that?” cackled Moll, slamming her fist on the table, a movement completely unbefitting the dress, the hat, and the sparkling jewels. “’Is Majesty is well beyond the likes of you, naturally. But the theater’s filled with lords and dukes aplenty, lookin’ to add a bit of glitter to their dull lives. Ain’t no better route.”
“You’d be better off listening to your heart,” offered Richard Bell.
“And where ’as that ever gotten any woman without a dowry, I ask you?” Moll challenged. “Broken’earted, or locked up in the Newgate gaol. No. Mark me. You might not know it to look at me now, but I come from a place like you did, not far from ’ere, as it ’appens. I tell you, security’s the route. Look out for yourself, Nelly. In the end, that’s all girls like us really ’ave anyway.”
It made sense. Every day now brought something, and someone, new into the King’s Theater and into her life. The question was merely who she would see sitting out over those glittering lamplights next and how she might use them to her own advantage.
Chapter 7
GLORY IS LIKE A CIRCLE IN THE WATER, WHICH NEVER CEASETH TO ENLARGE ITSELF, ’TIL BY BROAD SPREADING IT DISPERSES TO NAUGHT.
—William Shakespeare
OVER the winter of 1667, and into the spring of the following year, as Nell’s star rose at the King’s Theater, hostilities with the Dutch continued. The English fleet had taken heavy losses during a surprise attack it had launched on the Dutch. Money to press on toward victory remained in short supply as rumors of a retaliatory attack swirled throughout London, setting nerves on end. The Earl of Clarendon, the sage and seniormost privy councillor, had gained the ire of the others by continuing to push not only for a truce, but also to force the English fleet to remain at anchor, and therefore in a vulnerable position. By summer, the worst fear of the English, and the younger members of the king’s Privy Council, came true as King Charles sat presiding over a summer ball at his grand palace of Hampton Court.
He was being entertained by music and costumed dancers, with Buckingham beside him, when the Duke of Buckingham received word in his ear from a liveried courtier. They spoke rapidly back and forth, but their conversation was masked to the others by the sound of music and raucous laughter. A moment later, he leaned over to the king and drew a hand before his mouth.
“It has happened, Your Majesty. The rumors were true. The Dutch have attacked us at Gravesend Harbor.”
Charles glanced at him, his face going white. “How bad is it, George?”
“Our men are not defending the ships, just as Clarendon advised. Now, they say they haven’t been paid enough to risk life and limb. Our own are mutinying rather than fighting.”
“But Clarendon assured me, since there was talk of peace, that the Dutch—”
“I’ve told you all along he has gotten too long
in the tooth for real and delicate negotiation. This is a certifiable disaster, sire!”
Charles bolted from his throne, which caused the music, and the merriment, to come to an abrupt halt. All eyes turned upon their king. A crescendo of worried whispers rose up. But Charles disregarded everything, dashing in long-legged strides from the Great Hall and out into the corridor beyond, the Duke of Buckingham following closely. “Perhaps now you will believe me that I am better suited as chancellor than that dithering old fool!”
A collection of courtiers followed at a discreet pace. Charles groaned. “You did try to warn me. I know you did.”
“And Clarendon now has cost this country greatly.”
They strode more quickly together, nearly at a run now, up a wide flight of stone steps, past a stone balustrade overlooking the gardens, and into an arched corridor with dark, paneled walls. The barrel-chested Duke of Lauderdale huffed while trying to meet their pace, in order to tell the king more. “They’ve taken the Royal Charles with absolutely no resistance at all and destroyed the Royal James, the Royal Oak, and the Loyal London in a single attack! The ships were, if you’ll pardon me, sitting ducks. At Clarendon’s obstinate insistence, we refused to man them!”
They were heading for the Privy Council chamber now, Charles’s velvet cloak flying out behind him like a billowing blue sail. “How many souls have been lost?”
“There’s no total yet, sire, but—”
“I should have thought after the fire the Dutch would have shown some modicum of restraint in attacking us here at home!”