“It means Cydaria fears Cortez can never love her. She thinks he loves Almeria, you see.”
“Oh,” said Nell. “Well, why don’t she say that, then?”
“Try it again,” said Hart. “And remember the verse. If you’re speaking it right you can feel the meter, and it will help you both to remember the lines and to speak them so they will be understood.” Nell tried to think of the verse, and spoke again.
“My feeble hopes in her deserts are lost:
I neither can such power nor beauty boast:
I have no tie upon you to be true,
But that which loosened yours, my love to you.”
As soon as Nell thought she had mastered the verse in a speech, Hart would make her do it over.
“Good. Now again. And this time you must make it seem as if you are thinking and speaking the words for the first time. Listen:“Make me not doubt, fair soul, your constancy,
You would have died for love, and so would I.
“Do you see?”
Nell was amazed, as always, by how Hart spoke the words as though they were his own. Listening to him, she was struck by the thought that her own speech placed her upbringing squarely and undeniably in the maze of filthy streets and alleys around Covent Garden.
“You’ve no need to make big changes,” Hart assured her. “Your voice is pleasing and strong. Pronounce a few words differently and you’ll be fine. In this speech, for instance, remember there’s an ‘h’ sound at the beginning of ‘heaving,’ ‘heart,’ and ‘here,’ but not of ‘injuries.’”
Each day Hart and Lacy worked Nell rigorously, prompting, correcting, and praising. Each day she felt that she knew a world more than she had known the previous day, and yet became more keenly aware of how much more there was to know about the business of acting. Her head was full of the lines she was learning. Her body ached from the unaccustomed dancing. She found that she was hungry all the time and ate ravenously. She could not easily get to sleep at night, though once asleep she slept like the dead.
AT LAST CAME THE DAY OF THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE INDIAN Emperor. Nell’s stomach had been churning with nervous excitement since she had woken, and now, pacing backstage as she waited to go on, she was terrified. Why, oh, why had she ever wanted to be an actress?
Her cue came. She launched herself onto the stage, conscious of the hundreds of eyes upon her. Her throat tightened, and she could barely speak her first line, an aside. Then she looked to Hart, found safety in his eyes, and to her surprise, her voice came out clear and strong.
“Thick breath, quick pulse, and heaving of my heart,
All signs of some unwonted change appear . . .”
The symptoms required no acting—her heart felt as if it would leap from her chest. She struggled to control her breathing as Hart had taught her, inhaling deeply but silently at the end of the line so that she could give her next two lines on one breath.
“I find myself unwilling to depart,
And yet I know not why I would be here.”
Hart moved closer to Nell, taking her hands in his. She looked up into his eyes. He smiled, and she felt her body relax in the warmth of his presence as she continued with the speech.
“Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast,
That when I go, (if I must go again)
I’ll tell my father you have robbed my rest,
And to him of your injuries complain.”
“You raise such torments in my breast.” The words put her feelings for Hart so perfectly that she felt as if she were truly speaking to him, and her fear melted away.
LATER, NELL SAT NEXT TO HART AS THE COMPANY SUPPED, HER HEAD pleasurably abuzz from wine. In the flickering candlelight, she looked at the faces around her, laughing at some jest of Lacy’s. It was dark and cold outside, but here all was warm and snug, and she was among friends. She heard once more in her head the opening lines of the play, and thought how apt they seemed.
On what new happy climate are we thrown,
So long kept secret, and so lately known?
The day after the first performance, Nell went to the stage to check her props and found Dicky and several of the other scenekeepers gathered in the wings, some with tears on their weather-roughened faces. Matt Kempton turned as she approached.
“It’s the London,” he said. “The ship that Bill and John were pressed to. It’s blown up, with great loss of life.”
“They were my shipmates,” Dicky said, wiping his ruddy cheeks. “And my captain, Robert Lawson. We all served in the Fairfax at Goodwin Sands. Where I lost my leg.”
“How many are lost?” Nell asked. “Are Bill and John killed?”
“No one knows yet,” Matt said, “but the crew numbered more than three hundred, and they say but few survived.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“YOU SHOULD LEARN HOWEVER YOU CAN,” HART SAID. “WATCH other actors. Observe what works and what does not, and why.”
So today Nell sat with Beck Marshall in an upper gallery at the Duke’s Playhouse, to see their rival company perform Lord Orrery’s new play, Mustapha. Nell didn’t think much of the play, but the day was a success anyway, because the king was there.
Barbara Palmer sat beside him, preening and fanning herself, obviously aware that she was being watched as closely as the actors. Nell thought how magnificently beautiful she looked, but there was something cold and hard about her. The flashing eyes she turned on the king were proud and triumphant. Did she love him? Nell wondered. She saw little tenderness in Lady Castlemaine’s gaze.
To Nell’s shock, she realized that the king was looking up at her. He smiled, and bowed his head in greeting. Thoroughly flustered, Nell inclined her own head. Barbara Palmer had seen, and there were thunderclouds behind her gaze.
“Brr,” said Beck. “Those are icicles, not eyes! Well done, Nell. You’ve not only got the king’s attention but put Lady Castlemaine’s nose out of joint, too. Not a bad afternoon’s work!”
Though all had congratulated Nell on her success in The Indian Emperor, she felt awkward in the serious part and begged Hart to let her play in another comedy.
“It’s already in hand,” he said. “I’m meeting with Killigrew and Mohun and Lacy tomorrow, and we’ll find something for you to get your teeth into.”
But when she saw the men in conversation the next afternoon, their faces were grim.
“Pray that it does not get any worse,” Killigrew said, shaking his head as he walked away.
“Pray that what does not get worse?” Nell asked. Lacy glanced around and lowered his voice.
“The plague. I saw two houses closed up today. If it gets bad, the playhouses will be shut to stop it spreading.”
Nell’s heart sank. Not now, she pleaded to whatever power might be listening. Not when complete happiness is so close at hand.
But the plague showed no signs of abating, and before long Killigrew gathered the company and told them that the king had ordered the theaters closed until the plague should pass.
The weather grew hotter as spring turned to summer, and soon there were few streets that did not have a house shut up. Even if the playhouses had been open, there would have been no one to come, for the court had fled to Oxford, followed by much of the town. In the last week of June, Nell listened in horror as Hart told her of the week’s bills of mortality.
“Two hundred and sixty-seven dead of the plague,” he said. “That’s ninety more than last week.”
But those numbers soon paled. The plague’s toll doubled the following week, doubled again the next week, and then again.
A pall of terror settled over London. The plague came upon its victims so suddenly that a person might wake feeling fine and be dead by nightfall. The grotesque black swellings in the armpits and groin bloomed quickly and agonizingly, the putrid pus within seeping into the body or oozing forth when the buboes burst. No one knew how the contagion spread, but it was impossible not to look with fear upon anyone who came near, f
or they might be carrying the seeds of death.
“WE’RE TAKING THE COMPANY TO OXFORD,” HART TOLD HER. “WE can play there to the court. You can learn some more parts, in readiness for when the playhouse is open again.”
“I can’t leave Rose.”
“We’ll make room for her, too. We’ll need a tire-woman, and Rachel’s gone to her family, so Rose can take her place.”
THAT NIGHT, NELL THOUGHT ABOUT HER MOTHER. SHE HAD NOT LAID eyes on Eleanor since the day she had left home, now five years ago, and when thoughts of her mother had come to mind she had pushed them down. There was no good to be had from revisiting the painful past. But tonight the memories pushed forward, jostling with the thought that her mother might die of the plague while she was gone, could already be dead.
An image from the distant past flashed into Nell’s mind—her mother’s face, smiling and laughing as she bounced Nell on her knee. Rose stood beside them. They were outdoors, and sunlight fell upon them through the green foliage of a tree. Nell looked up at the sound of a bird’s cry and saw a flitting brown shape splashed with red.
“Robin Red Breast,” Eleanor said. “Robin.”
“Wobbin.” Little Nell tried out the word, and Rose and Eleanor laughed in delight.
Nell found that tears were running down her face at the memory. She had forgotten the moments of love and tenderness, and the fleeting glimpse of her mother’s warmth awoke intense feelings of longing. Perhaps she should go to see her mother before she and Rose left London. Or would it be a fool’s errand, putting herself in the path of rejection and pain?
THE NEXT DAY, NELL AND ROSE WENT TO THE GOLDEN FLEECE. COMING in from the sunshine, it took Nell’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The smell of the place, that distinct mingling of ale, food, sawdust, sweat, dirt, and urine, flooded her mind with memories, and for a moment, it felt as though she had never been away, that Hart and the playhouse and all that had happened since the day of the king’s return to London were only a dream.
Eleanor was behind the bar, and turned at the sound of footsteps. From the ingratiating smile that fleeted across her lips before it died, Nell could tell that her mother had not at first recognized her daughters. But then Eleanor’s mouth flattened into a hard line, and she jutted her chin at them belligerently.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. And what might the two of you want?”
“We were worried about you, Mam,” said Rose. “Because of the plague.”
Eleanor snorted.
“Well, I’m aboveground, as you can see.”
We shouldn’t have come, Nell thought. She’s just the same as ever, and would give me a kicking just the same as before. She turned to leave, but Rose laid a gentle hand on her arm and faced their mother steadily.
“We’re glad you’re well. We’re going to Oxford, Nell and I, with the playhouse. Is there aught we can do for you?”
Eleanor had been caught off guard, and for a minute Nell saw beyond the defensive mask of her mother’s face to the bottomless well of pain and self-loathing. It was not a frightening witch who stood before her, but a pathetic old woman, beaten by the world. Nell felt tears welling up and sobs choking her chest.
“Will you come with us?”
As soon as she had said the words, she knew that they were folly. She had no money to keep herself, much less her mother. And she cringed at the thought of Hart, of Killigrew, of the Marshall sisters—everyone—knowing that this creature was her mother. And then she felt ashamed at the thought, and began to cry.
Eleanor stood uncertainly. Finally she shook her head.
“Oxford has nought for me but black memories. If I’m to die, I’ll do it here.”
Rose handed her a knotted handkerchief containing a few shillings. Eleanor looked as if she would give it back, but then clenched it in her work-roughened hands, as if afraid that someone would snatch it away.
“Then we’ll be off,” Rose said. “We’ll come to see you when we’re back. God keep you.”
Eleanor nodded slowly. “And both of you.”
A FEW DAYS LATER, THE KING’S COMPANY LEFT LONDON. AS THE coach jolted toward the road to Oxford, Nell had never seen the town so empty. A few scrawny dogs stared out from the shadows, hopeless in their heat and hunger. Shops were shuttered and houses silent and watchful. And here and there that dreadful sight—a house with red letters painted stark against the boards. “God Have Mercy on Us” was what it said, Hart had told her.
At Tyburn Tree, the gallows stood empty, the dirt beneath turned to dust. No crowds gathered there this day. Death as entertainment had lost its appeal, for now death hung unseen behind every shoulder. It lay in wait, breathless, watching for its chance. This day might be your last.
On the seat opposite, Betsy Knepp gasped, and turning to see what had provoked it, Nell, too, caught her breath. A little way off the road, men were laboring at a gaping trench. The stench of rot was heavy in the heat and Nell gagged and snatched at her skirt to cover her nose. But nothing could cover the horror of the knowledge of what lay within, and as the coach passed, the men tipped barrows of quicklime into the pit. Friends and lovers, strangers and enemies lay all together now, all pride and dignity gone, all hopes and dreams and smiles forever lost.
Nell moved closer to Hart and put her hand in his, and his touch and solid presence made her feel safer.
The sun shone bright and as city gave way to country and fields stretched off on either side of the road, Nell breathed again and felt a lifting of the shadows covering her soul. A troop of butterflies swooped and soared, a yellow blur against the blue of summer sky. Trees hung heavy with fruit sweetly scented the air. A village appeared in the distance, a few houses clustered amid the golden fields. What must it be like, Nell marveled, to live in such a place? No theaters, no shops, no court. Excitement took hold of her at the thought of what lay ahead. Performances for the king and court by night, and a new world to explore by day.
AWAY FROM THE GRIMNESS OF PLAGUE-RIDDEN LONDON AND SPENDING her time learning the part of Celia in The Humorous Lieutenant, Nell’s spirits rose. She was never happier than in Hart’s company, and together they strolled the town, the parks, the mossy banks of the river. She was amazed at the range of subjects on which he was knowledgeable, and he delighted in her eagerness to see and to learn. He laughed as she exclaimed in astonishment when he explained to her as they walked in the park one afternoon that it was not the sun that was rolling higher in the sky, but the earth that was moving around the sun.
“ ‘O brave new world!’” he exclaimed, smiling.
“What?”
“It’s from The Tempest,” he explained. “You’re like Miranda, who has lived on a small island all her life, and is enraptured by what is new. Though now I come to think about it, it was a young man she was speaking of, as she had never seen another man besides her father. So I can only hope that the sun and earth are enough for you today.”
He said it lightly, but Nell saw a shadow of sadness pass over his face. She squeezed his hand and looked anxiously up at him. In an instant, his mood turned playful, and he cried, “Come—mount and ride!”
Giggling, Nell hopped onto his back, clasped her legs around him, and held on tight as he whooped and galloped. Faster and faster he went, swooping in circles and looping around a towering oak tree as Nell shrieked with laughter. A dog’s sharp bark answered her, and suddenly a small pack of yapping spaniels was converging on them.
From her bouncing perch, Nell was astonished to see that the king and Barbara Palmer stood not twenty paces away, watching her and Hart with evident interest.
“Hart! Charlie!” Nell beat on Hart’s shoulders with her hands. He finally took in the royal presence and came to a halt, Nell still clinging to his back.
“Mr. Hart,” said the king, inclining his head. An ironic smile twitched the corners of his mouth, and Lady Castlemaine was regarding Hart and Nell with amusement.
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” H
art said, setting Nell on the grass beside him and bowing. “May I present Nell Gwynn? You’ve seen her in our performances in town.”
“So we have,” said the king. “How could I forget that charming face, with or without her oranges?”
THE HOT SUMMER DAYS STRETCHED ON. AT THE END OF AUGUST, Michael Mohun rode alone to London and returned with cold comfort.
“All who can flee have done so. The rest just wait. The weekly bills showed more than six thousand dead last week, but people murmur that it must be nearer ten thousand. The night is not long enough to bury the dead, so the corpses are buried by day as well, and the tolling of the bells never stops.”
Nell looked at Mohun’s haggard face in the flickering firelight, his eyes weary and shadowed, his mouth grim. He passed a hand over his forehead, as if he could wipe away the lines of exhaustion and tension.
“It would be folly to return to London. It would be death.”
THAT NIGHT NELL LAY AWAKE AND THOUGHT AGAIN OF HER MOTHER, alone in the gray streets of Covent Garden, where the plague raged most fiercely. If Eleanor died, no one would know to tell her. Would she at length go home to find her mother gone, buried nameless in some pit? Nell buried her face in her pillow and, trying not to wake Hart next to her, sobbed herself to sleep.
LIKE THE RIPPLES OF A PEBBLE THROWN INTO A POND, FEAR SPREAD outward in widening circles. The court moved to Salisbury. And then to Wilton, when a royal groom at Salisbury dropped dead of the plague.
With the king and his retinue gone from Oxford, Killigrew departed for France to find musicians for the court. The players tightened their belts, gave performances in college halls, and rehearsed the plays they would present when it was safe to go back to London.
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 13