The Perfect Royal Mistress (2 page)

“Those oranges are worth sixpence each, Charles. She has clearly pinched them from Orange Moll’s supply, and I certainly think the old bird needs to know that she—”

“I ain’t pinched a thing!”

“Oh, leave her be,” the tall man said, his voice as deep and rich as French wine. “Let’s return to our purpose, George. It appears that performances can continue as soon as the players are ready.”

“T’would be right insensitive of the king!”

“Girl!” The man called “George” glared at her. His tone was full of condescension. “Merriment helps one to forget the tragedies of our world.”

“Aye, for those with money enough.”

“And those with a certain gentility. Which certainly does
not
include the likes of you.”

“I may well be low, sir.” She crossed her arms. “But what, I wonder, is
your
excuse?”

“Excuse?”

“For the rough way you speak to perfect strangers, sir.”

Again the group of men chuckled, although this time with a hint of embarrassment. Nell had bested the same man twice.

“What is your name, girl?” asked the tall man, with what seemed to her like appreciation.

When she looked at him, she saw a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Who are you that wants to know?”

“Listen, girl! Do you have any idea who this—?”

“Be silent!” The tall man cut him off. “That is quite enough, George.”

“But, Your M—”

“Enough!”
The tall man raised his hand, and his companion was instantly silenced by it. He turned his attention to Nell. There was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You are quite an extraordinary girl.”

“In that case, Eleanor Gwynne’s the name. But most call me Nell.”

“Well, Nell. I believe I rather fancy an orange just now. George, pay Mrs. Gwynne for the orange,
and
for having to spar with the likes of you.”

“’Tis not necessary, sir. And I ain’t no one’s missus.”

“Forgive me, but where I come from a lady is called missus, out of respect. And believe me, Nell,” he smiled kindly. “It
is
quite necessary. There are few around who could go more than a round or two with old George Villiers here. Much less a—”

“Much less a low girl?”

Bested as well, the tall man smiled. “There’s nothing in the world low about you.”

Nell felt herself smile, too, and her guard fell by a degree. He had a kindness about him.

“Here.” The man called George Villiers handed out a coin to her, pomposity and pity in his gesture. Nell took it and, for a moment, held it tightly in her hand. There was cold, hard reassurance in it for her. Enough to buy food, perhaps even a pair of shoes not already worn at the soles. But she simply could not take it.

“I do thank you, sir, all the same, but the lady over there, the one with the babe, she’ll be needin’ it more.”

As the collection of men stood incredulous, Nell walked the few paces back to the woman and her child, and then knelt beside them.

“Here,” she softly said, holding out the coin for a moment, then tucking it into the woman’s shirt. “I know a place, the Cock & Pye, ’tis very near, where you and your wee one’ll find a proper bed, and a bit of peace, to think through what you’re meant to do next.”

When Nell stood and turned around, she saw that the men were still watching her.

“Extraordinary.”

The tall man had murmured the word, though more to himself than to his companions.

“Nothing extraordinary about it. ’Twas only what’s right, sir.”

He was studying her now. For a moment, neither broke their gaze. Her knees were suddenly weak. She could only imagine the number of well-bred ladies whose heads he had turned with that same stare.

“You are an intriguing girl, Nell Gwynne.”

“I’ll be takin’ that as a compliment, sir.”

“It was intended as one. And this coin I wish you to take for yourself. Think of it as any other tip a customer might offer you. I would say you’ve more than earned it.”

The man held out a single shining silver crown to her. Nell thought of declining, but there was no expression of pity or condescension in his offer, as there had been from the other man. She accepted the coin.

“We really must be on our way,” said George.

“So we must.”

“I’ll remember what you said, sir,” Nell called out.

“You do that,” said the tall man, glancing back as he disappeared into the gathering crowd. Nell moved quickly down the narrow, sunless alley, through soot ground into black mud that came up through the holes in her shoes, until she was back at the Cock & Pye. People seemed always to have money for ale, and a crowd had grown down in the tavern. Four days after a fire that nearly wiped out the city of London, life went on.

Inside the dark tavern, there were low, rough-hewn beams, chipped plaster walls, and mice scurrying across the cold stone floor. Tankards full of foaming ale were lifted by meaty hands as she pulled back the roundtop door, letting a rush of street light inside. Amid laughter and the clink of pewter, the barman called out to her as she moved toward the rickety staircase.

“Your money’s owed me long since, Nelly Gwynne! Ye’d best find a way to pay me or I’ll toss your arse straight out of ’ere, I will!”

The crowd, most of them drunk, red-faced men in soiled shirts, from the harsh, neighboring streets of Cradle Alley and Paternoster Row, laughed, coughed, and tipped their heads back at the great jest. This was not a neighborhood that housed compassion.

Nell met the barman’s gaze squarely. Patrick Gound was simply a businessman. More nights than she could recall he had helped her press her gluttonous, drunken mother up the staircase, toss her into bed, then bring Nell a clean pan as her mother wretched up gin. But it was about survival in these alleyways of London. In that, they understood one another. Amid chuckles, she went to the bar and slapped down her glistening silver coin. “This is all I ’ave in the world, Mr. Gound. I ’ope ’twill be enough ’til the theater opens again and there is work for the lot of us.”

“’Twill do ’til Michaelmas, but not a night longer.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. In it, there was a hint of compassion, hidden like a thief behind the warning, “You’ve got to pay me what ye owe, Nelly girl, or you’re out!”

“I’ll pay your rent, Nelly,” a man called out from the back of the room. “If ye pay me a bit of time.”

“I’d rather be paid by the devil ’imself!” she shot back in a deadpan drawl.

The crowd erupted in shouts of rough laughter at the girl with the wild copper hair and the dagger-sharp tongue. Nell knew that no matter how hungry she got, she would never do what her mother did for money. Giving herself to old, vile men like this one.
One must be resourceful,
she thought, walking toward the staircase,
but never a fool.
She was not ever giving herself like that to a man. There could be nothing for her in it.

“Oh, Nell!” called another. “I’d pay your rent just to ’ave you insult me personally!”

“Now
that
might just be arranged!” she laughed broadly, holding on to the wobbly banister and batting her eyes in the bawdy way a barmaid might, for she had learned the skills of a good whore, even if she had no intention of using them to their full extent.

“Ye’d find yourself in line behind
me
!” The tavern owner chuckled and poured another ale that foamed over onto the bar top. “A day isn’t proper unless our Nelly has personally taken ye to task!”

“’Tis a thought to fancy! That my mouth could see me out of debt!”

“Knowin’ you, it could also see ye into a fair amount of trouble!”

She flicked her hand in the air at them. “You do know how to flatter a girl!” she laughed charmingly, heading up the stairs before the conversation could descend into something she had no intention of pursuing. Better to keep them guessing. Guessing and wanting. Knowing that was the single useful gift she had received from her mother.

Nell trudged heavily up the steps, each one creaking beneath her weight. Then she fumbled at the garret room door, the warped floorboard making the door stick. A memory tumbled back at her. It was a time, a year earlier just before the plague struck. She had struggled with this same door on that day, then opened it to see Helena Gwynne, wild and unwashed, her corpulent body spilling out of a soiled dress. Her eyes, then as always, projected criticism. And Rose…Poor Rose, always defending them both against her…

“Where is it? Where’s the money you owe me, Nelly girl?” Their mother stood before them in the mellowing lamplight that could not
warm the damp room, hand extended. “Ma, there isn’t any!” There was sweat on her brow as she lunged at Nell, fingers seizing her daughter’s neck. “I’ve got to ’ave it, d’ye ’ear me?” “Let ’er alone, Ma, and I’ll get it for you!” Rose cried. “Just let ’er alone!” Her sister was at the door as she paused and glanced back. “Don’t worry, Nelly. I’ll be back in a thrice! You’ll see…”

The memory of that day tumbled over and over now in her mind.

Rose, the sister who cared for her, stole for her, who had become a prostitute to survive. Rose was the one who shared her fleeting memories of a father long away. Only a few memories of him lingered—the scent of ale and sweat, the sound of boot heels clicking across floor tiles when she was meant to be asleep. Mainly, she saw his eyes, happy, smiling eyes, sweet and creamy brown, offering a protection she had not found since. Like their father, Rose had not returned. Her bones aching, Nell sank onto the little bed. She lay down and curled her legs up to her chest surrounded by damp, cold walls and a low, sagging ceiling. As slumber began to take over, she was no longer thinking of Helena Gwynne, or even of Rose, but rather of the tall stranger standing in front of the King’s Theater, and wondering if he had actually eaten her orange.

“He really should not be allowed to go out among the masses like that,” said George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, behind a raised, jeweled hand that glinted in the light from the leaded windows, with their diamond-colored glass. “It does depress him so.”

The fires in every room were lit against the pervasive dampness. The men—courtiers, ambassadors, and servants—stood collected in the king’s private audience chamber at Whitehall Palace, surrounded by those well-enough placed in society to enter this private chamber to plead for the king’s help. Men in velvet coats, with laces and ribbons, hats plumed with great ostrich feathers, their shoes ornamented with jeweled buckles, waited patiently to be heard.

“It is his past, of course, that did it to him,” the king’s brother, the Duke of York, quietly observed. “All of those miserable years of poverty in exile. There is some part of him, heaven help us, that feels like one of those low wretches himself, and is ever drawn to them.”

Every day since the fire had begun, the king had ridden his horse headlong into the thick and dangerous warren of burned-out streets. He had given out coins, and passed buckets of water along a human chain, until his hands were chapped, and his clothes were as soot stained and sweat drenched as those of who had no idea who he was.

“My Lord of Buckingham,” the king called out deeply across the perfumed and mirrored chasm. “You may approach.”

The duke made a sweeping bow before a very different king than his companion of earlier that morning. Charles II sat on a gilded throne beneath a richly textured canopy of red satin. He wore official Garter robes, billowing ivory satin, crimson velvet sewn with gold thread, and tall lace cravat, and his long, muscled legs were crossed at the ankles. His hands played restlessly at the lion’s head fixtures on the arms of his throne. The man he had been that morning was all but hidden now by luxury and obligation. A long, jet-black wig, perfectly matched to his mustache, now adorned his head and trailed down meeting the shoulders of a rich cape. And across his chest lay a heavy bronze medal once belonging to his father, which he often liked to wear when he did the business of his people here in Charles I’s favorite public room.

“Your Majesty,” flattered the king’s oldest and closest friend, rising from the exaggerated bow.

“So, George, have you spoken to Charles Hart? Will the players be ready?”

“He tells me the theater can open again when you decree.”

“And that young girl today in front of the theater?”

“The orange girl?”

“The very one. What was her name?”

“I’m afraid a frivolous recollection such as that has slipped my mind.”

Another man took two small steps forward. “You will pardon me, I pray, but
I
remember it, as it was a thing of consequence to Your Majesty.”

Everyone facing their sovereign, including Buckingham, pivoted around, heavy satin rustling, plumes bobbing, to see the Earl of Arlington, one of the king’s other companions earlier that day. Arlington, the secretary of state, a tight-faced little man, was unscrupulously ambitious, with an uncanny ability to know when to pounce. “It was Gwynne, Your Majesty. Her name was Nell Gwynne.”

“So it was indeed.” Charles’s grin was broad. He enjoyed seeing George bested for the sheer pleasure of what his old friend would do or say next, as it happened so rarely. He knew the two men loathed each other. “A selfless soul in one so poor.”