Charles’s mistresses were not among those welcome at the burial. So Nell stood in a shadowed corner, cloaked and hooded, pulling the heavy wool close against herself, trying to dispel the chill in her bones and in her heart. She shivered, and wiggled her toes in an effort to regain some feeling in her feet. If she had been crying, the tears would have frozen as they coursed down her face. But her sense of loss was so profound that it had shocked her into a state of numbness.
She had cried, at home alone, as she had cried for Jemmy. No, not the same. Each loss, she discovered, had a flavor of its own, a unique grief that took hold of her in some new way. Hart. Lacy. Rochester. She told over those deaths and how each had cast her into a new abyss, one which should have been familiar, should have offered some path, some road to peace and hope. But no, each of them had shaken her anew. Hart, who had seemed as eternal as the sky. Lacy. How was it possible that such an electric presence and booming voice could simply cease to exist? And Rochester. What a bitter loss that had been. A waste of so much promise, so much brilliance, so much—what? So much of whatever it was that quickened the flesh in which we all walk, making the difference between life and so many pounds of cold meat.
Nell could not see the coffin, or the Archbishop of Canterbury, but she could hear his voice ringing in the cold. The flames of the candles guttered and winced at the drafts that swirled among the stones. Nell had not been in the abbey since the funeral for Buckingham’s poor baby, now sleeping beneath the floor of this same chapel. How the gray stones had echoed and mocked Anna Maria’s sobs, showing how few there were to mourn that tiny bundle. If voices cried today their sound was lost, deadened by the bodies standing shoulder to shoulder around the coffin, still in the winter darkness.
At long last it was over. Nell faded behind a tall candelabra, melting into the shadows there. For she had one last good-bye to take.
Finally the abbey was empty, with only a solitary guard beside the coffin. Nell knew him—Prather, his name was, a man who had served the king for many years, first in the wars and then in the household guards. He looked up at the sound as Nell moved from behind the candelabra, hand going to the hilt of his sword. When she dropped her hood he saw who she was and nodded—not quite a bow.
In silence Nell went forward to the coffin. Was it possible that this dull box could really contain all that had been Charles? She put her hand on the coffin, as if hoping to feel warmth, a breath, some sign. There was a scuttling sound in a distant corner, a rat, no doubt, and she was glad that Prather stood guard, his lamp casting a circle of golden light around the coffin as the candles in the abbey burned low and the realm of shadows advanced.
She drew from within her cloak the flowers she had gone to such lengths to find—snowdrops, the first blooms to break the winter ground. She laid them on the coffin, and their waxy white brought unbidden to her mind the face of her mother as she had lain still and pale. But the flowers’ scent rose sweet, the scent of life and hope amidst the panoply of death.
Nell bent to kiss the coffin. “Good-bye, my love,” she whispered. “I think I’ll join you soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
NELL’S SEDAN CHAIR HALTED BEFORE THE PALACE DOORS. THE guards were the same, the great rambling pile of stone that was Whitehall was the same, the same birds landed on the same bare branches. Yet all had changed in the space of a few days, and Nell felt that the light had gone out in the world as she made her way to the privy chamber.
The Duke of York, now King James, sat at his desk, heaps of paper before him, a pen in his hand. His eyes were tired as he looked up at Nell, as though he had not slept since Charles’s death. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, she thought. She dropped into a low curtsy, and he gave her his hand and guided her to a chair.
“With almost his last breath, Charles spoke of you,” he said, a sad smile wreathing his lips. “ ‘Let not poor Nelly starve,’ he said. He knew you truly cared for him. And so do I.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Nell said. “For knowing that to be true.”
“It will take me some time to sort through all that must be dealt with,” he said, waving a vague hand at the cluttered desk, the scrolls that tumbled onto the floor. “But,” he said, and the word was freighted with portent, “you know that things cannot be as they have been.”
Nell’s heart raced and her stomach dropped. Here it was, the moment she had run from all her life. Abandoned, bereft, alone in a cold world. James saw the fear in her eyes and raised his hands, as though to tamp down her terror.
“I would not see you in hardship. I will send you five hundred pounds directly, to keep the wolf from the door. But I pray you spend it with care until I see what else may be done.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I thank you with all my heart.”
CHARLES HAD BEEN DEAD FOR THREE MONTHS. SPRING WAS ALMOST come, and the days were growing longer. Nell sat with Groundes in his little office, forcing herself to listen to the numbers he recited. But all she knew was that he was telling her she needed money, money she did not have. She could sell some of her remaining silver plate. But the money would only go so far.
She thought of her pearls. They had cost Charles four thousand pounds. That amount of money would keep her household for months, yet her heart ached at parting from them. She could see his smile as he had given them to her, his pleasure at her cry of joy, the touch of his fingers as he fastened them around her neck. She stifled a sob before it erupted.
“I’ll sell my pearls.”
Groundes silently noted the pain.
“What of the other houses, madam? Are they yours to sell? To mortgage?”
“I don’t know. Dorset and Buckingham and others have acted as my factors, and I don’t know the true state of things.”
“Something must be done, madam,” Groundes said gently. “Perhaps it’s time we found out where we stand? To write to the king and seek to find our feet at the bottom of the mire.”
“READ THE LETTER OVER TO ME,” NELL SAID, TWISTING HER HANDKERCHIEF in her hands. Groundes shuffled the pages, cleared his throat, and read.
“ ‘Sir, the honor Your Majesty has done me has given me great comfort, not by the present you sent me to relieve me out of the last extremity, but by the kind expressions from you of your kindness to me, which is above all things in this world, having, God knows, never loved your brother or yourself because you have it in your power to do me good, but as to your persons.
“ ‘Had he lived, he told me before he died that the world should see by what he did for me that he had both love and value for me. He was my friend, and allowed me to tell him all my griefs, and did like a friend advise me, and told me who was my friend and who was not.
“ ‘I beseech you not to do anything to the settling of my business til I speak with you. God make you as happy as my soul prays you may be,
“ ‘Yours, Eleanor Gwynn.’ ”
THE TREES IN THE ROYAL PARK IN WINDSOR WERE IN FULL LEAF, BUTTERFLIES and birds fluttering in the greenery under the summer sun. Nell was tired, as she always seemed to be these days, but the core of ice at her center had finally thawed, and she felt once more that she was among the living.
King James had affirmed that the Pall Mall house and Burford House were hers, should not be taken from her, and would pass to Charlie after she had gone. He had paid the mortgage on Bestwood Park and her other debts and settled on her an annual allowance of fifteen hundred pounds, to be paid to her for life. She would not starve. She would not live as grandly as she had, but in truth she had no wish to. Her pleasure came in quiet company—Rose and Guy and Lily, Charlie, Buckingham, Aphra.
The very air in Windsor still seemed to hold Charles’s presence, and she felt at peace there. She walked alone under the green canopy of the great oaks, Tutty racing ahead and then dashing back to hurry Nell along, his little laughing face looking up before he darted off again. The church bells rang noon. Buckingham would arrive soon. She must remember to have a fire lit
in his room. No matter the warmth of the weather, he had always a chill in his bones.
Nell heard voices and looked back toward the house. It was Buckingham, wig awry, waving off a servant and making his way toward her. He moved heavily and his face was not lit in greeting but dark with worry. Not more bad news, Nell thought. Who else is there to go?
“It’s Monmouth,” he panted, as he reached her. Monmouth was in France. France, as Jemmy had been....
“Dead?” she cried.
“No, worse.” He ran a hand over his brow as though he could wipe away the lines there. “He landed with an army, headed for London to kill the king and take the throne.”
“Dear God, no.”
“The king’s forces met him at Sedgemoor. Of course he was defeated, and taken, and now sits in the Tower. He begged the king for mercy, swore he would become a Papist, but the king’s hands are tied. He cannot pardon such treason. It will mean Monmouth’s death.”
“The poor pretty fool.” Tears ran down Nell’s cheeks. “Why, why, why?”
“Because,” Buckingham sighed, “he has lived ever as if the world were made only for him.”
THE DAY OF EXECUTION CAME SWIFTLY. THE BALLAD SELLERS HAWKED new-minted broadsheets, Monmouth’s likeness in blocky black wood-cuts printed at the head of mournful verses. Nell thought back to that first awful day of executions after Charles’s return, the jostling crowds around the scaffold, their noses keen for the scent of blood. Though Monmouth had been convicted of treason, King James in his mercy had ordered that he should be spared the horrors of a common traitor’s death, and instead would lose his head at the stroke of an axe. But it would be on Tower Hill, where a crowd could gather to see him die.
Dr. Tenison had gone to see Monmouth at the Tower that morning and would attend him on the scaffold. Nell could imagine his deep calm voice, giving what comfort he could. If Monmouth believed in a God and forgiveness, surely he would die in as much peace as he could, with Dr. Tenison at his side.
A bell tolled in the distance, and Nell knew that the hour of death had come. She tried to pray for Monmouth, but nothing came. No words that could convey her thoughts, no sense of a God who was listening. She sat and waited, each moment an eternity, and finally heard Dr. Tenison’s voice at the door and then his footsteps on the stair.
Nell stood in shock at the sight of him as he entered the room. His white stockings were splashed with bright blood, his eyes stark with horror. Nell stared. She had never seen him less than self-possessed.
“Forgive me, the state I’m in—the—the blood. I wanted to come before anyone else should bear the news.” He came to her silently and knelt before her, taking her hand in his, and Nell stared at him, uncomprehending.
“The news? Is he not dead, then?”
“Yes, he is dead.” Dr. Tenison bowed his head, and Nell saw that he was shaking with sobs. “The headsman did not know his business, or I know not what.” He faltered, and Nell’s stomach turned over.
“What? I pray you, tell me, what?”
“Oh, Nell. It took five strokes of the axe, and still he was not—the work was not complete. The headsman finished him with a knife. God help us all, what butchery was there.”
Nell thought of Monmouth’s beautiful face, his bright curls matted in blood, his soft mouth contorted in a wordless shriek, and she found it was her own voice that was screaming as she fainted.
LONDON WAS LONELY. CHARLES HAD BEEN GONE FOR TWO YEARS, and every street and park, every room in Nell’s house echoed with the voices of those no longer living, taunted her with memories of happy times now gone. The April sky was bleak, holding out little promise yet of spring. Rain beat upon the windows and wind rattled the shutters. So empty, Nell thought, looking from her bedchamber window out over the barren branches of the trees below. And so cold. Will I never feel warm again? She longed suddenly for company. How few of her loved ones remained. Charlie was in Belgrade, newly installed as colonel in a regiment of horse in the Imperial Army of Holy Roman Emperor Leopold. Buckingham was off hunting somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside, and she had thought he would have been back by now, but had heard no news. Maybe Rose would come, she thought, and then felt pathetic and foolish. She could not always run to Rose when she was feeling alone. She shook herself. What could she do to pass the evening? Invite some other friends for cards or supper? But who? Somehow the thought of dressing herself for company, of putting on makeup and fixing her hair, seemed more than she could face. She longed for old and comfortable friends, with whom she didn’t have to pretend or make an effort.
A knock and voices at the door below. A twinge of hope. Perhaps someone had come to visit, maybe Rose or Aphra.
But it was Buckingham’s page who appeared with Groundes, with that look of fear and loss that Nell knew too well, had seen too many times.
“George.” His name caught in her throat. “He’s . . .” She could say no more.
“Dead, Mrs. Nelly. My master’s dead. Caught cold hunting and was out of his head with fever by the night.”
“Where? Who was with him?”
“In an inn in Helmsley, a mean place not fit for his lordship. They was kind, did what they could. But—I’m sorry, madam.”
“George.” The word was a whisper this time. Nell found herself reaching out her hands, grasping for support, grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there, falling, falling, as grayness flooded her mind.
NELL OPENED HER EYES. SHE WAS IN HER BED, BUT DID NOT RECALL how she had come to be there. It was dark. Dr. Lower stood over her, and Rose and Bridget were behind him. Nell tried to sit up and found that she could not. Something felt amiss, in a way she could not quite discern.
“Don’t try to stir, pet.” Rose was at her side then, her hand cool on Nell’s forehead.
“Whaah? Whuh?” Nell tried to form words but they came out wrong.
“You’ve had an apoplexy, Mrs. Nell.” Dr. Lower’s voice was steady and calm.
“Baah.” Nell tried again. What an odd sensation. The words seemed to be right there in her head but somehow her tongue could not find them.
“Best just to rest for now,” Rose said.
Rest. Nell shut her eyes. Yes. That was all she could manage, anyway.
Over the next days, Nell drifted in and out of a haze. So tired. She was so tired. Her face and body felt heavy, and movement seemed impossible. Whenever she opened her eyes someone sat nearby—Rose or Bridget or Meg. Dr. Lower came and went, and then Dr. Lister and Dr. Harrell and Dr. Lefebure. The entire court staff of physicians, Nell thought. The flock who had attended on Charles over his last days. All that effort, all that pain he had suffered at their hands, and to what effect? He had gone just the same.
Finally, the fog seemed to clear from Nell’s head. Rose helped her to sit, propping her against a bank of pillow, pulling the covers up to her chest, adjusting the woolen nightcap that swaddled her head. The sky outside the window was streaked with pink. It was evening, it seemed. Or perhaps it was dawn. Hard to tell. But it didn’t seem to matter. Nell struggled to speak and somehow the words came, slurred but clear enough for Rose to understand.
“What’s amiss with me?”
“The pox, most like.” Rose looked down at Nell’s hand, which she held in hers and stroked. “It’s a long while coming on sometimes, you know. But eventually. . . and then the shock over poor Buckingham.”
DR. LOWER CAME TO NELL EVERY DAY. SHE BEGGED HIM NOT TO BLEED her, not to torment her with plasters and clysters and poultices and cupping.
“If that’s the price of recovering, I’d rather not,” she said, managing a smile.
“Very well.” He shook his head. “You shall have your way for now. But if we see no improvement in you. . .”
“Why, I’m better already.” Nell smiled at him. “You see how I can sit and speak? Here, sit with me, and I’ll tell you a story about the Weeping Willow and how she grew.” Dr. Lower laughed despite himself and sat beside the bed.
; SUMMER CAME. NELL FELT JUST STRONG ENOUGH TO VENTURE TO HER bedroom window. Her garden was in bloom, the trees spreading their green canopies, and in St. James’s Park beyond, she could see courtiers, the breeze catching their gaily colored silks so that they seemed like sails.
“What a glorious day,” she said, turning to Rose. “I’m so glad to be alive.” And suddenly something was wrong, and blackness filled her head.
WHEN NELL AWOKE, THE SUN HAD GONE. SHE TRIED TO SIT AND found herself squirming helplessly like a caterpillar. Something was horribly amiss. Rose was at her side instantly, and Nell could see the truth in her face.
“I’m dying?”
Rose hesitated.
“Yes?” Nell prompted.
“Yes.”
The world seemed to have contracted to this room, the small space between the walls. Nothing lay beyond it, or nothing of substance.
“Don’t leave me?”
“Never,” said Rose. “Never.”
“I HAVE LIVED A WICKED LIFE. AND FOR THIS, GOD HAS PUNISHED me. He took my little Jemmy, made him suffer for my sins, and now he has stricken me down.” Nell heard her words hang in the air. The speaking of them had been hard, but once they were out, she felt a weight lifted from her, the weight of the secret fear that had been crushing her heart. She lifted her eyes and met the soft slate gray of Dr. Tenison’s gaze.
“How have you been wicked?” His voice was gentle, almost curious.
“Why, I have been whore to the king and born him two bastards. And whore to many men before that.”
“Yes.”
Outside the bedroom window, Nell could hear the rumble of a wagon’s wheels in the street and the driver shouting at some obstruction in his way.
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 36
