“There is nowhere they do not trouble me,” he said, attempting to make a joke of it. But as Nell caressed him with mouth and hands, she reflected that it was not the first time in recent months he had failed to rise, or risen only to fall.
A FEW DAYS INTO THE NEW YEAR OF 1674, A GRIM-FACED BUCKINGHAM called on Nell. He stood again as soon as he had taken a seat, and paced, leaving his coffee to grow cold. “The dogs are baying for my blood,” he said finally. “And truly, I know not what to do.”
“Which dogs?” Nell asked. “Not Parliament again?”
“It will come to that, too,” Buckingham said. “As soon as His Majesty had left the House of Lords today, Anna Maria’s brother-in-law rose to accuse me on behalf of her son, naming again the death of Lord Shrewsbury.”
“But that was years ago!” Nell cried.
“Yes, years ago,” Buckingham said. “Years in which I have lived with her though yet I have a wife.”
“And which of them can claim to be without sin?” Nell scoffed.
“None of them.” Buckingham sank into a chair and stared at her in despair. “But it’s a pretext, do you see. They have begged the Lords to take action against me, and my enemies are sure to take the occasion to act.”
“What harm can they cause you? Surely not much?”
Buckingham shook his head.
“There are still ecclesiastical laws against adultery. The House can fine me for all I have. Send me to the Tower with no chance of being let out. Excommunicate me, so that I could not take communion, and so lose my offices. The bastards have got me in a net.”
A FEW DAYS LATER, BUCKINGHAM WAS BACK, AND NELL WAS APPALLED and frightened at the pass he had come to in just a few days. His face was wet with tears.
“Oh, Nell, what am I to do?” he cried again. “I have met their charges with humble repentance, and it has got me nowhere. Now they accuse me of everything from encouraging popery to attempting the sin of buggery. I would laugh were it not so serious. They have demanded that I be removed from all the employments I hold under His Majesty, and that I be barred from his presence and councils forever.”
“But you have been like a brother to Charles since his birth! Surely he—”
Buckingham cut her off with a wave of his hand. “The king cannot or will not help me in this. They have left me nowhere to turn. Anna Maria is frighted out of her head. She is making ready to go to a nunnery, and I will then see my love no more.”
A week later, Buckingham’s destruction was complete.
“The great axe has fallen,” he announced to Nell, his face haggard and drawn. “The king has dismissed me from all my places. Anna Maria is gone. None at court will speak to me now, for men ruined by their prince and in disgrace are like places struck with lightning—it’s counted unlawful to approach them. I have no will to live, nor even a place to live did I want to.”
“Then you shall lodge with me,” Nell said. “And we will dare the lightning together. For you have been my true friend, and I am yours, whatever storms may come.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NELL LOOKED AROUND THE PACKED HOUSE AT THE NEW THEATRE Royal. The air was electric with excitement. It had been three years since she had been onstage, and she felt a pang of regret that she sat here, among the audience. She thought of the bustle backstage, the camaraderie and last-minute good wishes, and longed to be a part of it. She wished that it was she, not Michael Mohun, who would speak Dryden’s new prologue written especially for this first performance in the new theater.
Beggars’ Bush. Nell laughed to herself, recalling that night so long ago at Madam Ross’s when Hart had joked that the audience had been waiting since years before the king’s return to find out how the play came out. The blustery gray day at the Red Bull came back to her with intense clarity. She recalled waiting eagerly with Rose for the play to begin, remembered the hazelnuts they ate, the cracked shells carpeting the pit, Wat’s florid face contorted in a leering grin, the shouts of laughter at his performance as King of the Beggars. Dear Wat Clun. Did his spirit hover somewhere here, wishing he could once more put corporeal feet upon the stage and give voice before an audience?
Lacy had taken over Wat’s role, and Hart, Nicholas Burt, Robert Shatterell, and William Cartwright were still playing their old roles, but many of the faces were new to the company since Nell had left the stage.
The performance over, Nell was loath to leave. She was with Charles in the royal box, along with the queen, Louise, Monmouth, and the Duke and Duchess of York. All those gentry coves, she thought. And me, Nell Gwynn. She had a sudden wave of revolt, almost of revulsion. How had she so lost herself that she sat here, on the wrong side of the curtain? Her spirit ached to belong once more to the tribe gathered in the greenroom, and she started to her feet and threaded her way outward through the bodies.
“I’m going to go around and say hello,” she paused to tell Charles. “But I’ll see you for supper, I hope?”
Four or five of the scenekeepers were gathered at the stage door, laughing and chaffing.
“Evening, lads,” Nell cried. “Good work today! A good start in the new house.” They snatched off their hats and stood aside to let her pass, their easy grins replaced with formal smiles.
“Thank you, madam,” said Willie Taimes with a nervous nod. “Wishing your ladyship good health.”
Nell had a sudden memory of him, laughing down at her and joking backstage a few years ago. What show had it been? Oh, yes, Secret Love, because he had been bawdily appreciative of her legs in her rhinegraves breeches. And look at him now. He looked as if he expected her to cry “Off with his head!”
The greenroom rang with laughter and voices. So many actors she didn’t know, Nell thought. Cardell Goodman, Joe Haines, and many whose names she could not even call to mind. And the women—only Beck Marshall and Kate Corey were left from the old days, and they must be upstairs.
“Well done, all!” The chatter stopped as faces turned to her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nelly,” said Marmaduke Watson. “Much appreciated, I’m sure.” He even bowed.
It was all wrong, Nell thought, all wrong. I’m not a lady, she wanted to shout, I’m one of you. Don’t you know me? Don’t you remember how we played together? But she had not played with most of those gathered here. Hart, Mohun, and Lacy would be upstairs in the tiring room, she knew, but she was suddenly weary and disheartened. What if they, too, looked at her as though she were a stranger? It was more than she could bear, and she turned back to the stage door, the chatter resuming in her wake.
Nell’s coach waited in Bridges Street, her coachman seated on the box. He lifted his head as Nell approached and jumped down to open the door, and she saw that his lip was split and bloody, one of his eyes was blackened, and the front of his coat was torn and streaked with blood and dirt.
“Why, John, whatever has happened to you?” she cried.
“I had a fight, madam.” He jutted his square chin, defying her to question him further.
“A fight? What happened?”
“Well, you see, madam, there was other coachmen waiting, like, for their ladies and gentlemen. And the coachman to the Earl of Shaftesbury—a poxy bastard he is—the coachman, madam, not the earl, begging your pardon—he called me a whore’s coachman. So there you have it.”
Nell laughed, her black mood lifted.
“But John, I am a whore! No need to fight because someone says what is only the truth.”
John stared at her, swelling with indignation, and drew a deep breath.
“Well, madam,” he roared, “you may not mind being called a whore, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be called a whore’s coachman!”
THE LONGTIME RIVALRY BETWEEN THE KING’S COMPANY AND THE Duke’s continued. The Duke’s Company had recently moved into the elegant new Dorset Gardens Theatre, on the riverfront just to the east of Blackfriars, and had been filling the playhouse for days with Thomas Shadwell’s new adaptation of The Tempest, with singing, da
ncing, and spectacular stage effects.
Nell was seeing the production for the third time, this time with Aphra, who regarded the Duke’s Playhouse as her home, as it had produced her first three plays to great success. The final curtain fell to cheers and ringing applause and Nell looked down at the crowd in the pit, on their feet and heading for the exits.
“A miracle what the show does with scenery and machinery,” she commented. “No wonder Killigrew is worried. Again.”
“We’re worried, too,” Aphra said. “Opera, that’s all the rage now. We make our little effort, as you see, but the French and Italians are taking over the stage.”
“Not like the old days,” Nell agreed. “Come, will you not join me for a mouthful of something?”
Nell and Aphra drew admiring glances and calls of greeting as they made their way out of the theater.
“Mistress Nell!” The voice was urgent. Not another fight, Nell hoped.
“Nell!” The voice was familiar but Nell could not at first place the figure who moved toward them. His coat was shabby and his step hesitant. He pulled his hat off as he approached, and Nell saw with a shock that it was her old lover Robbie Duncan. He stared at her for a second and then bowed, hat still in hand.
“Robbie!”
“Aye, it’s me.” He stood uncertainly as the theater crowd swirled around them on the street. “I’m sorry to disturb you, especially as you’re in company, but I don’t know where else to turn.” Nell saw that he was on the brink of tears.
“Excuse me for a moment, Aphra. Come here with me, Robbie.” She pulled him out of the center of the crowd. “What’s happened to you?”
“The Great Fire is what began the troubles,” Robbie said. “We lost the warehouse with all our stores—my father and brothers and me, you know. All we had, up in flames. And nought has gone right since then. The cloth trade has fallen on hard times, and I cannot seem to put a foot right.”
“Do you need money?” She reached for the purse that dangled at her waist, but Robbie waved her off.
“I’m no beggar, Nell. What I need is work. A new trade so that I can keep myself. And I wondered if you might put in a word for me somewhere. If you’re willing, that is.”
“Of course I’m willing!” Nell cried. “You took me out of harm’s way and saved me from Jack. It’s the least that I can do. Can you come see me tomorrow afternoon? I live in Pall Mall, a brick house near—”
“I know your house,” Robbie said. “I’ll come. Thank you, Nell. You’ve as good a heart as always.”
THE SUN SHONE FULL ON THE SUNDIAL IN THE PRIVY GARDEN. Charles squinted at it and then at the watch in his hand, snapping the watch case shut in satisfaction.
“Saved you, did he?” he mused. “Then certainly we shall do something for him. Would he do well with a commission in the Guards, do you think?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Nell. “That would be perfect. You are so good to help him.”
“Not at all,” Charles said. “My father always taught me never to abandon the protection of my friends under any pretension whatsoever. You are doing right by doing what you can for this Robbie, and for his protection of you when you needed it, I am determined to do all that I can for him.”
He walked on, Nell’s arm crooked in his, and stopped to examine the white blooms on a rosebush. His shaggy black dog Gypsy, half greyhound and half spaniel, raced ahead, leaping and snapping at a grasshopper.
“I know I told you I couldn’t give you a title,” he said, and Nell’s heart skipped. “But there is something I can do in that line. Would you like to be a maid of honor to the queen?” Nell stopped short and almost laughed.
“Will she have me?”
“Oh, yes. She quite likes you, you know.”
“That’s very generous of her.”
“She’s a kind and loving soul,” Charles said. “Like you.”
“Thank you.” Nell squeezed his arm, feeling that the sun suddenly shone more brightly on her.
“And I think we can stretch your allowance a bit, as well. Five thousand pounds a year?”
CHARLES WAS BETTER THAN HIS WORD, AND OVER THE NEXT FEW months Nell received not only her usual support but occasional showers of additional money.
“But, Nell, can you afford it?” Rose cried when Nell insisted on buying her three pairs of new shoes.
“Yes! Charles has been so generous, he keeps giving me more beyond my allowance! It is such a relief not to feel the constant worry, and there are so many needs crying out. Charlie really is of an age that he needs a tutor, and Dorset recommends his friend Sir Fleetwood Sheppard as learned and honest.”
“A tutor!” Rose marveled.
“Yes,” Nell said proudly. “He’ll learn Latin and Greek and all that is proper to a gentleman.”
“Who would have thought,” Rose mused, “when you and I were little kinchins scrabbling in the cinders and hauling barrels of oysters, that your boy would be a great gentleman?”
“And I’m going to get a sedan chair of my own,” Nell said. “It will save on money, really, for now I have to pay the cost of hiring chair men to carry me. And I’m going to make some little improvements to the bedchamber, too. If I cannot have an apartment in the palace like Louise, I can at least create a little royal nest of my own for Charles to come to.”
THE FRENCH SILVER SMITH JOHN COQUES PRESENTED NELL WITH A bill of seventeen hundred pounds for his contribution to the little improvements to the bedchamber. Nell could scarce believe how much she had spent—she felt faint when she thought of the amount. But as she stood and admired the newly luxurious room, she decided it was worth it. The bed alone was something the likes of which no one had ever seen. Two thousand, two hundred, and sixty-five ounces of sterling silver had gone into the making of it. The figure of the king’s head alone weighed eleven pounds. An exquisite representation of the rope dancer Jacob Hall—Barbara’s latest lover, according to rumor—balanced on a delicate strand of silver rope. Four fat and winged cherubs supported the posts, which were surmounted by four great crowns. Angels flew across the enormous headboard, and under them was a scene of Roman slaves dancing.
To go with the silver bed were silver andirons for the fireplace, silver candelabra, silver side tables. But it was the bed that took Nell’s breath away. She traced a finger along the scrolls of a cockleshell on the headboard. Its elaborate carving evoked the frontispiece above the stage of the first Theatre Royal beneath which she had played so many performances, and the rich red curtains were like the playhouse curtains.
“This bed is your stage,” Rochester had said. And finally she had a stage worthy of her role as king’s lover. The wall facing the bed was mirrored from floor to ceiling. And that is our audience, she thought. Only ourselves. So you can watch yourself as you enjoy me, see my face, my bubbies bobbling when you are taking me from behind, see me open and wet when I kneel between your legs to worship you, to make you happy as only I can. To keep part of you my own, no matter who else may come.
WHEN THE SEDAN CHAIR WAS DELIVERED THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Nell could not restrain herself from an outing. Only to visit Rose, which seemed a little silly, but she knew that Rose would enjoy seeing the chair and would not laugh at her for her extravagance.
“Oh, Nell, it’s splendid!” Rose cried, running her hand over the soft quilted leather of the interior. “All these little gold nail heads in such intricate patterns!” She climbed in to try the padded seat. “Most comfortable. Much better than you muddying your skirts with walking, and surely much better to have your own chair than to have to wait for a hired one to arrive.”
“Take a ride,” Nell urged. “Tom, take Mrs. Cassells down the road and back.”
Rose leaned out the window and waved, grinning, as the chair men lifted the chair and set off. “Imagine me in a sedan chair!” she called back, laughing.
Nell was expecting Charles to supper and did not tarry for a long visit, but took her chair home when Rose came back from her jaunt. She was admir
ing the cunning way the gilded leather curtains could be hooked into place to cover the windows or held back to provide a view, when her heart dropped into a cold pit.
Jack was standing before her house. He stood side on to her, looking at the house, but there was no mistaking him. The way he held his shoulders, the tilt of his head as he regarded the second-story windows, the fall of his hair—they were burned into her memory. He turned and his eyes met hers. The briefest moment of surprise flitted across his face before he smiled. A cool, malevolent smile. Nell shouted to Tom as she threw the door of the chair open, but Jack turned and ran, and he was gone almost before her feet were on the cobblestones.
“Did you see that man?” she cried. “See that he does not come near the door!” The chair men set off the way Jack had gone as she ran for the house and pounded up the stairs to the nursery. The nursemaid, Meg, looked up in alarm as Nell dashed through the door. Charlie and Jemmy were safely at play on the floor, arranging small soldiers in battle.
“You fair gave me a start, madam!” Meg cried.
“I’m sorry,” Nell gasped. “I saw . . .” She did not want to frighten the boys. “I missed my honey lambs so much I had to run to kiss them.”
“HE LOOKED STRAIGHT AT ME, INSOLENT AS YOU PLEASE,” NELL TOLD Charles over supper. “Oh, Charles, he knows the house. Surely he must know about the boys.”
“I’ll post every soldier in England around the house before I’ll let him harm you,” Charles promised. “My men are out there now with your lads. But I’d feel better knowing you had someone closer to hand when I’m not here. What do you think of asking Rose’s man to be here nights to keep close watch? We can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll pay him enough to keep him from mischief on the roads.”
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 27
