“You take your life into your hands, girl,” Betsy said, shaking her head.
The response from the audience grew more uproarious in Kate’s subsequent scenes, but the other shoe seemed to drop at the end of the climactic conspiracy scene just after she left the stage.
Young Theo Bird as Sanga turned to Nicholas Burt, as Cicero, and asked, “ ‘But what’ll you do with Sempronia?’ ”
Burt drew his breath to answer, but before he could speak, a lisping voice rang from the house, “Thend her to Conthtantinople!”
It was Lady Castlemaine who had shouted out the answer. She stood in her box, triumphant, as the auditorium dissolved into pandemonium—howls of laughter, raucous shouts approving and disapproving the improvisation, the pounding of walking sticks, nuts and apple cores sailing through the air.
The final act was interrupted repeatedly by cheers, catcalls, and further remonstrances from the audience, but the extent of the reaction to the performance did not become clear until the following day.
“Kate Corey has been arrested for her little mockery yesterday,” Michael Mohun fumed to the assembled company. “Lady Harvey went crying to her cousin the Earl of Manchester, and he went straight to the king. So now we shall have to put on something else tomorrow, unless we can get this sorted out by then.”
“But why did Lady Castlemaine want to mock Lady Harvey, anyway?” Nell whispered to Betsy. Betsy raised her eyebrows significantly.
“A lovers’ quarrel, so I hear. Apparently Castlemaine took comfort in Lady Harvey’s arms when the king was in a rage over her going to bed to Ralph Montagu.”
“And why Constantinople?” Nell pressed.
“Why, because both ladies got the king to send their husbands far away, so they could do as they pleased. But their intrigue soured, as these things do. I fear me Kate has got herself in deeper than she knew.”
NELL SPENT THAT NIGHT WITH CHARLES. SHE DID NOT DARE RAISE the subject of the arrest of her fellow player, but it lay heavy on her mind. It was Charles who mentioned the play, saying that he would be at the next day’s performance.
“But I thought—” Nell stopped. This could be dangerous territory.
“No, no, it’s all settled. It’s a command performance, in fact, and I’m looking forward to it immensely.”
It seemed that Charles was not the only one eagerly anticipating the afternoon’s entertainment. The theater doors opened at noon to a mob of patrons, and when Nell made her entrance for the prologue, she had rarely seen the theater as crowded. The seats in the pit were full, and men stood shoulder to shoulder in the aisles. The upper galleries seethed with bodies. She curtsied to Charles in the royal box, with Barbara Palmer preening at his side, and waited for the hubbub to subside before she spoke her prologue. When she had finished her speech and made her exit, she found the entire cast watching from the wings.
“I’ve heard murmurs that Lady Harvey has got people in the house today to cause trouble,” Lacy said. “Have a care.”
Kate Corey appeared none the worse for her time in jail. She made her entrance to loud cheers, and if anything, her mimicry of Lady Harvey was even more pronounced than in the first performance.
“‘There are three competitorth,’” she lisped broadly. “‘Caiuth Antoniuth, Publiuth Galba . . .’”
The audience howled in glee as she continued the list of Romans with their “S”-laden names.
“ ‘Luthiuth Cathiuth Longinuth, Quintuth Cornifithius, Caiuth Lithiniuth’ ”—Kate paused masterfully before finishing—“ ‘and that talker, Thithero.’ ”
The level of excitement and tension in the house mounted as the play progressed to the scene into which Barbara had thrown her verbal gauntlet during the previous day’s performance. Kate fought the rising tide of voices, almost shouting to make herself heard above a chorus of hisses, but she carried gamely on.
She swept offstage at the conclusion of her scene, leaving Nicholas Burt and Theo Bird. They seemed to visibly brace themselves as they came to the infamous line.
“ ‘But what’ll you do with Sempronia?’” A fusillade of oranges pelted the stage, hitting the actors, smashing against the scenery, rolling back down to the audience. Theo ducked an orange and tried again to speak, but jeering shouts and stamping rose to such a level that he and the other actors gave up, held their places in silence until they could make themselves heard, and then simply got through to the end as quickly as they could.
“Don’t go out,” Hart said, as Nell stood ready to make her entrance for the epilogue. “Let’s just end it.”
In the tiring room afterward, Kate looked shaken but defiant.
“It was worth it,” she claimed, stripping off her gown. “Lady Castlemaine was so happy about yesterday that she got the king to let me out and spent all the morning with me coaching me to better mock Lady Harvey. And paid me twice what she had before, knowing that we should have a bigger audience for the jest today.”
“Lady Castlemaine’s still got quite a hold on the royal cods, apparently,” Beck Marshall said, with a sidelong glance at Nell, “despite rumors to the contrary.”
BUT BARBARA’S HOLD WAS WEAKENING. CHARLES MADE NO SECRET OF his exasperation with her, and during his breakfast briefings, he vented his growing exasperation with her political machinations, extravagant spending, constant requests for money, and endless parade of lovers.
“I’ve had enough,” Charles announced to Nell soon after the New Year. “ ‘Madam,’ I told her, ‘All that I ask of you for your own sake is, live so for the future as to make the least noise you can, and I care not who you love.’ ”
“What did she say?” Nell asked.
“She threw a clock at me. But she’ll be out of the palace within a fortnight. Don’t worry for her,” he said, seeing the look on Nell’s face. “She and the children are well provided for. And while I’m thinking of it, Buckingham tells me there’s a pretty little house available at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“For Barbara?” Nell asked.
“Barbara?” said Charles. “No, she has houses enough. For you, Nelly, for you.”
Nell could scarcely draw breath to thank him she was so stunned, so she kissed him instead.
“Quite fashionable that area’s become,” Charles said. “And it’s close by the theater but near enough to here that we can see each other easily.”
SOON AFTER THAT PROMISE, NELL SAT HAPPILY IN AN UPPER BOX AT the King’s Playhouse with Peg Hughes, who had joined the company that season. She was Sedley’s mistress, which had made Nell initially leery of her, but she liked Peg’s straightforward humor and even enjoyed watching her onstage. Today they were watching the new tragicomedy The Island Princess, and Nell was in great spirits. She had just moved into her house in Newman’s Row and could hardly believe that she was living in such grandeur.
“It’s got two whole stories,” she told Peg. “Parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedchambers, garden at the back. Only steps from Lincoln’s Inn Fields!”
“And servants?”
“A cookmaid, a maid of all work, and a porter,” Nell said. “Think of that! You’ll have to come and visit.”
“I wish Charlie would take a house for me,” Peg said. “He keeps saying he hasn’t the money. I like him, but I can only wait so long.” Her dark curls bounced as she giggled, and Nell thought she was a pretty wench indeed, and Charlie Sedley had better look sharp if he wasn’t to lose her.
“Look,” Nell said. “There’s Moll Davis down there. She’s looking a bit fat, don’t you think?”
“If you ask me, there’s always a bit of the piglet about her,” Peg said, and they both broke into laughter.
“Why, Mrs. Nelly!” The voice came from the next box, and Nell saw that Sam Pepys was there with his wife.
“Good afternoon, Sam. A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Pepys. You know Margaret Hughes?”
“Yes, indeed,” Pepys smiled. “It would be hard to forget such a charming face as hers is. Of course,” he haste
ned to add, “not quite so charming a face as that of Mrs. Pepys, if you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Peg.”
A couple of weeks later Peg came to call, and Nell showed her around the house.
“I can scarce believe it,” she said. “All my life I’ve lived in wretched little dog holes. And now so much room, just for me.” She guided Peg to a window on the upper story that looked out over Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“That’s the Duke of Buckingham’s house, and the Earl of Sandwich lives there, the Earl of Bristol there, and the Countess of Sunderland there. It’s a bit noisy at night, is the only trouble. Whetstone Park is just there, you see, and of an evening the street is full of bingo boys drinking and roaring.”
“Did you hear about Ned Kynaston?” Peg asked, as they sat down to chocolate and cakes.
“No, what?” Nell asked in alarm at the worried look in Peg’s eyes.
“He was set upon and beaten last night by two or three bravos and was hurt so bad he had to keep his bed today. Will Beeston had to go on in his part with book in hand.”
“Who would have reason to hurt poor Ned?” Nell asked. Peg looked down at her lap, tears welling in her eyes.
“They’re saying it was Sedley did it, because Ned mocked him in his playing of The Heiress, but I’ll not believe it.”
Nell wondered. Sedley was certainly a wild one, but would he go so far as that? She thought of poor Kate Corey spending a night locked up for her mockery of Lady Harvey and Lacy jailed for The Change of Crowns. The highborn might enjoy the playhouse and its pleasures, but there was no question that they thought actors were creatures far below them, to be taught a lesson if they got above their place.
NELL WAS GOING TO CELEBRATE HER NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY BY HAVING Charles to supper at her new house. She surveyed the table, its pewter dishes gleaming in the firelight, and breathed in the scent of pigeon pie and lamb with onions. It was perfect.
Charles arrived by sedan chair, anonymous and unnoticed in the wintry dark.
“Your birthday gift, sweetheart.” He brought a squirming something from beneath his cloak. A little black spaniel puppy, its laughing eyes looking up at Nell as she took him into her arms.
“His name is Tutty.”
“What a little heartbreaker!” she cried. “I’ll cherish his company when I can’t have yours.”
NELL WATCHED HAPPILY AS CHARLES ATE. IT WAS WONDERFUL TO SIT with him in her home, truly alone for the first time. She smiled, thinking about the night before them. With the security of her own house, she had decided she would no longer use the little lemon rind cups or sponges soaked in vinegar that had prevented unwanted conception, and she hoped that tonight Charles would give her the start of a baby.
After supper, she led him to the bedroom. Her maid, Bridget, had folded the linens into chests and scattered them with dried lavender, and the bedding gave off a pungent, honeylike smell. Taking Charles into her bed like this, with only one candle burning in the small chamber and the sounds of the street outside, was so different from spending the night in the palace, knowing that attendants lay in the next room and would burst in at dawn. It felt like he was truly her lover. And it was so much more peaceful without those infernal clocks and dogs, Nell thought, drifting off to sleep curled against her king.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NELL WAS NOT HAPPY WITH TYRANNICK LOVE. SHE HAD BARELY been onstage over the past few months and had been longing to return, but this was another of Dryden’s grand tragedies, and Valeria was the kind of serious role that always made her feel awkward. Worse, the play centered around the life of Saint Catherine and was intended as a tribute to Queen Catherine. Nell couldn’t help but wonder how the queen would feel about watching her onstage, knowing how frequently the king was in her bed. And Hart, Lacy, and Mohun were wrangling with the painter Isaac Fuller about his commission to paint the elaborate scenery.
She arrived at the theater for a rehearsal a few days before the play was to open to find the greenroom abuzz. What new calamity had befallen now? she wondered.
“The queen has miscarried again,” Beck Marshall hissed at her. “The king’s pet fox jumped on her bed and frighted her half to death.” Poor queen, Nell thought. And poor Charles, his hopes for an heir disappointed once more.
“Will the play go on?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Beck said. “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough.”
THE PLAY DID GO ON. AND DESPITE HER MISGIVINGS, NELL THOUGHT that the first night was going well. The house was packed, with the king, queen, and half the court there, and they sat rapt while angelic Peg Hughes as Saint Catherine ascended in her bed past Isaac Fuller’s painted clouds to heaven.
The play drew to its close. Nell stabbed herself and died her best stage death. She lay there trying not to breathe visibly and looking forward to the epilogue that Dryden had written for her. Hart stepped forward and declaimed the solemn final speech of the play.
“Let to the winds your golden eagles fly,
Your trumpets sound a bloodless victory:
Our arms no more let Aquileia fear
But to her gates our peaceful ensigns bear
While I mix cypress with my myrtle wreath:
Joy for your life, and mourn Valeria’s death.”
A funereal silence filled the theater, and Richard Bell as the lead centurion bent to lift Nell’s lifeless body. But up she popped and cried, “ ‘Hold, are you mad, you damned confounded dog? I am to rise, and speak the epilogue!’” A wave of laughter went up.
She skipped forward onto the apron, and continued.
“I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye:
I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly.
Sweet ladies, be not frighted, I’ll be civil,
I’m what I was, a little harmless devil.
For after death, we sprites have just such natures
We had, for all the world, when human creatures;
And therefore I, that was an actress here
Plays all my tricks in hell, a goblin there.
Gallants, look to’t, you say there are no sprites,
But I’ll come dance about your beds at nights. . . .”
This was so much better than tragedy! Nell grinned with delight as she cried out the final lines of her speech.
“Here Nelly lies, who, though she lived a slattern,
Yet died a princess, acting in Saint Cather’n.”
The crowd roared their approval, clapping and stamping, and Nell curtsied deeply to the royal box, to the pit, to the packed galleries. It was good to be back.
JAMES, DUKE OF MONMOUTH, WAS STRIKINGLY BEAUTIFUL, NELL thought. There was no doubt he was the king’s son, but the full lips, fair skin, and green eyes were evidence that his mother, Lucy Walter, must have been stunning. He had an engaging charm, and Nell liked him immediately and understood why Charles adored him.
They sat in the house in Newmarket that Charles had taken for her while he was attending the races. She had met Monmouth the previous day and invited him to come to visit. He was less than a year older than she was, and she felt an affinity with him despite the vast difference of their circumstances.
“I lived with my mother in Brussels until I was nine, you know,” Monmouth said, stretching his long legs out before him in their silken stockings.
“Did you know who your father was?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Of course he had no kingdom then. But my mother always told me my father was King of England, and I told it to my friends. They laughed,” he said, “as well they might, for I ran barefoot in the streets with them and looked more like a beggar than the son of a king, albeit a bastard. I couldn’t even read.”
“Really?” Perhaps this not-quite-prince had more in common with Nell than she had thought.
“Not a word, nor had I need. No school for me, only drudgery at home. My mother was little better than a whore, you know.” He said it abruptly and looked to Nell. What did she read in his eyes? Challenge? Shame? The desire for
pity?
“Mine was no different,” she said, and he smiled at her, a shameful secret shared and accepted.
“But still I loved her,” Monmouth continued. “When I was taken from her to be sent to the queen, my grandmother, in Paris to be brought up like a gentleman, I fought like a wolf, and cried to stay with her. The king’s men took me from her by a trick. I didn’t know until later that she had followed and begged to see me. But they kept her away.”
“How monstrous!” Nell cried. “Did they never allow you a visit?”
Monmouth shook his head. “She died. I never saw her more.” Tears glistened in his eyes. Nell felt a rush of maternal affection and pulled him to her, letting his head rest on her shoulder and stroking his hair like a child’s.
Fingers crept onto her bosom. Nell thrust Monmouth away and smacked his hand.
“That’s the last time you’ll do that, or we will not speak again. I love your father, and am for him alone. Do you understand?”
Monmouth nodded sheepishly.
“Good. I would like us to be friends.”
THAT SUMMER, WITH PARLIAMENT DISMISSED, CHARLES AND THE court escaped to Windsor, and he established Nell in a house only steps from the castle gate. The ancient castle with its ponderous walls looked like the Tower, a fortress rather than a home.
“That’s why I like it,” Charles said. “It can be properly garrisoned.” His mouth took on a grim set, and Nell thought of his father, helpless to defend himself as he was handed over to Cromwell’s forces.
“But see,” he said, pointing toward the royal park, “how many new trees are planted now, to replace those destroyed during the war. And how peaceful the gardens here within the walls.”
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 22