The Darling Strumpet (38 page)

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Authors: Gillian Bagwell

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General

BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
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“He’s a proud old goat. He won’t want charity.”
“Very well, I’ll give him enough work that he feels he’s earning his keep. He can feed and groom that poxed donkey that Charles got for Charlie.”
 
 
 
“WILL THE KING REALLY COME?” ROSE ASKED AGAIN.
“Of course,” Nell said. “He said there’s nothing he’d like better than to have my birthday supper with us.”
“But what shall we have to eat?” Rose worried. “He’s used to having everything so grand.”
“Pigeon pie is his favorite,” Nell said. “Give him plenty of that and some wine, and he’ll be well pleased.”
On Candlemas night, Nell’s twenty-second birthday, Charles arrived alone on foot at the little house that Nell had taken for Rose not far from her own. He embraced Rose and greeted her husband, John, before seating himself near the fire with Charlie on his knee and Jemmy in the crook of an arm.
“What happiness,” he grinned. “To be here with you, and away from all those glavering busybodies at court.”
There was a knock at the door, and John went to see to it. Nell could hear his voice growing increasingly agitated, and then he came back into the room, red in the face and looking more ill at ease than she had ever seen him.
“Sorry, Nell, I didn’t know what to do.” A cloaked woman stepped into the room behind him, her shabby clothes exuding the smell of strong spirits. She pushed her hood back from her face, and Nell felt as though she would faint from the surprise.
“Charles,” she said finally, “this is my mother.”
 
 
 
“BY ALL MEANS YOU SHOULD TAKE HER IN,” CHARLES SAID. “SHE’S your mother, for better or worse. The house is big enough, and it’s probably best to keep her there than have her getting into mischief elsewhere.”
Nell tried to imagine her mother conversing with Buckingham or Rochester or Aphra and failed to conjure any picture that didn’t make her cringe.
“And while we’re about it,” Charles said, “I’ve a mind to give a pension to Rose and her man. Perhaps it’ll lessen the odds that I chance to encounter him in his professional capacity some dark night on Hounslow Heath.”
So Eleanor was moved into a room of her own in Nell’s house.
“It’s so fine,” she said, looking in awe at the carpets, the billowing bedcovers, the view to St. James’s Park.
“I’m happy to be able to provide for you,” Nell answered. “But it must be understood—this is my house. You give no orders to the servants, and you cause no trouble. And if I ever hear that you have so much as raised a hand to one of my boys, out you go.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Eleanor hastened to agree. “I see now there was much I did badly when you were a little thing, and I’d like to do differently, since you’re giving me the chance.”
Charlie and Jemmy were stunned to discover that they had a grandmother, and were cautiously interested. Freed of the need to scratch out a living and the terror of finding herself on the streets, Eleanor seemed to relax and to drop the hard armor she had been accustomed to wear. Nell was amazed to enter the nursery one afternoon and find Jemmy perched on Eleanor’s knee and Charlie seated at her feet as she told them a story of her childhood days. The boys smiled happily at her and turned their attention back to Eleanor.
“And then what happened?” Charlie prompted.
“Why, then my mam found that I’d stuck my finger into the pie, and she sent me to bed without supper, and it learned me to ask before taking,” Eleanor said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 
 
“
A
LL THREE OF THEM?” NELL SLAMMED DOWN HER CUP OF CHOCOLATE and the liquid sloshed over the rim and into the delicate porcelain saucer. She stared in horror at Monmouth. “How could all three of them be having his babies?”
“Well, I rather think—,” he began.
“Hell and death.” Nell jumped up, eyes blazing. “That Louise is breeding is no surprise. He bedded her practically before the eyes of the court at Newmarket. But Barbara? I thought he’d forsaken her bed long ago. And Moll Davis, too? When did he find the time?”
Monmouth came to her side near the window. “If Barbara’s child is even his—which I much doubt; it’s almost surely John Churchill’s—it was probably a matter of trying to pacify her about the flow of gifts and favors to Louise. The Weeping Willow’s got twenty-four rooms at the palace now and another sixteen for her servants. Better to quiet Barbara with his pillicock than with another outlay of cash, that would be Charles’s policy. As for Moll, well, she can’t help but have noticed that your boys have improved your position, and she probably wants the same for herself.”
Nell stared across the winter-barren park to the palace. Bastard, she thought. You great poxy goat of a whoremonger. It’s not enough that you install that French draggletail in the palace itself, but you must take a flourish with every open arse of an actress or hackney whore that crosses your path, while I sit here with your brats.
She looked at Monmouth beside her, so pretty, so much his father’s son. It would serve Charles right if she put a set of horns on him with his own boy. But no. She must bite back her jealousy and anger, never give Charles a moment’s doubt about her faithfulness or a hint of a reason to cast her off. But she’d be damned if she’d let him fob her off with less than Louise was getting.
“Squintabella’s got twenty-four rooms?” she asked, calmer now. “What else has she wheedled out of him?”
“Money, of course. He pays her gambling debts, into the thousands of pounds.”
“And?”
“Jewelry.”
“Tell me.”
“She’s sporting a pearl necklace and a diamond and telling all who’ll listen that the one cost the king four thousand pounds and the other six thousand.”
A further kick to Nell’s stomach.
“What else?”
Monmouth dropped his eyes.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, “tell me the worst. I’ll find out soon enough, and forewarned is forearmed.”
“She’s to be made Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham, and Duchess of Portsmouth.”
 
 
 
CHARLES HAD STOPPED BY TO VISIT AND HE AND NELL SAT IN HER garden, the scent of the ripening oranges perfuming the air.
“You made Barbara Baroness Nonsuch, Countess of Southampton, and Duchess of Cleveland,” Nell said. “You’ve made Louise Duchess of Portsmouth. Am I not whore enough to be a duchess?”
“Nelly, you know I can’t,” Charles protested.
“Why?”
“Don’t make me say it,” he said gently. “You know why. Barbara is a Villiers. Her father and grandfather were viscounts. Louise comes of a noble family, though poor. And though you are their equal—nay, their better—in every way that matters to me, yet I cannot make you a lady.”
Nell looked down at her hands. They were smooth and soft and bejeweled, bearing no trace of the hard labor of her childhood. Her clothes were rich, from the snowy white of her petticoats, with their yards of handmade Belgian lace, to the jewels that dangled from her ears. She was mistress of a grand house and more than a dozen servants. But she would never be a lady, could never be more than plain Nell Gwynn.
She looked to where Charlie and Jemmy and their nursemaids sat in the shade nearby. Both children had Charles’s dark hair and eyes, were near copies of the portrait Nell had seen of the king as a young boy.
“And our boys?” she asked. “They are the sons of a king. Will you not honor that blood, though you cannot honor mine?”
“I do honor you, Nell,” Charles said. “With my love and with all that is in my power to give. You’re right about the boys. I’ve been distracted and should have considered it sooner. They shall have allowances of their own. And in a year or so Charlie shall be—what? Earl of Burford, does that suit? And when Jemmy is older he shall have a title, too.”
 
 
 
THE COURT WAS A NEST OF BOSOM-SERPENTS AND ARCHROGUES, NELL thought, for all their money and titles, and wondered why she wanted to be accepted there.
“Always pissing up my back, they are, thinking to work me to get what they want from Charles,” she confided to Rose one night. “And Louise. The more I see of her the less I like her, if such a thing is possible. At any hint she’ll not get what she wants, she bursts into tears. I truly think Charles would have packed her off long ago but that it serves him to keep friendly with the French.”
“Most likely,” Rose agreed.
“It would have made you sick to see her nose in the air when she told me Charles was making her boy Duke of Richmond and Lennox, as well as a whole string of other titles. Never loses an opportunity to remind everyone what a lofty family she comes of.”
 
 
 
THE NEXT DAY, LOUISE APPEARED OSTENTATIOUSLY IN MOURNING, swathed head to toe in black, standing out among the brightly dressed court like a crow in a field of daisies. A knot of people gathered around her.
She has as many tricks as a dancing bear, Nell thought, and sidled closer.
“What’s this, Louise?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost some kinsman?”
“Yes,” Louise sighed. “My dear cousin the Chevalier de Rohan. One of ze most noble of all ze noblemen of France.” She sniffled loudly and lifted her veil to touch a black silk handkerchief to her eyes.
“That’s right, duck,” Nell said. “Let it out. The more you cry the less you’ll piss.”
 
 
 
THE FOLLOWING DAY NELL APPEARED IN DEEPEST MOURNING. MURMURS and giggles followed in her wake as she made her way to where Louise stood in a tragic pose, one elbow delicately rested on a windowsill and her head bowed in her hand as if in unfathomable grief. At the noise of the approaching crowd, Louise raised her head and took in Nell’s dress.
“What eez zis?” she murmured, frowning slightly. “’Ave you also suffered a loss, Mrs. Nelly?”
“Oh, yes,” said Nell. “The Cham of Tartary.”
Louise blinked at her uncertainly. “And ’oo is ’ee? Not some relation of yours?”
“Why, yes indeed,” Nell said. “Oddly enough he was exactly the same relation to me as the Chevalier de Rohan was to you.”
 
 
 
“SQUINTABELLA’S GOT A COACH AND SIX!” NELL FUMED A WEEK LATER. “I know she got it just to wipe my eye. I know it’s ridiculous to let her put me out of countenance, yet I cannot help being vexed.”
Aphra shrugged.
“The more showy the equipage, the bigger the whore. That’s the only lesson to be learned there.”
“So it is,” Nell said, suddenly brightening. “And perhaps one I can teach her, too.”
 
 
 
THE SIX OXEN SHUFFLED IN THEIR TRACES, ROLLING THEIR EYES AND lowing. They were alarmingly big, their heads at the level of Nell’s shoulders, and the team of them stretched almost thirty feet in front of the wagon. All activity in the royal mews had come to a halt while the animals were hitched, and a crowd of farriers, grooms, and stable boys looked on as the wagoner grinned down at Nell, his teeth white against his sun-browned face.
“Ready, madam?” he called. “Sure and I’d like to see their faces when you go by. The palace has never seen such a sight, I’m sure of that.”
“No,” Nell said. “Well, let’s give them something to talk about, then.”
A groom helped her climb up to the seat beside the wagoner.
“Onward,” Nell said. “At least we’ll have a laugh ourselves.”
The wagon picked up speed as the wagoner urged the oxen along with his whip, and the palace ahead jolted up and down as Nell and her team of six raced toward it. Startled faces sped by in a blur.
“You’ve a good audience now, madam,” the wagoner shouted as they thundered past the new Horse and Foot Guards buildings. “I’d say it’s now or never!”
Nell grasped the whip he offered her, and as he pulled the reins, steering the oxen close to the Banqueting House, she stood, holding tight to him with one hand. With the other she raised the whip, and bellowed, “Whores to market! Whores to market! Fine fresh whores to market this day!”

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