The Darling Strumpet

by Gillian Bagwell

  He stood and made his way through the rows of men, still bent in helpless obeisance, and swept from the room, the doors booming shut behind him.

  CHARLES SWUNG NELL INTO HIS ARMS AND ONTO THE BED.

  “Pernicious dogs, I have sent them to the kennel. I’ll go to hell and back on my knees before I summon them again, and I’ll be troubled with them no more. Come, wench! What’s for supper? I have suddenly a great appetite upon me. Supper, bed, and then to Windsor.”

  NELL AND CHARLES JOURNEYED BACK TO LONDON FROM WINDSOR in August. As usual, the court composer Henry Purcell had composed a song to celebrate the return of the monarch. This one, “Swifter, Isis, Swifter Flow,” was a flowery appeal to the river to bear its royal burden speedily to the capital, and Nell thought with irony that the trip would be shortened if they could only sit down and be home instead of having to listen to the singers. But finally it was over, and king and court straggled into the palace to settle down once more, with the sense of battle-weary survivors.

  NELL WAS GLAD TO BE BACK IN LONDON NEAR HER FRIENDS AFTER the long summer, and she found it comforting to be sitting with John Lacy in his house near the theater. She had spent so many happy hours there as he taught her for the stage, and the books on their shelf, his parts carefully stowed in pigeonholes above the desk, the sunlight spilling across the carpet made her feel safe and at home. She smiled at him and took his hand across the little table.

  “You look tired, John.”

  He nodded. “Aye. I keep wondering why I haven’t the energy I used to, and realizing with surprise that it’s because I’m old. Sixty. What an age. Everything about me aches and creaks.”

  “Do you miss being on the stage?” Nell wondered.

  “I miss the old days,” Lacy said. “Playing with Charlie Hart and Mick Mohun and Wat Clun and Kate Corey. But these last years I’ve found little pleasure in the theater. Too much squabbling among the company and with Killigrew, too much of a struggle to fill the playhouse, too many worries over money. When Hart said he was calling it a day it seemed time for me to go, too. It’s not like it was when you were with us.”

  “I don’t think I’d relish it myself, now,” said Nell. “The women’s roles they’re writing now call for nothing more than baring your bosom and being subjected to torture, rape, and terror. And all in verse. Not like Florimel and Mirida. There was joy in those parts. Did you hear about poor Betsy Knepp, by the way? Died in childbirth with Joe Haines’s child.”

  “I did. Another stab to the heart. Oh, Nell, it’s good to see you,” Lacy smiled. “Tell me something good, something pleasant to warm the cockles of an old man’s heart. How is your young Charlie?”

  Nell beamed. “I’m that proud of him, John. He’s being brought up as a true gentleman. I’m trying, leastways. Otway got one of the maids with child, same as Fleetwood Sheppard did, so now I’ve to find someone else to teach Charlie. Serves me right for letting Rochester pick his tutors.”

  “Are you happy?” Lacy asked. “Does the king care for you well?”

  “He does. He told me he’d give me as much of Sherwood Forest as I could ride around before breakfast.” Nell laughed. “It was more than I could do, but he gave me Bestwood Park-used to belong to Edward the Third, you know. The old lad must be rolling in his grave. And he’s given me more land around Burford House.”

  “Quite the wealthy lady,” Lacy laughed.

  “Never as wealthy as Louise, though. And no matter how much I get, my expenses always seem to outstrip my revenue. But I haven’t taken to highway robbery yet.”

  When Nell took her leave, Lacy hugged her to him and then stepped back to study her face.

  “ ‘He falls to such perusal of my face as he would draw it,’ ” Nell quoted.

  “Just taking a careful look. So that I can have your smile firm in my memory.”

  “No need for that,” Nell said, kissing him. “I’ll see you soon.” But she turned to look up at Lacy watching from the window and waved before she stepped into her sedan chair, and when news of his death came only a fortnight later, she wondered if he had felt the shadow creeping up on him and had known he would not see her face again.

  HART CAME TO VISIT NELL A FEW MONTHS AFTER LACY’S DEATH.

  “You look as tired as I feel, my Hart,” she smiled, offering him a cup of chocolate.

  “And you look as beautiful as always,” he said, wincing as he propped his leg on a footstool, and fondling Tutty, who snuffled his hand in search of treats.

  “What’s the new news?” Nell asked.

  “None good,” Hart shook his head. “I fear the end of the King’s Company has come. There’s been so much strife, and the money troubles just get worse and worse. Davenant’s son will take over, and run both companies as one. It’s been coming for a long time, but still it hurts like the loss of an old friend.”

  “And will it harm you?” Nell asked.

  “No,” Hart said. “I can live on my pension, and I still have money put by from the good days.”

  “What of the playhouse?” Nell asked.

  “Oh, they’ll use it.” Hart shrugged. “Charlie Davenant says he’ll use Dorset Gardens for operas and such, and Bridges Street for the plays that don’t need such grand effects.”

  “Our plays,” Nell said.

  “Yes,” Hart agreed. “Our plays. The ones that needed only Hart and Nell to make the people crowd the pit, not gods on clouds and flaming castles.”

  “It was a grand time,” Nell said, taking his hand. “And I’ll always be grateful to you for it.”

  That night she cried, recalling her first thrilling day selling oranges, her hopes and dreams, her friendships with Betsy Knepp and Kate Corey, Wat Clun and Lacy and so many others now gone. After Hart and Mohun had gone from the stage, the last of the other old actors had retired, exhausted and disheartened. And now the King’s Company was no more, and the world of the theater she had known was vanished, as surely as if it had been swept into the sea.

  THE COURT’S SPRINGTIME RETREAT TO NEWMARKET IN 1683 WAS not a restful one for Nell. Word came in March that Tom Killigrew had died. She fretted about whether to return to London for the funeral, but the path was made clear when Charles’s Newmarket house caught fire three days later. No one was killed or seriously injured, but the house was severely damaged.

  “Let’s just creep quietly back to London,” Charles said. “We’ll go to Killigrew’s funeral. I’m tired anyway. The house will be repaired by the fall, and we’ll have a better time then.” He looked worn out, and Nell worried about him, but was glad of the chance to honor Killigrew and see old friends from the playhouse once more.

  It was only when they had been back in London for a day or two that they learned that the early departure from Newmarket had likely saved Charles’s life and that of the Duke of York.

  “The plotters knew when the court would leave,” Buckingham told Nell. “They were lying in wait at Rye House, which stands at a narrow point on the Newmarket Road, and planned to assassinate the king and duke as they made their way to London.”

  “Who is it now? Not more Papists hiding in the closets?”

  “No,” said Buckingham. “It’s worse this time. It looks as if the Duke of Monmouth may have been involved.”

  “GOD’S BLOOD, WHY CAN THE BLOCKHEAD NEVER LEARN?” CHARLES roared. “He will not be king! I have told him so flat-out-to think of it no more-and now this!” He slumped into a chair, his anger depleted, and Nell saw that he was near tears. She knelt in front of him and took his hands in hers.

  “Jemmy is a fool. But he loves you. I’m quite sure he would have nothing to do with a plot to kill you.”

  “Then where is he? If he’s innocent, why has he fled when the conspiracy is discovered?”

  “He’s afraid,” Nell said. And so was she. There was nothing ambiguous in the plot that had been uncovered to kill the king and the Duke of York and put Monmouth on the throne. It was true that Monmouth loved Charles. But for the first time
, she wondered if it was possible that his ambitions had been whipped to such a frenzy that they would eclipse his loyalty to his father.

  THE MOOD IN LONDON WAS UGLY. FEAR AND ANGER FUELED THE swiftness with which the conspirators were convicted, and even the preparations for the wedding of the Duke of York’s daughter Anne to Prince George of Denmark and the gathering of Europe’s royalty for the occasion did not slow the dispensing of brutal justice. The executions took place the day after the wedding, and Charles fled to Windsor, once more seeking to find peace there from thoughts of blood and danger.

  Nell’s anguish over Charles’s pain and her fear of where Monmouth’s folly would lead him added to her sense that the world had slipped sideways somehow and would not soon right itself.

  BY AUGUST, MONMOUTH HAD SWORN HIS LOYALTY TO CHARLES AND begged forgiveness, and this day, as Nell rode with Charles to view the new palace being built at Winchester, he was in better spirits than she had seen him in months. The midday sunlight slanted across the red bricks marking out the foundations. Sir Christopher Wren reined up beside Charles, smiling at the king’s evident satisfaction.

  “The hunting house will be finished by next autumn, Your Majesty, in time for you to enjoy some sport before winter.”

  “What do you think, Nelly?” Charles asked, turning to her.

  “I think that anything that will make you take your ease is a very good thing,” she said, trying to keep her horse from dancing in circles. “You work too hard, and are too much among people you dislike.”

  “That’s the idea of this place,” Charles laughed, “isn’t it, Wren? Far enough from London that I can escape, and room enough only for those I want with me. Perhaps we can spend next Christmas here, everyone’s getting along so well. You and Louise, the queen, as many of the children as will come. Perhaps I can even persuade Monmouth to join us.” Nell saw the hope behind his eyes, the shadow pass over his face at the thought of his eldest son.

  “I’m sure he’ll come,” she said.

  THE DAY AFTER NELL RETURNED TO WINDSOR FROM WINCHESTER, Sam Pepys called at Burford House.

  “Mistress Nell,” he said, bowing over her hand as he entered. “Such a pleasure to see you, as always. Allow me to offer you my condolences on the loss of your friend.”

  “My friend?” Nell’s mind ran over the losses of the previous year, none so recent that they were news. Pepys’s face sagged with pain and alarm.

  “I-I thought you would have heard or I should have spoken more carefully. I am so sorry to tell you. Charles Hart died this morning.”

  EVERY ACTOR IN LONDON WAS AT HART’S FUNERAL AND NELL thought first how gratified he would be, and then in her mind’s eye saw him turning up the corner of his mouth in a wry smile and shaking his head. “I’d be a sight more gratified to be standing up to greet them than to meet them lying down,” he’d have said.

  Mick Mohun, old Will Cartwright, Theo Bird, Kate Corey, and Anne and Beck Marshall were there from the old King’s Company, and the whole glittering complement from the Duke’s Company-Thomas and Mary Betterton, Elizabeth Barry, Henry Harris, along with the surviving Killigrews and Davenants. It felt almost like being at home to be with theater folk again, Nell thought, and she considered for one wild moment what it would be like to return to the stage. But no. Her world was gone, and she would not fit into the new one.

  HART’S DEATH UNDID SOMETHING INSIDE NELL. SHE THOUGHT SHE had been bearing up well, but now, a few days after the funeral, she was again suffering from blinding headaches and nausea, and even rolling over in bed made her miserable. She could not stop weeping for Hart, for her youth, for the past. For Jemmy and Rochester and Lacy, for Killigrew and her mother, for the future and what further losses it would bring.

  Rose sat with her in her darkened bedroom, stroking her forehead.

  “I just want to die,” Nell whispered.

  “No, no,” Rose murmured. “What would I do without you? And little Charlie, and the king? We need you, honey.”

  “But it hurts so much,” Nell cried, her eyes filling with tears again. “More than I can stand.”

  “You’ve been through a lot, sweetheart.” Rose dipped a cloth in cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on Nell’s forehead. “More than your share, I’d say.”

  “And it will only continue,” Nell said. “How did you stand Johnny’s death? Senseless. Needless.”

  “I don’t know, truly,” Rose said. “I suppose I believe that somehow things will get better, that there is a purpose to it all, though I can’t see it.”

  “I wish I felt that. How did you come to think so?”

  “I don’t know,” Rose answered. “I only know that despite it all, I have hope.”

  “Hope,” said Nell, wondering if she could ever feel it again.

  “Yes,” said Rose. “Hope cleaveth to the bottom of the box, and is not easily shaken out.”

  NELL’S ILLNESS CONTINUED FOR WEEKS. SHE DID NOT HAVE THE strength of body or spirit to go out of the house. She feared perhaps she was dying, and then almost hoped she was dying, to be put out of her misery. She could not recall when she had felt well, and life abroad in public seemed like a distant dream.

  Rose was with her constantly. Charles visited every day. Young Charlie frequently had his supper with her in her room. Buckingham and Dorset brought amusing stories of events at court and in town, and Aphra brought her news from the theater.

  “I hate for you to see me like this,” Nell said, taking Aphra’s hand.

  “Don’t be silly, Nell. We’re far too old friends for you to worry about putting on a brave face.” She sat in the chair at Nell’s bedside. “I’ve brought some books. I thought perhaps you would like me to read to you.”

  “I would, very much. But not just yet. It’s so good just to see you, to sit and talk. You’re almost all that’s left of the old days now.”

  “Yes,” Aphra said. “I was so sad to hear of Hart. I never knew him as you did, of course. I can’t think what a loss it must be to you, so many old friends.”

  “I feel as though the earth has rocked beneath my feet,” Nell said. “He was always there, Hart. I can’t believe he’s gone. And I’ve been so ill that I scarce have the strength to sit up in bed, even. It really feels as though it’s more than I can bear.” She began to weep, ashamed to succumb to her grief, but too worn out to restrain herself.

  “No need to stop your tears on my account,” Aphra said, putting her arms around Nell.

  Her head on Aphra’s shoulder, Nell noted the sweet warm scent of her hair and found it comforting. At length her tears ceased.

  “What does Dr. Lower say?” Aphra asked, handing Nell a handkerchief.

  “Nothing useful,” Nell said, wiping her eyes and nose. “I fight him when he wants to bleed or cup me, for I’m sure that would only make me weaker. And instead I take the counsel of Rose and Bridget, who advise hot soup and possets and warming pans at my feet.”

  “Quite right,” Aphra smiled. “Take only the treatments that rally your spirits and nourish your soul.”

  Bridget came in with a covered cup on a plate, and Nell did feel stronger as she sipped the steaming broth and held the warm cup to her chest.

  “And how is young Charlie?” Aphra asked. “Is he cheering you as he ought?”

  “Oh, yes,” Nell smiled. “He is forever the bright spot in my life, you know. Did I tell you that Charles is going to make him Duke of St. Albans, and give him his own apartments at Whitehall?”

  “Really!” Aphra cried. “Oh, Nell, I am so happy for you and for him. Well-deserved honor to a fine boy and his fine mother.”

  WHEN NELL HAD BEEN SHUT IN THE HOUSE FOR TWO MONTHS, SAM Pepys called. He insisted on opening a window.

  “What you need,” he said briskly, “is fresh air. Fresh sea air. A little cruise would do you a world of good.”

  “Cruise?” Nell laughed weakly. “I can scarce get out of bed to piss, Sam; how am I to go a-cruising?”

  “It gave me th
e will to live when I lost my poor wife. But give me leave and I shall arrange it,” he urged, and Nell, encouraged by his optimism, gave in.

  Sam put the full force of the Navy Board behind the project of Nell’s convalescence, and he arrived a few days later with four sailors and a litter to carry Nell down to a coach, which took her to Whitehall Stairs and a waiting yacht. The sailors took her aboard and set her gently on a daybed that had been lashed to the rail, where she sat propped against a bank of pillows.

  “I feel like an old grandam,” Nell laughed as Sam tucked a cover up around her chin.

  “The prettiest grandam I’ve e’er seen,” he assured her.

  Nell had never been farther downriver than the royal dockyards at Woolwich, and was excited as the yacht sailed out the mouth of the river and onto the open sea. White crests topped the aquamarine waves, and billowing clouds scudded across the bright sky. A fresh breeze made the yacht’s sails belly out and her pendants ripple high atop the masts.

  “Oh, Sam.” Nell grinned, breathing in the tang of the salt air. “You were right. I thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

  BY EASTER, NELL FELT STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE THE SHORT RIDE to the palace, and, sitting in the chapel, she could barely keep from weeping with pride and happiness as she looked at young Charlie, standing beside Charles to take communion. He was fourteen, nearly a man, already showing that he would have his father’s height and build. Two of his half brothers, Barbara’s son George, the seventeen-year-old Duke of Northumberland, and Louise’s eleven-year-old son Charles, the Duke of Richmond, stood beside him. They were handsome boys all, Nell thought, but Charlie far outshone them in appearance and manner. He looked like a prince. Straight and proud, with Charles’s dark, curling hair. And yet she could see her own face in his features as well-the lush eyelashes that framed his hazel eyes, and the full mouth. A man for women to swoon over, he would be.