“Aye. It was all the battle in her made her seem so big to us, I reckon.”
They sat in silence for a while in the flickering candlelight.
“I haven’t cried,” Nell said at length. “Does it make me wicked, do you think?”
“No. You took her in, Nell, which is more than she had a right to expect after how she treated you. It was more than I could have done.”
“I couldn’t not do it,” Nell said. “She was my mam, for all the pain she gave me.”
THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF ELEANOR’S DEATH HAD PROVIDED FODDER for the ballad makers, and Rose’s husband Guy looked up from the broadsheet in his hands, his face grim.
“Are you sure you want me to read it?”
“Yes,” said Nell. “We’ll hear it soon enough, and I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Very well.” With a self-conscious cough, he read.
“Here lies the victim of a cruel fate
Whom too much element did ruinate.
’Tis something strange, but yet most wondrous true,
That what we live by, should our lives undo.
She that so oft had powerful waters tried,
At last with silence, in a fish pond died.
Fate was unjust, for had he proved but kind,
To make it brandy he had pleased her mind.”
“OH, POOR MAM,” ROSE SAID. “TO BE SO SORELY MOCKED WHEN SHE’S hardly cold.”
“It’s the way of the world,” Nell said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sure I’ll not fare any better when I’m gone.”
THE CHURCH OF ST. MARTIN-IN-THE-FIELDS WAS PACKED. ELEANOR Gwynn lay in her coffin, and the great and the good of London had come to see her off. Jemmy sat to Nell’s left, his little face somber, and Rose and Guy beyond him. Charles sat on Nell’s right, with Charlie beside him, proud in his new mourning clothes, a copy of his father’s.
Nell, out of long habit, found herself counting the house, and reckoned it to be close on three hundred mourners. Buckingham, Dorset, Rochester, Sedley, George Etherege, Henry Savile, Fleetwood Sheppard-all the Wits were there, the Merry Gang sober at least in demeanor and dress. Court and theater were well represented, and the back of the church was filled with Nell’s household, all in black, and with crowds of people who had known Eleanor, or perhaps had not known her and were come only to stare.
“It’s the best I could do for you, Mam,” Nell whispered. “Go to your rest now. God knows you deserve it.”
AUGUST. WINDSOR WAS HOT, BUT IT WAS COOLER ON THE RIVERBANK where Nell walked hand in hand with Charles. She watched a line of ducks paddling on the smooth water, making their way to the shade beneath a spreading oak. Hard to believe it had been more than a year now since the first stirrings of the Popish Plot, a year of nightmare and strife. She glanced at Charles and was relieved to see him smile back at her as he drew her arm into the crook of his elbow. Finally the strains and tension of the past months seemed to be losing their grip upon him. As usual, he found release in activity, and already that day he had played tennis and then gone hawking, losing himself in the passion of the moment, finding freedom in the country air, the wind and sun upon his face.
“Will you sup with me and the boys this evening?” she asked.
“Gladly. That will put a cap upon a fine day.”
BUT AT NELL’S HOUSE THAT EVENING, THE DOOR OPENED TO REVEAL not Charles, but a grim-faced Buckingham.
“The king has fallen ill.”
“Ill? Of what?” Nell cried.
“A fever. Quite suddenly come upon him and quite bad.”
“I’ll go to him at once.” Nell started for the door.
“No. Best not. I’m sorry, Nell, but you can’t help him and you wouldn’t be admitted. Come, I’ll sit with you.”
Buckingham returned to the castle late in the evening, promising to return if the king’s condition changed. Nell sat in her nightgown at her bedroom window, wondering how many lonely and terror-filled nights she had spent-there seemed to be so many. The bright moon in the warm sky brought her no comfort, and only telling herself that the lack of news meant nothing worse had happened kept her from wild panic.
IN THE MORNING, THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH ARRIVED, THE DUST OF the road upon him.
“Jemmy, thank God you’ve come,” Nell said, clasping him to her. “How is he?”
“Very ill,” he said.
“I wanted to go this morning but Buckingham sent word there was no change and I would still not be admitted.” Her words broke off as her throat tightened with a sob.
“Come, sit,” said Monmouth, taking her hand. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Nell said. They went into the parlor and Nell sat, but Monmouth paced.
“Tell me,” Nell said.
“He has a high fever and has been delirious at intervals. Bleeding and cataplasms have done little to bring him to himself. They’ve given him a sleeping draft so that he may rest.” Bridget came in with food and drink, and Monmouth held his tongue until she left, then poured wine for Nell and himself.
“Nell, the Duke of York has been sent for from Scotland.” His voice was even, but Nell felt a clutch of fear at the pit of her stomach. She pushed back her terror and willed herself to remain outwardly calm.
“They fear for his life then?”
“Aye. I wish I could tell you otherwise.” He resumed his pacing and stared out the window. “I’m being watched, Nell. My enemies fear me. For they know the time may be near when the king will finally speak, might finally say…” He stopped and turned to her.
“Jemmy, how great a fool can you be?” Nell cried. “Charles will not make you his heir! You know he’s signed a statement that he was never married to your mother. Every time those rumors have arisen he has denied them. Every time there is talk of procuring a divorce from the queen, he has put it down. The Duke of York will succeed him on the throne.”
“So he has always said.” Monmouth came to Nell’s side, and she was frightened by the fervor burning in his eyes. “But it’s only a sham. He loves me, and I am his firstborn. When he knows he’s dying, then he will say what is in his heart-that I am to be king.”
“For the love of Christ, keep your voice down,” Nell hissed, clutching his arm. “It’s treason you’re speaking. If you are being watched, don’t give them the misstep they’re hoping for. I beg you, put this madness from your mind.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, NELL WAS ALLOWED TO SEE CHARLES. HE HAD come through the worst of his illness, and his life was no longer in danger, but as she sat at his bedside she was alarmed at how thin and weary looking he had become in only a few days.
“I was so frightened,” she murmured, holding his hand to her cheek.
“You were not alone, sweetheart, though most of them more feared having my brother upon the throne than the loss of my presence among the living.”
“Not so,” she said. “You know how the people love you.” Charles gave a snort of laughter, and it turned into a wracking cough.
“They’d love me a sight more if I’d provided a son got on the right side of the blanket and they did not face the prospect of a Papist king when I’m gone. Why the devil James had to stir sleeping dogs by declaring his faith in the Romish church I’ll never understand. It’s already cost him the Admiralty.”
“You’ve always said he’s stubborn as one of the army mules.” Nell smiled, but she knew Charles was right. The prospect of a King of England subject to the sway of the Pope was enough to rouse a mob to rage.
“Is there no other way?” she asked. “Other than your brother coming to the throne?”
Charles stared at her. “Not you, too, Nell! You know I couldn’t make your boys-”
“I didn’t mean that!” She was embarrassed that he would think she would presume so far. “I meant-what about Jemmy? Monmouth.”
“I’ll see him hanged at Tyburn before I see him on the throne,” Charles spat.
Nell stared at him, appalled.
“Don’t say such a thing, even in jest. He is your son.”
“He is,” Charles agreed, punching the pillows behind him into a more comfortable arrangement before sinking back against them. “There was good sport at his making, and I loved his mother well.” He stopped, his mind clearly gone back to Jersey and Lucy Walter, so long ago. The rumors that he had married the girl had been so persistent over the years that Nell longed to ask him if it was true. But even if it were, he could not tell her. Could not tell anyone. Ever.
“He’d bring the country to its knees,” Charles said, coming back to the present. “Oh, aye, I know there are those who think I pay little heed to business. But Jemmy, much as I love him, truly has no head for kingship. He’d be overrun by Parliament before I was cold. No, when I’m gone, it’ll be Dismal Jimmy sitting in the chair, and the devil take the hindmost.”
CHRISTMAS. LITTLE JEMMY HAD TURNED EIGHT, AND HE WAS LEAVING in a few days for Paris, in the company of Henry Savile, Charles’s envoy extraordinary to France. He had been delighted by Charles’s gifts of accoutrement for his travels-a great black gelding, a fine saddle trimmed in silver, traveling cases for his clothes and goods, even a pair of pistols.
“It’ll be good for him,” Charles said again, as they watched Jemmy solemnly hoist a pistol in both hands. “He’ll meet his French cousins, learn dancing and some French. The countryside is beautiful, and he’ll appreciate that. He’s always been a soulful little thing. God knows where he gets it.”
“But he’s so small,” Nell said. “And he’s had so many colds this past year.”
“It’s warmer in France,” Charles said. “And Henry will take good care of him. Come, it’s time he was out of the realm of nursemaids and into the world of men.”
THE DAY OF DEPARTURE HAD COME. NELL LOOKED AT JEMMY, SURROUNDED by the mountain of his baggage and the great horses, and thought that no one had ever looked less ready for the world of men than her baby, his soft cheeks flushed as he stood bundled against the cold. She stooped and pulled his cap more firmly down over his ears and kissed him again. She had sworn to herself that she would not cry at their parting, but she couldn’t help herself. She gathered him into her arms and pulled him close, as if she could plant him within her very heart.
“Do you know how much I love you, my brave little one?” she asked, stroking his cheek, memorizing his face so that she would have a picture to hold in her mind during the months of his absence. “More than food and sun and air, more than life itself.”
“And I love you, Mother,” he whispered, clasping her around the neck, heedless of the overwhelming masculine presence around them-Savile and the servants, grooms, and stable lads.
“You can look at the moon every night,” Nell said, “and know that I am looking at it, too, and thinking of my sweet Jemmy. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”
He nodded solemnly.
“And if you are ever lonely or homesick,” Nell whispered, “you must call to me. I’ll hear you, though you be far away, and send you special love. I will be sending you my love always and counting the days until I can see my boy again and hear of your great adventures.”
“We should be off, Nell,” Savile said. “So we do not miss the tide.”
“I know.” She stood and watched while a groom helped Jemmy up into the saddle, the enormous black horse dwarfing him. She reached up and kissed him once more, breathing in the sweet scent of his hair. The party set off down Pall Mall, and Jemmy turned to wave as they rounded the corner and she could see him no more.
“THE KISS OF JUDAS,” CHARLES MURMURED AGAIN INTO HIS WINEGLASS. “My own son, in league against me with that misbegotten whoreson Shaftesbury.”
“But the bill didn’t pass, did it?” Nell asked, moving closer to him in the bed and stroking his forehead.
“It passed the Commons,” Charles said. “And would have passed the Lords if Monmouth had his way.”
“I still don’t understand,” she ventured. “How can Parliament claim they should decide who is to succeed you? Surely that is beyond their power.”
“It should be,” Charles agreed, kneading her thigh absently. “But such is the pass we are come to. My idiot brother James was not content to follow his conscience in private, but must parade his Papist beliefs for all to see, and now Parliament will do all it can to ensure that he does not come to the throne, even if it means that Monmouth, bastard though he is, becomes king.” He sighed deeply and drained his glass. “At least juries are beginning to return acquittals for some of those poor wretches accused by Oates.”
“But you closed Parliament for the session, did you not?” Nell murmured, pouring him more wine. “Perhaps next year will be better.”
“Perhaps.” There was not much enthusiasm in his response.
“I had a letter from Jemmy today,” Nell said, hoping to get his mind on happier thoughts. “He says the French countryside is pretty, but ‘not a patch on England.’ ”
“Does he so?” Charles chuckled. “The little imp. I shall be glad to have him home again, though no doubt it’s good for him to have this time abroad.”
“I miss him most desperately,” Nell said, tearing up. “The sight of his handwriting, so careful and fine, made me weep for longing to hold him again.”
“Soon enough,” Charles said, taking her into his arms and nuzzling her hair. “Soon enough.”
ROSE GAVE BIRTH TO A DAUGHTER, LILY, AS THE WINTER COLD WAS starting to dissipate. The infant, so perfect and tiny, squalling fretfully in her cradle, waving her fat little hands, reminded Nell of how much she loved babies and almost made her long for another. But no, she thought. She could not face that again-the enforced isolation, the helpless loneliness, the fear that in her absence Charles would find another bed he preferred to hers. Though in truth it had been long since she had worried now. Maybe the battles with Louise, Hortense, and Barbara had worn him out. Maybe he could no longer be bothered with the hunt. As often as not when he came to her bed he was content to hold her, and when they did couple, it was with tenderness and ease, not the fire of earlier years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NELL WAS EXHAUSTED. SHE FELT THAT SHE HAD NEVER BEEN well since the start of the year, and now it was spring and she was sick again. She opened her eyes at the sound of a knock at her bedroom door, and Buckingham came in.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, sitting at her bedside.
“A bit. My God, we’re old, George.”
“Is that what it is? I thought it was just a broken heart, and being tired and disappointed.” The loss of Anna Maria, now married to George Bridges and mother of a child, had shaken Buckingham to his core, Nell thought, and she doubted he would ever truly recover.
“I can scarce believe I’m thirty now,” she said, sorry she had raised a subject that dispirited him.
“Ah, best take care, then. A wench is good flesh when she’s fresh, but she’s fish when she’s stale.” He gave her a mischievous smirk, and she tossed a pillow at him, knocking his wig askew.
“When was that wig last combed, George? It looks as though rats have nested in it.” He pulled it off and regarded it sadly, scratching the grizzled stubble on his head, and then set it back on, still crooked.
“Never mind,” Nell said. “Help me to get Lord Ormonde to wring some money from my Irish properties and I’ll buy you a new one. And some shoes. Afore God, what a stink those ones let off! Have you stepped in something?”
“Very likely,” Buckingham said. “Or perhaps it’s just my stockings. They’re probably due for a wash.”
“What did the boys have to say?” Nell asked. She had wanted to see Dorset and Sedley but hadn’t felt up to the task of making herself presentable. “Anything good?”
“Oh, they were full of some brangle and brawl at the Duke’s Playhouse. Charles Deering and a Mr. Vaughan quarreled, and presently took the stage with swords in hand.”
“That must have brought the show to a standstill.”
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“Yes, but the crowd got their money’s worth all the same. Deering was dangerously wounded and Vaughan was held and taken away by the bailiffs lest the injury should prove mortal.”
“The poor actors,” Nell said. “Hard to carry on after that.”
“Oh, and word has come that Johnny’s very poorly,” Buckingham continued. Nell thought of Rochester, at home with his wife in Adderbury.
“Poor Johnny,” Nell said. “So far from London. He hates the country so much. What ails him?”
“The drink,” Buckingham said. “What else? He’s been drinking hard these many years.”
“Aye,” said Nell. “Drinking with a purpose. As if he wanted it to kill him.”
“He’ll soon get his wish, then. The Charlies say Bishop Burnet is visiting him, and he’s making his peace with God.”
“Hell and death,” Nell said. “He must be bad off. I’d go to see him did I not feel like I’m ready to be put to bed with a shovel myself.”
NELL LAY STRETCHED LUXURIOUSLY ON A CHAISE IN THE DAPPLED shade of the terrace at the back of the house, the afternoon sun playing on the trees of the orangerie. She had woken that morning feeling stronger than she had in weeks, and longing to get out of the house. She did not yet feel well enough to want to venture to the palace, to the playhouse, to see friends. But this was perfect. She loved her garden, especially at this time of year. The heavy sweet scent of orange blossoms wafted on the warm breeze. Butterflies danced and flitted over the green grass that stretched away to the far wall of the grounds. The sky overhead was a sharp and clear blue, with a few sheeplike clouds far overhead. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sunshine’s gentle warmth.
She became aware of voices coming from the house and wondered vaguely who it could be-she was not expecting anyone. She opened her eyes as she heard footsteps coming across the terrace and was surprised to see Buckingham making his way toward her with Thomas Otway behind him, and with them, another man. Henry Savile. At the sight of Savile, Nell felt at first confusion, followed instantaneously by dread. Savile was in Paris with little Jemmy. How could he be here, and no Jemmy at his side?
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