Then she laid him in his cradle and bent and kissed him. The King came to her and put his arms about her shoulders.
He thought in that moment that, although Louise de Kéroualle was becoming an obsession with him, he would be loath to part with little Nell.
Rose came to see Nell in her new house.
It was a small one at the east end of Pall Mall, not far from the grand mansion in Suffolk Street where another of the King’s mistresses—Moll Davies—had her residence.
Nell’s house was a poor place compared with that of Moll. Moll liked to ride past Nell’s in her carriage and lean forward to look at it as she passed, smiling complacently, flashing her £700 ring on her finger.
“Keep your house, keep your ring, Moll!” called Nell from her house. “The King has given me something better still.”
Then Nell would snatch up her child from one of the servants and hold him aloft.
“You’ve never got the King’s bastard yet, Moll!” screeched Nell.
Moll bade her coachman drive on. She thought Nell a fool. She had had every chance to escape from her environment, and yet she seemed to cling to it as though she were reluctant to let it go.
“What a low wench!” murmured Moll in her newly acquired refined voice. “Why His Majesty should spend an hour in her company is past my comprehension.”
Moll smiled complacently. Her house was so grand; Nell’s was such a poor place. Did it not show that the King appreciated the difference between them? Nell went into the house where Rose was waiting for her.
Rose took the baby from Nell and crooned over him.
“To think that he is the King’s son,” said Rose. “’Tis past understanding.”
“Indeed it is not,” cried Nell. “He made his appearance through all the usual channels.”
“Oh, Nell, why did you move from your good apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to this little house? The other was far grander.”
“It is nearer Whitehall, Rose. I have one good friend in the world, and I want to be as near him as possible.”
“He acknowledges little Charlie as his own?”
“Indeed he does. And could you mistake it? Look! The way he sucks his finger is royal, bless him.”
“It makes me wonder whether I ought to drop a curtsy to him when I pick him up.”
“Mayhap you will have to one day,” said Nell, dreaming.
Rose kissed the child.
“To think I’ve kissed where the King has kissed!” said Rose.
“If that delights you,” Nell retorted, “you may kiss me any time—and anywhere—you wish.”
That made them both laugh.
“You’re just the same, Nell. You haven’t changed one little bit. You have fine clothes, and a house of your own, and the King’s bastard … and yet you’re still the same Nell. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. It’s about a man I met.”
“Why, Rosy, you’re in love!”
Rose admitted this was so. “It’s a man named John Cassels. I met him in one of the taverns. I want to marry him and settle down.”
“Then why not? Ma would like to have one respectable daughter in the family.”
“Respectable! Ma cares not for that. She’s prouder of you than she could ever have been of any respectably married daughter. She talks of you continually. ‘My Nelly, the King’s whore … and my grandson Charlie … the King’s little bastard….’ She talks of nothing else….”
Nell laughed. “Ma’s one dream was to make good whores of us both, Rosy. I fulfilled her dreams, but you—you’re a disgrace to the family. You’re thinking about respectable marriage.”
“The trouble with John is the way he gets his living.”
“What is that?”
“He’s a highwayman.”
“A perilous way of making a living.”
“So say I. He longs to be a soldier.”
“Like Will. How is cousin Will?”
“Speaking of you often and with pride, Nelly.”
“It seems that many are proud of the King’s whore.”
“We are all proud of you, Nell.”
Nell laughed and threw her curls off her face. “Marry your John, if you wish it and he wishes it, Rose. Mayhap he will be caught. But if he should end his days by falling from a platform while in conversation with a clergyman … at least you will have had your life together, and a widow is a mighty respectable thing to be. And Rose … if it should be possible to drop a word in the right quarter … who knows, I may get my chance to do it. I do not forget poor Will and his talk of being a soldier. I often think of it. One day Will shall be a soldier, and I will do what I can for your John Cassels. That’s if you love the man truly.”
“Nell, Nell, my sweet sister.”
“Nay,” said Nell, “who would not do all possible for a sister?”
And when Rose had gone she thought that it would be a comparatively easy thing to find places in the army for Will and John Cassels.
“But, my little lord,” she whispered, “it is going to be rather more difficult to fit a coronet onto that little head.”
Nell stayed on in her small house and the months passed. Louise had not surrendered to the King. Moll Davies still flaunted past Nell’s house in her carriage.
My lord Rochester visited Nell in her new house, and shook his head over what he called “Nell’s squalor.”
He sprawled on a couch, inspecting his immaculate boots, and glancing up at Nell with affection.
He gave advice. “The King does not treat you with the decencies he owes to a royal mistress, Nell,” he said. “That is clear.”
“While Madam Davies rides by in her coach to her fine house, flashing her diamond ring!” cried Nell.
“’Tis true. And poor Nelly is now a mother, and the infant’s face would proclaim him as the King’s son even if His Majesty had reason to suspect this might be otherwise.”
“His Majesty has no reason to suspect that.”
“Suspicion does not always need reason to support it, little Nell. But let us not discourse on such matters. Let us rather devote ourselves to this more urgent business: How to get Mrs. Nelly treated with the courtesy due to the King’s mistress. Barbara got what she wanted by screams, threats and violence. Moll by sweet, coy smiles. What have you, sweet Nell, to put in place of these things—your Cole-yard wit? Alas, alas, Cole-yard is at the root of all your troubles. His Majesty is in a quandary. He is fond of his little Nell; he dotes on his latest son; but little Charles is half royal, half Cole-yard. Remember that, Nell. There have been other little Charleses, to say nothing of Jemmies and Annes and Charlottes. Now all these have had mothers of gentle birth. Even our noble Jemmy Monmouth had a gentlewoman for his mother. But you, dear Nell—let’s face it—are from the gutter. His Majesty fears trouble if he bestows great titles on this Charles. The people accept the King’s lack of morals. They like to see him merry. They care not where he takes his pleasure. What they do care about, Nell, is to see one of themselves rise to greatness through the King’s bed. ‘Why,’ they say, ‘That might have happened to me … or my little Nell. But it did not. It happened to that little Nell.’ And they cannot forgive you that. Therefore, though you bear the King’s bastard, they do not wish that titles should be bestowed on him. They wish it to be remembered that his mother is but a Cole-yard wench.”
“’Tis so, I fear, my lord,” said Nell. “But it shall not stay so. This child is going to share in some of that which has been enjoyed by Barbara’s brats.”
“Noble Villiers on their mother’s side—those little bastards of Barbara’s, Nelly!”
“I care not. I care not. Who is to say they are the King’s children? Only Barbara.”
“Nay, not even Barbara. For how could even their mother be sure? Now listen to my advice, Nell. Be diplomatic in your attitude towards the King. When the Frenchwoman surrenders, as undoubtedly she will, there may be changes in His Majesty’s seraglio. The lady may say, ‘Remove that object. I ask it as the price of my surrender.’ And believe me, little Nell, that object—be she noble Villiers or orange-girl—may well be removed. Unless, of course, the object makes herself so important to His Majesty that he cannot dispense with her.”