Nell stared across the winter-barren park to the palace. Bastard, she thought. You great poxy goat of a whoremonger. It’s not enough that you install that French draggletail in the palace itself, but you must take a flourish with every open arse of an actress or hackney whore that crosses your path, while I sit here with your brats.
She looked at Monmouth beside her, so pretty, so much his father’s son. It would serve Charles right if she put a set of horns on him with his own boy. But no. She must bite back her jealousy and anger, never give Charles a moment’s doubt about her faithfulness or a hint of a reason to cast her off. But she’d be damned if she’d let him fob her off with less than Louise was getting.
“Squintabella’s got twenty-four rooms?” she asked, calmer now. “What else has she wheedled out of him?”
“Money, of course. He pays her gambling debts, into the thousands of pounds.”
“And?”
“Jewelry.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s sporting a pearl necklace and a diamond and telling all who’ll listen that the one cost the king four thousand pounds and the other six thousand.”
A further kick to Nell’s stomach.
“What else?”
Monmouth dropped his eyes.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, “tell me the worst. I’ll find out soon enough, and forewarned is forearmed.”
“She’s to be made Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham, and Duchess of Portsmouth.”
CHARLES HAD STOPPED BY TO VISIT AND HE AND NELL SAT IN HER garden, the scent of the ripening oranges perfuming the air.
“You made Barbara Baroness Nonsuch, Countess of Southampton, and Duchess of Cleveland,” Nell said. “You’ve made Louise Duchess of Portsmouth. Am I not whore enough to be a duchess?”
“Nelly, you know I can’t,” Charles protested.
“Why?”
“Don’t make me say it,” he said gently. “You know why. Barbara is a Villiers. Her father and grandfather were viscounts. Louise comes of a noble family, though poor. And though you are their equal-nay, their better-in every way that matters to me, yet I cannot make you a lady.”
Nell looked down at her hands. They were smooth and soft and bejeweled, bearing no trace of the hard labor of her childhood. Her clothes were rich, from the snowy white of her petticoats, with their yards of handmade Belgian lace, to the jewels that dangled from her ears. She was mistress of a grand house and more than a dozen servants. But she would never be a lady, could never be more than plain Nell Gwynn.
She looked to where Charlie and Jemmy and their nursemaids sat in the shade nearby. Both children had Charles’s dark hair and eyes, were near copies of the portrait Nell had seen of the king as a young boy.
“And our boys?” she asked. “They are the sons of a king. Will you not honor that blood, though you cannot honor mine?”
“I do honor you, Nell,” Charles said. “With my love and with all that is in my power to give. You’re right about the boys. I’ve been distracted and should have considered it sooner. They shall have allowances of their own. And in a year or so Charlie shall be-what? Earl of Burford, does that suit? And when Jemmy is older he shall have a title, too.”
THE COURT WAS A NEST OF BOSOM-SERPENTS AND ARCHROGUES, NELL thought, for all their money and titles, and wondered why she wanted to be accepted there.
“Always pissing up my back, they are, thinking to work me to get what they want from Charles,” she confided to Rose one night. “And Louise. The more I see of her the less I like her, if such a thing is possible. At any hint she’ll not get what she wants, she bursts into tears. I truly think Charles would have packed her off long ago but that it serves him to keep friendly with the French.”
“Most likely,” Rose agreed.
“It would have made you sick to see her nose in the air when she told me Charles was making her boy Duke of Richmond and Lennox, as well as a whole string of other titles. Never loses an opportunity to remind everyone what a lofty family she comes of.”
THE NEXT DAY, LOUISE APPEARED OSTENTATIOUSLY IN MOURNING, swathed head to toe in black, standing out among the brightly dressed court like a crow in a field of daisies. A knot of people gathered around her.
She has as many tricks as a dancing bear, Nell thought, and sidled closer.
“What’s this, Louise?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost some kinsman?”
“Yes,” Louise sighed. “My dear cousin the Chevalier de Rohan. One of ze most noble of all ze noblemen of France.” She sniffled loudly and lifted her veil to touch a black silk handkerchief to her eyes.
“That’s right, duck,” Nell said. “Let it out. The more you cry the less you’ll piss.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY NELL APPEARED IN DEEPEST MOURNING. MURMURS and giggles followed in her wake as she made her way to where Louise stood in a tragic pose, one elbow delicately rested on a windowsill and her head bowed in her hand as if in unfathomable grief. At the noise of the approaching crowd, Louise raised her head and took in Nell’s dress.
“What eez zis?” she murmured, frowning slightly. “’Ave you also suffered a loss, Mrs. Nelly?”
“Oh, yes,” said Nell. “The Cham of Tartary.”
Louise blinked at her uncertainly. “And ’oo is ’ee? Not some relation of yours?”
“Why, yes indeed,” Nell said. “Oddly enough he was exactly the same relation to me as the Chevalier de Rohan was to you.”
“SQUINTABELLA’S GOT A COACH AND SIX!” NELL FUMED A WEEK LATER. “I know she got it just to wipe my eye. I know it’s ridiculous to let her put me out of countenance, yet I cannot help being vexed.”
Aphra shrugged.
“The more showy the equipage, the bigger the whore. That’s the only lesson to be learned there.”
“So it is,” Nell said, suddenly brightening. “And perhaps one I can teach her, too.”
THE SIX OXEN SHUFFLED IN THEIR TRACES, ROLLING THEIR EYES AND lowing. They were alarmingly big, their heads at the level of Nell’s shoulders, and the team of them stretched almost thirty feet in front of the wagon. All activity in the royal mews had come to a halt while the animals were hitched, and a crowd of farriers, grooms, and stable boys looked on as the wagoner grinned down at Nell, his teeth white against his sun-browned face.
“Ready, madam?” he called. “Sure and I’d like to see their faces when you go by. The palace has never seen such a sight, I’m sure of that.”
“No,” Nell said. “Well, let’s give them something to talk about, then.”
A groom helped her climb up to the seat beside the wagoner.
“Onward,” Nell said. “At least we’ll have a laugh ourselves.”
The wagon picked up speed as the wagoner urged the oxen along with his whip, and the palace ahead jolted up and down as Nell and her team of six raced toward it. Startled faces sped by in a blur.
“You’ve a good audience now, madam,” the wagoner shouted as they thundered past the new Horse and Foot Guards buildings. “I’d say it’s now or never!”
Nell grasped the whip he offered her, and as he pulled the reins, steering the oxen close to the Banqueting House, she stood, holding tight to him with one hand. With the other she raised the whip, and bellowed, “Whores to market! Whores to market! Fine fresh whores to market this day!”
A flock of courtiers scattered like chickens, and Nell caught sight of Louise, her mouth a little O of shock; of Barbara, her eyebrows arching in surprise; and of Charles, roaring with laughter. The wagon tore past the palace and out into the park, the wagoner pulling hard on the reins to turn the team and slow them.
“Let them run!” Nell cried, laughing. “I don’t know when I’ve had such fun in my life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TEST ACT?” NELL ASKED BUCKINGHAM. “WHAT IS A TEST ACT? AND why is Charles and everyone so troubled at it?”
They were walking in St. James’s Park, with Jemmy and Charlie and their nurses straggling behind.
“Oh, Nell,” Buckingham groaned. “Do you pay no mind to the business of the kingdom?”
“Not if I can help it,” Nell retorted. She turned to ensure that they were not too far outstripping the boys and their attendants. “But Charles was in such a taking last night, going on about Lord Shaftesbury and Parliament as if they were devils from hell itself, that he alarmed me extremely. So do please tell me only as much as I need to know to understand his ravings.”
“Very well,” Buckingham agreed. “Parliament is most discontent that the king has declared war on the Dutch once more and is thus become further allied with France.”
“They fear war with France?” Nell asked.
“They fear France’s power and influence, and even more they fear and hate the Roman Catholic church, and anything that smacks of popery. The king tested their patience with his Declaration of Indulgence, allowing his Papist subjects the freedom of their conscience, and now they have put forth the Test Act, which demands that every officeholder under the crown must acknowledge the Church of England and take the sacrament under it, and deny the doctrine of transubstantiation, or lose their position.”
“But the queen is a Papist, and Barbara, and Louise,” Nell said, bewildered. “And there are many Papists holding offices. The Duke of York himself.”
“And there you have it in a nutshell,” Buckingham said. “The Duke of York himself, who is like to become king, if God do not grant His Majesty a child. And that is what strikes terror and rage into the heart of Shaftesbury and many others, and why they are now grown so fretful.”
He was about to go on, but a wail set up from behind them, and Nell turned and dashed back to kiss Charlie, who had fallen and scraped his knee.
“You’ll have to tell me more another time, George,” she cried. “I have matters of real importance to attend to, as you can see.”
Over the next months Nell heard far more than she cared to about the king’s skirmishes with Parliament.
“I have only just managed to exempt the queen’s household from the Test Act,” Charles spat, “but I cannot save James from his own idiocy.” The Duke of York was forced to resign as Lord High Admiral, and the temper of neither king nor Parliament was improved when the duke chose as his new bride the Catholic princess Mary of Modena.
By the end of the year, Charles’s battle with Parliament had reached a new pitch of ferocity.
“They defy me at every turn and deny me the money I must needs have, so I have prorogued the whoreson villains,” he announced to Nell one night in bed.
“What does that mean?” she asked anxiously. “Prorogued?”
“It means, dear heart,” he said, taking her wineglass out of her hand and putting it on the table beside the bed, “that I have sent the dogs home until I shall fetch them back.”
“And is the hurly-burly now at an end?” she asked, taking hold of his cock and stroking it, but intent on an answer.
“I fear me no,” Charles replied. “When I dismissed that coxcomb Shaftesbury as Lord Chancellor, he dared to say, ‘It is only laying down my gown and girding my sword,’ the pompous fool. The battle is just beginning.”
He pulled Nell under him and positioned himself between her legs, but his cock flopped soft against her thighs and he sighed.
“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 be
long 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.
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