The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II

by Gillian Bagwell

“Aye, His Majesty was angry about the duel,” Buckingham agreed over dinner. “But a prince’s anger is like the thunder—it clears the air a great while after. I hear that Moll Davis has lost some of her charm for him. I think he’d welcome your company, if we do but remind him he misses you. He and the Duke of York will be at the Duke’s Playhouse tomorrow for She Would if She Could. And so will you be.”

  “And then what?” Nell asked in exasperation. “Am I to throw an orange at him to get his attention?”

  “Nothing so obvious. Though it might work, at that. I’ve a cousin who’ll accompany you, and ensure that you’re seated conveniently near to the king.”

  “I’d rather it was you.”

  “Not this time. He must not know he’s being led. And he’ll bridle if he gets any whiff that I’m involved.”

  THE SCHEME SEEMED SO FAR-FETCHED THAT NELL COULD SCARCE believe it when the king and the Duke of York took their places in the royal box next to where she sat with Buckingham’s cousin. And she found it still more astonishing when a royal page bowed before her a moment later with the king’s request that they join him and the duke at supper after the show.

  “ ‘If this were played upon a stage now,’ ” she muttered, “ ‘I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.’ ” Mr. Villiers, a rabbit-faced gentleman whose innocuous personality was ideally suited to the evening’s plot, gave her a quizzical look but did not question her.

  “WE’LL SLIP IN SOMEWHERE FOR A BITE AND I CAN LEAVE THE WATCH-DOGS behind,” the king said after the play was over. So servants and carriage waited near the playhouse, and Nell found herself entering the White Hart behind Mr. Villiers, with the king and the Duke of York in tow, their hats pulled low over their brows.

  Soon the party was laughing as they tucked into a fricassee of rabbit and chicken, and when the king squeezed Nell’s leg under the table, she had no doubts about the success of the evening.

  An hour later, after a plentiful feast, the landlord, innocent of the identity of his patrons, presented the bill. The king felt his pockets.

  “By God,” he said. “But I’ve forgotten—I have no money. Jimmy, I’d be obliged if you’d help me out.”

  Now it was the duke’s turn to clap his hands to the skirts of his coat, looking sheepish.

  “I would if I could,” he said, “but I’ve nothing either.”

  “’Od’s fish!” cried Nell, in a creditable imitation of the king. “But this is the poorest company I ever was in!” The red-faced landlord exhaled in irritation and turned to poor Mr. Villiers, who gamely drew out his purse.

  In the street outside, Nell whooped with amusement.

  “I thought the man would have an apoplexy,” she crowed. “And poor bastard, if he’d only known who he was about to take to task.”

  “BY GOD, BUT I’VE MISSED YOU, NELLY,” THE KING SAID AN HOUR LATER, smiling down as he moved on top of her. “Don’t let it happen again, will you, that you deprive me of your company for so long?”

  MAY DAY DAWNED CLEAR AND FINE. NELL AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF music in the street below, and, from her window, watched milkmaids dance their way down Drury Lane to a fiddler’s tune. What changes in her life a twelvemonth had wrought. Last year at this time she had been debating the wisdom of leaving the stage for Dorset’s bed. This year, she had spent more nights in the past fortnight in the king’s bed than in her own. She had no thoughts of giving up the playhouse this time, though. She could go to the king as often as he called her, and the experience with Dorset had made her cautious about casting off her only source of steady income.

  Besides, such an array of roles stretched before her that she had no mind to leave. Charles Sedley’s comedy The Mulberry Garden would be followed by Philaster, another breeches role that put her legs on display and once more paired her and Hart as battling lovers. Then would come The Virgin Martyr and further performances of the perennial favorite The Humorous Lieutenant.

  Buckingham was, miraculously, back in favor with the king and, having dispatched Lord Shrewsbury, was now unrestrained in enjoying the company of his widow, the beautiful Anna Maria, Countess of Shrewsbury. Perhaps conscious of having overplayed his hand in advising Nell to ask Charles for an allowance so soon, and relieved at having succeeded in getting her back into the royal bed again, he was cautious in his counsel to Nell.

  “It’s more than just a matter of keeping him happy in bed, Nelly. Never be a burden. There’s a never-ending queue of people making demands upon the king. You must be a welcome respite from all that. Make him laugh. Make him forget his cares. Make him believe you care for him.”

  Buckingham’s advice was given in cynicism, but Nell found that she could follow it without dissembling. She did care for Charles. Behind the laughter there lay a deep sadness that touched her heart.

  “I’M SORRY I’VE NOT SEEN YOU THESE LAST DAYS,” THE KING APOLOGIZED, as Nell lay in his bed for the first time in more than a week. “The queen has miscarried again.”

  “Oh, Charles, what a grief for you!” Nell passed her hand over his brow, the lines there seeming more deep-set than usual. “I wish that I could ease your pain.”

  “You do, sweetheart. You do.”

  Nell put her arms around him and held him to her, rocking. Though he was twenty years older than she, she could see in him the vestiges of the boy scarred by war and years in exile, the losses of his father and his crown, and now this new loss, and she felt as tenderly toward him as she might toward a child.

  NELL FELT ODDLY PRIVATE ABOUT HER FEELINGS FOR CHARLES. BUT it was impossible to ignore the fact that the liaison was widely known. She received more callers than ever after performances, but there was a deference now that had been lacking before. “Meat for my master, she cries.” The line from The Humorous Lieutenant sprang into her mind as the Earl of Mulgrave bowed over her hand. He was one of a dozen gentlemen who were crowding the tiring room, and they were not seeking to bed her now, but to keep her good opinion.

  “I declare, you grow prettier every day,” Sam Pepys grinned, kissing her cheeks. He held her out at arm’s length to admire her. Her costume for the role of the page boy Angelo consisted of breeches that displayed her calves in their silk stockings, and a neatly cut jacket that did nothing to disguise the fact that she was in truth a girl.

  Pepys cast a glance at Beck Marshall, who was halfway out of her gown, her shoulders and a dangerous amount of bosom bare as she bantered with Rochester and George Etherege.

  Sometime that summer, Nell’s name in the playbill at the theater was transformed from mere Nell Gwynn to Mrs. Eleanor Gwynn. She snorted with derision when Betsy told her about the change, but within, her reaction was more complicated. Though it was the name bestowed on her at birth, she had never been addressed as Eleanor in her life. Eleanor was her mother. There was an element of fear that lurked, too. What would become of Nelly if Mrs. Eleanor Gwynn now inhabited her form?

  Even people at the playhouse treated her differently. Though Nell was sure her conduct had not changed, the other actresses kept more aloof.

  “I fear they hate me,” she confided in Aphra.

  “You great goose,” Aphra chided. “You can have no conception of how winning and cheerful your company is, else you would stop your fretting. You’re a sunny soul who brings light wherever you go. If they stand off, it’s only because they wish they were in your shoes. Sure the king likes you well enough, else he would not send for you. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  Nell was warmed by Aphra’s encouragement, but the one person that could truly bring her comfort, and in whose presence she felt wholly at home, was Rose. Rose was happy these days. Although Rose would never quite say so, Nell thought the rumors that her husband John got his living from highway robbery were probably true. He certainly had more flash than most laboring men. Whatever the case, he was often gone at night, and Nell spent frequent evenings with her sister.

  Summer brought five or six new roles for Nell, and of course the plays alread
y in the repertoire were revived regularly. As Hart had long ago predicted, she now carried almost twenty parts in her head, ready to perform with only a little dusting off.

  Pepys visited Nell backstage one evening in October, burning to tell the latest gossip.

  “The story is all over Whitehall,” he said, plopping himself down beside her at the dressing table. “The king lent Lady Castlemaine the crown jewels to wear in a performance of Horace at court last night. He made for her apartments this morning to collect the jewels and spied a man—John Churchill, they say—coming out of her bedchamber, and far too early for a mere social call it was. The poor man froze at the sight and bowed nearly to the ground. But the king only laughed and said, ‘I forgive you, for I know you do it for your bread!’ ” Pepys laughed nearly till he cried at his own story. “Oh, and did you hear the latest story of your old friend Lord Dorset?”

  “You mean my Charles the Second?” Nell asked archly. Pepys chuckled.

  “Indeed. And your other friend Charles, as well. Sedley, that is. High flown in drink, they stripped off most of their clothes and tore through the streets with their arses bare, singing and shouting, and at last fell to brawling with the watch.”

  The picture of the two Charlies engaged in near-naked horseplay came readily to Nell’s imagination, and brought back vivid memories of the previous summer. She wondered how much Pepys had guessed about the sleeping arrangements in the house in Epsom.

  “No one was wounded, I hope?”

  “Oh, no,” said Pepys. “They were taken up before they could do much damage, and were clapped up all night, but the king took their parts and the Lord Chief Justice hath chid and imprisoned the poor constable, who was only doing his duty.”

  As Nell walked home that evening, her cloak pulled tight against the chill wind, she thought again of Dorset, and she realized that for the first time since the intense pain and shame of the previous summer, she could think of him without bitterness. She had thought that his casting her off was the death of her hopes. But it had not fallen out so. She reigned supreme at the playhouse and as Dorset himself had acknowledged with a rueful smile, she had gone from the bed of an earl to the bed of the king.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE KING’S BEDCHAMBER WAS COZY, THE BLAZING FIRE AND DANCING candlelight driving the shadows into the corners. Nell and Charles were propped against the pillows in the big bed.

  “What was France like?” Nell asked.

  “Like a sewer filled with vipers,” Charles snorted. “I barely got out of England with my life, you know, after the Battle of Worcester. I was a pauper, dependent for my very food on my cousin kings. And of course it was not only my mouth there was to feed, but my mother, my brothers and sisters, my loyal friends. My beggar’s court.”

  “And Mr. Killigrew was there?” Nell asked, stroking the hair on his belly lazily.

  “He was. And Buckingham, Clarendon, Rochester—the father of Johnny Wilmot, that is. And many other great friends who’d put their lives at risk for me, left home and country behind. And I had not the price of their bread.”

  “What did you do?” Nell asked.

  “We cooled our heels and waited. By God, I hate the French. The Dauphin waited a month before he received me. Precious little cunt. Then had the cheek to turn up his delicate nose at the rags I wore.”

  “You? In rags?” Nell pulled back to look into Charles’s face for a sign that he was jesting.

  “After Worcester, when all was lost, I had to go in disguise. I was fortunate that someone had an ungodly big servant with clothes to give for king and country, but there aren’t many with feet as big as these.”

  He stuck his bare foot out from under the sheet and wiggled his toes. Nell giggled and slid her hand down to his cock.

  “There aren’t many with one of these as big, either.”

  Charles laughed and kissed her. “That’s what they tell me, and who would lie to a king? But not a whoreson could be found with shoes would fit me. I walked in boots too small, slit about the edges to let my toes out, bleeding every step. By the time we reached the coast, my clothes—” He broke off at the sound of a female voice outside the door.

  “Christ! The queen!” He bolted to his feet and Nell scrambled out of bed.

  “Behind there!” He thrust his finger at a tapestry, and Nell darted behind it, snatching up her gown, as she heard the door open.

  “Why, Catherine!” Charles managed a tone of pleased surprise.

  “I came to see if you were feeling better.” The queen’s soft voice was heavily accented, despite her six years in England.

  “Oh, much. Taking my rest, as you see.”

  “Have you a fever?” Nell heard the rustle of skirts, and guessed that the queen must be sitting beside Charles. From her hiding place, she could see the foot of the bed. And then she saw something else that almost made her gasp aloud—one of her shoes lay in plain sight on the floor. The queen must have seen it at the same moment.

  “Oh.”

  “Hmm?” Charles had not seen it yet. Then he did.

  “Ah.”

  There was another rustle as the queen stood. “I will not stay, for fear the pretty fool who owns that little slipper might take cold. I am glad you are well.” The door closed, but Nell still waited.

  “You can come out now, Nelly,” Charles said.

  “Shall I leave?” she asked, emerging.

  “No, no,” he said. “The damage is done. Poor soul, I try not to rub her nose in it. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

  AFTER THAT NIGHT, EVERYONE WAS MORE CAREFUL. THE QUEEN stayed away from the king’s bedchamber. The king’s attendants took care to ensure that no one entered unannounced, and Charles made sure they knew that this precaution applied to the Countess of Castlemaine. For it was no longer Barbara Palmer but Nell who was his frequent companion at night.

  She grew accustomed to the morning ritual—the arrival of the king’s breakfast, the barber’s coming to shave him, the attendance of the groom and gentleman of the bedchamber to help him bathe and dress, and the appearance of various ministers to report about the matters requiring his attention.

  After Buckingham and Lady Castlemaine brought down the hated Earl of Clarendon the previous summer, Buckingham had succeeded Clarendon as Charles’s first minister, and he was almost always the first visitor of the day. Nell enjoyed listening to them confer as she ate breakfast in bed. It was fascinating, the variety of subjects in which Charles was interested and over which he had sway.

  “Wren is making great progress on the plans for the new churches,” Buckingham reported one morning, consulting his notes. “He proposes to begin with St. Bride’s and St. Lawrence Jewry, and is ready to show you drawings when convenient.”

  “Excellent,” Charles said, biting into a piece of bread.

  “There is to be a committee meeting on Tangiers tomorrow, again. And the Duke of York has proposals for victualing the navy.”

  “God, yes, the ships must be provisioned, but must I hear the details of every cask of beef and barrel of ale that is put aboard?”

  “Rochester had his clothes taken the other day while he was tiffing some Covent Garden nun,” Buckingham smiled. “Perhaps news more to your liking?”

  “More entertaining, at any rate,” Charles said, wiping coffee from his mustache. “Did he get them back?”

  “The clothes, yes,” said Buckingham. “They were found stuffed into a mattress. His gold, however, was gone.”

  “Poor Johnny,” Charles said. “Never learns, does he? What else?”

  “Only the usual wranglings. My Lady Castlemaine—”

  “Oh, spare me!” Charles cried.

  But though Charles was spared the telling of Lady Castlemaine’s complaint on that morning, it was played out very publicly, to the delight of the town, and Nell found herself on the battlefield.

  After an absence of a few weeks from the stage, she was to speak the prologue and epilogue to Ben Jonson’s Catiline
His Conspiracy. On the afternoon of the first performance, she strode forward onto the apron of the stage. Her Amazon costume, a short feathered skirt and Roman sandals, with a diaphanous drapery that bared most of one breast and some of the other, was greeted with whoops. She raised her short sword in salute, and addressed the packed house.

  “Since you expect a prologue, we submit!”

  When she came to the end of her speech, she bowed, thus baring both breasts in their entirety, and made her exit to cheers. Lacy was in the wings, and she stood with him to watch the play. Kate Corey, in all her Roman finery as Sempronia, sailed onto the stage. Her initial speech was getting laughs much bigger than usual, and Nell cocked a curious ear.

  “Why on earth is she lisping like that?” she whispered to Lacy. He listened, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “By God,” he gasped. “She’s doing Lady Harvey.”

  “What?”

  “Lady Elizabeth Harvey. Her husband’s the ambassador to Turkey. Her cousin’s the Lord Chamberlain. That’s her to the life.”

  The audience had obviously also recognized who Kate was personating, for they were roaring with laughter. Nell and Lacy watched in silence. Kate pursed her lips in a way that made Nell think of a thoughtful duck, and rolled her eyes dreadfully. She appeared to be enjoying her own performance immensely, and with every knowing cackle from the pit, her mannerisms became more pronounced and her lisp more ridiculous.

  “Hang virtue! Where there ith no blood tith vithe,

  And in him thauthineth!”

  “WHAT A DEVIL IS SHE UP TO?” LACY ASKED. “SHE’S GETTING LAUGHS, so no harm, I suppose, but it’s damned odd.”

  “A new attack on an old part?” Betsy Knepp asked when Kate came giggling into the tiring room.

  “Just a little jest,” Kate shrugged. “Lady Castlemaine has fallen out with Lady Harvey and paid me to lampoon her.”