Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

“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.

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 going 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.