“Have done,” said the King. “Leave the stage and you shall not want—nor shall he.”
“If I leave the stage I shall be obliged to see that this is a promise Your Majesty shall keep,” said Nell. “For myself I ask no pension; but for my child—who is known by the name of Charles, and none other—I would ask a good deal.”
“All that can be done for you and him shall be done,” promised the King.
He was visiting her more frequently now. Louise de Kéroualle was still holding him at bay. He thought a great deal of Louise; she seemed to him infinitely desirable, indeed the most desirable woman in his kingdom, but he was too lighthearted to sigh on that account. Louise would succumb eventually, he felt sure; in the meantime there was Moll—still charming enough to be worth a visit now and then; Barbara on whom he still called occasionally, if only that he might congratulate himself on having almost broken with her; and Nell, who could always be relied upon to amuse and come up with the unexpected. The others—the ladies who provided amusement for a night or so—there would always be. He was well supplied with women.
Charles realized Nell’s problems, and he had decided that it would be convenient if she lived even nearer to him at Whitehall.
He reminded her that he had given her the house in which she now lived.
“And that,” retorted Nell, “I do not accept, since I discover it to be leasehold. My services have always been free under the Crown. For that reason, nothing but freehold will satisfy me.”
“Nell,” said the King with a laugh, “you grow acquisitive.”
“I have a son to think for.”
“It has changed you—becoming a mother.”
“It changes all women.”
The King was sober temporarily. “You do well,” he said, “to consider the boy. You do well to remind me of your needs. Why, look you, Nell, it is a long step here from Whitehall.”
“But Your Majesty’s chief pleasure—save one—is sauntering, so I’ve heard.”
“There are occasions when I would wish to have you near me. And now that you have left the stage, I am going to make you a present of a fine house—freehold. The only freehold in the district on which I can lay my hands.”
“It is near Whitehall?”
“Nearer than this one, Nell. Indeed, it is nearer by a quarter of a mile. I do not think you will have reason to find this house unworthy of our son, Nell.”
“And it is freehold?” insisted Nell.
“I swear it shall be.”
Nell was climbing in the world now.
She had her residence in the beautiful wide street at that end which was the home of many of the aristocrats of the Court. Nell’s new house was three storys high, and its gardens extended to St. James’ Park, from which it was separated by a stone wall. At the end of Nell’s garden was a mound, and when she stood on this she could see over the wall and into the Park; she could call to the King as he sauntered there with his friends.
Now Nell was indeed treated with the “decencies of a royal mistress.” Her near neighbors were Barbara Castlemaine, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and Mary Knight who had once been one of the King’s favored mistresses. Lady Greene and Moll Davies were not far off.
There was a difference in the attitude of many people towards her now. She was Madam Gwyn more often than Mrs. Nelly; tradesmen were eager for her custom; she was treated with the utmost servility.
Nell of the old days would have ridiculed these sycophants; Nell the mother enjoyed their homage. She never forgot that the more honor paid to her the easier it would be for honors to find their way to that little boy, and she was determined to see him a Duke before she died.
There were some who often tried to remind her that she had been an orange-girl and an actress, bred in Cole-yard. Mary Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham’s sister, had refused to receive her and this, Nell was delighted to learn, had aroused the King’s deep displeasure. He had reminded the noble lady: “Those I lie with are fit company for the greatest ladies in the land.” And Mary Villiers had had to change her attitude.
The Arlingtons were cool. They were all for the promotion of Mademoiselle de Kéroualle; but she, it seemed, was chained to celibacy by her virtue. Let her remain thus, thought Nell, while the rest of us enjoy life and grow rich.
There was some rivalry with Moll Davies.
Nell could not endure Moll’s affected airs of refinement. She wondered that the King—a man of such wit—did not laugh them to scorn. He still visited Moll, and there were occasions when Nell, expecting him to call at the house or even vault the wall as he sometimes did, would see him passing on his way to visit Moll Davies.
Moll sometimes called on Nell after the King’s visit. She would sit in Nell’s apartment, displaying her £700 ring, and talking of the latest present the King had brought her.
“He even brings me sweetmeats such as I like. He says I am almost as great a glutton for them as the Princess Anne.”
One day, early that spring, Moll called at Nell’s house in a twitter of excitement expressly to tell her that the King had sent a message that he would be calling on her that night.
“It surprises me, Nelly,” she said, “that he should come so far. You are nearer now, are you not, and yet he comes to me! Can you understand it?”
“All men, even Kings, at times act crazily,” said Nell quickly.
She was anxious. Her son was without a name. She was not going to have him called Charlie Gwyn. He was growing. He needed a name. Many times she had suggested that some honor be given to the boy, but the King was always vague and evasive. He promised to do all that he could, but Charles’ promises were more readily given than fulfilled. He was fond of the boy; yet to have ennobled him would have caused much comment. Rochester was right about that. The affair of Sir John Coventry was still remembered, and there were times when the King was eager not to arouse too much criticism in his subjects.
“Let be, Nell,” he had said. “Let the matter rest awhile. I promise you the boy shall lack nothing.”
And tonight he would go to that scheming Moll Davies. It was not to be borne.
“I am a good hand at making sweetmeats,” Nell said to Moll.
“I was never taught to perform such menial tasks,” said Moll.
“I used to make them to sell in the market,” Nell told her. “Sweetmeats!” she cried in a raucous cockney voice. “Good ladies, buy my sweetmeats!”
Moll shuddered. She looked about her at the beautifully furnished apartment and wondered how such a creature as Nell had ever managed to obtain it.
Nell pretended not to see Moll’s disgust. “I shall bring you some sweetmeats,” said Nell. “My next batch shall be made especially for you.”
Moll rose to go; she had preparations to make, she reiterated, for the reception of the King that night.
When she had gone, Nell picked up the baby.
A fine healthy boy; she kissed him fondly.
She was ready to fight all the duchesses in the land for his sake.
Now she went to her kitchen and, rolling up the fine sleeves of her gown, made sweetmeats; and as soon as they were ready she set out with them for Moll Davies’ house.
Moll was surprised to see her so soon.
“I made these for you,” said Nell; “and I thought I would bring them to you while they were fresh.”
“They look good indeed,” said Moll.
“Try one,” suggested Nell.
Moll did so, flourishing her diamond under Nell’s eye. Nell’s gaze dwelt on it enviously, so it seemed to Moll.
“It’s beautiful,” said Nell simply.
“It is indeed! Every time it catches my eye it reminds me of His Majesty’s devotion.”