He asked if she had news of her father, Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was living in exile in France.
Anne had heard. He passed his days pleasantly enough, she told the King. He was finding compensation for his exile in writing his memoirs.
“They should make interesting reading,” said the King.
Now the little girls were coming into the room: Mary and Anne, the only two who had survived, thought the King, among the seven—was it seven?—which Anne Hyde had borne the Duke of York.
Yet James, with his two girls, had been more fortunate than his brother. Why was it that royal folk, for whom it was so necessary to produce heirs, were usually so unfortunate? Lack of heirs was the curse of royalty.
Mary, the elder, took his hand and solemnly kissed it. Charles lifted her in his arms. He loved children and he was particularly fond of solemn little Mary.
He kissed her affectionately, and she put her arms about his neck and rubbed her cheek against his. Next to her father she loved her Uncle Charles.
Anne was tugging at his coat.
“Anne’s turn,” said Anne stolidly.
“Now, Mary, my dear,” said the King, “you must give place to plump Anne.”
He set Mary down and made as though to lift Anne from the ground. He wheezed and puffed, and both children shrieked with delight.
“Anne is too fat to be lifted,” said Mary.
“I confess,” said the King, “that this great bulk of my niece defeats me.”
“Then give me sweetmeats instead,” said Anne.
“It is because she eats that she is so fat, Uncle Charles,” said Mary. “If she eats more she will become fatter and fatter, and nobody will be able to lift her.”
Anne gave them a slow, friendly smile. “I’d rather have sweetmeats than be lifted,” she said.
“Ah, my dear Anne, you present a weighty problem,” said the King. “And knowing your fancies, and that I should be admitted to your ponderous presence, I came well armed.”
Both little girls looked at his face; for he had knelt to put his on a level with theirs.
“Armed,” said Mary. “That means carrying swords and such things, Anne.”
“Swords made of sweetmeats?” said Anne, interested.
“Feel in my pocket, nieces, and you may find something of interest,” said their uncle.
Anne was there first, squealing with delight, and cramming the contents of the King’s pocket into her mouth.
Mary put her hand in that of the King. “I will show you Papa’s greyhounds. I love them.”
“I love them too,” mumbled Anne as best she could; while the sweet juices ran down her plump chin.
“They are so thin,” said the King, giving her his melancholy smile.
“I like others to be thin,” said Anne. “It is only Anne who must be fat.”
“You fear that if they grow as fat as you they will acquire similar tastes. If we all loved sweetmeats as does Mistress Anne, there would not be enough in the world to satisfy us all.”
Anne was solemn for a while, then she smiled that affectionate and charming smile. “Nay, Uncle Charles,” she said, “the confectioners will make more sweetmeats.”
They went to look at the Duke’s greyhounds. Their father forgot his preoccupation with religious problems and played games with his little girls. Charles showed them how to throw in pelmel.
And, as he guided Mary’s hand when she would throw the ball and as little Anne toddled beside him, Charles thought: If these two were but mine I should end this dangerous rivalry between Jemmy and James; I should not need to feel concerned because I see my brother deep in doubt when he reads Dr. Heylin’s History of the Reformation.
Charles came to see Nell after she had been playing on the stage of the King’s Theater for a few weeks.
He was amused by her return to the stage; but, as he pointed out, everyone knew that the child who was sleeping in the cradle was his son, and it was hardly fitting for that child’s mother to remain an actress.
“It is necessary for that child’s mother to provide food for the King’s bastard,” said Nell characteristically. “And if playacting is the only way she can do it, then playact she must. Should an innocent child starve because his mother is too lazy and his father too poor to feed him?”
“Have done,” said the King. “Leave the stage and you shall not want—nor shall he.”
“If I leave the stage I shall be obliged to see that this is a promise Your Majesty shall keep,” said Nell. “For myself I ask no pension; but for my child—who is known by the name of Charles, and none other—I would ask a good deal.”
“All that can be done for you and him shall be done,” promised the King.
He was visiting her more frequently now. Louise de Kéroualle was still holding him at bay. He thought a great deal of Louise; she seemed to him infinitely desirable, indeed the most desirable woman in his kingdom, but he was too lighthearted to sigh on that account. Louise would succumb eventually, he felt sure; in the meantime there was Moll—still charming enough to be worth a visit now and then; Barbara on whom he still called occasionally, if only that he might congratulate himself on having almost broken with her; and Nell, who could always be relied upon to amuse and come up with the unexpected. The others—the ladies who provided amusement for a night or so—there would always be. He was well supplied with women.
Charles realized Nell’s problems, and he had decided that it would be convenient if she lived even nearer to him at Whitehall.
He reminded her that he had given her the house in which she now lived.
“And that,” retorted Nell, “I do not accept, since I discover it to be leasehold. My services have always been free under the Crown. For that reason, nothing but freehold will satisfy me.”
“Nell,” said the King with a laugh, “you grow acquisitive.”
“I have a son to think for.”
“It has changed you—becoming a mother.”
“It changes all women.”
The King was sober temporarily. “You do well,” he said, “to consider the boy. You do well to remind me of your needs. Why, look you, Nell, it is a long step here from Whitehall.”
“But Your Majesty’s chief pleasure—save one—is sauntering, so I’ve heard.”
“There are occasions when I would wish to have you near me. And now that you have left the stage, I am going to make you a present of a fine house—freehold. The only freehold in the district on which I can lay my hands.”
“It is near Whitehall?”
“Nearer than this one, Nell. Indeed, it is nearer by a quarter of a mile. I do not think you will have reason to find this house unworthy of our son, Nell.”
“And it is freehold?” insisted Nell.
“I swear it shall be.”
Nell was climbing in the world now.
She had her residence in the beautiful wide street at that end which was the home of many of the aristocrats of the Court. Nell’s new house was three storys high, and its gardens extended to St. James’ Park, from which it was separated by a stone wall. At the end of Nell’s garden was a mound, and when she stood on this she could see over the wall and into the Park; she could call to the King as he sauntered there with his friends.
Now Nell was indeed treated with the “decencies of a royal mistress.” Her near neighbors were Barbara Castlemaine, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and Mary Knight who had once been one of the King’s favored mistresses. Lady Greene and Moll Davies were not far off.
There was a difference in the attitude of many people towards her now. She was Madam Gwyn more often than Mrs. Nelly; tradesmen were eager for her custom; she was treated with the utmost servility.
Nell of the old days would have ridiculed these sycophants; Nell the mother enjoyed their homage. She never forgot that the more honor paid to her the easier it would be for honors to find their way to that little boy, and she was determined to see him a Duke before she died.
Th
ere were some who often tried to remind her that she had been an orange-girl and an actress, bred in Cole-yard. Mary Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham’s sister, had refused to receive her and this, Nell was delighted to learn, had aroused the King’s deep displeasure. He had reminded the noble lady: “Those I lie with are fit company for the greatest ladies in the land.” And Mary Villiers had had to change her attitude.
The Arlingtons were cool. They were all for the promotion of Mademoiselle de Kéroualle; but she, it seemed, was chained to celibacy by her virtue. Let her remain thus, thought Nell, while the rest of us enjoy life and grow rich.
There was some rivalry with Moll Davies.
Nell could not endure Moll’s affected airs of refinement. She wondered that the King—a man of such wit—did not laugh them to scorn. He still visited Moll, and there were occasions when Nell, expecting him to call at the house or even vault the wall as he sometimes did, would see him passing on his way to visit Moll Davies.
Moll sometimes called on Nell after the King’s visit. She would sit in Nell’s apartment, displaying her £700 ring, and talking of the latest present the King had brought her.
“He even brings me sweetmeats such as I like. He says I am almost as great a glutton for them as the Princess Anne.”
One day, early that spring, Moll called at Nell’s house in a twitter of excitement expressly to tell her that the King had sent a message that he would be calling on her that night.
“It surprises me, Nelly,” she said, “that he should come so far. You are nearer now, are you not, and yet he comes to me! Can you understand it?”
“All men, even Kings, at times act crazily,” said Nell quickly.
She was anxious. Her son was without a name. She was not going to have him called Charlie Gwyn. He was growing. He needed a name. Many times she had suggested that some honor be given to the boy, but the King was always vague and evasive. He promised to do all that he could, but Charles’ promises were more readily given than fulfilled. He was fond of the boy; yet to have ennobled him would have caused much comment. Rochester was right about that. The affair of Sir John Coventry was still remembered, and there were times when the King was eager not to arouse too much criticism in his subjects.
“Let be, Nell,” he had said. “Let the matter rest awhile. I promise you the boy shall lack nothing.”
And tonight he would go to that scheming Moll Davies. It was not to be borne.
“I am a good hand at making sweetmeats,” Nell said to Moll.
“I was never taught to perform such menial tasks,” said Moll.
“I used to make them to sell in the market,” Nell told her. “Sweetmeats!” she cried in a raucous cockney voice. “Good ladies, buy my sweetmeats!”
Moll shuddered. She looked about her at the beautifully furnished apartment and wondered how such a creature as Nell had ever managed to obtain it.
Nell pretended not to see Moll’s disgust. “I shall bring you some sweetmeats,” said Nell. “My next batch shall be made especially for you.”
Moll rose to go; she had preparations to make, she reiterated, for the reception of the King that night.
When she had gone, Nell picked up the baby.
A fine healthy boy; she kissed him fondly.
She was ready to fight all the duchesses in the land for his sake.
Now she went to her kitchen and, rolling up the fine sleeves of her gown, made sweetmeats; and as soon as they were ready she set out with them for Moll Davies’ house.
Moll was surprised to see her so soon.
“I made these for you,” said Nell; “and I thought I would bring them to you while they were fresh.”
“They look good indeed,” said Moll.
“Try one,” suggested Nell.
Moll did so, flourishing her diamond under Nell’s eye. Nell’s gaze dwelt on it enviously, so it seemed to Moll.
“It’s beautiful,” said Nell simply.
“It is indeed! Every time it catches my eye it reminds me of His Majesty’s devotion.”
“You are indeed fortunate to have that outward symbol of the King’s devotion. Do try another of these fondants.”
Moll tried another.
“How clever to be able to make such delicious things! I was never brought up to be so useful.”
“Nay,” said Nell with a high laugh. “You were brought up to wear a diamond ring and play high-class whore to a merry King.”
Nell went into peals of laughter which made Moll frown. Moll had never been sure of Nell since the impudent girl from Cole-yard had imitated her on the stage of the King’s Theater.
“I laugh too readily,” said Nell, subdued. “It was a habit I learned in the Cole-yard. I would I were a lady like yourself. Pray have another.”
“You are not eating any.”
“I ate my fill in my own house. These are a present for you. Ah, you are thinking, why should I bring you presents and what do I want in exchange? I see the thoughts in your eyes, Moll. ’Tis true. I do want something. I want to learn to be a lady such as you are.” Nell held out the box in which she had put the sweets, and Moll took yet another.
“You know well what flavors appeal to my palate,” said Moll.
“I’ll confess it,” said Nell. “I study you. I would ape you, you see. I would discover why it is His Majesty visits you when he might visit little Nell from the Cole-yard.”
“Nell, you are too low in your tastes. You laugh too much. You speak with the tongue of the streets. You do not try to be a lady.”
“’Tis true,” said Nell. “Pray have another.”
“I declare I grow greedy.”
“’Tis a pleasure to please you with my sweetmeats.”
Moll said: “You are good at heart, Nell. Listen to me. I will tell you how to speak more like a lady. I will show you how to walk as a lady walks, how to treat those who are your inferiors.”
“I pray you do,” said Nell.
And Moll showed her, eating the sweetmeats Nell had brought as she did so. When she had finished she had cleared the whole dish.
Nell rose to go. “You have preparations to make for His Majesty,” she said. “I must detain you no longer. Pray keep the dish. When you look at it you will think of me.”
Nell went out to her chair which was waiting for her.
“Hurry back,” she said to her professional carriers whom she hired by the week. “I have certain preparations to make.”
And when she reached her own house she went into the room where the baby was sleeping.
She picked him up and, kissing him fiercely, cried: “We must prepare for Papa. He will be coming here this night, I doubt not. And, who knows, when he is here I may be able to wheedle a nice little title from him for my Charley boy.”
Then she laid him gently in his cradle.
There was no time to lose. She called her cook and bade him prepare pies of meat and fowl, to set beef and mutton roasting.
“I have a fancy,” she said, “that His Majesty will be supping here this day.”
Then she put on a gown of green and gold lace with slippers of cloth of silver.
She was ready; she knew that the King would come. Moll Davies would be unable to entertain him that night, for the sweets with which she had supplied her unsuspecting rival had been filled with jalap made from the root of a Mexican plant.
Moll had taken a good dose. Nell had little doubt that ere this day was out the King and she would be laughing heartily over Moll’s predicament.
“It may be,” said Nell aloud, “that Mrs. Moll will realize this night that there is something to be learned from my Cole-yard ways.”
She was not disappointed. The King joined her for supper. He had discovered what had happened to Moll, and he had had a shrewd notion who had played the trick on her.
He could not contain his mirth as he and Nell sat over supper.
“You are the wildest creature I ever knew,” he told her.
And she saw that he liked wel
l that wildness, and was beginning to feel that, whoever came into his life, he must keep Nelly there to make him laugh and forget his troubles.
It seemed to the King that, during that difficult year, Nell was his main refuge from his burdens. He was still pursuing Louise de Kéroualle who, although she was maid of honor to the Queen and had her apartments in Whitehall, still expressed her horror at the thought of becoming his mistress.
“How could that be?” she asked. “There is only one way in which Your Majesty could become my lover, and that way is closed. Your Majesty has a Queen.”
In vain did Charles point out the irksomeness of royal lives. Queens were not to be envied. Look at his own Queen Catherine. Did she seem to be a happy woman? Yet look at merry little Nell. Was there a happier soul in London?
Louise appeared to be puzzled. It was a trick of hers when she wished to appear vague.
“I must work harder at learning to understand the English,” she would say in her lisping voice which matched her baby face.
The King gave her more beautiful tapestries to hang in her apartments; he gave her jewels and some of his most treasured clocks. Still she could only shake her head, open her little eyes as wide as possible, and say: “If I were not the daughter of such a noble house, why then it would be easier for me to be as these others. Your Majesty, it would seem there is only one way open to me. I should go to a convent and there pass my days.”
Charles was torn between exasperation and desire. He could not endure his lack of success. It was Frances Stuart’s inaccessibility which had made her doubly attractive. Louise realized this, and played her waiting game.
It was many months since she had come to England. The King of France sent impatient messages. Daily the French ambassador warned her.
The Seigneur de Saint Evremond—who was a political exile from France and residing in England where, on account of his wit and literary qualities, Charles had granted him a pension—was eager to see his countrywoman an influence in the land of their adoption. He wrote to Louise—He had heard the rumor that she had declared her intention of entering a convent, so he wrote of the wretched life of nuns, shut off from the world’s pleasures, with nothing to sustain them but their religious devotions.
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 17