The Darling Strumpet (43 page)
Read The Darling Strumpet Online
Authors: Gillian Bagwell
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General
THAT NIGHT NELL LAY AWAKE UNTIL THE WEE HOURS, HAUNTED BY the enormity of her folly, and when she finally fell asleep, she was tormented by her old nightmare of creeping terrified and cold toward safety only to have the great door slam, condemning her to face the overwhelming darkness alone.
“YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO HOLD ON TO THE BITTER END,” CHARLES SAID gently the next evening, kissing the back of Nell’s neck.
“I know,” she said, rolling over in bed to face him and burying her face against his shoulder. “It was foolish. But I couldn’t stand the way they were looking at me.”
“Ah, yes. I know that look.”
“You do?” Nell pulled back to look at Charles’s face, shadowed in the darkness of his bedroom.
“Yes. I felt that look many and many a time during my years away. When we were at the French court, someone presented me with a pack of hunting dogs. There was an audience watching, oohing and aahing over the magnificence of the gift. And all I could think was that I couldn’t afford to feed them. I couldn’t even afford to feed myself.”
“I can sell my silver,” Nell murmured.
“No, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’ll find money in the Secret Service accounts somewhere. But don’t get yourself backed into a corner next time.”
“I won’t,” Nell promised. “Oh, Charles, thank you. I swear I’ve learned my lesson.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
S
O MUCH TO DO BEFORE THE PARTY. BUT IT WOULD BE WORTH IT. Nell looked with satisfaction at the army of silver that ranged across the kitchen table, waiting to be polished. Plates, flagons, bowls, cups, great wine cisterns, salt cellars, spoons, forks, knives, and platters. Fourteen thousand ounces in all, and all of it would be rubbed to gleaming perfection.
O MUCH TO DO BEFORE THE PARTY. BUT IT WOULD BE WORTH IT. Nell looked with satisfaction at the army of silver that ranged across the kitchen table, waiting to be polished. Plates, flagons, bowls, cups, great wine cisterns, salt cellars, spoons, forks, knives, and platters. Fourteen thousand ounces in all, and all of it would be rubbed to gleaming perfection.
She always enjoyed her birthday parties for Jemmy, coming as they did at Christmas, when everyone was in a festive mood, but this year, celebrating the fifth anniversary of his birth, she was particularly happy. Rose was keeping company with a new man, Guy Foster, one of the soldiers who had been set to keep watch on the house. It was true that Hortense was much in Charles’s company, but he dined with Nell two or three times a week and came to her bed with increasing frequency, and she no longer feared that she would lose him or be cast adrift to make her own way.
Nell’s steward, Thomas Groundes, appeared at her elbow.
“If you’ve time now, Mrs. Nelly, we must go over the orders for tomorrow.”
They sat by the fire in his little pantry office, and Groundes read to her from his lists.
“From the poulterers, a swan, three geese, and two dozen pigeons, all for two pounds tuppence. From the butcher’s, one lamb at ten shillings, and a leg of beef, sixpence. From the fishmonger, a dozen each of lobsters and crabs, and eels for a pie. Oysters are cheap just now, only two pounds for three barrels. Now as for cheese …”
Nell’s mind drifted away from the present. Two pounds for oysters. She thought back to when it had taken her a week of selling oysters to earn five shillings, to the day when Charles had come back to London and how a penny had made the difference between hunger and comfort. And here she was to spend twenty pounds for the supper for her party. She thanked what power there might be listening that her Jemmy and Charlie would never know hunger or want.
“Most excellent, Thomas. Thank you.” She stood and made to go. Snow was falling outside the window, and she turned back to Groundes, bent over his books. “And Thomas—when the fishmonger comes, give him ten shillings and bid him give them to ten oyster wenches who lack clothes enough to keep them warm.”
THE NEXT NIGHT, NELL’S HOUSE WAS CROWDED WITH GUESTS, THE rooms ablaze with candles and hung with holly and ivy. Charles had not yet arrived, but she knew he would come—he had hinted at some mysterious surprise the previous day. A crowd had gathered in the snowy street outside to watch the guests arriving and share in the festive mood, and Nell sent Dicky One-Shank and the kitchen maids and pages out with spiced wine to warm them. She heard cheers that were louder than could be accounted for by the drink, and knew that Charles must have arrived.
He made his way beaming to where she stood with the boys, Monmouth following in his wake. Charles was carrying two long wood and leather boxes of the kind that were made to hold important documents, and an expectant murmur swept through the party.
The boys made their bows and then rushed into Charles’s arms as he stooped to greet them. His eyes met Nell’s above their heads and he grinned.
“It’s a special birthday for you, Jemmy, deserving of a special gift,” he said. “But we cannot leave your brother out, so there is something for him, too. Charlie, will you read this to your brother?” He opened one of the boxes to show a scroll of vellum within. Charlie unfurled it, revealing red wax seals, dangling ribbons, and Charles’s bold signature, and read.
“ ‘I, Charles the Second of that name, do on this date bestow upon my son James, born upon Christmas Day in the year of Our Lord 1671, the title of Lord James Beauclerk, with the place and precedence of the oldest son of an earl.’ ” Jemmy’s eyes shone as he turned to Nell with a smile of pure joy. Applause and cries of “God keep Lord James Beauclerk” rang out as Charles proffered the second box. Charlie reverentially removed the scroll, his eyes alight.
“What does it say, Charlie?” Nell prompted, and he held it up for her to see, grinning proudly. “It says I am made Baron Hedington and Earl of Burford, Mother.”
Nell tried to find the words to thank Charles, but was too choked with tears of joy to speak.
“There’s more,” Charles said, receiving another two long cases from Monmouth. “You open these, Nell.”
They contained scrolls with coats of arms for the boys, the same as Charles’s royal arms, but each with a different heraldic mark indicating that the bearers were the king’s natural children. Charlie’s shield was depicted as being supported by a white antelope on one side and a white greyhound on the other and was topped with an earl’s coronet.
“The antelope shows that you are descended collaterally from King Henry the Fourth,” Charles explained, “and the greyhound that your five-times-great-grandfather was King Henry the Seventh. Happy Christmas, sons.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
T
HE TOWER ROSE GRIM AND GRAY, AND THOUGH NELL WAS ONLY there to visit Buckingham, she could not help a shudder of fear as her boat pulled to the dock, thinking how many poor wretches had entered this way, never to leave.
HE TOWER ROSE GRIM AND GRAY, AND THOUGH NELL WAS ONLY there to visit Buckingham, she could not help a shudder of fear as her boat pulled to the dock, thinking how many poor wretches had entered this way, never to leave.
Buckingham was as comfortable as he could be under the circumstances, not in a cell but in the home of one of the yeoman warders, with a fire burning in the grate, a real bed, a table and chair, books and writing materials, and light to read by. It was his own political machinations that had got him here, she thought, but the relief on his face at the sight of her overcame her exasperation.
“You look like you have a cold, George, are you warm enough? Here—heated brandy and food. And a letter from Dorset.”
“Oh, Nell,” he said, cupping the stoneware bottle in his hands and inhaling its scent, “you can’t think how grateful I am that you’ve come. It’s all a silly misunderstanding, you know.”
“George, why can you not keep from quarreling with Parliament?” she asked, and then regretted it as he drew breath for what would surely be a lengthy and impassioned self-defense. “Never mind, don’t tell me. I’m doing what I can, and so are Dorset and Rochester and all your friends, and I’m sure the king will let you out, but really, you must stop from picking fights.”
“I will, Nelly. Tell His Majesty so. Oh, this is good cheer.” Buckingham threw down the bone from the chicken leg he had just gobbled, wiped his hand on his breeches, and gave closer attention to Dorset’s letter.
“ ‘The best woman in the world brings you this paper,’ he says, and so you are, Nell. ‘Resign your understanding and your interest wholly to her conduct.’ And I will, Nell. Truly I will, if only you can get me out of this dog hole.” He coughed, and Nell was alarmed by its harsh rattle, and how drawn and drained he appeared when the spasm was over. The handkerchief with which he wiped his lips came near to having more color than he did, she thought.
“HE’S TRULY ILL,” NELL PLEADED TO CHARLES IN HER BED THAT NIGHT. “He has a churchyard cough would make your heart bleed to hear it.” Charles lay with his back to her so that she could not read his face, but she heard the resignation in his sigh, and knew she had won.
“Very well,” Charles said. “But on one condition. He must stay with you. And you must do your utmost to keep him out of trouble. He’ll listen to you, Nell, above anyone in the world. Tell him he has my love, as always, but he must stop his games for good and all.”
HORTENSE’S DOWNFALL BEGAN SOON AFTER BUCKINGHAM’S RELEASE from the Tower.
“Apparently,” Sam Pepys chortled to Nell over coffee one afternoon, “she has formed a friendship with Anne, Countess of Sus-sex, the daughter of the king and Lady Castlemaine, who is now with child, and frequently visits her ladyship in her Whitehall apartments.”
“Which makes it convenient for the king to see Hortense,” Buckingham commented. “No one can fault him for visiting his own daughter, after all.”
“Quite,” Sam agreed. “But the other day, His Majesty entered the countess’s apartments and found the two ladies in bed, unclothed, and kissing.”
“Really?” Nell could think of nothing else to say, so lurid were the layers of intrigue presented by the idea of Charles’s current lover and formerly almost-wife Hortense carnally entwined with the pregnant daughter of Charles and his longtime consort Barbara.
“He was at a loss for words,” Sam said. “At first. But later he regained his composure to the extent of ordering Anne to France, to the keeping of her mother.”
Shortly after Hortense was deprived of Anne’s company, Nell heard rumors of other lovers—men again. And all the court heard Charles’s royal roar of indignation when he discovered that Hortense had cuckolded him with the visiting Prince of Monaco.
“And thus has she forfeited his favor,” Buckingham smiled. “I told you she’d not last.”
BUCKINGHAM HAD LOST SOME OF HIS GRAVELIKE PALLOR IN THE days since he had been released to Nell’s care, but at her insistence he was bundled in shawls and blankets and sat nearest the fire in the drawing room. Nell, Rochester, and Dorset sat close by, the room cheerfully bright in contrast to the snowy gray sky outside the window.
“You really are the best-loved wench in the king’s eyes, Nell,” Buckingham said. “And do you know why? Because you’ve followed my advice all these years.”
“Is that so?” Nell asked, annoyance fighting with amusement at his earnestness.
“Your advice, George?” said Rochester. “It’s my counsel has kept her in the royal bed so long.”
Dorset chuckled. “I think Nell would have managed fine without any of us, you know. She’s not only kept her feet on the ground and her sweet cunt in the king’s mind, but she’s beloved of the people, as well.”
“Exactly,” said Buckingham. “Because that’s what I taught her to do. Keep Old Rowley happy, make no demands, and ride out the storms. The storms are what Charles cannot abide.”
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