The Darling Strumpet

by Gillian Bagwell

  After the service, young Charlie came and kissed her. “You mustn’t wear yourself out with standing, Mother. Go home, and I’ll come to see you this afternoon.” He spoke the words with pride. He had his own apartment at the palace now, his own household of servants and retainers. Yes, he was truly a gentleman, her son was, Nell thought as he returned to his brothers.

  Charles came to her side.

  “Fine boys,” he said. The shadow of little Jemmy lay between them, the pain in the heart that never went away. “Our Jemmy would have been so, too,” he said, taking her hand. They watched the three young dukes laughing together and then tearing out into the sunshine.

  “It’s time Charlie was betrothed,” Charles said, walking Nell outside. She was startled, had not thought of Charlie marrying.

  “But he’s so young.” They were outside now, and Charles motioned for Nell’s sedan chair to be brought.

  “The wedding can wait until they’re older,” he said. “But I’ve found him a bride I think you’ll be pleased with, and there’s nothing to be lost by making the match now, if you’re agreed.” Shock rolled through Nell. This was more than a conceit, it was already a reality. How long had Charles been thinking on this? Why had he said nothing sooner? What if she said she did not agree? Would he pay her any mind?

  Charles handed her into her chair and she was grateful for the seat under her, the comfort of the enclosed space.

  “Who?” Nell asked. Who could be good enough for her Charlie? Two of Charles’s older sons had made great marriages. Catherine Pegge’s son, called Don Carlo, had married Lord Danby’s daughter, and Barbara’s son Henry had wed the daughter of Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, who had been one of Charles’s “Cabal ministry.” But their mothers were ladies.

  “Lady Diana de Vere,” Charles said, smiling. “The eldest living daughter of the Earl of Oxford. They’re one of the oldest of the great families of England, Nell.”

  Nell almost laughed. Aubrey de Vere, the twentieth Earl of Oxford, was the same man who had fathered a child with the actress Hester Davenport many years earlier, after having carried out what poor Hester soon discovered was a sham marriage.

  “Aye, that was an ill trick,” Charles said, as if reading her mind. “But Diana is his rightly gotten daughter. This is no plot to fob Charlie off on another noble bastard. An Earl of Oxford signed the Magna Carta, you know, and the De Veres have held the earldom for five hundred years and more.”

  “Truly?” Nell asked, awed.

  “Truly,” Charles said. “’Tis a very good match.”

  “Then I thank you, my love,” she said. “For you know that Charlie’s happiness and success is all my care.”

  CHARLIE’S BETROTHAL TO DIANA TOOK PLACE A FEW WEEKS LATER at Windsor Castle. She was a sweet-looking girl of ten, golden-curled and pink-cheeked, shining in the reflected glory and adoration of her parents. Nell could not help but remember her own self at ten years old, her circumstances a world away from those of this happy child. She was pleased to see how Diana looked shyly up at Charlie and blushed happily as he took her hand. Charlie stood radiant in her admiration. They would be happy, Nell thought. Another miracle wrought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE OARSMEN PULLED SMOOTHLY, THEIR RHYTHM PRACTICED and steady, the regular splash of their oars in the water gentle and hypnotic. The river was calm and the tide on the ebb, which made the barge’s progress eastward serene.

  Nell was not sure why Charles had asked her to accompany him on a visit to the royal dockyards at Deptford and Woolwich this afternoon, but she had readily agreed. He loved the sea, ships, and seamen, and was happy stumping around the muddy dockyards examining spars and rope and masts and inspecting the progress on the newest ships for his navy. And he always enjoyed the company of Sam Pepys, as she did, and Pepys would be their guide today.

  The face of the river was dotted with traffic-wherries and other small boats carrying passengers across the river or up- or downstream, the sunburned faces of the watermen shining with sweat as they pulled; fishing boats bobbing placidly in the afternoon sun; and the long length of the Pool of London choked with innumerable ships anchored and waiting to be unloaded, their vast bulks towering impossibly over the water and the myriad smaller craft.

  On the quays hundreds of men were hard at the work that never ceased-heavy loads were lowered on rope whips or trundled down rattling gangplanks to the docks, and the army of dockies, customs officials, naval officers, sailors, merchants, and investors swirled and eddied around huge piles of bales, barrels, bags, and bundles of all kinds. In that small area was everything that came into England from the rest of the world-food, silk, spices, gold-and even timber, coal, and wool from other parts of the realm.

  Nell looked over at Charles, who was watching with lazy interest a dispute on the near bank between a waterman and his fare. The dark curls of his wig fluttered gently in the summer breeze, and he absently took off his hat and fanned his face against the muggy heat. Nell smiled, overwhelmed with a wave of fondness for him, enjoying seeing him at his ease and for the moment untroubled by worry. He turned his head, caught her glance, and smiled back, then tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the dappled sun and shadow provided by the canopy overhead play over his face. A trickle of sweat ran down his right temple and lost itself in the faint stubble of beard on his jaw.

  Nell tugged at the front of her bodice in a vain effort to let some air between the prison of her stays and her damp body, then waved her fan in front of her, the blue ostrich feathers wafting some of the river’s damp breath onto her face.

  Above, a heavy cover of cloud suddenly obscured the sun, and the sky stood in a billowing gray arc. The great panorama of London lay to their left and behind them, the spires of Wren’s new churches standing proud, the clean bright gray of their stones standing out against the darker hues of the City. Nell noticed with wonder the variety of sounds that reached across the water-hawkers’ cries, the high-pitched shouts of boys, the low rumble of heavy cart wheels over cobbled streets, the sudden bark of a dog, the almost inaudible keen of a bagpipe’s drone carried momentarily on the wind to her ears and then lost again in the gentle slapping of the water against the boat’s sides and the splash of the oars’ entry into the deep green water.

  The barge was abreast of Greenwich now. The old palace, where King Henry VIII and his daughter Queen Elizabeth had been born and where Henry had signed the death warrant for Anne Boleyn, had fallen into disrepair during the war, and the first building of Charles’s new palace had risen among its ruins on the waterfront.

  “We’ll stop here first, I think,” Charles said. “I want to make a visit to the observatory. You don’t mind, do you, Nell?”

  “No, of course not, my love,” she said. “Where you lead, I will follow.”

  The barge was already making for the wharf below the palace, and Nell was surprised to see Sam Pepys waiting there, resplendent in a new-looking suit and wig, his almost-perpetual smile beaming his welcome. He stepped forward as the boat came alongside the stairs and took Nell’s hand as she alit, lifting her skirts so that they would not drag on the slippery green of the seaweed-covered stone steps.

  “Your Majesty,” he bowed. “And Nelly, how happy it makes me to see you looking so well.”

  A carriage took them up through the royal park to the top of the hill, where the new red brick observatory sat, but to Nell’s surprise, Charles did not make his way indoors, but instead led her to the terrace.

  Nell had always loved the sweeping view from the top of the hill, the park rolling down to the Queen’s House, that dollhouse abode that had been built for Charles’s mother, and on to the riverbank and the meadows of the Isle of Dogs beyond. From this height she could see the busy dockyards, the ships in the Pool, the Tower, and the City, laid out far below like a child’s toys.

  “I do love Greenwich,” she mused, taking Charles’s arm.

  “I know you do,” he said, smiling down at her.
“That’s why I thought that you might perchance like it if you were to become Countess of Greenwich.”

  Nell stared at him speechless. Was he in jest?

  He shook his head, as if reading her mind. “No, I am in earnest. We’ll wait a bit yet, but we will do it, and if the world doesn’t like it, why, they may go to the devil.”

  “Oh, Charles.” Nell couldn’t think of anything to say that could express the depth of her surprise and gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you, my love, thank you.”

  NELL’S HAPPINESS AT THE TITLE SHE WOULD RECEIVE WAS DIMMED a few days later with the news of Michael Mohun’s death. Looking around the mourners at the funeral, she thought back to the night at Madam Ross’s so long ago when she had met the actors of the King’s Company on the night of their return to the stage. Charles Hart, John Lacy, Walter Clun, Michael Mohun, Richard Baxter, old Theo Bird, and the rest. Of the older men, only old Will Cartwright was yet alive. The thought felt like another nail in her own coffin, and with a sick lurch to her stomach, she knew that another headache was coming on.

  By the time the service was over and she was in her coach, the pain was blinding. She could not wait to get home and lie down, and was dismayed when the coach clattered to a stop too soon to have reached her house. Agitated voices rang out, and angry shouts. She rolled up the gilded leather flap covering the window next to her. A black-coated parson, looking as though the hounds of hell were after him, faced three burly bailiffs, and a small crowd had gathered to hear the confrontation.

  “What is it, John?” Nell called up to her coachman.

  “Don’t know, madam. I’ll find out.” He jumped down from the box and strode to the fringes of the crowd. Fingers pointed at the clergyman and the bailiffs, and voices rose in indignant pitch as bystanders explained. John scratched his head and returned to the coach.

  “The bandogs are trying to arrest the clergyman for debt, madam. He’s fallen on hard times, tells them that if they take him in he’ll have no way of paying the debts, but they’re having none of it. Shall I clear out the lot of them so we can pass?” He hefted his whip in his hand.

  “No,” said Nell. “Help me out. Let me have a word.”

  John lowered the step of the coach and handed her out, and she gathered her shawl around her and made her way to the growing crowd. At the sight of the well-dressed lady, the onlookers fell back to let her through.

  “But I tell you, I haven’t got it!” The clergyman’s eyes were wild, like an animal hunted into a corner.

  “What is the sum that is owed?”

  The bailiffs swung to face Nell.

  “And what business is it of yours?” one of them demanded. “Madam,” he added, at a nudge from one of his fellows. At the sound of his voice, Nell nearly fell backward with shock, for it was the guard who had flung her to the cobblestones at Newgate so many years before. A world away, an eon away. He had so terrified her then, but now she looked full upon the man and stepped close to him. She looked into his eyes, the top of her head barely reaching his barrel chest.

  “It’s my business because I choose to make it my business. Now tell me, what is the amount that the gentleman owes?” It was gratifying to see the man drop his eyes and wipe his running nose uncertainly in the face of her anger. He exchanged glances with his fellows, unsure whether they would lose face by backing down before the crowd or win approbation for courteous behavior. The youngest of the three, a dark-haired lad who towered above the gray-haired parson, made up his mind and stepped forward.

  “Two pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence.”

  “Is that all? And for that you’re taking him to prison?” Nell asked. She reached into her purse and counted out the coins. “Here. His debt is paid. Now leave him be.”

  The young bailiff closed his hand around the coins, doffed his hat to Nell, and lumbered off, followed by the others. The clergyman, overcome by his sudden rescue, sank to the ground, gasping.

  “Help him, John,” Nell said, taking the man’s other arm as her coachman hoisted him to his feet. “Sir, you must let me deliver you home.”

  “No, no, I am well.” The man struggled, but could barely stand.

  “You are not well, sir. My house stands but there. Please come to rest and take of some refreshment until you feel stronger.”

  A FEW DAYS AFTER NELL’S RESCUE OF THE CLERGYMAN, GROUNDES announced a new visitor to her house.

  “Dr. Thomas Tenison, madam, the vicar of the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.” The man looked like a golden-haired giant, Nell thought as he bowed. He was well over six feet tall, taller even than Charles, with the broad-shouldered build of a warrior. But he was in the sober black clothes of a priest, and there was an air of profound peace and gravity about him.

  Nell was unused to entertaining clerics, but felt instantly at ease with Dr. Tenison as they settled in the parlor over cakes and chocolate.

  “I am deeply grateful for the care you gave to my brother of the clergy yesterday and wanted to thank you in person.” His gray eyes seemed pools of serenity.

  “Of course,” Nell said. “It was a small enough thing to do, to get the bandogs off his tail. To make the bailiffs leave him alone, I mean.”

  Dr. Tenison smiled. “It was an act of kindness that may have been small enough to you, but which meant a great deal to him and no doubt to the course of his life. Not everyone would have intervened as you did. I would be happy to repay you the money that you laid out on his behalf, Mistress Gwynn.”

  “Oh, no need, Doctor. I’d give a great deal more if it would help to keep poor wretches from being sent to prison for debts, where they cannot pay their debts nor do anyone any good. And call me Nell, please, everyone does.”

  “Nell, then. Thank you. Is there some other way that I can thank you?”

  Jemmy’s face came into Nell’s mind, accompanied as always by the great wrenching pain in her heart that was never truly gone.

  “My boy,” she said, “my little Jemmy.” She was haunted by his loss, her failure to save him somehow from his lonely end so far from home, and more and more the notion came to her that perhaps his death was a punishment to her. Tears flowed, tears that she dammed behind a wall much of the time because to release them threatened to sweep her away, to make her lost forever in a torrent of grief and guilt.

  “Tell me.” Dr. Tenison’s voice was gentle.

  “I sent him to France. He was too young.” Nell’s words came out between sobs. “I should never have let him go, and now it is too late to save him and protect him.”

  Dr. Tenison listened, probed gently. Nell told him all, and when he left an hour later, her heart felt lighter than it had since Jemmy’s death, and he had promised to come again soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE KING’S CHAMBERS WERE ALIGHT WITH CANDLES, CHASING away the dark night outside. A young French singer with an angelic face and voice warbled love songs to the accompaniment of a lute. It was the evening before Nell’s birthday-thirty-five she would be, tomorrow-and she felt at peace, optimistic. Charles had not been able to attend her New Year’s party, suffering from an ulcer in his leg that had been troubling him greatly, keeping him from his usual walks and exercise, and making him fitful and irritable. But tonight he was feeling better and in buoyant spirits.

  Nell looked around the card table. Louise, Hortense, and Barbara were examining their cards, and at least for that moment, they were serene. There were no flashes of hostility or jealousy. Miraculously, Nell thought, the four of them had settled into their places in Charles’s life, each secure that she held some unique corner of his heart that was hers alone and which the others did not threaten. Barbara caught Nell’s eye and smiled, and Nell had a vision of her first sight of Barbara, in the window of the Banqueting House on that night so long ago. Then Barbara Palmer had seemed as far above Nell as a goddess above a goatherd, and yet here they sat in domestic tranquility. Equals.

  Charles was in conversation with Monmouth near the fire. Not king and
his potential usurper, but father and son. The Duke of York sat with his wife, Buckingham near them. Only the two brothers and their near-brother remained of that family that had been sundered by war and loss.

  Charles looked over at Nell and blew her a kiss, and she thought of the first time he had done so, him on his dancing horse amid the cheering crowds, she bouncing in excitement in the window above the street. And here he was, her Charles, her love. He appeared at her side.

  “You haven’t told me what you want for your birthday, Nelly.”

  She smiled up at him. “Your company is all I want, Charles. Will you have supper with me tomorrow?”

  “Of course, of course. And I suppose I shall just have to think of a gift myself, and surprise you, since you will not tell me.”

  IT WAS BEFORE DAWN, AND THE HEAVY KNOCKING ON THE DOOR downstairs was insistent. Nell sat up in the darkness, and heard Groundes’s footsteps in the hallway and urgent voices. Fear seized her. She did not move. Perhaps it was only a problem with one of the servants, or a dog got loose, or perhaps… no. There was a knock at her chamber door. She opened it to find Groundes with a page in royal livery.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Groundes began, and Nell willed away the rest of his speech. How many times had she heard these words, each time the preface to more sorrow than her heart could bear?

  “The king has collapsed, madam. The doctors are sent for, and his condition is very grave.”

  “YOU CANNOT SEE HIM, MADAM.” THE GUARD STOOD IMPLACABLE AT the door to the king’s bedchamber.

  “But I-” Nell was stunned. Was this the same guard who had welcomed her daily for so long?

  “No one is to be admitted, madam. No one. By order of the Duke of York.”

  “When will I be allowed to see him?” she persisted, and the guard shifted uneasily at the note of desperation in her voice.

  “Madam, I don’t know. His Grace-”