The Perfect Royal Mistress

by Diane Haeger

  “Oh, I’ve it on good authority that ’e’s got entertainment enough these days without lookin’ to ’is past for it.” An image of Lady Castlemaine, her hair tossed, dress askew, emerging from Charles Hart’s tiring-room bloomed then in her mind. She wondered what the king would think if he knew Barbara also had a taste for the lower classes. That day at the theater, Richard Bell had told her of a certain circus performer with whom the once-powerful favorite now divided her time.

  “Pray, tell me, does your house here at Windsor please you well?” Charles asked her, surprisingly earnest.

  She thought of the little place on the cobbled street wedged between a tavern and a cobbler shop, with its tall, narrow rooms, diamond-shaped windows, and little sea-coal fire blazing in the drawing room. “’Tis right snug, it is, Charlie.”

  “It is the most prominent on Church Street, with a secret tunnel to the palace any time we like. And it’s yours now, Nelly. I bought it for you and Charles last month, so you shall always have your very own home to do with as you please whenever we are here. And I mean to bring you here quite often.”

  She hugged him then, and let their kisses become passionate, expertly teasing him in the way she knew would most swiftly arouse him, because she did not want to think about the future. Or the truth: Lady Castlemaine had long possessed elegant and vast apartments, both at Whitehall and at Windsor. They were the very rooms, it was whispered, in which Louise de Kéroualle now lived. He could not be ashamed of her, she reasoned, because he had personally commanded her presence among the guests tonight at the official reception in his nephew’s honor. Yet there was still the slight sting of disappointment: a house, but not quite a place in the palace. Still, he had given her a miracle. He had given her the world. She would always give him what he desired, and keep her thoughts to herself.

  Music from the banquet hall at Windsor Castle filtered from the open doors and down the hill as Nell came back into the bedchamber in the little house on Church Street. She had been dressed for the evening by two court ladies sent over by the king to assist her. Her hair was fashioned into tight curls, and her face was covered with a thin layer of powder. A single small black patch was applied near her eye as she stood completely unnerved, yet waiting for approval. Before her, Rose sat on the edge of the bed, holding baby Charles. Jeddy was beside her, dressed as a grand little lady in her blue silk dress. Mary Chiffinch stood near the door.

  The gown Nell wore was grass-green watered silk, with a gathered skirt, and a tight bodice that laced in front. As Nell stood before them now, it was clear that she had added a small personal touch of her own to the fashionable gown. By untying the top two laces just enough, her plain country corset, a thing of coarse linen, was visible. It caught the eye most particularly because she had declined to wear the royal jewelry the king had sent with the court ladies to complete her ensemble.

  “You cannot possibly,” Mary Chiffinch shook her head. “It makes you look—”

  “It makes her look like what she is,” Rose declared in defense. “She’ll never fully get away from that.”

  Rose knew how intimidated her sister was by the courtiers and the nobility around which she was forced to survive and thrive. The two sisters had spoken of it endlessly as they lay together in the dark at night, talking and gossiping about the day’s events. Even the lessons from the Chiffinches and her merry band had not bolstered Nell’s confidence entirely. And tonight was an actual state occasion.

  “I really just think that you should—” Mary Chiffinch began, but Rose swiftly and firmly cut her off. “You go on as you are, Nelly. Be as you are, and proudly, too!”

  Nell looked at her sister, feeling an enormous burst of love and gratitude for the only person in the world who could truly know what all of this was like for her. Rose alone, with a single look, could give her the confidence she needed to go forward tonight.

  And she had.

  Nell was escorted by the Duke of Buckingham into the long, narrow banquet hall. It was paneled in dark oak, and lit to a golden glow by candles in sconces and blazing lamps set along the walls. She saw Lady Shrewsbury talking with the Duchess of Lauderdale, and even caught a glimpse of Lady Castlemaine and her husband. And nearest the door stood the French ambassador, a little bald man in deep conversation with Louise de Kéroualle, who, from a distance, she now knew well. What a snug little evening, thought Nell with well-masked disdain.

  “Chin up,” Buckingham whispered to her, their complex friendship deepening. “If I can see what you are thinking, they can as well.”

  A seeming eternity later, the guests all turned in response to the opening of a pair of inlaid doors, pulled back by two stone-faced liveried servants, and the flourish of trumpets. Everyone fell into deep bows and curtsies as the music changed to a stoic, formal pavane, and King Charles and Queen Catherine slowly came into view, progressing together, hand in hand, and made their formal entrance. Behind them strode the king’s nephew, William of Orange, the guest of honor.

  Nell stood among the crowd that ringed the grand room and watched them dance a more lively branle. She smiled and nodded, leaning in toward Buckingham, then smiling, as though he had just spoken to her, in case anyone was watching.

  The evening droned on from there, through a series of lofty welcome speeches to the king’s esteemed guest. An interminably long meal followed. Then a servant touched Nell’s shoulder. He whispered that the queen wished to meet her. She glanced in panic across the room at the dais, draped in folds of burgundy-colored silk, and piled with gold goblets and plates of fruit and marzipan. The king sat beside his wife. Nell caught the exchange between them that was clearly about her. She saw Charles grow increasingly tense. Lady Castlemaine, seated near the queen, was looking at Nell, with an unmistakable smirk, as the servant led her toward them.

  A moment later, the chasm that had always separated them fell away as Nell curtsied low before the queen, who was resplendent, seated in a throne of silver-and-blue velvet, her chin tipped up, her neck and wrists covered in jewels. Up close, she was prettier than Nell had expected. She was petite, as Nell was, and her nose was overly long, but her dark, watery eyes held a kindness that was apparent even behind the reserve.

  “You are smaller than I had envisioned,” said the queen in a surprisingly soft tone, as the king sat silently watching.

  “They say I’ve a rather irritatingly large voice to make up for it.”

  Someone behind Nell stifled a cough.

  “Do they?”

  “They do, Your Majesty.”

  “I remember you in The Indian Emperor.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I did not like you in it.”

  Nell nodded.

  “You were much better in The Maiden Queen.”

  “I was, at that.”

  “Ironic a role as that was for one such as yourself.”

  Their eyes met. Catherine’s expression was stoic, until Nell smiled. “I never did master drama on the stage. I was actually quite dreadful at it.”

  “Some roles are simply not suited, no matter how much one wishes to play them,” the queen said pointedly. “See that you take care with the unique role you are carving out for yourself in this world, my dear, as true favor is fleeting.”

  “I shall remember that, Your Majesty.”

  “The world can be a dark place for those who no longer possess it. Do learn to tread carefully. And tie up your laces, if you are going to attend this court in future.”

  Nell understood her, and her meaning. She was ushered back to Buckingham’s side then, knowing precisely where she stood with the tolerant queen of England. Which was more than she could say for most of the rest of England’s court. Amid a rising crescendo of whispers, and with all eyes upon her, the musicians began a sprightly country tune. Nell was uncertain who said it, but as she neared the safety of Buckhurst’s side she heard a woman’s voice, and then another.

  “Charming girl,” said one.

  “S
he certainly has set this court on its ear.”

  “And, if I may say, breathed a bit of new life into staid, old vulgarities.”

  “Well, I think it is positively shameful, trotting her out like this as he does, and she from the very bowels of London! At least if he must, he should escort one of his proper whores. What must the poor queen think?”

  “I would imagine Her Majesty is well used to it by now,” the second woman remarked, just as Buckhurst took Nell’s hand and smiled, full of sympathy.

  Chapter 27

  WITH HOW MUCH EASE BELIEVE WE WHAT WE WISH!

  —John Dryden

  NELL stood center stage, in a crested helmet, belted tunic, and buskins, costumed as Queen Almahide. Her hands were on her hips, and a bow and quiver hung from her left shoulder. She had taken the stage in the empty King’s Theater, summer sun streaming in through the glass roof above them. It was late in the morning, and the players were doing a last run-through of The Conquest of Granada. Hart was her exotic lover, Beck Marshall was the seductress, and Richard Bell was to play Nell’s jealous husband.

  The theater manager, Thomas Killigrew, sat with Dryden watching from the pit, and Nell saw them there, studying her. It was good to be back, caught up in the easy camaraderie of the other players, the jesting, and the laughter. Here, being herself took no thought, and for it she paid no price. Yet, even so, she still felt tension. It came with a name: Carwell. Nell could not bring herself to say it properly. Gossip about Carwell had grown like wildfire at the theater. Louise continued, they said, to entice the king by refusing him. It was said that the tactic had led to a predictable result. The king was now so obsessed with winning her that she was with him at Hampton Court at this very moment, joining him for his nephew’s remaining few days in England. Forcefully, Nell pressed back her jealousy. She was accustomed now to rejecting it. She knew the king would send for her again. And when he did, unlike Carwell, she would not play with his heart.

  “Shall we go over that last scene again?”

  “Oh, come on, Nell. We’ve all got it down! I’m hungry,” Hart moaned.

  “We have been at it for hours, Nelly,” Beck carefully agreed.

  Everyone at the King’s Theater understood that work was the best distraction for Nell. Glances were exchanged amid the silence. “Come on, all of you,” Richard finally said, then turned to wink at Nell, in a show of solidarity. “Let’s give the scene one last go-round, shall we? A bit of hard work won’t kill any of us.”

  Afterward, Nell and Richard walked together out onto Drury Lane. Several mud-splashed hacks sat lined against the curb, their horses pawing at the cobbled stones as they waited for the actors, who were all just now emerging with somewhere to go.

  “God, but it is good to have you back,” Richard said, taking up her hand, then pressing a kiss onto her cheek. The freckles slashed across his nose seemed brighter in the sun, and so did his affectionate smile. “It really hasn’t been the same without you.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You know Hart is bedding Lady Castlemaine?”

  “So apparently is half of London. Everyone, that is, but the king.” She chuckled. “I’ve ’eard tales of a tightrope walker, as well.”

  “I think they are both trying to get back at you.”

  “And I’ve ’eard that you are seeing Beck.”

  Richard’s easy smile fell. He raked his limp hair back from his forehead as Nell felt his hand tense in hers. “How’d you know?”

  “You don’t think I keep those old connections for nothin’, do you?” She touched his face then, more serious. “But I’m glad for you.”

  “You know it’s always been you, Nelly.”

  “Beck’s lovely.”

  “I know she’ll break my heart one day, just as you did. I’m certainly no lord fit to keep her. But for now, I’m happy.”

  The king’s coach at her disposal, drawn by six horses, their silver harnesses jangling, pulled up before them then, just as a light breeze caught the hem of her dress. Nell descended the last step away from the theater, then turned back to Richard. “See you tomorrow, then?”

  “You couldn’t keep me away. This is the biggest part I’ve ever had, and I’m planning to get a laugh if it kills me!” Richard smiled. “That is, after you do, of course!”

  The house on the square, when she returned to it after the rehearsal, was hot for midday. Only the kitchen window at the back was open, so the rest of the house had the feeling of a tomb when the square-shouldered Bridget Long closed the door behind her. As she removed her gloves, Nell saw that Rose and John Cassells were together on the divan in her drawing room. Cassells was not wearing his uniform, but rather a plain nut-colored surcoat with dull brass buttons down the length. Their hands were linked, and they were whispering.

  “Where are the children?” Nell asked as Cassells came to his feet, nervously pressing out his surcoat with his palms. Rose stood beside him a moment later.

  “The baby’s asleep, and I sent Jeddy to the little room beyond the kitchen, as she felt feverish and wouldn’t eat.”

  “A fever in summer?” Nell came forward. “’ave you called for a doctor?”

  “For Jeddy? Well, no, I only thought—”

  Nell turned back to the door. “Bridget, go fetch one promptly!”

  “I’ll go,” John said, nodding politely to her. Before Nell could object, he was gone, the heavy front door closing with a thud behind him.

  “What were you thinkin’, Rose?”

  “John’s asked me to marry ’im! And other things’ve ’appened today, as well. I wasn’t thinkin’—”

  Nell turned away, not allowing the full explanation, and began to weave through the house toward the snug little room behind the kitchen where Jeddy often slept if the king was present and she was not allowed in Nell’s bedchamber. Rose followed her.

  “Nelly, I really think you should let me explain—”

  Nell rounded on the small door near the larder, her dress sailing out behind her, but as she burst into the room, she stopped stone still. The last person in the world she had expected to see was sitting before her. On a stool beside a sleeping Jeddy, holding a cloth to her forehead, was Helena Gwynne, the mother Nell had not seen in well over a year.

  The doctor John Cassells managed to find did not believe it was the plague, for which Nell felt as much relief as if she had given birth to the little girl herself. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead, sank down at the scarred wooden table, piled with vegetables beneath a rack of copper pots and kettles, in the center of the room, and heaved a heavy sigh. Helena and Rose were seated across from her.

  “What the devil are you doin’ in my ’ouse?” Nell asked at last.

  Helena and Rose exchanged a glance. “I’ve no place to go, Nelly,” her mother said. “And I’ve changed my ways, I promise you that.”

  “Ballocks! You’ve been dreadful your whole life, and now you’ve changed your ways, just when there’s a bit of royal favor to be ’ad?”

  “Nell!” Rose gasped. “’Twas the drink! And she’s given that up!”

  Nell studied her mother, the round face mottled red, the fat, chapped hands, and the layers of rosy flesh. “And you believed ’er!”

  “She’s our ma, and she’s come to ask for ’elp, for lord’s sake!”

  “Rose, you cannot be serious. ’Ave you forgotten?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothin’, Nelly. But it seems that your tolerance extends no further than the king’s bedchamber!”

  Nell glanced bitterly at her mother, sitting beside Rose. “I can’t talk about this any longer,” she declared, charging out of the door as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Nell waited in the wings for her cue. Beck had told her it was a full house, and for the first time in a long time she felt a nervous anticipation over making her entrance. She drew back the heavy curtain and peered out into the pit. There was the Duke of Buckingham, now her good friend, with his infamous mistress, cle
arly pregnant; there was Samuel Pepys, certain as always to spread news of her performance to everyone he knew. There was the Duchess of Argyll and Lord Rochester, and a woman in a long black cape, her face covered by a vizard, gesturing like an actor. And, in front of them near the stage, stood an orange girl in a gray linen dress and apron, basket over her arm. In that girl, she saw herself not so very long ago.

  The image forced Nell to see how far she had come, and she was grateful for the reminder.

  The cue came, and she stepped onto the stage to the deafening roar of applause. She grinned, then curtsied low for the crowd. As she rose, her gaze settled on the royal box above her, half in shadows from all of the lamplight. But the images and the faces were clear to her. The king had come to see her return to the stage. And he had brought Louise de Kéroualle.

  As she began to speak her lines, to curtsy and wink at the audience, the nervousness slipped away. Nell was entirely believable, endearing as an innocent, and the more they laughed, the more Nell felt the wound of the king’s action fade, replaced by the open adoration of the crowd.

  After the performance, Beck came to her as she was being helped from her costume, to tell her the king wished to pay her his compliments.

  “Is the girl with ’im?”

  “It was a servant who addressed me. I’m sorry, Nell, I didn’t see.”

  Nell forced herself to smile. “He’s the king of England and can do precisely as he wishes. Especially with me.” She stood, glanced at her own reflection, forced an even more carefree smile, then prepared to receive him. Perhaps he believed she did not know about Carwell’s presence. That was how she intended to proceed. “You are an actress; now act!”

  The tiring-room door opened.

  “Your Majesty, it is an ’onor,” Nell said, curtsying low along with Beck and the other actresses around her, then rising with her usual smile.