The Darling Strumpet

by Gillian Bagwell

  “Your Grace.” Nell dropped her eyes and swept him a low curtsy, taking the opportunity of the break in eye contact to compose herself, to will her heart to slow and her damp palms to dry. As she met his eyes again, Nell found that he was smiling faintly and it steadied her.

  “Will you not join me for supper?” So she was to be fed, any road. “You must be famished after your labors.”

  Was he mocking her? This man who had never known a moment’s labor in his life? Perhaps he caught a flash of something behind her eyes, for he bowed again and gave her a smile that seemed to light the room. “After your enchanting labors, which so deliciously relieve the daily dreariness of our lives.”

  Nell, suddenly felt that she stood on more solid ground than she had a few moments before, and smiled back at him. “It would be my great pleasure, Your Grace.”

  HART WAS IN HIS SHIRT AND BREECHES WITH A WORN GOWN OVER them to keep warm when Nell crept in the door of his rooms.

  “And so? What brings you down from Olympus so soon? Surely you didn’t refuse His Grace the pleasure of your continued company?”

  Nell felt flustered at the mockery in his words.

  “I tried to find you,” she said. “I asked Mr. Killigrew to tell you where I’d gone.”

  “And so he did,” Hart said. “And I’m sure everyone else in the company heard, as well.”

  “Nothing happened,” she said. “He took me to supper. We talked. And that was all. I wanted to come home to you, and here I am.” She knelt and laid her head on his lap. “Don’t be angry.”

  Hart stroked her hair and sighed.

  “I’m not angry. I just see what will come. So he didn’t try to bed you tonight. But he will. You know it.”

  “And if he does?” Nell asked, looking up into his eyes. “Do you think it will change how I feel for you?”

  “You will not mean it to,” he said after a moment. “But yes. In time it will change you.”

  THE KING HAD ORDERED A COMMAND PERFORMANCE OF SECRET LOVE. Nell was at Whitehall Palace and could scarce believe it. She remembered how she had listened to Marmaduke Watson and Harry Killigrew talk about the theater at court and longed to see it, and now she would be acting there, wearing a new costume constructed for her by the royal tailors. The rhinegraves breeches she wore when in disguise as a young man were slashed to the thigh, so that they flew open to show her legs, especially when she danced.

  THE PERFORMANCE WAS THE BEST THEY HAD GIVEN. THE KING roared with laughter at Nell’s personification of a cocky young gallant, and the audience clapped along as she danced the jig that had made her famous. Offstage, Hart swept her into his arms, beaming.

  “You’ve never been better,” he cried. “I’m so proud of you, my Nell.”

  A sudden flurry of movement caught Nell’s eye. The king had entered the room and was making his way straight to them. Nell dropped into a deep curtsy and flushed as she raised her head to find the king’s eyes intently on her, his teeth showing in a broad grin. Despite his elegance, she could not help thinking there was something piratical about him.

  “Mistress Nell,” the king said, “’od’s my life, I scarce know where to begin. You captured the carriage and manner of a spark to perfection. I was thinking I would tell you that I had never been more entertained by anything in all my life than to see you as a blade, when you topped all in that final scene. ‘Love until we no longer can,’ forsooth!”

  He turned to Hart. “And you, sir. You never disappoint, and you are a prince among players, but by God, I think you’ve met your match in the wench!”

  “You speak the truth, Your Majesty,” Hart laughed. “I try to hold my own against her, but it would take a better man than I to steal a scene from Nell.”

  EVERYTHING SEEMED WRONG THE NEXT DAY AS NELL WORKED WITH Hart to learn lines for their new play, All Mistaken.

  “Your wits are woolgathering.” Hart spoke sharply. “Pay attention if you want to get through this scene. I have to get ready in half an hour.”

  He was right. Nell’s mind had been on the excitement of the performance at court, and the fact that not only the king but both Buckingham and Rochester had been there and had come back to pay their addresses after the show. Hart’s voice, reading her next line, had penetrated somewhere at the back of her mind, but she could not have repeated the words if her life depended on it. And she had so many lines to learn.

  “I’m sorry, Hart,” she said. “Read it to me again.”

  “ ‘I tell the fat man I cannot marry him till he’s leaner, and the lean man I cannot marry him till he’s fat. So one of them purges and runs heats every morning to pull down his sides, and the other makes the tailor stuff his clothes to make him show fatter,’” he read, and she repeated it. She did love the part of Mirida. James Howard had written the play for her and Hart, capitalizing on their success in Secret Love. Once more Nell disguised herself as a young man, providing the opportunity to display her legs, and once more she and Hart jousted and sparred wittily, but ended up happily together at the end. The theater was almost counting the ticket sales already.

  “THE PLAY BANNED?” NELL ASKED, STUNNED. “THE THEATER CLOSED? Lacy locked up? But why?” Hart had just come home from the first performance of Edward Howard’s new play, The Change of Crowns.

  “Because the king was there and flew into a towering rage.”

  “For what cause?”

  “The play sails mighty close to the wind in making light of the court,” Hart said. “And Lacy was so flown with his own wit that he threw in a handful of extra jests at the expense of the king, in the presence of not only His Majesty, but the queen, the Duke and Duchess of York, and half the court.”

  Nell threw up her hands in frustration. “What are we to do? How long will we be closed?”

  “I don’t know.” Hart sank onto the bed, his head in his hands. “Pray God not long. Mohun’s gone to beg of the king that he might relent.”

  “Will you run my lines with me as you’re home?” Nell asked.

  “Not now. My head is so full of this I cannot think.”

  Nell’s heart melted to see him so troubled, and she went to him. “Come. Your neck and shoulders are in knots. Lie down and let me knead them for you. It will all come right, I’m sure.”

  A couple of hours later, Mohun knocked on Hart’s door.

  “His Majesty has agreed we can play tomorrow, but not Change of Crowns, of course. What’ll it be instead? Secret Love?”

  “Pox on it,” Hart said. “No, not that, we’ve played it too much lately. We have Epicene on for next week. I suppose we can throw that up instead. But not with John. Nick Burt will have to go on as Otter.”

  “Right,” said Mohun. “Rehearsal in the morning then. I’ll send someone round to let the actors know.”

  THE COMPANY WAS TO PERFORM SECRET LOVE AT THE PALACE THREE days later, but Nell did not look forward to it as she had her first command performance of the play two months earlier. Lacy was still locked up, and she felt as if she were venturing into the lion’s den to play.

  The actors usually enjoyed their performances at court, but the rest of the cast seemed to share her feelings, and they were uncharacteristically subdued as they arrived at Whitehall. As she made herself ready, Nell glanced down the table. Betsy Knepp, Kate Corey, Beck and Anne Marshall, Franki and Elizabeth Davenport, and Margaret Rutter sat in a row, silently focused on their images in the mirrors set up to face them.

  “It’ll be like pulling teeth to get laughs tonight,” Nell murmured to Betsy.

  “You’re right there,” Betsy agreed. “Feels like we’re getting ready for a hanging, not a comedy.”

  “Don’t even say that,” Nell said, putting down her powder puff. “Not with John Lacy under lock and key.”

  “Oh, the king won’t go that far,” Betsy said. “Though I thought he’d have a fit right enough on Monday, with Lacy throwing out lines extempore right in his face, practically calling him a thief and a cheat for the selling of p
laces.”

  Nell struggled to be comfortable on the stage that night, and for the first time her usually triumphant scene with Hart at the end failed to get its usual laughs. The mood at the playhouse was grim the next morning when she and Hart arrived for a rehearsal of All Mistaken, and the afternoon’s performance of The Surprisal felt leaden. More than ever, she hated having to play a serious part, although, she considered as she sat in the tiring room after the show taking her makeup off, at least in a tragedy she wasn’t waiting for laughter that didn’t come.

  Angry voices rose from the greenroom below. Kate Corey looked at Nell.

  “That sounds like Lacy.”

  No doubt about it, it was Lacy’s voice, now raised in a shout. Nell and Kate sprang to their feet and rushed down the stairs.

  John Lacy, his clothes dirty and rumpled, his round face red and sweaty, stood faced off against Sir Edward Howard, the playwright of The Change of Crowns.

  “Because of your poxy play I’ve been locked up for three days!” Lacy shouted.

  “In the porter’s lodge at the palace! Drinking wine and taking your ease, no doubt,” Howard scoffed. “Don’t make out as if you were in Newgate with the cutpurses and whores!”

  “By God, then you try how you like it!” Lacy retorted, shaking his walking stick at Howard. “Locked up is locked up. No change of shirt, let alone wine to drink.” Actors, scenekeepers, and behind-the-scenes visitors were crowding into the room, drawn by the sound of the argument.

  “Don’t cry to me, sir,” Howard said, drawing himself up. “It’s not my play that’s got you in trouble but your confounded additions. No wonder the king was in a rage. Damned impertinence!”

  Lacy appeared ready to swallow his tongue with rage, and took a step toward Howard, towering over the little playwright.

  “Impertinence! True enough that my family be not high like yours, yet I’ll have you remember that I’m a shareholder and manager of this company, sir, and I am no hireling to do your bidding.” There were mutterings of agreement from the gathered actors.

  “I am a gentleman, sir, and a poet!” Howard cried. He looked like a bantam rooster taking on a yard dog, Nell thought.

  “Poet!” Lacy shouted. “You’re more a fool than a poet!” Someone laughed out loud at that, and the sound seemed to push Howard over the edge. With one of his beribboned gloves, he slapped Lacy across the face.

  “That, sir, is the action of a gentleman. Do you dare acknowledge the insult?”

  “I’ll acknowledge it right enough,” Lacy roared, “like the honest common Yorkshireman that I am.” He thumped Howard over the head with his walking stick, and Howard fell back, appearing more shocked than hurt. Hart was at Lacy’s side, pulling him away, and Mohun rushed to restrain Howard.

  “’Fore God, John, get hold of yourself, man,” Hart begged.

  “Did you hear what he said?”

  “I heard, but let it go, or you’ll only make things worse for yourself. You’re free now and all’s well.”

  “And what are you all looking at?” Lacy roared at a knot of gentlemen who had stood watching the argument like a tennis match. “Get out! Go home!” Taken aback, the gawkers departed.

  Howard picked his hat up from the floor and jammed it onto his head. Nell thought she could practically see steam coming out of his ears.

  “You have not heard the last of this, I vow,” he said. “I’ll to the king, and he shall teach you your lesson.” He stumped off toward the stage door. Once he was gone, the air seemed to go out of Lacy, and he sagged onto a bench.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Mick.”

  “Never mind,” said Hart. “It’ll pass.”

  “Yes,” said Mohun. “I’ll to the king again. But I don’t think we’ll be playing tomorrow.”

  As Nell left, the scenekeeper Richard Baxter was tearing down the playbill that had been posted outside the theater, announcing the next day’s play.

  “A bad business.” He shook his head. “How are we to eat if we cannot play?”

  DESPITE MOHUN’S ENTREATIES, THE KING INSISTED THAT THE PLAYHOUSE would remain closed. But he knew the entire company suffered hardship if they could not play, and Lacy was a great favorite of his. So, having made his point, he relented after a week, and the next Saturday the playhouse put on Bartholomew Fair. A week after that, Lacy was back onstage and charming the crowds once more, in his famous role as the country fool Thump in The Changes.

  SHORTLY AFTER THE HUBBUB OVER THE CHANGE OF CROWNS CAME the first performance of All Mistaken. Nell’s role of Mirida, another saucy, gamesome wench, fell solidly in the mold of the parts in which audiences so loved her.

  “ ‘I’ll lay my head,’ ” she began, “ ‘ne’er a girl in Christendom of my age can say what I can. I’m now but five years i’ the teens, and I have fooled five several men. My humor is to love no man, but to have as many love me as they please, come cut or long tail!’ ”

  After her first scene, Nell saw Dicky One-Shank and several of the scenekeepers gathered in the wings.

  “’Fore the devil, I doubt I’ve ever laughed so hard,” Dicky said, giving her a slap on the back. “Keep it up, Nell, and I’ll go to my grave with a smile on my face.”

  “He’s right,” Richard Baxter agreed, grinning. “This one’ll play for a while, and no mistaking.”

  “That’s our girl!” Matt Kempton laughed. “Our own Nell!”

  The laughter built with each successive scene. Nell and Hart were on fire, and Nell knew it.

  At the end of the play, Nell came offstage elated, the applause still echoing in the house. Hart kissed her as soon as they were in the wings, his eyes shining with love and pride. Lacy stood there, beaming, but seeming on the verge of tears. He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head.

  “What a show you gave today!” he cried. “Wat would be right proud of you. There is not one thing I’d tell you to do different, sweetheart. You’ve taken all we’ve taught you to heart and put it to work with the gifts God gave you and what no one could teach you.”

  Rose rushed toward them, nearly dropping her basket in her haste to crush Nell in a hug. “Oh, Nell, I’m that proud of you!” she cried. “You were born for the stage, wasn’t she, Mr. Lacy?”

  “Indeed,” Lacy agreed. “Our girl’s done right by us, hasn’t she, Charlie?”

  “She has,” Hart said. “I knew all the world would be in love with her, and so they are.” His smile was affectionate and proud, but there was a shadow of sadness behind his eyes. Nell put her hand in his, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Our own Nell, with the world at her feet.”

  The next day, Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, and Harry Killigrew ambled into the tiring room before the performance.

  “Need any help dressing?” Harry leered.

  “Shoo,” Nell laughed, flicking a powder puff at him. “How can I be expected to concentrate with the likes of you running about underfoot?”

  “I could concentrate your mind wonderfully,” Dorset drawled, leaning against the dressing table, where he had a view down Nell’s bosom.

  “I could do it better,” Sedley argued, coming to her other side.

  “Mayhap we should all have a go, and see who succeeds best,” Harry said, moving close behind her and sliding his hands over her shoulders.

  Nell looked from one to the other. “I think the three of you are mighty full of talk,” she laughed up at them.

  “Nelly-” Hart’s voice broke off as he took in the scene, Harry’s hands on Nell’s bosom, Dorset and Sedley lounging on either side of her. Nell slapped Harry’s hands away and jumped to her feet. Harry chuckled and Nell rounded on him.

  “Get out, the three of you,” she snapped. “Could you not have heeded me before?”

  The three men exchanged glances and made for the door where Hart stood, thunder in his face.

  “Hart,” said Harry, smirking as he passed. “Always a pleasure.”

  “IT’S COMING, NELL,” SAID H
ART, LATER THAT NIGHT. “YOU WON’T admit it even to yourself yet, but one day not long from now you’ll find you’ve come to hate me because of what I cannot be and what I cannot give you, when you’re offered such temptation as daily parades itself before you.”

  “My Hart, my heart, I could never hate you,” Nell whispered. “Harry’s a fool.”

  “It’s not just Harry,” Hart said. “It’s all of them. With their money and power and youth. I’ve loved you so, Nell. It would be more than I could bear to see contempt for me in those bright eyes of yours.”

  “But I love you!” Nell cried.

  “Do you? Then do this for me. Take your freedom. Move to your own rooms. And if at the end of three months you still want me, I’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MAY DAY. NELL HAD HEARD THE FIDDLE FROM HER ROOM upstairs at the Cock and Pie and run down half dressed, in her skirt and smock, to see the milkmaids dancing. Their pails were decked with little nosegays of flowers and their sleeves were adorned with ribbon garters.

  “Mistress Nelly!” Sam Pepys was waving his hat as he made his way grinning across the road toward her. “A splendid day, is it not?”

  “It is indeed,” Nell answered, smiling at his good humor.

  “I’m seeing the play this afternoon, but I believe you are not in it, alas?”

  “No,” Nell said. “A rare day off for me.”

  “Indeed.” Pepys seemed not to want to leave. “A well-earned rest, I make no doubt. Though my pleasure in any play is always less when it lacks your talents. I hope you have no thought of quitting the stage?” He’d heard, Nell thought. Damnation. Did all London know that she and Hart had split?

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Pepys. But no, I assure you, you’ll find me back on the boards tomorrow.”

  She watched Pepys hurry off down Drury Lane, and sadness gripped her. It would be a wonderful day for a walk out to Islington or by the river, and many such a day she had enjoyed with Hart, needing only his company to make her happy. His lodging was within sight, just across Catherine Street. But she feared he would not welcome her knock at his door. Another lonely day to face.