Winsor, Kathleen (126 page)

"A
new— You intend to turn me out?"

He
gave a short unpleasant laugh. "That would be rather like turning the
rabbit to the hounds, wouldn't it? They'd tear you to pieces in two
minutes." His black eyes swung over her
face, amused and contemptuous.
"No, my dear. I'll deal fairly with you. We'll come to a settlement of
some kind."

"Oh."
Barbara relaxed visibly. That was another matter again. He was still willing to
"deal fairly," to come to a "settlement." She thought she
knew well enough how to handle that. "I want to please your Majesty. But I
hope you'll give me leave to think this over for a day or two. I've got my
children to consider. No matter what happens to me I want them to have the
things they should—"

"They'll
be taken care of. Study your terms then—I'll come here Thursday at this hour to
discuss them with you."

He
got up, made her a casual bow, snapped his fingers at the dogs and left her
without a backward glance. Barbara sat staring at the foot of the bed, puzzled,
uneasy, worried. And then she heard him talking softly and there was Wilson's
excited giggle. Suddenly she jumped out of bed and shouted:

"Wilson!
Wilson, come in here! I need you!"

Thursday
she met him at the door of her chamber, beautifully gowned and painted, and
though he had half expected to find her in tears of hysterical anger she was
gracious and charming—the old pose he had seen so seldom these past two or
three years. The maids were dismissed and they sat down alone, face to face,
each taking the other's measure. Barbara knew at once that he had not changed
his mind, as she had hoped he would, during that interval.

She
gave him a piece of paper, a neat itemized list written in black ink, and sat
drumming her nails on the arm of the chair as he read if, her eyes roamed the
room but now and again flickered back to him. He scanned the page hastily,
slowly his eyebrows contracted and he gave a low whistle. Without looking up at
her he began to read:

"Twenty-five
thousand to clear your debts. Ten thousand a year allowance. A duchy for
yourself and earldoms for the boys—" He glanced across swiftly, a half
humorous scowl on his face. "Ods-fish, Barbara! You must think I'm King
Midas. Remember, I'm that pauper, Charles Stuart—whose country has just gone through
the worst plague and fire in history and is up to its ears in debt for war. You
damned well know I haven't the means to support all this!" He gave the
paper a whack with his hand and tossed it aside.

Barbara
shrugged, smiling. "Why, Sire, how should I know? You've given me more
than that in the past—and now you want to get rid of me, though no fault of my
own— Why, Lord, Your Majesty, only in ordinary decency you should give me
that
much. It takes a deal of money to look a hostile world in the face. You
know that as well as anyone. I might as well be dead as try to get along on
less once you've cast me off— Why, my life wouldn't be worth the living!"

"I
have no intention of making your life miserable to you. But you know I can't
possibly make such an arrangement as this."

"On
the other hand, the mother of five of your children shouldn't have to beg for
her living when you grow tired of her, should she? How would it look for you,
Sire, if the world knew you'd turned me off with a stingy settlement?"

"Has
it ever occurred to you that in France there are several very comfortable
nunneries where a lady of your religion might live well and happily on under
five hundred pound a year?"

For
an instant Barbara stared at him. All at once she gave a sharp explosive laugh.
"Damn me, but you do have the drollest wit! Come, now: Can you imagine me
in a nunnery?"

He
smiled in spite of himself. "Not very well," he admitted.
"Still, I can't make any such allowance as that."

"Well,
then—perhaps we can agree another way."

"And
what way might that be?"

"Why
can't I stay on here? Perhaps you don't love me any more, but surely it can't
matter to you if I live in the Palace. I'll trouble you no farther—you go your
way and I'll go mine. After all, isn't it unfair to make me wretched because you've
fallen out of love with me?"

He
knew how much sincerity there was in what she said, and yet he had begun to
think that perhaps that would be the easiest way, after all. No sudden break to
wrench them apart, no unpleasant scenes of tears and recriminations—but a slow
and easy drifting. Someday she would go of her own accord. Yes, that might be
best. At any rate it would be the least trouble—and immediate expense—to him.

He
got to his feet. "Very well then, madame. Trouble me no more and we'll get
along well enough. Live any way you like, but live as quietly as you can. And
one thing more: If you tell no one about this, no one will know it—for I'll not
mention it."

"Oh,
thank you, Sire! You
are
kind!"

She
came to stand before him and looked up into his face, her eyes coaxing,
inviting him. She still hoped that a kiss and half an hour in bed could change
everything—expunge the animosity and distrust which had grown out of the
passionate infatuation with which they had begun. He stared at her steadily and
then, very faintly, he smiled; his hand made a light gesture and he walked
beyond her and out of the room. Barbara turned to watch him, stunned, as though
she had had a slap in the face.

A
couple of days later she went into the country to have an abortion, for this
child, she knew, he would never own. But it had also occurred to her that if
she was gone for a few weeks he would forget everything that had been
unpleasant between them and begin to miss her—he would send for her to come
back, as he had done in the old days. Someday, she told herself, he'll love me
again, I know he will. Next time we meet, things will be different

She
lived at the top of Maypole Alley, a narrow little street off Drury Lane, in a
two-room lodging which looked exactly as she always did—careless and untidy,
with nothing in its place. Silk stockings were flung over chair-backs, a soiled
smock lay in a heap on the floor just beside the bed, orange-peelings littered
the table and empty ale-glasses stood about, unwashed. The fireplace was heaped
with ashes and apparently had not been swept out for years. Dust coated the
furniture and puffs of it drifted over the floor, for the girl she hired to
come in and clean had not been there for several days. Everything suggested an
abandonment to chaos, a gay headlong contempt for stodgy tidiness.

In
the middle of the floor Nell Gwynne was dancing.

Barefooted,
she whirled and spun, twisted her lithe body and flung her skirts high,
completely unselfconscious, absorbed and happy. In one chair sprawled Charles
Hart, watching her through half-shut lids, and sitting astraddle another was
John Lacy, who also acted for the King's Company and who also had been Nelly's
lover. A fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy, a street-musician they had called
in, stood nearby and scraped on his cheap fiddle.

When
at last she stopped and made them a curtsy so deep that her bowed head touched
her knee, the men broke into hearty applause. Nelly looked up at them, eyes
sparkling with eager delight, and still panting from the violent exertion she
leaped to her feet.

"Did
you like it?
Do
you think I'm a better dancer than her?"

Hart
waved his hand. "Better? Why, you make Moll Davis look clumsy as a
pregnant cow!"

Nelly
laughed, but her face changed swiftly. She reached for an orange and began to
peel it, rolling out her lower lip in exaggerated pique. "Much good it
does me. There's no one there to see me these days. Lord, the pit's been empty
as a Dutchman's noddle ever since his Majesty gave her that diamond ring!
They've all got to have a look at the King's latest whore."

"You'd
think a new royal mistress wouldn't be such a curiosity any more,"
remarked Lacy, knocking out his pipe on the edge of the table, stepping on the
ashes as they fell to the floor. "I can count a baker's dozen from the
stage any day I like."

At
that moment there was a loud rapping on the door and Nelly ran to open it. A
liveried footman stood there. "Mrs. Knight presents her service to you,
madame, and would like a word with you. She waits below in her coach."

Nelly
glanced back at the two men from over her shoulder and screwed up her face to
wink. "Speak of the Devil—here's
another one below. You'll find sack and
brandy in the cupboard. Maybe there's something to eat in the food-hutch. I'll
be back in a moment."

She
disappeared, but an instant later returned to slide her feet into a pair of
high-heeled, square-toed pumps, and then picking up her skirts she went
swooping down the stairs and out into the street. A gilded coach-and-four stood
there, the door held open by a footman. Mary Knight sat inside, her beautiful
face painted an almost glistening white, and she reached out one jewelled arm
to take hold of Nelly's wrist.

"Come,
sweetheart—get in.
I
want to talk to you." Her voice was warm and sweet as a melody, and she
smelled of some drowsy perfume.

Nelly
obediently climbed in and flounced down beside her. Not at all conscious of her
own griminess, she looked at Mary with passionate admiration. "Lord, Mary!
I swear you're prettier every time I see you!"

"Pshaw,
child. It's only that I wear fine clothes nowadays, and a jewel or so. By the
way, whatever became of that pearl necklace my Lord Buckhurst gave you?"

Nell
shrugged. "I sent it back to 'im."

"Sent
it back? Good God! What for?"

"Oh—I
don't know. What good is a string of pearls to me? My mother would have pawned
it to buy brandy or to get Rose's husband out of Newgate." Rose was
Nelly's sister.

"Sweetheart,
let me tell you something. Never give
any
thing back. Often enough by the
time a woman's thirty she has nothing to live on but the presents made her when
she was young."

But
Nelly was just seventeen and thirty was a thousand years away. "I've never
been hungry. I'll live somehow. What did you want to see me for, Mary?"

"I
want to take you calling. Are you dressed? Is your hair combed?" The light
from the torches was too unsteady to see distinctly.

"Well
enough, I warrant. Who're we calling on?"

"A
gentleman named Charles Stuart." She paused a moment, for Nelly sat in
silence, not realizing whom she meant. "His Majesty, King Charles
II!" The words rolled off her tongue like the flare of trumpets and a
chill ran over Nelly's flesh, along her arms and down her back.

"King
Charles!" she whispered. "He wants to see me!"

"He
does. And he asked me, as an old friend, to carry the invitation."

Nelly
sat perfectly rigid, staring straight ahead of her. "Holy Mother of
God!" she whispered. And then she flew into a sudden tempest of indecision
and fright. "But I'm all undone! My hair's down! I haven't got any
stockings on! Oh, Mary! I
can't
go!"

Mary
put one hand over hers. "Of course you can, sweetheart. I'll lend you my
cloak. And I've got a comb here."

"Oh,
but Mary—I can't! I just can't!" She stabbed about for
an excuse and
suddenly remembered Hart and Lacy waiting upstairs for her. She started to get
out. "I've got callers myself, I just remembered. I—"

Mary
took her arm and firmly pulled her back again. "He's expecting you."
She leaned forward and rapped on the front wall of the coach. "Drive away!"

It
was only a little more than half a mile to Whitehall and Nelly spent that time
dragging Mary's comb through the snarls of her coarse thick blonde hair, her
stomach fluttering and the palms of her hands cold and wet. Her throat was so
tight she could scarcely speak, though from time to time she murmured,
"Oh, Jesus!"

At
the Palace she got out, Mary's cloak flung over her shoulders, and just before
she ran off Mary slid the pearl drops from her ears and handed them to her.
"Wear these, sweetheart. I'll wait for you to drive you home."

Nelly
took them, made a step or two away, and then turned suddenly and came back to
the coach. "I can't go, Mary! I can't! He's the King!"

"Go
along, child. He's waiting for you."

Nelly
closed her eyes hard and murmured a prayer and then crossed the courtyard, went
through the door Mary had pointed out and along a winding hall-way, down a
flight of stairs to another door; there she knocked. A footman opened it, she
gave him her name, and was admitted. She found herself in a handsomely
furnished room. There were gold-framed portraits on the walls, a great carved
fireplace, embroidered chairs from France. For a long moment
she stood just
inside the doorway, staring about her in awe, nervously cleaning the dirt from
beneath her finger-nails.

After
two or three minutes William Chiffinch came in, well-fed and silky, with
pouches under his eyes and a sensual mouth, belching gently as though he had
just risen from a too rich meal. His appearance put her somewhat at ease, for
he was no more fearsome than any other man, even if he was the King's Page of
the Backstairs.