The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II

by Gillian Bagwell

  So pleased had Charles been by his first visit to Newmarket that he had commissioned Christopher Wren to build him a house in town. It was finally finished, and Nell and Charles had retreated there after a glorious day, summer’s warmth just beginning to hint at the fade to autumn. It was pleasant to have had a quiet supper alone, and now Nell lay in bed with her swelling belly and breasts pressed against Charles’s back. Their breathing was quiet and slow, in time with each other. Outside, rain pattered on the trees. Nell thought that there was no place in the world she would rather be.

  Through the window, the moon was just coming into view. The stars were banked with clouds, the twinkle of their fire only intermittently visible.

  Nell had thought Charles was asleep, but he stirred, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers. He sighed deeply and Nell kissed his shoulder.

  “What, my love?”

  “Nothing. Just—memories.”

  “Of what?”

  Charles was silent for a moment before answering. “It was on this day twenty years ago that we lost the battle at Worcester.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Have I not told you the story?”

  “No.”

  He rolled to face her, stroking the curls tumbled about her face. His eyes were sad and tired. She took his hand and kissed it, then pressed it to her cheek. He pulled her to him so that her head was cradled on his chest.

  “I was in Scotland. In Perth, godforsaken Perth, reduced to depending on the Scots. Cromwell and his army were to the north and began to advance on us, and the time seemed right to push into England. The people would rally to us, it was said, send Oliver’s troops scurrying like rats. So we set forth, and I was proclaimed king in Penrith and Rokeby. But as we drew farther south, it was the Scots soldiers who scurried from our ranks, and none came to take their place.”

  As though a dam had broken, the words now poured from Charles, and Nell saw written on his face long-banished memories.

  “There were spies among us who betrayed our positions and plans, and hundreds—nay, thousands—were arrested. And seeing this, those who might have come lost heart and stayed away. We pressed on, and limped into Worcester.”

  He paused, staring intently into the darkness, as if planning again his strategy.

  “Cromwell soon came with a vast army. And seasoned men, not the weakened rabble that we were. I was glad of the chance to fight instead of waiting and running, and we charged upon them with the fury of despair and rage. But they captured Fort Royal and turned our own guns upon us; our losses were heavy, and we had no choice but to retreat. Many of my men threw down their arms, aweary of the fight. I urged them on, cajoled, threatened, wept. But it was no use.”

  He covered his eyes with his hand, as if to block out the sights in his mind’s eye. Nell stroked his cheek.

  “I would that I had been there,” she said. “I would gladly have died with you a hundred times before I would have left you to fight alone.”

  “I know you would. You’ve a stouter heart than many a soldier.”

  Nell poured him wine, and he drank absently, his mind still in the past.

  “What then?” Nell prompted.

  “Dark was coming on. The city was surrounded, and Cromwell’s men were searching for me. Although I had no great wish to live, I could not let myself be taken captive, and so become the pawn of the enemy. And so I flew, and not a moment before time. As I was leaving by the back door of the house where I had been staying, the troops were at the front.”

  “And so you went to France?” Nell asked.

  “Aye, after six weeks of hiding and terror and hunger, my feet bloody with walking. But that’s a story for another time. Truly I do not know how or why I was preserved, except by the hand of providence. And I live every day with the thought of the thousands who were lost.”

  He gave a choking sound. Nell stroked the stubble of his cropped head.

  “Oh, my love. You did all you could, and no man could have done more. And your salvation has meant the salvation of so many.” She pulled him close to her breast as she did their son, murmuring consolation and love, until his sobs ceased.

  IN THE MORNING, NELL WOKE FEELING WRETCHED. HER BURGEONING belly, aching back, and swelling feet made her constantly uncomfortable, and she craved the comfort of her own house.

  “You will not mind if I go back to London a few days early, will you?” she asked Charles. “I’m not fit to be seen in public, and I had rather be at home with Rose’s company than sit here while you spend your days at the races and your nights dancing.”

  “No, lambkin,” he assured her. “You go, and I’ll be back in town by the end of the week.”

  So Nell went home, but a fortnight passed, and still Charles remained at Newmarket.

  LAUGHTER POURED FROM THE OPEN WINDOWS OF EUSTON HALL, breaking the calm of the warm autumn evening and the steady chirp of crickets. The light from hundreds of candles spilled forth, too, making the grand house a beacon in the warm darkness of the surrounding grounds.

  The musicians struck up a dance tune, and rhythmic clapping accompanied the clatter of heels on the wooden floor of the great hall and the swish and rustle of silks as the dancing couples paraded.

  On the terrace outside, Lady Arlington and the French ambassador Colbert de Croissy watched the merrymaking through one of the tall windows. Lady Arlington smiled. The king headed the dancers, leading Louise de Keroualle down the length of the room, a crowd of revelers flanking them. Louise was flushed with wine, the heat of the dance, and, unmistakably, erotic excitement tinged with pride at her public triumph in capturing the king’s attentions so wholly. For there was no doubt about the intensity of his gaze at Louise’s dimpled smirk and heaving décolletage.

  Lady Arlington turned to Croissy, who was also watching the king and Louise with a knowing smile.

  “It will be tonight,” she purred. “At last.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And she does not need a throne to rule. Only a bed.”

  NELL COULD NOT SEEM TO SIT STILL. SHE STARTED AS THE BELL OF A nearby church struck ten, and Rose looked at her sharply.

  “You’re not yourself tonight.”

  They had sat for some time in silence in front of the hearth. Nell’s thoughts had been racing, anxiety clawing at her mind.

  “Oh, Rose. I’m afraid. Charles is still at Newmarket, and so is that little French wagtail. I’ve left him a clear path to her bed.”

  “Well, and what then?” Rose asked. “How many other beds has he graced these past years? Yet he comes back to you.”

  “True. But this one feels different. The queen, Barbara—they were here before me. It irked me to share him with Moll Davis and the others who’ve passed his way, but I never felt as I do now. That I might lose him.”

  Rose came to stand behind Nell’s chair, stroking the russet curls, and bent to kiss the top of her sister’s head.

  “You’ll not lose him. He cares for you, Nell. He adores little Charlie, and he’ll adore the second child. Louise may have his eye at the moment, but not forever. You feel it more because you’re with child.”

  Nell nodded, and reached up to hold her sister’s hand.

  “No doubt. But it’s real enough. And as I am now, I can do nothing. Just sit and wait. While she triumphs. And everyone laughs.”

  Rose shook her head. “This I promise you, Nell. No one is laughing at you. There’s nothing you can do for the moment. But soon you’ll have another royal baby. And eventually he’ll grow tired of Louise and see her for what she is—vain, shallow, and with her own interests first and always in her heart. But your heart is good, and full of love for the king. And he knows it.”

  Nell cradled her sister’s hand to her cheek. “I pray you’re right. Why are you so good to me, Rose?”

  Rose laughed. “I’m only telling you the truth, pigwidgeon. You’ll see.”

  CHARLES AND LOUISE KISSED, TO THE APPLAUSE AND RAUCOUS CALLS of the crowd. To the delight of
all, Lady Arlington had arranged that the evening should culminate in the mock marriage of the couple. Croissy had given away the bride, leading her forward and giving her hand into the hand of the king with a pride and triumphant excitement that almost eclipsed Louise’s. With Lord John Vaughan serving as Lord of Misrule and priest in proxy, Charles and Louise had stood before the rapt congregation and exchanged vows—in voices too low to be heard, but of an unmistakable fervor.

  Dancing followed, and when everyone was heated to a fever pitch, Charles had hoisted Louise’s skirts to reveal her shining white silk stockings and the creamy smoothness of the thighs above, and removed one of her blue ribbon garters. Raising it above his head, a trophy of his conquest to come, he had thrown it to the throng of men, who had jostled and shoved to be the one to catch the prize. Triumphant and catlike, the Earl of Mulgrave had caught it and pinned it to the breast of his waistcoat like the favor of a lover.

  And now, as the candles burned to their nubs and the guests were sodden with liquor and the evening’s increasingly erotic undertones, the public rites were drawing to a close and the wedding night approached.

  “It is late,” Charles remarked, yawning ostentatiously for the benefit of his grinning audience, “and time for bed.”

  “Your Majesty?” Lord Arlington was at the king’s elbow, bowing and smiling. Charles offered Louise his arm. She simpered and lowered her eyes with a maidenly blush, and allowed him to lead her behind Arlington up the broad staircase.

  The musicians and guests followed, the fiddles keeping up a jaunty country dance tune as if the nuptials celebrated were those of some farmer lad and his milkmaid bride.

  The crowd halted as Arlington threw open the doors of Louise’s bedchamber. Red rose petals were scattered over the snowy damask of the sheets and pillows on the huge bed and their perfume mingled with the honey-sweetness of the candles. The bedroom glowed with a soft and magical light, enhanced by the silver moonlight cascading through the leaves of the trees rustling outside the open windows.

  The revelers surged in behind as Charles and Louise followed Arlington into the room. But as if unexpectedly ushered into a sanctuary, the musicians faltered into silence and the chattering and laughter died away. All eyes were on the king, who stood to the side of the bed, burning eyes on Louise, who stood hardly breathing only a few inches from him. Slowly and deliberately, he removed his coat and held it out. Someone rushed forward to receive it, and others stepped forward to unbutton his waistcoat, remove his shoes, disencumber him from his stockings, garters, sashes, and sword belt.

  A crowd of ladies engulfed Louise. The layers of satin and brocade were peeled away until she stood in only a shift of the most delicate lawn and a pair of stays in an exquisitely pale blue silk, embroidered in gold. Her dark hair tumbled onto her shoulders, her dark eyes glowing as she faced her lord.

  Charles, now clad in only his long shirt and breeches, took Louise in with a hungry glance.

  “Out,” he commanded, and there was a surge toward the door.

  Alone with his long-sought prize, Charles grasped a handful of her hair, pulled her head back, and devoured her mouth, his other arm grappling her body to him as he lowered her onto the bed.

  A SLASH OF LIGHTNING SHREDDED THE NIGHT SKY, FOLLOWED A SECOND later by a cataclysmic boom of thunder. Nell jerked awake and was half out of bed before she realized what had woken her. Gasping for breath, she clutched the covers around her. Outside the window the lightning crackled and a savage wind whipped the branches of the trees, dark tentacles lashing the shadowed grayness of the storm clouds.

  She had been having the dream again. The door closed in her face, solid and unyielding to her desperate pounding. She was shut out. Forsaken and afraid.

  The room smelled faintly of wood smoke, the beeswax candles, and the lavender of the bedding. It should have been homey and comforting, but Nell felt tiny and lost, and she longed for strong arms to hold her.

  “Charles,” she whispered into the darkness. “Charles.”

  TUTTY WRIGGLED UP TO BUCKINGHAM, AND HE OBLIGINGLY SCRATCHED the dog’s ears before seating himself. Nell settled herself heavily as Bridget brought in coffee and cakes.

  “You’re looking well,” Buckingham said.

  “You’re a liar, Your Grace. I’m looking as big as a frigging house,” she snorted.

  “In a good cause. The king loves his children, loves your little Charlie.” He seemed about to say something else, but instead tasted his coffee, added a spoon of sugar to his cup, and drank again.

  “Well, George,” said Nell. “You’re my chronicle these days, as I am not fit to show myself in society. What’s the new news?”

  “The usual. Barbara has moved on from Dryden and taken William Wycherley to her bed, they say.”

  The reference to beds hung heavy in the air.

  “And Louise?”

  Buckingham sighed. “Yes, she’s finally given the king her maiden-head, if that’s what you mean.”

  Tutty nosed at Nell’s knee, and she hoisted the dog onto her lap and nestled her check against his, stroking the soft fur.

  “Oh. I thought she was still dreaming of a crown.”

  Buckingham shrugged. “I think she knows now that will never be. Louis sent her to influence Charles on behalf of France, and that she cannot do if he loses patience with her.”

  Nell felt a dart of cold fear in the pit of her stomach. “And what am I to do?”

  Buckingham smiled gently at her. “All will be well. She’s led him a longer dance than most, but in the end she’ll be no more than just another passing fancy.”

  Nell hugged the dog’s face to her cheek. “She’s already more than that.” She glanced around the room. The rich wooden paneling of the walls, the fine hangings, the sumptuous Turkey carpet, her clothes, the very coffee and cakes on the table were paid for by Charles. And if she lost him?

  She looked at Buckingham, and followed his glance out the window. They watched the progress of a young wench pushing a heavy barrow of oysters before her. The dart of fear clenched into a knot in her stomach.

  “Help me, George. The enemy is at the gates. And like this”—she gestured helplessly to her belly—“I can do nothing. I cannot hope to compete against her beauty. I cannot even be at court.”

  “I don’t think you’ll lose him. You have his child; you have another soon to come. At the very worst he would provide for them, and for you. What you must do is carry on. When he’s here, make your company a joy. Make him comfortable and happy. Provide a refuge. As you always do. On no account act jealously or shrewishly. He’ll tire of her. She’s like some dainty sweet—compelling, but not food to live on. You are that to him. I know it. You must remember it.”

  When he rose and kissed Nell good-bye, she impulsively took his hands. “Thank you, George. I will heed your advice, as always.”

  “Good. And take heart—you must be brought to bed very soon now, and can reenter the lists.”

  “Not soon enough. Six weeks or more.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at her belly. “I had thought you were further along than that.”

  BEFORE DAWN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, NELL’S LABOR BEGAN. IT WAS harder than her first, and when the baby finally came and she was assured that he was whole and healthy, she fell gratefully into an exhausted sleep, leaving the tiny dark-haired boy in the capable care of Rose, Bridget, and the midwife. She woke in the dark of the night to find Bridget dozing in a chair by her beside, and the baby asleep in his cradle. Bridget woke as Nell stirred, and brought the baby to her. As Nell nursed him, his eyes closed tight and his cheeks working, she thought that he was worth whatever pain and sorrow his coming had cost.

  Charles cooed over his newest son and was pleased with Nell’s wish to name the child James, in honor of his brother. He joined Nell for a cozy supper in her bedroom and was solicitous of her health and happiness to a degree that relieved her of her fears. He stayed into the evening, kissing her tenderly when he took his leave, and prom
ising to return the next day.

  The Duke of York called to admire his namesake, bearing lavish gifts, and his uncharacteristic warmth made Nell feel more fondly toward him than she would have thought possible. Even so, within a few days the baby had come to be called Jemmy, and when his half brother the Duke of Monmouth visited, Nell whispered to him that it was really he for whom little Jemmy had been named.

  LITTLE CHARLIE TODDLED ACROSS THE CARPET TO ROSE, WHO HELD baby Jemmy in her arms, and stood holding on to her skirts.

  “That’s a brave little man!” Rose cried, leaning down to kiss him. “Nell, they are the most beautiful boys. Perhaps a sweet girl next time, eh?”

  Nell shook her head. “No next time for me. Mademoiselle Buttock shows no signs of retreat, and I cannot compete for Charles’s affections while I’m shut away with a great belly and a swollen face. I’ll not take that chance again.”

  AT THE END OF JANUARY, THE THEATRE ROYAL BURNED BEYOND repair, along with all its scenery and costumes. Worse, an actor died in the fire. Nell had acted with Richard Bell in Tyrannick Love and The Conquest of Granada and he had been well-liked among the company.

  Nell wept at the news. The playhouse had been her true home for so long, the place where her life had been transformed, that it felt like a part of herself had been lost. She kept recalling details—the green leather of the benches in the pit, the narrow stairs to the tiring rooms, the board in the stage floor just off left that squeaked, the comforting smell of paint and sawdust, the little cubby where Orange Moll had kept her wares, and where the fire was supposed to have started. Impossible that it should all be gone.

  Nell thought of the actors, suddenly out of work. Recalling her fear and uncertainty during the theater’s long closure because of the plague and the fire, she sent to ask Hart to visit her. He was limping slightly when he arrived but waved away her concern.