“What is the sum that is owed?”
The bailiffs swung to face Nell.
“And what business is it of yours?” one of them demanded. “Madam,” he added, at a nudge from one of his fellows. At the sound of his voice, Nell nearly fell backward with shock, for it was the guard who had flung her to the cobblestones at Newgate so many years before. A world away, an eon away. He had so terrified her then, but now she looked full upon the man and stepped close to him. She looked into his eyes, the top of her head barely reaching his barrel chest.
“It’s my business because I choose to make it my business. Now tell me, what is the amount that the gentleman owes?” It was gratifying to see the man drop his eyes and wipe his running nose uncertainly in the face of her anger. He exchanged glances with his fellows, unsure whether they would lose face by backing down before the crowd or win approbation for courteous behavior. The youngest of the three, a dark-haired lad who towered above the gray-haired parson, made up his mind and stepped forward.
“Two pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence.”
“Is that all? And for that you’re taking him to prison?” Nell asked. She reached into her purse and counted out the coins. “Here. His debt is paid. Now leave him be.”
The young bailiff closed his hand around the coins, doffed his hat to Nell, and lumbered off, followed by the others. The clergyman, overcome by his sudden rescue, sank to the ground, gasping.
“Help him, John,” Nell said, taking the man’s other arm as her coachman hoisted him to his feet. “Sir, you must let me deliver you home.”
“No, no, I am well.” The man struggled, but could barely stand.
“You are not well, sir. My house stands but there. Please come to rest and take of some refreshment until you feel stronger.”
A FEW DAYS AFTER NELL’S RESCUE OF THE CLERGYMAN, GROUNDES announced a new visitor to her house.
“Dr. Thomas Tenison, madam, the vicar of the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.” The man looked like a golden-haired giant, Nell thought as he bowed. He was well over six feet tall, taller even than Charles, with the broad-shouldered build of a warrior. But he was in the sober black clothes of a priest, and there was an air of profound peace and gravity about him.
Nell was unused to entertaining clerics, but felt instantly at ease with Dr. Tenison as they settled in the parlor over cakes and chocolate.
“I am deeply grateful for the care you gave to my brother of the clergy yesterday and wanted to thank you in person.” His gray eyes seemed pools of serenity.
“Of course,” Nell said. “It was a small enough thing to do, to get the bandogs off his tail. To make the bailiffs leave him alone, I mean.”
Dr. Tenison smiled. “It was an act of kindness that may have been small enough to you, but which meant a great deal to him and no doubt to the course of his life. Not everyone would have intervened as you did. I would be happy to repay you the money that you laid out on his behalf, Mistress Gwynn.”
“Oh, no need, Doctor. I’d give a great deal more if it would help to keep poor wretches from being sent to prison for debts, where they cannot pay their debts nor do anyone any good. And call me Nell, please, everyone does.”
“Nell, then. Thank you. Is there some other way that I can thank you?”
Jemmy’s face came into Nell’s mind, accompanied as always by the great wrenching pain in her heart that was never truly gone.
“My boy,” she said, “my little Jemmy.” She was haunted by his loss, her failure to save him somehow from his lonely end so far from home, and more and more the notion came to her that perhaps his death was a punishment to her. Tears flowed, tears that she dammed behind a wall much of the time because to release them threatened to sweep her away, to make her lost forever in a torrent of grief and guilt.
“Tell me.” Dr. Tenison’s voice was gentle.
“I sent him to France. He was too young.” Nell’s words came out between sobs. “I should never have let him go, and now it is too late to save him and protect him.”
Dr. Tenison listened, probed gently. Nell told him all, and when he left an hour later, her heart felt lighter than it had since Jemmy’s death, and he had promised to come again soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE KING’S CHAMBERS WERE ALIGHT WITH CANDLES, CHASING away the dark night outside. A young French singer with an angelic face and voice warbled love songs to the accompaniment of a lute. It was the evening before Nell’s birthday—thirty-five she would be, tomorrow—and she felt at peace, optimistic. Charles had not been able to attend her New Year’s party, suffering from an ulcer in his leg that had been troubling him greatly, keeping him from his usual walks and exercise, and making him fitful and irritable. But tonight he was feeling better and in buoyant spirits.
Nell looked around the card table. Louise, Hortense, and Barbara were examining their cards, and at least for that moment, they were serene. There were no flashes of hostility or jealousy. Miraculously, Nell thought, the four of them had settled into their places in Charles’s life, each secure that she held some unique corner of his heart that was hers alone and which the others did not threaten. Barbara caught Nell’s eye and smiled, and Nell had a vision of her first sight of Barbara, in the window of the Banqueting House on that night so long ago. Then Barbara Palmer had seemed as far above Nell as a goddess above a goatherd, and yet here they sat in domestic tranquility. Equals.
Charles was in conversation with Monmouth near the fire. Not king and his potential usurper, but father and son. The Duke of York sat with his wife, Buckingham near them. Only the two brothers and their near-brother remained of that family that had been sundered by war and loss.
Charles looked over at Nell and blew her a kiss, and she thought of the first time he had done so, him on his dancing horse amid the cheering crowds, she bouncing in excitement in the window above the street. And here he was, her Charles, her love. He appeared at her side.
“You haven’t told me what you want for your birthday, Nelly.”
She smiled up at him. “Your company is all I want, Charles. Will you have supper with me tomorrow?”
“Of course, of course. And I suppose I shall just have to think of a gift myself, and surprise you, since you will not tell me.”
IT WAS BEFORE DAWN, AND THE HEAVY KNOCKING ON THE DOOR downstairs was insistent. Nell sat up in the darkness, and heard Groundes’s footsteps in the hallway and urgent voices. Fear seized her. She did not move. Perhaps it was only a problem with one of the servants, or a dog got loose, or perhaps. . . no. There was a knock at her chamber door. She opened it to find Groundes with a page in royal livery.
“I’m sorry, madam,” Groundes began, and Nell willed away the rest of his speech. How many times had she heard these words, each time the preface to more sorrow than her heart could bear?
“The king has collapsed, madam. The doctors are sent for, and his condition is very grave.”
“YOU CANNOT SEE HIM, MADAM.” THE GUARD STOOD IMPLACABLE AT the door to the king’s bedchamber.
“But I—” Nell was stunned. Was this the same guard who had welcomed her daily for so long?
“No one is to be admitted, madam. No one. By order of the Duke of York.”
“When will I be allowed to see him?” she persisted, and the guard shifted uneasily at the note of desperation in her voice.
“Madam, I don’t know. His Grace—”
“Yes, I know, His Grace, the Duke of York, says I must be kept out.”
“Not just you, madam, but all his—” He stopped, embarrassed.
“All his whores? Is that what your orders were?” The guard looked down. Nell felt the sobs rising in her throat and turned to go, not wanting to shame herself before him. She gathered her skirts and swept out the door, but before she had gone ten yards she stopped. Charles. He might be dying, this minute. She had to try again.
She ran back into the privy chamber. The door to the king’s bedchamber was open, doctors coming out, doctors go
ing in. She darted for the door. It slammed shut, and the guard watched in dismay as she sank to the floor, then knelt to help her. She threw him off, beat on the door, her blows resounding in deep thuds. She had heard those thuds in her dreams so many times over the years. And here she was, in life. Was this life? Was she waking, or was this a return to nightmare? She cried out, screaming, sobbing, feeling as if the very air was being cut off from her lungs. She could not breathe, she could not live. Without him.
THAT NIGHT NELL TOSSED IN HER BED. THIS WAS SO LIKE THAT OTHER time, she thought. When had it been? Oh, yes, when Jemmy had died, when the sun had been blotted out, when her world had come to a shuddering stop. And now it was happening again. Charles was dying. All of England knew it now, and held its breath, praying for a miracle, or failing that, that he should go quickly and without pain. The doctors were doing all they knew how, with purges and bleeding and plasters and mixtures that made up for their lack of effect by their noxiousness. The queen had sat by his bed without sleep, distraught and unwilling to leave his side until she had been removed almost by force so that she should get some rest. The Duke of York paced and hovered, the kingship that had loomed on the horizon for so long now almost come upon him. Charlie and Charles’s other sons had been called to their father’s bedside. And Nell curled alone in her bed, paralyzed by fear and grief. She wanted only to cease to feel and drained off the tincture that Dr. Lower had prepared for her, hoping for release into oblivion.
NELL POUNDED ON THE DOOR, GRAPPLED FOR SOME HOLD ON ITS smooth surface, but it would not yield. She cried out, and woke herself with the crying. This time she knew the nightmare had been only that, but it was worse, having lived its embodiment earlier in the day. Had all the times the dream had reoccurred since her childhood been leading to this night, when the door would be shut in her face with such finality?
Charles. She knew he would want to see her. And she must see him, must tell him once more she loved him, all that he meant to her.
THE STREETS WERE BLACK IN THE WINTER DARKNESS, BUT LIGHT shone from many windows in the palace. A sharp and bitter wind came off the river, and Nell’s teeth chattered with fear and cold. The way through the warren of gardens and passages at the palace seemed endless.
At last she reached the outer rooms of the king’s chambers. By a miracle no crowd was gathered there. Only Will Chiffinch, the keeper of the king’s privy closet, stood outside with the guards, and just as she arrived, the door to Charles’s bedchamber opened, and the Duke of York came out with the earls of Bath and Feversham and a Papist priest who she recognized as Father John Huddleston, who had helped Charles during his escape after the Battle of Worcester.
Nell knew that she must look wild and frantic, and that word of her earlier appearance had surely spread. With an effort she slowed her footsteps and restrained herself from crying out as she approached the Duke of York.
“Your Grace,” she began, but her voice caught in her throat and she stopped, desperate to suppress the sobs that filled her chest. “Your Grace—” But again she could get no further. She bowed her head helplessly to hide her loss of control, then sank to her knees.
“I beg of you. Do but let me see him for a few minutes. I cannot lose him.” She grasped his hand and clung to him. She knew even as she cried that she might be hurting her case, that the last thing he and the doctors wanted was hysteria in Charles’s presence. And yet she could not stop. The pain of the impending loss was too great.
She raised her streaming eyes to the duke and saw that there were tears in his gray eyes. The pain and sympathy she saw in his face gave her encouragement and allowed her to speak more calmly.
“I will not distress him, I give you my word. I would not for the world cause him any pain. I love him. More than—more than . . .”
The duke nodded, and stooped to her.
“I know you do. As do I. You may see him. But not for long. Hush your crying now.” He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted her tears away, then helped her to her feet. At a gesture from him, the guards opened the door into the king’s bedchamber.
The fire roared high in the fireplace and the heat in the room was stifling. Only a few candles burned and the bed stood in deep shadows, dimly lit by the orange flickering of the candle flames and the hearth.
Nell approached the bed. Charles’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow and ragged. She could see the irregular pulse beat in the vein at the side of his neck. To see the familiar face once more, each detail of which she had looked at she did not know how many times, was both everything she had longed for and more than she could bear.
“Charles.” She spoke his name softly, and touched the hand that lay limply on the bed coverings. He exhaled slightly, and his eyes flickered open. Nell clasped his hand to her mouth and kissed it.
“Nell.” His voice rasped weakly, but there was a faint smile on his ravaged face.
“I’ll be outside,” the Duke of York said, and she heard the door close quietly behind him. She sank into the chair beside the bed and gazed at Charles, taking in every precious detail of the well-loved face.
“Oh, Charles,” Nell said, and stroked his cheek.
“I’m afeard I will die owing you a birthday present,” Charles said, squeezing her hand in his. “Can you forgive me?”
“I would forgive you anything, had you ever done anything to wrong me,” Nell said. “But you have not.”
Charles’s mouth twitched in a wry smile, his eyes closed again.
“Then you are surely the only person in the wide world who bears me no grudge.”
“Oh, no,” Nell breathed. “Do you not know how well you are loved?”
“Am I?” Charles asked, and was seized by a fit of coughing that shook his body. Nell watched in alarm.
“Shall I call the doctor?”
“For the love of God, no,” Charles grimaced. “They have done all they can to help me on my way. I would rather die now with none but you here than let that pack of ravens try more of their futile tortures.”
“Can you not live?” Nell pleaded, holding his hand to her cheek.
Eyes still closed, Charles shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I hear the beating of the wings of the angel of death, and I am aweary of the fight.”
Nell wept softly, and Charles turned his head on the pillow to look at her.
“I would I could go with you,” she cried. “What shall I do without you?”
“All will be well, my love,” Charles said, reaching to stroke her cheek. “Never fear. All is as it is meant to be, and all will be well.”
They sat in silence for some moments, the crackling of the fire and Nell’s sniffling the only sounds.
“What is the hour?” Charles asked.
Nell peered at one of the many clocks in the room. “Just gone seven,” she said.
“The sun will be up soon,” Charles said. “I would like to see it one more time. Help me, Nell. Take me to the window.”
Nell pulled the covers from Charles and helped him to sit. He rested for a moment, then, struggling, swung his feet to the side of the bed. Nell leaned down so that she could get a shoulder under his arm and, using her other arm to steady him, helped him to his feet. He panted with the effort, and swayed, but took a step toward the eastward-facing window, and Nell guided him to it.
The starry sky rose black and endless above them. But straight ahead, there was an almost imperceptible lightening. It grew, moment by moment, so that soon there was a glimmer of pale light in the east, and the dark and undulating river shone silver before them.
After but a few minutes more, a sudden sharp sliver of gold appeared on the horizon, growing steadily. Now pink rays emanated from the glowing ball, coloring the slate of the clouds to flaming glory.
“A miracle,” said Charles softly into Nell’s ear. “A new day upon the earth. But I will not see its close.”
“You will!” Nell cried. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against h
is chest, as if holding onto him would keep him from going.
“No,” he said gently. “But you will. And many a day more. And when you see the sun, the glorious sun, remember me, and this morning we had together. And then I will not be sorry to go.”
“You will be with me with every rising and setting of the sun,” Nell promised. “And with every rainfall and summer breeze. And every time I look into the face of our beloved son.”
“And he is another miracle,” said Charles.
He turned again to the window. The sun was full above the horizon now, the sky turning a clear blue. He faltered, and she clutched him harder, supporting him.
“Help me back to bed now.”
The steps back to the bed were a struggle, and Nell was relieved to get Charles back under the covers. He shivered there, even in the heat of the fire, and she drew the bedclothes up close under his chin.
“You must go now,” Charles said, watching her, and she thought how much he looked like young Charlie and little Jemmy when she had tucked them up in bed of a night. They had always been comforted when she put them to sleep with a kiss and the assurance that she would be near.
“Good night, my love,” she said softly, bending to kiss Charles on the forehead. “I love you with all my heart. And I’ll be by. Always. Sweet dreams, sweet boy.”
Charles’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His eyes were closed again, and the effort of getting to the window had exhausted the last strength he had, but his face looked at peace, and a soft smile lingered on his lips.
With one last look, Nell turned and left the room.
THE LEAD COFFIN OF KING CHARLES STOOD ON TRESTLES IN THE Henry VII Chapel in Westminster Abbey, the small space crowded by mourners. By tradition, his nearest relative, King James, was not present. His nephew-in-law, Prince George of Denmark, stood as chief mourner, with the dukes of Somerset and Beaufort, assisted by sixteen earls.
The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II Page 35