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

by Gillian Bagwell

  Danby resigned and, heeding Charles’s warning, fled to avoid arrest. But he could not run forever and the king could do little to protect him; in April Danby surrendered. A flood of Papists were removed from their positions at court. Summer came, with the execution of five Jesuit priests convicted of treason, but still there was no sense of calm or resolution. Nell had never seen Charles so grim faced and exhausted.

  “Let us to Windsor,” he said. “I can stomach no more of this blood.”

  WINDSOR WAS AN OASIS OF GREEN AND PEACE. THE HUNDREDS OF trees that Charles had had planted when he came to the throne had grown tall and strong, and the old trees, pruned and well tended now, had regained their health and strength. Nell held Charles’s arm as they walked in silence through the royal park, the whisper of the summer breeze in the leaves like the distant sound of water. The boys ran ahead, the pack of spaniels tumbling around them.

  “You need a proper house here,” Charles said. “That little place is not enough now that the boys are so big. Hard to believe that Charlie’s nine, and little Jemmy nearly eight, isn’t it? You shall have the new house near the church. And the continuation of your five thousand pounds a year.”

  NELL LOVED HER HOUSE IN PALL MALL, BUT THE NEW HOUSE IN WINDSOR was truly grand. It stood near the castle, three stories of rich red brick, surrounded by gardens and orchards, with the royal mews between it and the town. She stood looking out a window on the third story. The royal park stretched away to the south and east, and to the west lay the river, meandering through the countrywide toward London. There was more than enough room for her growing household—the boys, their tutors and nurses, the dogs and the ponies, and the small army of servants she now employed.

  Charles came to her side.

  “I’ve always loved this view. When I was a boy I liked to think that I was Robin Hood and the park was Sherwood Forest.”

  “And did you rob from the rich and give to the poor?”

  “I tried. I took George’s favorite ball and gave it to one of the stable boys, but George found me out and pummeled me.” Nell laughed, imagining the youthful Buckingham administering a brotherly beating to the heir to the throne.

  “I told him he’d be sorry when I was king,” Charles said, “but that threat never seemed to have much effect on George.”

  APHRA VISITED NELL AT WINDSOR. SHE WAS POPULAR WITH CHARLIE and Jemmy, and after they had made their bows to her, they hovered impatiently on either side of her while Nell showed her the house. When the tour had stretched to ten minutes, Charlie could stand it no more.

  “Come and see our ponies, I pray you!” he cried.

  “Fie,” Nell scolded him. “Let poor Mrs. Behn have some refreshment first.”

  “It’s fine, Nell,” Aphra laughed. “Come, boys, let us see these noble beasts of yours.” The boys each took hold of one of her hands and tugged her out to the stables, chattering happily over each other, Nell following in their wake.

  “Fine animals,” Aphra pronounced solemnly, “and I doubt not but what you are both very fine riders.” The boys squirmed happily at the praise and raced off to find the groom while Nell and Aphra retired inside.

  “It’s a truly beautiful house, Nell,” Aphra said, turning to admire the grand hall. “You well deserve such a place of peace and sanctuary.”

  “I need it, too,” Nell said. “The world has had a sight more ups and downs this year than is comfortable. I’m so glad you’re here. As much as I like men, I don’t get enough of the company of women. I miss Betsy Knepp. She’s left her husband and gone to Edinburgh, you know, with some of the other players.”

  They sat, turning their attention to the tea and cakes that Bridget had brought in.

  “I’ve brought you a copy of The Feigned Courtesan,” Aphra said. “Just printed. Would you like me to read you the dedication?”

  “I am doubly honored,” Nell said. “First that you think well enough of me to do me the kindness of dedicating the play to me, and second that you offer to read it to me in your own dear voice, so that I can hold the happy memory of it in my head.”

  The dedication was long, and by the time Aphra had finished reading, Nell was in tears.

  “You are too kind, really, Aphra,” she said. “I shall have to get it all by memory, so that when I am feeling lower than a pauper’s grave I can remind myself that you have regard for me, if no one else does.”

  “Surely you don’t doubt how many people love you?”

  “I do,” Nell said, looking down at her hands. “It’s a fault, I know, but I do.”

  “Then remember just this much,” Aphra said, “ ‘You never appear but you gladden the hearts of all that have the happy fortune to see you, as if you were made on purpose to put the whole world in a good humor.’ ”

  “Oh, Aphra,” Nell said. “Truly more praise than I deserve.”

  Nell and Aphra looked up as Bridget bustled in, her face red.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Nelly, but Joe says there’s a messenger at the door. From your mother’s house, and asking to speak with you urgent.”

  NELL STARED AT THE LUMPEN MASS OF WET CLOTHES, THE STARK white face tinged with blue, the unblinking eyes filmed over with the glaze of death.

  Alas, then she is drowned. The line from Hamlet floated into her mind, though there was nothing poetic about the sodden corpse on the table, the earthly remains of her mother, Eleanor Gwynn.

  “She was drunk?” she asked, and the constable looked at his feet.

  “So it would appear, madam. A bottle of brandy lay broken on the bank of the stream.”

  “And when did they find her?”

  “About six of the morning, madam. She was last seen at supper, and it seems likely she slipped in the dark last night.”

  Nell thought of her mother, floundering in the black water, her tangled skirts weighing her down.

  Her clothes spread wide, and mermaid-like a while they bore her up. . . .

  Why did such poetry come to mind, Nell wondered in some back region of her brain. Had Ophelia looked even thus?

  Her garments, heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch . . . to muddy death.

  Nell turned to the man, who stood a few steps off, head bowed.

  “See to having her made ready, please, and bring her to town.” She handed him a purse and turned back to the sunlight.

  ELEANOR’S BODY WAS LAID OUT IN HER BEDROOM AT THE HOUSE ON Pall Mall, and Nell and Rose sat up with her on the night before the funeral.

  “I can scarce believe she’s gone,” Rose said again.

  “Nor I,” Nell agreed. “She looks so small, doesn’t she?”

  “Aye. It was all the battle in her made her seem so big to us, I reckon.”

  They sat in silence for a while in the flickering candlelight.

  “I haven’t cried,” Nell said at length. “Does it make me wicked, do you think?”

  “No. You took her in, Nell, which is more than she had a right to expect after how she treated you. It was more than I could have done.”

  “I couldn’t not do it,” Nell said. “She was my mam, for all the pain she gave me.”

  THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF ELEANOR’S DEATH HAD PROVIDED FODDER for the ballad makers, and Rose’s husband Guy looked up from the broadsheet in his hands, his face grim.

  “Are you sure you want me to read it?”

  “Yes,” said Nell. “We’ll hear it soon enough, and I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Very well.” With a self-conscious cough, he read.

  “Here lies the victim of a cruel fate

  Whom too much element did ruinate.

  ’Tis something strange, but yet most wondrous true,

  That what we live by, should our lives undo.

  She that so oft had powerful waters tried,

  At last with silence, in a fish pond died.

  Fate was unjust, for had he proved but kind,

  To make it brandy he had pleased her mind.”

  “OH, POOR
MAM,” ROSE SAID. “TO BE SO SORELY MOCKED WHEN SHE’S hardly cold.”

  “It’s the way of the world,” Nell said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sure I’ll not fare any better when I’m gone.”

  THE CHURCH OF ST. MARTIN-IN-THE-FIELDS WAS PACKED. ELEANOR Gwynn lay in her coffin, and the great and the good of London had come to see her off. Jemmy sat to Nell’s left, his little face somber, and Rose and Guy beyond him. Charles sat on Nell’s right, with Charlie beside him, proud in his new mourning clothes, a copy of his father’s.

  Nell, out of long habit, found herself counting the house, and reckoned it to be close on three hundred mourners. Buckingham, Dorset, Rochester, Sedley, George Etherege, Henry Savile, Fleetwood Sheppard—all the Wits were there, the Merry Gang sober at least in demeanor and dress. Court and theater were well represented, and the back of the church was filled with Nell’s household, all in black, and with crowds of people who had known Eleanor, or perhaps had not known her and were come only to stare.

  “It’s the best I could do for you, Mam,” Nell whispered. “Go to your rest now. God knows you deserve it.”

  AUGUST. WINDSOR WAS HOT, BUT IT WAS COOLER ON THE RIVERBANK where Nell walked hand in hand with Charles. She watched a line of ducks paddling on the smooth water, making their way to the shade beneath a spreading oak. Hard to believe it had been more than a year now since the first stirrings of the Popish Plot, a year of nightmare and strife. She glanced at Charles and was relieved to see him smile back at her as he drew her arm into the crook of his elbow. Finally the strains and tension of the past months seemed to be losing their grip upon him. As usual, he found release in activity, and already that day he had played tennis and then gone hawking, losing himself in the passion of the moment, finding freedom in the country air, the wind and sun upon his face.

  “Will you sup with me and the boys this evening?” she asked.

  “Gladly. That will put a cap upon a fine day.”

  BUT AT NELL’S HOUSE THAT EVENING, THE DOOR OPENED TO REVEAL not Charles, but a grim-faced Buckingham.

  “The king has fallen ill.”

  “Ill? Of what?” Nell cried.

  “A fever. Quite suddenly come upon him and quite bad.”

  “I’ll go to him at once.” Nell started for the door.

  “No. Best not. I’m sorry, Nell, but you can’t help him and you wouldn’t be admitted. Come, I’ll sit with you.”

  Buckingham returned to the castle late in the evening, promising to return if the king’s condition changed. Nell sat in her nightgown at her bedroom window, wondering how many lonely and terror-filled nights she had spent—there seemed to be so many. The bright moon in the warm sky brought her no comfort, and only telling herself that the lack of news meant nothing worse had happened kept her from wild panic.

  IN THE MORNING, THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH ARRIVED, THE DUST OF the road upon him.

  “Jemmy, thank God you’ve come,” Nell said, clasping him to her. “How is he?”

  “Very ill,” he said.

  “I wanted to go this morning but Buckingham sent word there was no change and I would still not be admitted.” Her words broke off as her throat tightened with a sob.

  “Come, sit,” said Monmouth, taking her hand. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right,” Nell said. They went into the parlor and Nell sat, but Monmouth paced.

  “Tell me,” Nell said.

  “He has a high fever and has been delirious at intervals. Bleeding and cataplasms have done little to bring him to himself. They’ve given him a sleeping draft so that he may rest.” Bridget came in with food and drink, and Monmouth held his tongue until she left, then poured wine for Nell and himself.

  “Nell, the Duke of York has been sent for from Scotland.” His voice was even, but Nell felt a clutch of fear at the pit of her stomach. She pushed back her terror and willed herself to remain outwardly calm.

  “They fear for his life then?”

  “Aye. I wish I could tell you otherwise.” He resumed his pacing and stared out the window. “I’m being watched, Nell. My enemies fear me. For they know the time may be near when the king will finally speak, might finally say . . .” He stopped and turned to her.

  “Jemmy, how great a fool can you be?” Nell cried. “Charles will not make you his heir! You know he’s signed a statement that he was never married to your mother. Every time those rumors have arisen he has denied them. Every time there is talk of procuring a divorce from the queen, he has put it down. The Duke of York will succeed him on the throne.”

  “So he has always said.” Monmouth came to Nell’s side, and she was frightened by the fervor burning in his eyes. “But it’s only a sham. He loves me, and I am his firstborn. When he knows he’s dying, then he will say what is in his heart—that I am to be king.”

  “For the love of Christ, keep your voice down,” Nell hissed, clutching his arm. “It’s treason you’re speaking. If you are being watched, don’t give them the misstep they’re hoping for. I beg you, put this madness from your mind.”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, NELL WAS ALLOWED TO SEE CHARLES. HE HAD come through the worst of his illness, and his life was no longer in danger, but as she sat at his bedside she was alarmed at how thin and weary looking he had become in only a few days.

  “I was so frightened,” she murmured, holding his hand to her cheek.

  “You were not alone, sweetheart, though most of them more feared having my brother upon the throne than the loss of my presence among the living.”

  “Not so,” she said. “You know how the people love you.” Charles gave a snort of laughter, and it turned into a wracking cough.

  “They’d love me a sight more if I’d provided a son got on the right side of the blanket and they did not face the prospect of a Papist king when I’m gone. Why the devil James had to stir sleeping dogs by declaring his faith in the Romish church I’ll never understand. It’s already cost him the Admiralty.”

  “You’ve always said he’s stubborn as one of the army mules.” Nell smiled, but she knew Charles was right. The prospect of a King of England subject to the sway of the Pope was enough to rouse a mob to rage.

  “Is there no other way?” she asked. “Other than your brother coming to the throne?”

  Charles stared at her. “Not you, too, Nell! You know I couldn’t make your boys—”

  “I didn’t mean that!” She was embarrassed that he would think she would presume so far. “I meant—what about Jemmy? Monmouth.”

  “I’ll see him hanged at Tyburn before I see him on the throne,” Charles spat.

  Nell stared at him, appalled.

  “Don’t say such a thing, even in jest. He is your son.”

  “He is,” Charles agreed, punching the pillows behind him into a more comfortable arrangement before sinking back against them. “There was good sport at his making, and I loved his mother well.” He stopped, his mind clearly gone back to Jersey and Lucy Walter, so long ago. The rumors that he had married the girl had been so persistent over the years that Nell longed to ask him if it was true. But even if it were, he could not tell her. Could not tell anyone. Ever.

  “He’d bring the country to its knees,” Charles said, coming back to the present. “Oh, aye, I know there are those who think I pay little heed to business. But Jemmy, much as I love him, truly has no head for kingship. He’d be overrun by Parliament before I was cold. No, when I’m gone, it’ll be Dismal Jimmy sitting in the chair, and the devil take the hindmost.”

  CHRISTMAS. LITTLE JEMMY HAD TURNED EIGHT, AND HE WAS LEAVING in a few days for Paris, in the company of Henry Savile, Charles’s envoy extraordinary to France. He had been delighted by Charles’s gifts of accoutrement for his travels—a great black gelding, a fine saddle trimmed in silver, traveling cases for his clothes and goods, even a pair of pistols.

  “It’ll be good for him,” Charles said again, as they watched Jemmy solemnly hoist a pistol in both hands. “He’ll meet his French
cousins, learn dancing and some French. The countryside is beautiful, and he’ll appreciate that. He’s always been a soulful little thing. God knows where he gets it.”

  “But he’s so small,” Nell said. “And he’s had so many colds this past year.”

  “It’s warmer in France,” Charles said. “And Henry will take good care of him. Come, it’s time he was out of the realm of nursemaids and into the world of men.”

  THE DAY OF DEPARTURE HAD COME. NELL LOOKED AT JEMMY, SURROUNDED by the mountain of his baggage and the great horses, and thought that no one had ever looked less ready for the world of men than her baby, his soft cheeks flushed as he stood bundled against the cold. She stooped and pulled his cap more firmly down over his ears and kissed him again. She had sworn to herself that she would not cry at their parting, but she couldn’t help herself. She gathered him into her arms and pulled him close, as if she could plant him within her very heart.

  “Do you know how much I love you, my brave little one?” she asked, stroking his cheek, memorizing his face so that she would have a picture to hold in her mind during the months of his absence. “More than food and sun and air, more than life itself.”

  “And I love you, Mother,” he whispered, clasping her around the neck, heedless of the overwhelming masculine presence around them—Savile and the servants, grooms, and stable lads.

  “You can look at the moon every night,” Nell said, “and know that I am looking at it, too, and thinking of my sweet Jemmy. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”