by Diane Haeger
“’Tis a start, then,” she quipped.
She was refusing, he saw, to let him make promises rooted in the sentiment of the new life sleeping upstairs. Charles smiled at her and moved to draw a velvet pouch from his waistcoat. “I’ve brought you a gift to celebrate the magnificent son you have given me.”
Nell untied the ribbon, drew back the top of the box, and gazed down at a teardrop-shaped ruby pendant set in gleaming gold.
It had come from his mother’s collection—she had worn it when he was a child, and had been wearing it in the last portrait ever painted of their family. He knew the moment Nell became pregnant with his child that it was meant for her. The tears sparkling in her eyes pleased him. He had never seen much beyond avarice in the eyes of the other women upon whom he had lavished wealth and jewels. “Do you truly like it?”
She touched the jewel with the tips of her fingers. Then she looked up again, searching his face. “’Tis too grand for me, Charlie.”
“You’re the only one in the world I would ever give it to, so on that we disagree.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck then, and the depth of her kiss stunned him. He had left a vixen who he cared for, and loved to seduce, and he had returned to a complicated, lovely woman who he adored more than life. A smile spread slowly across his face. If only…, he thought. But he could not finish the thought.
Later that night, when the rest of London had bolted their doors, and everything was silent but for the linkboys who roamed the streets, lighting the way with their torches for hire, the king was wide awake. He slouched unnoticed, without his periwig or finery, on a wooden bench at the back of the Rose Tavern. Around him, Buckingham, Rochester, Savile, and Ogle drank tankard after tankard of foaming ale, amid a scattering of playing cards and shillings. They sat talking and laughing with the rest of the miscreant society that found their way here behind the large painted door and into the airless room, full of private nooks and alcoves, designed to harbor any dark activity that might be desired, and paid for.
The king loved to steal out like this, smell the ale, hear the clank of plates and tankards, and itch the underbelly of his own dangerously diverse society. All of his friends complied happily whenever the mood took him. But tonight Charles wanted to feel very little; the numbness of too much alcohol was a preference to thoughts of that beautiful French girl already back in Paris with his sister. He forced his thoughts from her, and from this place, and back to images of Nell. A shard of the guilt startled him. For a moment, and only that, he wished he could change. For Nell. But then the moment was gone. She would be asleep by now anyway. Thank God. That kept the guilt from advancing into something he must address. He pressed a tankard of ale to his lips, his fifth, then tipped back his head, and drank. As he finished the swallow, he saw a woman across the room. Her hair was down in long copper coils, darker than Nell’s and more coarse, but there was something invitingly similar about her. Her eyes were a deep green, and there was that same sensual rawness. Huge breasts bulged over the top of the white bodice of a dress stained with food and perspiration. She was on the lap of Samuel Pepys, who came here often once his wife was asleep. Sam would not give him away, as the loss was too great for either of them. Buckingham saw the king’s face and knew the expression well.
“Do you want me to arrange it, Charles?” his old friend slurred, drunk himself.
The king’s eyes were glazed, and it took a moment for the words to register. What he should do was go back to Whitehall and find Catherine’s bed. It was his duty, and the fate of England still teetered precariously on the entire question of what would happen if together they could not produce a live heir. Would it be their Protestant child that would continue on for England, or would his brother’s Catholic progeny shift the balance entirely? And there was still the Monmouth question. Yes, always that…You know you married my mother in secret all those years ago! In your heart, you know that I am your rightful heir! He closed his eyes for a moment, dizzy and distracted from the noise and heat. If not Catherine, he should at least go to Nell, in spite of how late the hour. He knew how she could soothe him just by being herself, even if it was too soon for her to give him the full pleasure he would always desire of her.
“Pepys won’t mind,” Buckingham murmured, his hand of cards held up to obscure his words. “The ol’ jackdaw owes me a favor for providing him an alibi last week for his wife.”
The king rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the woman whispering seductively in Pepys’s ear. Her legs were crossed, the skin of her fleshy calves glistening with sweat in the stifling room. As he watched her, the last days, the last hours, peeled away like old paint. Something about her reminded him of Nell as she was in the beginning. That first lust. The newness of what they had shared. He drank the rest of his ale, feeling more and more aroused. Sins of the flesh, he could hear his mother say. She was dead, and yet she still sought to remind him how different he would ever be from his father. Why keep trying for a goal I can never attain? I will never be him…Never.
The devil take me,” he murmured, looking back at the woman, who was blurred in his vision now but still seductive to him. He took Rochester’s glass of sack and drank it too. “Talk to Pepys,” he said flatly.
Chapter 25
WHAT’S PAST AND WHAT’S TO COME IS STREW’D WITH HUSKS AND FORMLESS RUIN OF OBLIVION…
—Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida, Act IV, Scene V
TWO weeks after Henrietta Anne returned to France, she fell critically ill. By the time word was sent to Charles of his sister’s condition, Minette was already dead. Theaters were closed, taverns were silenced, and so was Whitehall Palace, where black crepe was hung.
When a knock sounded at Nell’s door a few days following the official announcement, she was hopeful her visitor would be Charles. She had been able to think of little else, knowing better than most of the deep bond he had with his young sister. When Rose brought Richard Bell into the sitting room instead, Nell dashed across to him and they embraced. But the moment was broken when she looked up over his shoulder to see Charles Hart standing behind them.
Richard lifted a hand to stop her. “Don’t be too cross, Nelly. He promised he’d stay only a moment if I agreed to bring him.”
“And what did ’e promise you?”
She could hear the servants whispering beyond the closed door. This visit would be the new tale they would gossip about tonight after she, the baby, and Rose had gone off to bed. In truth, she thought of Richard like a dear older brother. She was not capable of anger toward him, but she would not tell him that just now.
“Before you slay me, it was Mr. Dryden who sent me,” Charles Hart said. “Can you quite imagine it? Absurd as it sounds, he thought I particularly might have some pull convincing you to take the part he wrote for you in his new play.”
“Imagine it, indeed,” she said sarcastically, unwilling to give an inch to a man who had treated her so poorly.
He moved a step nearer, and Nell felt herself take a reflexive step back. She crossed her arms over her chest and set her face. “And you, of course, ’ave no interest whatsoever in my response. You came ’ere out of…out of what, the goodness of your small and shriveling ’eart?”
“I suspect I deserved that.”
“That, and more.”
“Come on, Nelly.” He smiled, trying to recapture something from her that he believed she once had felt, his tone going humbly low. “I think you know I wouldn’t be here if there was any other way. The fact is, I’m not too proud to say it. I need you.”
“Mr. Dryden won’t do the play without you,” Richard cautiously offered. “I heard him say so myself.”
“Without myself and ’art together, is what you mean.”
“It is entirely true,” said Hart, without his characteristic bravado.
In that oddly triumphant moment, Nell felt the overwhelming urge to order Hart onto his knees while she considered. Yet it would not alter her response. Her life
now was with her son, and with the king. “I’m sorry, Charles, but I don’t think—”
“Nell, listen to reason.” Hart’s hands were out now in a pleading gesture, his expression reduced to something resembling sincerity. “The play is called The Conquest of Granada, and we are to play the lead roles. If it must, let it be your great swan song, one last bow to your audience, to those who have clambered at the stage door every day since you departed it! They deserve that for their support of you! Now, I know I was injurious to you in a dozen different ways these last years, and if you refuse me, I will not be able to honestly blame you; but in your heart of hearts, can you truly say there is not a part of you that does not long for that applause for which you worked and earned and so richly deserve?”
His words resonated in the silent room. They had sounded like the last poignant lines from one of their plays.
“I’ll consider it. For now, ’twill ’ave to be good enough.”
She knew she would have to speak about it first with the king. But he had not sent for her, nor visited her, in the month since his sister’s death. Whether she could continue working, now that she was mother to a royal child, had been left an open question.
She jostled about alone inside the hired coach, listening to the harness jingle and the horses’ hooves clop a rhythm on cobbles, bringing her even nearer to Whitehall Palace. She had considered the move for hours. It was a risk to seek him out, but they had a child he had acknowledged. Surely, he would accept an impromptu visit. Had he not told her he loved her quite madly? Nearing the Holbein Gate, Nell glanced heavenward, saying a silent prayer to give her courage. Even so, her heart was racing so that she almost could not draw breath. This visit was brash, impulsive. He liked that about her. He would respect her for it now. He must.
As she emerged from the coach, bound by a tightly cinched corset and petticoats, all traces of her pregnancy were gone. Her normally small breasts, now full of milk, swelled more voluptuously than she had expected over the lacy décolleté. Although she must see him, Nell fought with every ounce of determination she had not to turn and run once she saw William Chiffinch emerge from the shadows surrounding a stone staircase to the royal apartments.
“My dear.” He extended his hand to her, and a genuine, though controlled, smile softened the angles of his gaunt face.
“I see news travels fast around ’ere.”
“I am paid to know everything that concerns His Majesty, and to handle it on his behalf.”
She met his gaze. “Then I shall tell the king that you deserve an increase immediately since you could not possibly ’ave known I intended a visit.”
“My apartments overlook this courtyard, madam, that is all.”
“Better accommodations then, and a raise in your pay.”
“Mrs. Gwynne.” She watched him draw a short breath, preparing to say more, yet choosing his words delicately. “Madam. You cannot see him now.”
“’E’s not ’ere?”
She saw a small muscle in his jaw tighten in response. His lips closed into a straight line. “He is a complicated man.”
Nell felt a tiny twitch of indignance. “Do you not mean ’e is a restless man, William?”
“That, as well, madam. And if I may say, it is the chase that keeps him, not being chased.”
“But I’ve got to know ’ow ’e is. It ’as been weeks since ’is sister died, and there is so much to discuss about—”
“Since the princess passed from this earth, it has not been easy for His Majesty, and he has required a period of private mourning in order to reflect. I do realize you are very young, madam, but playing in this world is a skill you simply must master if you mean to stand the test.”
“The test, Mr. Chiffinch?”
“The test of time, madam. Pray, love him if you must, but do not pursue him. He must be made to chase you—and, given time, he will. That is my advice to you.”
Nell glanced around, the weight of foolishness descending upon her fully then, and having no earthly idea how she might leave with any small bit of her pride intact. Gazing around at the windows, she wondered how many courtiers had just witnessed her arrival. William Chiffinch took hold of her arm, above the elbow, and drew her back to him. “It is not much,” he said to her gently. “But my wife and I were about to share a lamb pasty and some wine beside the fire. We would be grateful for the company if you would consent to join us.”
She looked at the waiting coach, then glanced back at him. It was likely she was being viewed from the honeycomb of windows above and around them. If she departed now, people would know she had been turned away. William Chiffinch was offering a way through her miscalculation, and she must not be too prideful to reject it.
“I wouldn’t wish to trouble you.”
“My wife fancies that you are a breath of fresh air around this place, child, and I find I agree with her. We would like it very much if you would join us.”
Nell smiled tentatively as he extended his arm. The apartment to which he led her from the prying eyes of Whitehall was well appointed and charming, not the modest servant quarters she had expected. The dark wood furniture was oversized and stately. There were two gold-framed landscapes on the wall, and an impressive tapestry on an iron rod to further warm the room. Mary Chiffinch came quickly to the door with a welcoming smile and a motherly embrace. “How lovely, indeed. It can get rather dreary, just the two of us,” she said. “Do come and sit beside me, child. I have so longed for a visit like this with you. Pray, tell us, how is your new son?”
“’E looks like ’is father.”
Nell saw her exchange a glance with William. There was a slight pause before she smiled more broadly and said, “Then he is destined to become a most magnificent man, indeed.”
Nell felt free to speak about many things after that, as they served her Rhenish wine around a little inlaid table that had been moved into a cozy nook beside the fire.
“And you, my dear. How are you?” Mary asked.
“Bearin’ a child changes your life,” said Nell.
“And bearing a king’s child will change it forever.”
“You understand?”
“One sees a lot living within these old walls, Mrs. Gwynne. It can be hard to watch at times. One only hopes to be of service.”
“After all you’ve done for me, you really must call me Nell.”
The two women smiled at each other as William looked on, the friendship among the trio deepening. Then, as the afternoon sky darkened, a light rain began to fall, sounding like tiny pebbles as it hit the window glass. Nell loved the rain. It cooled everything. It cleaned everything that had been wretched on Lewkenor Lane. Mary Chiffinch stood upon hearing the sound of coach wheels churning gravel in the courtyard below them. Nell was smiling at her, until William’s eyes followed his wife’s, with an expression that had suddenly grown serious. He glanced up at the tall clock, then looked at Nell in an awkward little silence.
Her eyes shifting from one of them to the other, Nell stood then and went to the window, the hem of her dress sweeping across the floor tiles. She touched the windowsill just as the king emerged with a great smile, shoulders back, chest out, even in the steadily worsening rain. He was elegant in claret-colored satin and gold lace, and his onyx periwig, beneath a plumed hat, as he turned and held out his hand. Then an arm emerged from the coach. A woman’s hand, lace spilling back from a tiny wrist. The breath caught in Nell’s throat. It began to burn. The arm became a swirl of blue, became an impossibly beautiful, smiling girl. Blond hair pulled away from full flushed cheeks. The face resembled a child’s. The body was voluptuous. The smile was coy, the gaze purposeful. Nell gripped the windowsill. Ah, yes…the other women. She accepted it as a portion of the price for a royal lover, but to see this played out before her eyes when her own body had yet to fully recover from the child she had borne him…
Nell closed her eyes, exhaled a breath, then opened them again, catching a last glimpse of them running toge
ther and laughing, hands linked, through the rain toward the entrance to his privy apartments. When she turned around, William’s expression was stoic. His hands were linked behind his rigid back. “Her name is Louise de Kéroualle, although some at court, who do not fancy her, have taken to calling her Carwell. She was sent from France as a gift from Louis XIV to revive His Majesty. They initially met at Dover.”
“’Ow very thoughtful to give ’im such a sensual reminder of ’is sister.”
“His sister understood, and accepted, what pleases him, Nell, as do you.”
“I understand no woman will ever settle ’im.”
“Then, indeed, you do understand him well.”
“I’ve meant only to love the part of ’im I ’ave, and be pleased with it.”
“Then keep to that, child, keep to that.”
She searched their faces. “Why are you tellin’ me all of this?”
“Because you matter, Nell. To him and to us.”
“I should go.”
“Perhaps for now,” William agreed. “But when he calls upon you, which he shall, I trust you will not show him the disappointment you feel, but only your pretty, very witty self, to remind him how much he needs you in his life.”
“’Ow can you be so certain ’e’ll call upon me with a new and even prettier girl to chase?”
“Because, Nell,” said Mary. “Quite simply, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle is not surrendering herself to the king, and His Majesty will entertain virtue for only so long.”
“Well, then,” Nell replied, pressing back the hurt as she turned around, and began to make her way across the room toward the door. “Perhaps I’m still in the game, after all.”
