Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

“I’ll sell my pearls.”

Groundes silently noted the pain.

“What of the other houses, madam? Are they yours to sell? To mortgage?”

“I don’t know. Dorset and Buckingham and others have acted as my factors, and I don’t know the true state of things.”

“Something must be done, madam,” Groundes said gently. “Perhaps it’s time we found out where we stand? To write to the king and seek to find our feet at the bottom of the mire.”

“READ THE LETTER OVER TO ME,” NELL SAID, TWISTING HER HANDKERCHIEF in her hands. Groundes shuffled the pages, cleared his throat, and read.

“ ‘Sir, the honor Your Majesty has done me has given me great comfort, not by the present you sent me to relieve me out of the last extremity, but by the kind expressions from you of your kindness to me, which is above all things in this world, having, God knows, never loved your brother or yourself because you have it in your power to do me good, but as to your persons.

“ ‘Had he lived, he told me before he died that the world should see by what he did for me that he had both love and value for me. He was my friend, and allowed me to tell him all my griefs, and did like a friend advise me, and told me who was my friend and who was not.

“ ‘I beseech you not to do anything to the settling of my business til I speak with you. God make you as happy as my soul prays you may be,

“ ‘Yours, Eleanor Gwynn.’ ”

THE TREES IN THE ROYAL PARK IN WINDSOR WERE IN FULL LEAF, BUTTERFLIES and birds fluttering in the greenery under the summer sun. Nell was tired, as she always seemed to be these days, but the core of ice at her center had finally thawed, and she felt once more that she was among the living.

King James had affirmed that the Pall Mall house and Burford House were hers, should not be taken from her, and would pass to Charlie after she had gone. He had paid the mortgage on Bestwood Park and her other debts and settled on her an annual allowance of fifteen hundred pounds, to be paid to her for life. She would not starve. She would not live as grandly as she had, but in truth she had no wish to. Her pleasure came in quiet company-Rose and Guy and Lily, Charlie, Buckingham, Aphra.

The very air in Windsor still seemed to hold Charles’s presence, and she felt at peace there. She walked alone under the green canopy of the great oaks, Tutty racing ahead and then dashing back to hurry Nell along, his little laughing face looking up before he darted off again. The church bells rang noon. Buckingham would arrive soon. She must remember to have a fire lit in his room. No matter the warmth of the weather, he had always a chill in his bones.

Nell heard voices and looked back toward the house. It was Buckingham, wig awry, waving off a servant and making his way toward her. He moved heavily and his face was not lit in greeting but dark with worry. Not more bad news, Nell thought. Who else is there to go?

“It’s Monmouth,” he panted, as he reached her. Monmouth was in France. France, as Jemmy had been…

“Dead?” she cried.

“No, worse.” He ran a hand over his brow as though he could wipe away the lines there. “He landed with an army, headed for London to kill the king and take the throne.”

“Dear God, no.”

“The king’s forces met him at Sedgemoor. Of course he was defeated, and taken, and now sits in the Tower. He begged the king for mercy, swore he would become a Papist, but the king’s hands are tied. He cannot pardon such treason. It will mean Monmouth’s death.”

“The poor pretty fool.” Tears ran down Nell’s cheeks. “Why, why, why?”

“Because,” Buckingham sighed, “he has lived ever as if the world were made only for him.”

THE DAY OF EXECUTION CAME SWIFTLY. THE BALLAD SELLERS HAWKED new-minted broadsheets, Monmouth’s likeness in blocky black wood-cuts printed at the head of mournful verses. Nell thought back to that first awful day of executions after Charles’s return, the jostling crowds around the scaffold, their noses keen for the scent of blood. Though Monmouth had been convicted of treason, King James in his mercy had ordered that he should be spared the horrors of a common traitor’s death, and instead would lose his head at the stroke of an axe. But it would be on Tower Hill, where a crowd could gather to see him die.

Dr. Tenison had gone to see Monmouth at the Tower that morning and would attend him on the scaffold. Nell could imagine his deep calm voice, giving what comfort he could. If Monmouth believed in a God and forgiveness, surely he would die in as much peace as he could, with Dr. Tenison at his side.

A bell tolled in the distance, and Nell knew that the hour of death had come. She tried to pray for Monmouth, but nothing came. No words that could convey her thoughts, no sense of a God who was listening. She sat and waited, each moment an eternity, and finally heard Dr. Tenison’s voice at the door and then his footsteps on the stair.

Nell stood in shock at the sight of him as he entered the room. His white stockings were splashed with bright blood, his eyes stark with horror. Nell stared. She had never seen him less than self-possessed.

“Forgive me, the state I’m in-the-the blood. I wanted to come before anyone else should bear the news.” He came to her silently and knelt before her, taking her hand in his, and Nell stared at him, uncomprehending.

“The news? Is he not dead, then?”

“Yes, he is dead.” Dr. Tenison bowed his head, and Nell saw that he was shaking with sobs. “The headsman did not know his business, or I know not what.” He faltered, and Nell’s stomach turned over.

“What? I pray you, tell me, what?”

“Oh, Nell. It took five strokes of the axe, and still he was not-the work was not complete. The headsman finished him with a knife. God help us all, what butchery was there.”

Nell thought of Monmouth’s beautiful face, his bright curls matted in blood, his soft mouth contorted in a wordless shriek, and she found it was her own voice that was screaming as she fainted.

LONDON WAS LONELY. CHARLES HAD BEEN GONE FOR TWO YEARS, and every street and park, every room in Nell’s house echoed with the voices of those no longer living, taunted her with memories of happy times now gone. The April sky was bleak, holding out little promise yet of spring. Rain beat upon the windows and wind rattled the shutters. So empty, Nell thought, looking from her bedchamber window out over the barren branches of the trees below. And so cold. Will I never feel warm again? She longed suddenly for company. How few of her loved ones remained. Charlie was in Belgrade, newly installed as colonel in a regiment of horse in the Imperial Army of Holy Roman Emperor Leopold. Buckingham was off hunting somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside, and she had thought he would have been back by now, but had heard no news. Maybe Rose would come, she thought, and then felt pathetic and foolish. She could not always run to Rose when she was feeling alone. She shook herself. What could she do to pass the evening? Invite some other friends for cards or supper? But who? Somehow the thought of dressing herself for company, of putting on makeup and fixing her hair, seemed more than she could face. She longed for old and comfortable friends, with whom she didn’t have to pretend or make an effort.

A knock and voices at the door below. A twinge of hope. Perhaps someone had come to visit, maybe Rose or Aphra.

But it was Buckingham’s page who appeared with Groundes, with that look of fear and loss that Nell knew too well, had seen too many times.

“George.” His name caught in her throat. “He’s…” She could say no more.