“Who?” Nell asked.
“Edward Hyde, the Earl of Clarendon,” Sedley said. “He’s been the king’s closest adviser since he was in exile. He and Buckingham hate each other like poison.”
“With Clarendon out,” Dorset said, “there would be no limit to Buckingham’s power.”
THE NEXT DAY A MESSENGER CAME FROM KILLIGREW, AND DORSET read the note aloud to Nell. The theaters were to be opened again. Nell must return to London or return her parts to the playhouse. Somehow, she had not anticipated such an explicit moment of reckoning. She had thought that perhaps she and Dorset would have returned to London by the time the summons came, and that she could return to the stage and continue as his mistress. Or—what? That he would be content to drop his plans and take her back to town? She had not thought it through clearly. And now Dorset was watching her, and the messenger stood waiting for her answer. And she knew she must choose.
“You had not considered returning to town soon, had you, Charlie?” she ventured. He shook his head. She imagined the company reassembling without her, and her parts being handed out to others. Her prized parts, which she had worked so hard to get, and which had brought her such joy. But if she left Dorset to go back to London, she would lose the security his money would bring her. He might keep her for years. Who knew when the theaters could be closed again or for how long?
She climbed the stairs to the bedroom and retrieved the precious bundle of her parts. Florimel, Mirida, Celia, Cydaria, and the rest. They were all here. She held on to the packet for a moment before handing it over to the messenger.
IN THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, NELL TRIED NOT TO THINK ABOUT THE playhouse, and there was much to distract her. Epsom was crowded with London holidaymakers. Between them, Dorset and Sedley knew almost everyone, and evenings were filled with suppers, cards, music, talking, and drinking. Dorset and Sedley were both prodigious drinkers, and Nell found that in their company she was drinking more than she ever had in her life; she frequently rose with the ill effects of the previous night or did not rise at all, but slept until late, only to begin it all again.
ONE WARM AUGUST NIGHT, ANOTHER FAMILIAR FACE APPEARED—Rochester. Dorset and Sedley welcomed him like a long-lost brother, and they chewed over the latest news from court.
“Yes, of course Buckingham’s freed,” Rochester said. “Though he cannot seem to go a day without some new scrape. Harry Killigrew picked a fight with him at the Duke’s Theatre, whither Buckingham had repaired with both wife and mistress. It ended with Buckingham giving Killigrew a kicking and taking away his sword, and Killigrew running like a dog. The king declares he’ll clap him in the Tower if he’s found.”
“That Harry’s become nothing but a roaring damme boy,” Dorset sneered.
“Then the playhouses are open again?” Nell asked. She wondered with a stab to her heart whether her shows were soon to be presented and who had been given her parts.
“Yes, both houses are open again for the first time in some month or six weeks,” Rochester said. “Though most no one is in town. And here’s more news,” he grinned. “Lady Castlemaine is with child again. By Henry Jermyn, they say.”
“Jermyn!” cried Sedley. “The ugliest man in London.”
“But with a prick like a cudgel, the rumor goes,” Rochester smiled. “The king swore the brat could not be his, as he’d not lain with Barbara these six months and more, and that set her in a rage. ‘God damn me, but you shall own it!’ she shrieked, for all the court to hear. But the king will none, and Jermyn’s hightailed it for some safer country.”
“And if His Majesty’s not making feet for children’s stockings with Barbara, where is he planting the royal scepter?” Dorset mused.
“Twixt the nimble legs of Moll Davis,” said Rochester. “You know the king’s taken the queen to Tunbridge Wells in hopes the waters will help her conceive, and of course to refute the usual rumors of divorce. And both the King’s and Duke’s players are there to add to the sport.”
As the evening wore on, the party moved from the dining room to the more comfortable confines of the bedroom. Rochester and Sedley lounged in chairs near the table, and Dorset propped himself against the pillows on the bed, with Nell at his side. He had given no indication that he knew of her past relations with Rochester, and Nell was grateful that Rochester had said nothing to give them away. It was unusually restrained behavior for him, she thought.
Suddenly she realized that Dorset was speaking of her. “The best,” he repeated to Rochester. “And obedient, with it.” Nell didn’t like the note of triumph and challenge in his voice. She knew Rochester too well.
“Indeed?” Rochester said, raising his eyebrows. Nell’s heart sank. Nothing good could come of this discussion. “‘The best’ is quite a claim, Charlie. Perhaps you’d let me judge for myself?”
Dorset held Rochester’s gaze for some seconds without responding.
“No,” he said at length, smiling complacently. “I don’t think so.”
Nell inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. But then Dorset spoke again.
“But I’ve no objection to letting you watch.”
Rochester smiled back at him, a wicked glint in his green eyes.
“I’d relish that, Charlie,” he said, taking a swallow of his wine.
“Nell.” Dorset didn’t even look at her. Eyes still meeting Rochester’s, he simply beckoned her to him as he sat up on the edge of the bed. Nell felt that she would be wading into a disaster, but to refuse him seemed the worse option.
She knelt before Dorset and opened his flies. She had never felt him so hard. She knew that Rochester and Sedley must be able to see all, and knew that Dorset knew it, too, and was enjoying his mastery over her.
She worked for some minutes. There was no sound but that made by her mouth, and Dorset’s occasional exhalation of pleasure. He was holding back, she could tell, prolonging his triumph. Finally he spoke.
“As I said, Johnny. And as you can see. She gives the best.”
“She ought to,” said Rochester lazily. “I taught her.”
Nell felt Dorset’s cock wilt in her mouth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KILLIGREW, LACY, AND MOHUN REGARDED NELL SILENTLY. HART sat next to them but would not even meet her eyes. Finally Killigrew spoke.
“And why should I take you back, pray?”
“Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I never should have left. Because I promise you that I will work hard and be no trouble.” None of them said anything and Nell knew that there was only one real reason they would give her a second chance.
“Because I brought in crowds before, and you know I’ll do it again.”
HOW COULD SHE HAVE FALLEN SO FAST? NELL ASKED HERSELF AS SHE left Killigrew’s little office. Six weeks earlier she had been the darling of the playhouses, with a dozen parts that were hers alone, and the knowledge that whenever she put foot onstage there would be a crowd clamoring to see her. Now she was back to where she had been so long ago, hoping she might be given a part, and she felt keenly that when the chance did come, she must do very well to regain her place in the good graces of Killigrew, Mohun, Lacy, and Hart.
Hart. He had stalked out of the meeting without a word to her. His love and approval had shone on her as steadily as the sun, and she had turned her back on him. For what? For foolish visions of grandeur that had crumbled to dust. To be sent packing by Dorset with the insulting sum of five pounds and have to come crawling back to the theater. The other actresses—she had thought them her friends—had not been happy to see her walk in the door that day, were no doubt loath to relinquish the parts they’d inherited from her.
Nell went to the women’s tiring room to retrieve some shoes she had forgotten that summer. Anne Marshall had the one private dressing room, with its fireplace. The door stood ajar, and Nell could hear Anne and Beck giggling inside.
“Lord Dorset’s whore.” It was Beck’s voice. Nell didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, but that was enough. She
flung the door open.
“I was but one man’s mistress,” she bellowed, resisting the urge to slap Beck, “though I was brought up in a brothel. You,” she sneered, her outrage at Beck’s hypocrisy overwhelming her, “are mistress to three or four, though a Presbyter’s praying daughter.”
“One man’s mistress?” Beck’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not what I heard. Three to a bed is the story round the town. Was his lordship paying you by the hour or by the yard?” Anne broke into giggles at the play on words.
Nell felt her face burning in humiliation. Her frolics with Dorset and Sedley in Epsom had seemed the natural course of events in the trio’s holidaymaking, merely an extension of their rambles in the countryside, their merry meals alone or with other company. But the thought of the two Charlies recounting their sport to leering cronies cast it all in another light. She felt dirty, and foolish to have thought that they regarded her as anything but a whore, bought and paid for.
And for such treatment she had cast off all that she had worked so hard to gain at the theater. Had she valued it so little? Her soul ached with such despair that she had not the heart to find any retort to Beck’s taunts. Suppressing her tears, she retreated without a word and fled the theater.
SUMMER WAS GONE. EACH AFTERNOON THE SUN SANK EARLIER AND rose later, and Nell felt enveloped by the chilly darkness. Rose tried to coax her into going walking or to see the plays at the Duke’s, but she wished to do nothing but stay abed and keep warm. After two weeks when she had barely left her room at the Cock and Pie, John Lacy came to see her.
“Come,” he said. “You can’t lie here forever. Time for you to get back onstage.”
“I can’t face it,” Nell said. “Everyone is laughing at me.”
“Not true,” Lacy said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “You know any one of the women in the company would have done the same in your shoes. If Dorset had made the same offer to Beck, she would have been out of the theater so fast she’d have left her petticoat standing.”
He held up a roll of papers. “A new part for you. Panthea in A King and No King. No time to waste—we’ll open at the end of September. I’ll help you learn it.”
“But that’s one of Hart’s plays!” Nell cried. “He won’t even look at me. How are we to play together?”
“You’ll have to face each other again sooner or later.”
“Will he forgive me?” Nell asked.
“Firstly, he’ll do what’s good for the company,” Lacy said. “And that means getting back onstage with you. And secondly, he loves you still. He’ll come around.”
LACY CAME TO SEE NELL DAILY, AND BY THE TIME OF THE FIRST rehearsal for A King and No King she was word perfect in her part. She was thankful that though she had several scenes with Hart, she was playing his sister and not his lover. She couldn’t bear the thought of playing one of the witty love scenes they had so enjoyed and seeing contempt and coolness in his eyes.
“Nelly! So good to see you!” Kate Corey bustled over.
“Thanks, Kate,” Nell said, hugging her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Come sit with me,” Kate said, leading Nell to the benches around the greenroom table. “You look as nervous as you did when you walked in for your first rehearsal of Thomaso—when was it? Three years and more ago.”
Nell felt comforted to be taken under Kate’s wing, and smiled blithely at each new arrival.
“Glad you’re back, love,” said old William Cartwright, lowering his bulk onto a bench across the table from her. “You’ll be good as Panthea.” He laid his sides before him, but Nell knew he didn’t need them—Lygones was a part he’d been playing since the theaters reopened, just as Kate had been playing Arane and Hart had been playing Arbaces.
Hart was the last of the cast to arrive.
Because he doesn’t want to see me, Nell thought. He can’t stand to be in the same room with me.
The rest of the actors all suddenly seemed to be busy looking at their scripts or anywhere but at Hart as he came to the table. Get it over with, Nell thought, and lifted her head. His eyes met hers, and she saw sadness, but no hatred.
“Nell.” He nodded and then looked around the table. “Right, everyone, let’s get to work.”
THOUGH THE PART OF PANTHEA HAD TOO MANY SERIOUS SCENES FOR Nell to truly enjoy, she was cheered by the smiling faces and applause that greeted her at the first performance. It felt wonderful to know that the audiences had missed her, and moreover, the company’s managers could not help but see that she had been missed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so long before she got her old parts back after all.
Sure enough, only a few days later, Michael Mohun approached her after a performance.
“We’ve got a couple of new parts for you, Nell. The king’s mistress in The Black Prince, and a new little comedy, Flora’s Vagaries. Better get someone to start working on your lines with you—you’ve got a lot of words.” He smiled over his shoulder as he walked away, and Nell realized how tense with anticipation and hope she had been since her return.
I’m back, she thought. They’ve taken me back.
Not only had she been taken back, but she seemed to have resumed her place at the top of the heap. She was once more playing with Hart, Kate Corey, and William Cartwright in The Black Prince, though she thought her part as the king’s mistress Alizia weepy and disliked the plodding rhymed couplets. Better, she had the title role in Flora, a part well suited to her comic talents. She and Betsy Knepp had several funny scenes. They enjoyed working together, and spending so much time in each other’s company on- and offstage, they became better friends.
One afternoon in October, Betsy arrived in the tiring room with Sam and Elizabeth Pepys and their maid in tow. Mrs. Pepys greeted Nell, then departed to do some shopping, leaving Sam to visit on his own.
“What’s the house like today?” Betsy asked when Lacy stopped by.
Lacy shook his head. “Less than two hundred. Everyone’s gone to the Duke’s to see The Coffee House.”
“Hell and the devil!” Nell exclaimed in irritation. “Nothing worse than trying to get a laugh when the pit’s so empty they’re rattling around like peas out there.”
Pepys chortled in amusement. “I vow I’ll laugh enough to make up for the lack of all the others, Nelly.”
“If you’re going to sit here, Sam, be a dear and run lines with me,” Betsy asked, handing him the sheaf of paper on which her part was written. “I didn’t get a chance this morning and my head is full of The Traitor.”
NELL WAS RELIEVED TO BE BACK ONSTAGE, EARNING HER OWN LIVING, once more part of the family of the playhouse. But she would not be truly back at home, truly comfortable, until she felt right again with Charles Hart. He had been cordial enough, but had not spoken to her alone, had not gone out with members of the company after shows when Nell went with them. She could hardly blame him, Nell thought. She had walked away from him and all that he had given her, and he could not know what a hole had been left in her heart at his loss.
She sought him out in the men’s tiring room after a performance of A King and No King. Only Lacy was with Hart, and he smiled at her and found reason to leave almost as soon as she had come in. Nell hadn’t known what she would say to Hart, how to approach him, but seeing him sitting there at the dressing table before the mirror, his makeup and brushes laid out before him just so, as she had seen him so many times when they were a couple, her fear left her.
“Will you take a walk with me?” she asked, and was relieved when he nodded.
It was near dark, and they kept to Drury Lane and the Strand, where lights shone from within taverns and coffeehouses and made the way easy.
“I’m sorry,” Nell said, wishing she dared to put her hand in his. “I never meant to hurt you. I was foolish to leave.”
Two stout chair men carrying a brightly painted sedan chair hustled past them, their breath huffing clouds in the chill air.
“Not foolish,” Hart said. “Yes, it hurt, but
I’ve come to see that the picture I had, of us going on forever as we were, was not like to happen. You’re so young. You have so much life before you, so many opportunities that I can’t give you.”
“Can we try again?” Nell asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, and they walked in silence for a few moments. “I’ve heard it said that you can never step in the same river twice. And the current has carried each of us on from where we stood before. But we can care for each other, and find our way anew, if you’re willing.”
“Yes,” Nell said. “I’d like that.”
“We were at our best together onstage,” Hart said. “I’ve never felt like that with anyone, man, woman, or boy, in all the time I’ve been acting. I’ve missed it. Shall we try that, too? Maybe All Mistaken, and see how we do?”
“I’d like that, too,” Nell said. “Above all things.”
NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN BACKSTAGE VISITORS WERE GENTLEMEN. BUT it was a lady that Tom Killigrew ushered into the tiring room one evening in November. She was tall and dark haired, handsome and well dressed, but Nell could tell at a glance that she was no mere mistress nor yet a lady of the court. She carried herself with a sense of ease and confidence, Nell thought. Not a person who sought approval from anyone. Yet not vain or haughty.
“Nell,” Killigrew said, “allow me the honor of presenting my friend Mrs. Aphra Behn.”
“Mrs. Gwynn,” the lady said, and Nell felt that in her gaze was admiration, curiosity, humor. “What enjoyment you gave me with your charming performance. You will know how long I’ve been away from London when I tell you that I hadn’t had the privilege of seeing you onstage before today.” She laughed a throaty laugh that made Nell like her instantly. “But I certainly hope to make up for lost time.”
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 19