With the court gone, it was only playhouse friends who visited. Hart came, and as he and Nell sat quietly together, she reflected that it was the first time she had been alone with him since her departure with Dorset.
“I’m happy for you, Nell,” he said. “Happy to see you happy.”
“I am happy,” she said. “But I wish…” It was only as the words left her mouth that she realized what she had been about to say. That some part of her wished it was his child that lay in the cradle nearby, and that it was for his footstep on the stair that she listened. Hart looked away and shook his head.
“It’s for the best, Nelly. I could never have given you all this.” He gestured at the room and its furnishings, the piles of gifts.
“You gave me-everything,” Nell said softly. “The playhouse. Where my life began. And in return…” Her voice caught, and Hart took her hand.
“You gave me your love,” said Hart. “And that was enough.”
“You have it still. You always will.”
“And you mine, my little Nell.”
CHARLES RETURNED FROM DOVER WITH TALES OF BANQUETS AND dancing, hawking and hunting, and especially his joy at seeing his sister. He brought gifts for Nell from Minette-a magnificent necklace of pearl and gold, perfumed gloves of fine soft leather, and a silver cup and rattle for the baby.
“She sends her love, and regrets she could not meet you on this visit,” Charles said. “She longs to meet you and knows you will be great friends.”
“The next time,” Nell said. “I would be honored to meet her.”
But less than a month later, shortly after her return to the French court, Minette died in agonized convulsions. Charles retreated alone to his bedchamber and wept for days. Nell, frightened by the lack of contact, summoned Buckingham.
“He loved her unreasoningly,” Buckingham said. “She was but a baby when the war began, and he knew her only as a sweet and loving child who could do no wrong. And he was not the only one-she was the sweetheart of the French court. It’s well known that her husband forsook her bed and preferred his lover the Chevalier de Lorraine, and that betrayal only made her seem the more virtuous.”
“But what was it killed her?” Nell asked.
“There are rumors of poison, of course, but then there always are. I’m going to France, to thank Louis for his condolences. I’ll sniff around to see what I can learn, but I doubt anything but time will bring Charles to himself. Don’t worry, he’ll soon be back in your arms.”
Charles was back in Nell’s arms within a week, but it was clear that his soul still ached. His humor was supplanted with an air of sadness. Nell did all she could to pet and comfort him, and he found solace in company with her and little Charlie.
“You are my family now,” he told her, bending over the baby’s cradle. “She was the last of my brothers and sisters but James, you know. There were two little girls who died as babies. Little Elizabeth died in captivity during the war, and the bastards told our poor brother Henry she’d died of a broken heart because I’d signed the Covenant. I lost Henry and Mary to smallpox not long after I came back to England. But Minette was the best of us.”
CHARLES SOUGHT THE SERENITY OF WINDSOR, AND NELL WAS JUST recovered enough from little Charlie’s birth to accompany him. But only a day or two after their arrival, she was disturbed to hear shouts from the street outside her house. Rushing to the window, she saw a scene below that looked like the opening of Romeo and Juliet. Liveried servants, some in the red of the king’s household and some in the green of Prince Rupert’s, were engaged in battle. Fists and kicking feet were flying, but two of the combatants had drawn knives. The young king’s man faced off with a lad in green, while two or three others from each side tried to keep them apart. It looked for a moment as if they would succeed, and the fight was all over. But suddenly Prince Rupert’s man called out, “And a whore, to boot!”
The king’s servant broke free from the grasp of his fellows, rushed at the other lad, and, to Nell’s horror, thrust his dagger into his belly. The boy staggered with the impact and looked down in disbelief at the bloom of blood darkening his livery. Then he fell, dropping to the dirt like a rag doll.
“A surgeon! A surgeon!” The cry went up from the servants in the street. Below, the front door of Nell’s house flew open. Her page went pelting toward the castle, while Joe, her porter, helped a bawling crowd of liveried servants carry the wounded lad into the house.
Nell ran down the stairs, her stomach heaving in fear. The boy lay on the floor of the hallway, his blood already pooling on the planks, his face a sickly white. He wasn’t moving. Joe straightened up and shook his head.
“I’m afraid he’s dead, madam.”
“Dear God.” Nell felt her knees give way and just managed to slump onto a chair. “Send someone to Prince Rupert’s house.”
THAT EVENING NELL LAY IN HER BED, HER HEAD STILL REELING FROM the shock of the fight and the murder. Bridget came in with her supper.
“I’m not hungry,” Nell said.
“You have to eat, madam,” Bridget said, setting out a bowl of broth and some bread. “Awful though it is, you’re still here, and you have to care for yourself for the sake of the baby, if nothing else.”
Nell knew she was right, and reluctantly sipped a spoonful of soup. It tasted good, and the warmth was comforting.
“Did they find out who he was? Why they were fighting?” Bridget didn’t answer immediately, but busied herself tending the fire. “Bridget?”
“Yes, madam.” Bridget spoke reluctantly. “He was the brother of that player friend of yours, Mrs. Peg Hughes.”
“Oh, no!” Nell cried. Poor Peg. “But what was the cause of such a terrible fight?”
“I hate to say it, madam, but it was you and Mrs. Peg.”
“What!”
“Yes, madam. Somehow the king’s lads and Prince Rupert’s lads got to arguing over who was the most handsome, you or Mrs. Peg. And that was the cause of all.”
“Oh, no.” It couldn’t be. Nell thought of the boy’s pale face, his head lolling to the side, smeared with blood. What a waste. What a senseless waste.
The next day Nell dictated a note to Peg Hughes, expressing her condolences, but the circumstances scarce seemed real. Could young men truly work themselves into a murderous rage over the respective charms of two actresses? The death of young Hughes hung over Nell, and she was relieved when the court left Windsor in the autumn to return to town.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHE’S HERE,” SOMEONE HISSED, AND NELL TURNED, WITH THE REST of the gathered company, to the doors of the Banqueting House. The newcomer had paused with exquisite timing so that she was framed in the doorway. Her gown, of cloth of gold, embroidered with pearls and jewels, caught and reflected the light of the candles so that it seemed to shimmer with fire, and she stood as some fairy queen stepping from the realm of the shadows. Dark ringlets cascaded over her white shoulders and reposed on the luxurious curve of her bosom, thrust high by the tightly laced bodice. From her tiny waist the skirt of her gown billowed gracefully, swaying slightly in a breath of warm evening breeze.
Her face was doll-like, Nell thought. Luminous dark eyes with lush lashes and arching brows. A delicate flush over the rounded cheeks, pouting lips that managed to be simultaneously sensual and childlike, inviting thoughts of acts which seemed both promised and forbidden.
Nell glanced to the dais where Charles sat, and felt a twinge in her heart. His lips curved into a catlike smile as he watched the girl, who now curtsied to the floor, casting her eyes demurely down and then raising them to meet his eyes. The look in his eyes-hot, predatory-sent a cold wave through Nell’s stomach.
The interloper was making similar impressions around the room. The queen sat silently, but the compression of her lips and the hovering presence of her ladies gave an unmistakable aura of tension. Barbara Palmer stood still but visibly agitated, her nostrils flaring and her eyes afire. Her little black boy, Mustapha, dutif
ully flapped his large fan of blue ostrich feathers toward her, but she slapped him away, and he retreated awkwardly, as if trying to become invisible.
“LOUISE DE KEROUALLE,” BUCKINGHAM HAD TOLD NELL EARLIER. “She was one of Minette’s ladies. Louis insisted I bring her back, said her presence might console Charles for the loss of his sister.” He’d caught Nell’s sharp glance. “No need to worry. She’s famously a virgin, and on the hunt for a noble husband.”
CHARLES STOOD AND WENT FORWARD TO MEET LOUISE, STILL PROSTRATED in a pool of gold silk, and extended his hand. She brought his ring to her mouth and kissed it. As her lips met the stone she raised her eyes, fixing him for a fleeting second with a bold and inviting glance, and then looked down again, as if the king’s power had overwhelmed her.
Virgin, my arse, Nell thought. Or if so, she’s been in training for her debut. Nell was glad that Charles’s voluminous petticoat breeches hid the hardness she was sure was there. It would have been too humiliating to have to be made so unmistakably aware of his reaction to this French baggage.
She glanced around. The eyes of every man present were focused intently on Louise.
“SHE MAY TURN THE KING’S HEAD FOR A FEW WEEKS, BUT SHE’LL NOT last,” Buckingham predicted over supper at Nell’s house a few days later. “Wenches are like fruits-only dear at their first coming in; their price falls apace after. She’s already made herself heartily disliked. Even the queen and Barbara are united in their mutual hatred of her.”
“Now there’s an unholy alliance” Rochester grinned.
“Besides, he dotes on little Charlie,” Buckingham said. “That strengthens your hand. Charles has never abandoned the mother of one of his children.” Except poor Lucy Walter, Nell thought. Dying desperate and alone in Paris, denied even the chance to see her royal son.
NELL FOUND HERSELF FRETTING WITH WORRY ABOUT LOUISE DE KEROUALLE. She was the talk of the court. Her beauty, her ancient and noble lineage, her fierce defense of her virginity until a suitable match should present itself, and of course her connection with the tragic and beloved Minette all made her fascinating.
“I’ve had enough of this,” Nell said to Rose one evening. “Killigrew and Dryden keep trying to tempt me back to the stage, and mayhap I should go.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Rose agreed. “It will give you something to occupy your time, and you won’t look as if you’re just waiting for the king’s attention. What’s the part?”
Nell made a face. “Queen Almahide. Virtuous and stuffy. I hate these tragedies so. And the damned thing has two parts to it, each of them endless. But at least Dryden’s agreed to write me an amusing prologue.”
So Nell set to work, hiring young Anne Reeves, a newcomer to the playhouse, to help her learn her innumerable lines. Dryden had written the part of Almahide’s servant, Esperanza, just for Anne, and Nell guessed that the wench either was or would shortly become his mistress. But she was a smart and likable girl, happy to have the work, and gratifyingly in awe of Nell, so they got on well.
“You’re perfect in that scene now,” Anne said after Nell repeated back her speech once more.
“Good. I don’t think my head can hold any more today. And I’m hungry, aren’t you?”
Rose was at the house that afternoon, and the three girls ate supper in the kitchen, with baby Charlie cooing in a basket next to Nell. The main rooms of the house were drafty, but the kitchen was cozy, and the homey surroundings and unpretentious company cheered Nell. Bridget fussed at her to eat more.
“You need your nourishment for your milk, madam,” she clucked. “He’s got such an appetite, the little lamb.”
Charlie did have an appetite, and though it was unfashionable to do so, Nell nursed him herself rather than giving him over to the care of a wet nurse. She brought the baby along to the playhouse so she could feed him during rehearsals, and Bridget watched over him in the greenroom while she worked. She was determined to make sure he knew he had a mother who loved and cared for him.
THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA PACKED the theater. Nell listened to the buzz of the audience, impatient to make her entrance for the prologue. She knew her costume alone, an outsized cartwheel hat and ridiculously broad belt that mocked the fashions of the French court, would bring down the house. She enjoyed speaking prologues and epilogues more than almost anything else she did onstage. She did not have to put on the character of some dignified and highborn lady, but could be herself, or at least those aspects of herself that audiences most adored and responded to. She was speaking lines written for her, directly to the audience, picking out familiar faces to address. It was during prologues and epilogues that she most truly felt she was loved, and she had missed that love.
At last the musicians stopped, the prompter waved her on, and she entered.
“Nelly!” Cries of her name and cheers rang throughout the house. Yes, she thought, this is where I belong.
The play, pairing Hart and Nell once more, was wildly popular, and the performances stretched into mid-December. Despite her misgivings, Nell was enjoying herself. It felt like she was home again. She bantered backstage with Sam Pepys one afternoon, amused as always by his cheerful humor and lively interest in the life of the playhouse and court.
“The Duke of York simply hates that Mrs. Carwell,” he grinned, using the Anglicized butchery of Louise de Keroualle’s name that had become common.
“Dismal Jimmy?” Nell laughed. “There’s precious little he takes pleasure in.”
“He’ll be a sorry sight at the ball, I’ll warrant,” Pepys chuckled. “Or as it’s to be masked, perhaps he’ll send a servant in his place.”
“What ball?”
“The Christmas ball at court.”
“Oh, of course,” Nell faltered. She felt suddenly sick and wanted only to be alone. She had not been told of any ball, and that meant only one thing. She had not been invited.
On the night of the ball, Nell sat at home with Rose and baby Charlie, listening to the church bells sound the passing hours. The wind whistled, rattling the window casements. The streets outside seemed deserted, and Nell wondered if there was anyone in London who felt as alone as she that night.
THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA WAS SUCH A SUCCESS THAT CHARLES ordered a command performance in January. Nell thought how she used to look forward to shows at Whitehall. But her heart was no longer in it, and from her first entrance, the evening confirmed her apprehensions. Her outlandish French costume failed to get the laugh it always did at the playhouse, and even her prologue fell flat.
“This jest was first of the other house’s making,
And, five times tried, has never failed of taking…”
But it’s failed this time, and no mistake, she thought as she stamped dejectedly off the stage to change.
The rest of the play went no better. She could not find it in herself to rise to the heights of drama the part required, and felt foolish mouthing Dryden’s bombastic verse.
“… As you are noble, sir, protect me then
From the rude outrage of insulting men.”
She noticed Louise giggle and whisper to a neighbor, hiding a smirk behind her fan. Nell had a sudden view of herself as Louise must see her-an upstart oyster wench in tawdry worn-out finery, playing at being a noble lady. A beat too late, she realized that it was her cue and came in with her line just as Hart was going on with his to cover her lapse. She was sure she had never had a more disastrous performance.
A FEW DAYS LATER, NELL SAT AT HOME WITH APHRA. DESPITE THE roaring fire, the parlor was cold, and Nell pulled her shawl tighter about her.
“Truly I don’t know what to do,” she said again.
“If you want my advice, Nell, keep up with your work. Not Conquest or any of these other tragedies-you hate them and they don’t suit you. Get Killigrew to revive All Mistaken. Or let me write something for you. I’d love to, you know.”
Nell turned to Aphra and squeezed her hand. “You’re too good
to me.”
“It’s not a question of being good to you. You’re a delight onstage and my treasured friend. It would be a joy to write you a good part.”
Alone in bed that night, Nell thought about what Aphra had said. A return to a favorite part or a new one might be just the thing. But could she go back? In this last show, her fellow players had treated her with deference and even awkwardness. She was no longer the girl she had been when she first stepped onto the stage. Nor was she a lady, and she never would be. What was she then? Neither fish nor foul, she thought. Neither fish nor foul.
Rose was practical as usual.
“What do you want, Nell? To be the king’s wife? Impossible. To go back to the stage? You’re no longer at home there, and in any case you could never earn enough from the playhouse to live as you do now. There is no one else you care for, and if there were, how should it fall out? No man of wealth and position would marry you. And no man of our sort either, now. Could you live above a shop and bed the king’s son down on a pallet? No. So where does that leave you? In the king’s bed. And what did I tell you all those years ago? Get the money first. Always.”
CHARLES WAS COMING TO SUPPER FOR NELL’S TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY and was due at any moment. She surveyed the room with satisfaction. The fire crackled in the big fireplace, and she had had the table moved close to the hearth to counter the drafts. It was draped with a snowy damask cloth, and the pewter and glasses gleamed in the firelight. Candles were expensive, and she had waited until the last minute to have Bridget light them, but now they burned in brackets on the walls and on the table itself. The room looked as elegant as she could make it. And if anything was lacking, well, that was part of the point of the evening.
The Darling Strumpet Page 23
