by Diane Haeger
Although, in the end, she had not gotten the chance to speak to him about it directly, Nell’s decision to return to the theater was actually made for her by the king. She decided she would retain her dignity, and her lover, by remaining occupied. For all he had given her, stepping aside to share his favor seemed a relatively simple thing to do. She had not really lost him, after all. No one had ever really possessed him that way. And, she reminded herself, she had responsibilities.
She stood with Richard Bell at the back of the theater, the day after she had gone to Whitehall. They were behind the stage in the little corridor outside Hart’s private tiring-room, the door still closed. As they waited, Nell chatted with several other actors who were excited at the prospect of her return. Her presence in a play assured them all work, and ovations over jeers. Beck Marshall came to her then as well, and the two women embraced fondly. Beck’s expression was full of such joy that Nell did not see the door open and Hart emerge with Lady Castlemaine, who was still adjusting her gown.
“Well, well. What have we here?” Castlemaine asked haughtily. “Groveling, Mrs. Gwynne?”
Nell met Castlemaine’s gaze directly. “If so, then ’tis Grovelin’ who’s right pleased to meet Arrogant, Lady Castlemaine,” she daringly returned. “’Tis a right fancy word I learned from Mr. Dryden.” She glanced at Hart, his face drained of its color. “Hello, Charles,” she said with an easy smile. “Surprisin’ company you keep these days.”
“Well, we do all have to be somewhere when we’re not sharing His Majesty’s bed,” Barbara retorted, her small nose tipped up as she bit back a contemptuous smile. “And variety, they say, is the spice of life.”
“But does not one usually rise from an actor to a king and not the other way around?”
“Clever tongue for a tart.”
“I don’t flatter myself, my lady. I’m just a ’umble girl, like a dozen others, from Coal Yard Alley.”
“Trust me, Mrs. Gwynne. Humility really is an overrated commodity.”
“On par with loyalty?”
Beck coughed into her hand. Richard bit his lip. Glances were exchanged as everyone went absolutely silent. Then Nell’s gaze met Lady Castlemaine’s again, like two opposing cats, backs hunched. Castlemaine’s blue eyes were hard and cold.
“The game, not the motivation, is the thing, Nell. Has His Majesty taught you so little?”
“I’ve learned well what ’e wishes me to know. Which is why both of us are ’ere and not with ’im at this moment, I expect.”
Castlemaine’s smile became a foxlike grin. “So you’ve met the new French whore.”
“I’ve seen ’er.”
“There’s quite a buzz about her, you know. The girl looks ten, but can play Frances Stuart’s game better than any expert doxy, myself included. He’s quite on the string over her already.”
Nell had heard from Buckhurst just how long Lady Stuart had held the king with little more than a tempting smile. But the king’s lust was a powerful thing, and that was precisely where she could do battle against anyone. She lifted her chin and smiled confidently. “I’m not worried. Besides, at the moment, I’ve a job to do.” She looked back at Charles Hart. “I’ve come to tell you I’ve decided to do the play.”
“Oh, bless you, Nell!” He lunged at her, embracing her tightly. “You’ll not be sorry! We shall be brilliant together!” He touched her cheek. “As we always have been.”
Nell stepped back. Her smile fell. “I’m ’ere to work, Charles. Only that. For anythin’ else, I leave you to Lady Castlemaine’s very capable ’ands.”
“Oh, now. Don’t be a spoilsport, Nell,” Castlemaine purred. “You took the king from me, and I took Mr. Hart. Can we not share and share alike without this reproach?”
“No reproach, Lady Castlemaine, just the truth. I’ve no interest now in any man but my son’s father.”
“Would that he were capable of returning your fidelity, my dear.”
“The part of ’im I’ve got is enough. And, after all, while ’e’s occupied, so am I.”
Charles Hart moved a step away from Castlemaine. “I cannot thank you enough. I know I don’t deserve this, after everything.”
Nell tossed her head and the coppery curls, done into fashionable ringlets, bounced on her shoulders. “Oh, “I’m not doin’ it for you, Mr. ’Art. Surely you knew that. There are people dependin’ on me. Every day that I’m near you, ’twill only ever be for them.”
With her words still hanging in the air, she turned and walked away, basking in the heady glow of a powerful moment that had taken her two years to earn, and which she knew she would savor forever.
Chapter 26
“WHAT STRONGER BREASTPLATE THAN A HEART UNTAINTED!”
—Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part Two, Act III, Scene II
LOUISE de Kéroualle’s manner was as haughty as any courtier or princess. The noble, yet impoverished, famille de Kéroualle had raised their beautiful daughter well, and then laid all of their aspirations on what she might do to reclaim their financial standing. Upon the treaty with France, in which Charles had promised, in secret, his conversion to Catholicism, the girl he had seen at Dover was sent as a reward. Some at court whispered she was a well-placed French spy.
To ensure her success, there must be a guide, the French court resolved. The French ambassador, Charles Colbert, marquis de Croissy, was perfect for the challenge. A tiny, bald man with opaque blue eyes like a bird’s and an unassuming manner, he was nevertheless a ruthless patriot. Gaining elevation for his seductively beautiful charge was his sole occupation from the moment he met her ship at the windswept Dover shore. De Croissy stood behind her now in a suit of robin’s-egg-blue silk, his small feet made smaller by large silver buckles on his pointed black shoes. The king had invited Louise to join him for a stroll through St. James’s Park, just newly, and very grandly, opened to the public. His presence there, beneath the lanes shaded by sweet-smelling lime trees, was an event that would be attended by many of the most influential people. De Croissy hoped it would also endear Louise, finally, to a few of the king’s court.
De Croissy watched her as she stood now in her petticoats, corset, and open dressing gown before a full-length mirror. Succumbing to a childish pout, she crossed her arms over her chest, lace sleeves spilling onto her gown, and stuck out her lower lip as Mary Chiffinch, the chief seamstress at court, and an assistant, held up a dress for her approval.
“I’ll not wear zat ’orrible ting! Eet looks like a sack! Take eet away!”
The women exchanged a glance before the garment was swept off by a third assistant. Louise remained standing, her arms crossed, her pale face reddened with anger.
“Engleesh fashions are so vulgar!”
“However, here,” de Croissy said calmly, “you honor the king by wearing them.”
“Believe me,” she said, suddenly switching to her native French so that only the ambassador would understand. “He has no interest in anything honorable regarding me!”
“And yet still, chérie,” he returned in their native tongue. “The competition is fierce, and this is a game we must play by their rules in order to win.”
“What makes you so certain I want to win him?”
“Your family’s diminished accounts make it reasonably assured.”
“I have been here for almost two months’ time with no word at all of the king’s divorce, which Buckingham promised me.”
“That is not an easy thing to achieve, ma précieuse. You must wait with the greatest patience for him.”
Again, her lower lip turned out in a pout, and she stamped her satin-toed foot with childish petulance. “Eh bien. Then he must wait for me.”
The ambassador lowered his voice and turned her from the two wardrobe women, who lingered near a window. “Take great care with that approach. There are a bevy of others who would gladly take that place he desires for you in his bed, and often do!”
“Pif! Le roi attends me now like one of those sp
aniels, following me, pleading with me…”
The ladies moved forward now and held out a second dress for her consideration, neither of them speaking during the flurry of French flying past them. Louise studied the dress for a moment, then turned back to Ambassador de Croissy, giving them no response.
“You may be beautiful and ambitious, Louise, but here at this court you must also be wise, or you shall never take dominance in his life.”
“Take it from who?”
“Nell Gwynne, bien sûr.”
She laughed at that. “The actress? You believe a slut can rival a noble Kéroualle?”
“In the bedchamber, I have little doubt.”
“He also shares his bed with his dogs, for all the power in his life they possess!”
“Take great care, Louise. She has already seen the ouster of Madam Davies, Lady Castlemaine, too, and then borne him a son. Oui, if you are not careful, I believe she can indeed be a great rival, and our goal to assist France will be for naught.”
“My goal, monsieur, is to become queen of England!”
“Ambition, ma petite, is essential in measured doses. And that must be tempered with wisdom, or it will be as caustic to this court as lye, and none of us shall have what we desire.”
“Well, I’ll not be a fool like all of the others and give him my maidenhead for nothing. At least I shall be given Lady Castlemaine’s apartments while you engage his advisers in a serious discussion of the divorce that I was promised by the Duke of Buckingham. Only then will I seriously entertain the case of his royal ardor.”
“You play a dangerous game, mademoiselle. He cares deeply for Mrs. Gwynne; they have a formidable history. You have had a unique opportunity during her lying-in to challenge that. But that time is swiftly passing. Let not your opportunity, and France’s, go with it.” Having said what he desired her to hear, de Croissy inclined his head, then turned to leave. When he reached the door, amid an echo of clicking shoe heels across parquet, he turned back. As if an afterthought, he said, “And do wear the first dress, chérie. To obtain what you desire in England, you must first please an English king.”
The prince had accepted his uncle’s invitation to this state visit, which would take place at Windor Castle, with the greatest caution. Charles’s appetite for Dutch wealth was well enough known.
Charles’s goal was to see this nephew installed one day as sovereign prince of all Holland: his own powerful Dutch ally would be family, easily manipulated into generosity. Yet first he must proceed with the French in a war against them. It was Minette’s legacy, Charles believed, the cause toward which she had worked faithfully in Paris, and which she had not been able to see to fruition. “Your crossing was mild, I trust?”
“Mild enough, Your Majesty,” the young prince replied, and the plume in his wide hat danced with the slight nod that followed.
They stood opposing each other in the vast gallery, hands linked behind their backs. Its mammoth wall tapestries and an intricately painted ceiling were a grand backdrop for the collection of courtiers, ambassadors, and eligible Englishwomen who whispered behind raised fans at this great state visit.
Buckingham stood beside William Chiffinch, a hand raised casually before his mouth. “Well, tonight the French chit shall finally get her way, being present at a true and official state ball without Mrs. Gwynne, which should at last quiet her.”
“On the contrary, Your Grace,” said Chiffinch. “Both mistresses are to be present this evening, along with the queen.”
“The comedy actress at a state occasion?”
“It seems our king, for the moment, prefers the easy companionship of a sure thing to the frustrations of the hunt.”
“I’ve always liked Mrs. Gwynne,” Buckingham said, laughing.
“But was Your Grace not the very one to bring the Kéroualle girl from France to replace her?”
“That was my king’s wish. You know perfectly well that Nell is far more to everyone’s liking here at court. Yet attending something so formal? About that, the mind does reel.”
“The French girl and the actress here at Windsor, and the queen somewhere in between?”
“Now, William.” Buckingham smiled, touching his shoulder affably. “What would His Majesty’s life be without a bit of spirited competition in it?”
“Or in your own life, Your Grace?” William Chiffinch said.
He had missed her more than he thought he possibly could.
As Charles waited alone before the banquet to reunite with her in his bedchamber, he felt the anticipation of a much younger man. It was not only sexual need that had moved him to request Nell’s companionship at Windsor over that of Louise. Nor was it his wounded pride over Louise’s continual refusal of her favors. But Nell made things easy for him. With her, Charles could forget. The French…the Dutch…the Catholic question. Conversions…Minette…grief. The nightmares that took hold of him every time he allowed it. Charles indulged himself entirely in the open knowledge that Nell Gwynne adored him. It was a comfort like no other, almost like the innocence of childhood. And he did love her in return.
He had told her so once, and he had meant it. But a part of him loved Catherine as well. And Barbara, although to a far lesser degree now. But they were each chapters to him in a long and complicated book. Before that had been Hortense Mancini, in France, who had rejected his youthful proposal of marriage. Lucy Walter, Monmouth’s mother, in the beginning. But it was Nelly he wanted. Her goodness and humor made it impossible not to. And now, this afternoon, she was late. It made him feel childlike and slightly peevish that she was not yet here with him. He had been so much the fool. He must give up this reckless chase of the Kéroualle girl. And he would. Ah, Nell…He gazed up at the tall ebony clock again, trying not to be angry. She would be here. He trusted her. And there were precious few whom Charles II trusted.
Clutching the folds of her blue velvet skirts, Nell was swept quietly up a narrow back staircase at Windsor by William Chiffinch, followed by two palace guards. There was evening mist still on her cheeks and pure panic in her heart. On the landing outside the king’s privy apartments, she paused and touched William’s arm. A tasteful pearl necklace glinted at her bare breastbone. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she murmured. “Lie with ’im, aye, but attend so fancy a state ball afterward? I tell you, I’m bound to do the wrong thing as I did once before when the Duke of Buckingham was forced to—”
Chiffinch knew about the impromptu swim in the lake. He turned to meet her gaze in the lamplight that danced on the old pale-yellow stone walls. He smiled tenderly at her. “Only be yourself, Nelly. Remember, that is what he finds most endearing.”
Her head spun wildly with a barrage of questions. What about the French chit? Where was the queen? Would presenting her publicly not offend half of the staid court, who already resented her rise? “But why is ’e doin’ somethin’ like this now? Perhaps if I know why now ’e wishes to take me out of the shadows…”
“I believe it is His Majesty’s way of displaying the prominent place you hold in his life.”
The well-shared place, she thought. But she did not say it.
“And the Carwell woman?” she cautiously asked instead, as they reached the landing.
William reached for the large brass handle, then turned back to her. “Make of this opportunity all that you are meant to, and think nothing of her. That is my best advice to you tonight.”
Nell wondered then if it were true about her prominence of place, why she still must be brought up the back stairs like all of the other girls who were brought almost nightly to the king of England’s bed?
“I have missed you.”
Nell lay cushioned by the dark tufts of hair covering his chest, one leg slung over his thigh, on top of a spray of silk-covered pillows sewn with the royal crest. She smiled mischievously at him. “And, apparently, I arrived not a moment too soon.”
He chuckled and caressed her bare shoulder. “There’s no one like you, Nelly.
Nor shall there ever be.”
She rolled onto her side, then propped her head on her hand. Her hair fell in a cascade onto the thick, inky coils of his chest hair. “And ’tis a good thing, is it?”
“It is a very, good thing.”
“Will ye be as ’appy with me when I go back to work?”
“I was told about that.” He sighed then, and his expression became grave. “You know I shall take care of you and our son. I’ve told you before, you need not return to the stage at all.”
“And I love you for it. But ’tis more than you and I to consider.” Charles Hart’s contrition alone was worth returning to the stage. And there was Rose and Jeddy. Life had taught her that independence must be the lesson most well learned. “Mr. Dryden ’ad already written the play, so I told them I’d do it one more time. Then I would need to consider little Charles and ’is future.”
“What of our future, Nell?”
“You know I’ll be yours for as long as you want me.”
“Well, I want you. I want you very much indeed.” He kissed her then and very gently caressed her cheek with the back of his large hand. “Why on earth do you love a devilish rake like me, king or not?”
She kissed his cheek in return. She could be the bawd for him. That was a playing field she need not share with the French virgin. Nell sat back playfully on her knees, bare to him, and smiled broadly with her best stage smile. She poised her hands on her hips and tipped her head. “Because you are, and always will be, my very own Charles the Third—my Charlie—and make no mistake, ’tis a place to be reckoned with!”
“Blasted Buckhurst and Hart,” he said, glancing away, then back at her. “You watch that actor, then, if you mean to go on with this, Nell. I would just as soon see his head on a pike at Tower Bridge if he ever touches you again.”