James had come to stand by the bedside. The little girls were with him, Mary holding his hand, Anne clinging to his coat. Tears flowed from James’ eyes, for Anne was half-fainting in her agony, and it was clear to all in that chamber that her life was ebbing away.
James was thinking of all his infidelities which had occurred during their married life. Anne herself had not always been a faithful wife. James thought bitterly of his repudiation of her in the early days of their marriage, and he wondered if his weakness at that time was responsible for the rift between them.
He could have wished theirs had been a more satisfactory marriage. Mayhap, he thought, had I been different, stronger when my mother was against us, if I had stood out, if I had been more courageous, Anne would not have lost her respect for me and mayhap we should have been happier together.
One could not go back. Anne was dying, and their married life was over. He wondered what he would do without her, for always during their life together he had respected her intelligence and relied on her advice.
There were his two little girls who needed a mother’s care. If the King did not get a legitimate child, the elder of those little girls could inherit the throne.
“Anne …” he murmured brokenly.
But Anne was looking at Charles; it was from the King’s presence that she seemed to gain comfort. She was remembering, of course, that he had always been her friend.
“Charles …” she murmured, “the children.”
Then Charles bade the little girls come to him and, kneeling, he placed an arm about each of them.
“Have no fear, Anne,” he said. “I shall care for these two as though they were my own.”
That satisfied her. She nodded and closed her eyes.
James, weeping bitterly, flung himself on his knees. “Anne,” he said. “Anne … I am praying for you. You must get well … you must …”
She did not seem to hear him.
Poor James! thought Charles. Now he loves his wife. She has but an hour to live and he finds he loves her, though for so long he has been indifferent towards her. Poor ineffectual James! It was ever thus.
Charles said: “Let her chaplain be brought to her bedside.”
He could tell by her stertorous breathing that the end was near.
The chaplain came and knelt by the bed, but the Duchess looked at him and shook her head.
“My lady …” began the man.
James said: “The Duchess does not wish you to pray for her.”
There were significant glances between all those who had come in to witness the death of the Duchess of York.
Anne half raised herself and said on a note of anxiety: “I want him not. I die … in the true religion …”
James hesitated. Charles met his eyes. The words which James was about to utter died on his lips. There was a warning in Charles’ eyes. Not here … not before so many witnesses. He turned to the bed. Anne was lying back on her pillows, her eyes tightly shut.
“It is too late,” said the King. “She will not regain consciousness.”
He was right. Within a few minutes the Duchess was dead.
But there were many in that room of death to note her last words and to tell each other that when she died the Duchess was on the point of changing her religion. It seemed clear that, if the Duke was not openly a Catholic, he was secretly so.
Monmouth must lie low for a while. He must curb his wild roistering in the streets; but that did not prevent him from spreading the rumor that the Duke—heir presumptive to the throne—was indeed a Catholic. Had not the English, since the reign of Bloody Mary, sworn they would not have a Catholic monarch on the throne?
Nell was now enjoying every minute of her existence. She had indeed become a fine lady.
She had eight servants in the house in Pall Mall, and from “maid’s help,” at one shilling a week, to her lordly steward, they all adored her. The relationship between them was not the usual one of mistress and servants. Nell showed them quite clearly that she was ever ready to crack a joke with them; never for one instant did she attempt to hide the fact that she had come from a lowlier station than most of them.
She liked to ride out in her Sedan chair, calling to her friends; and to courtiers and humble townsfolk alike her greeting was the same. She would call to the beggar on the corner of the street who could depend on generous alms from Mrs. Nelly, and chat as roguishly with the King from the wall of her garden. Nor would she care who his companions were. They might be members of his government or his church, and she would cry: “A merry good day to you, Charles. I trust I shall have the pleasure of your company this night!” If those who accompanied the King were shocked by her levity, he seemed all the more amused; and it was as though he and Nell had a secret joke against his pompous companions.
Nell entertained often. She kept a goodly table. And there was nothing she liked better than to see her long table loaded with good things to eat—mutton, beef, pies of all description, every fruit that was in season, cheesecakes and tarts, and plenty to drink. And about that table, she liked to see many faces; she liked every one of the chairs to be occupied.
Nell had only one worry during that year, and that was the King’s failure to give her son the title she craved for him. But she did not despair. Charles was visiting her more frequently than ever. Moll Davies rarely saw him now, and it was not necessary to administer jalap in sweetmeats to turn the King from her company to that of Nell. He came willingly. Her house was the first he wished to visit.
Louise was still tormenting him and refusing to give way. Many shook their heads over Louise. She will hold out too long, it was whispered. Mayhap when she decides to bestow herself the King will be no longer eager.
Barbara Castlemaine, now Duchess of Cleveland, was growing of less and less importance to the King. Her amours were still the talk of the town, partly because they were conducted in Barbara’s inimitable way. When Barbara had a new lover she made no attempt to hide the fact from the world.
That year her lustful eyes were turned on William Wycherley, whose first play, Love in a Wood, had just been produced.
Barbara had selected him for her lover in her usual way.
Encountering him when he was walking in the park and she was driving past in her coach, she had put her head out of the window and shouted: “You, William Wycherley, are the son of a whore.”
Then she drove on.
Wycherley was immensely flattered because he knew, as did all who heard it, that she was reminding him of the song in his play which declared that all wits were the children of whores.
It was not long before all London knew that Wycherley had become her lover.
So with Barbara behaving so scandalously, and Louise behaving so primly, and Moll ceasing to attract, Nell for a few months reigned supreme.
Rose was a frequent visitor. She was now married to John Cassels, and when this man found himself in trouble Nell managed to extricate him, and not only do this but obtain for him a commission in the Duke of Mon-mouth’s Guards, so that instead of having a highwayman for a husband Rose had a soldier of rank. Nell had also found it possible to bring her cousin, Will Cholmley, his heart’s desire. Will Cholmley was now a soldier, and she hoped that ere long there would be a commission for him.
Rose came to her one day, and they talked of the old days.
Rose said: “We owe our good fortune to you, Nell. It is like you, Madam Gwyn of Pall Mall, the King’s playmate and the friend of Dukes, not to forget those you loved in the old days. We have all done well through you. I’ll warrant Ma wishes she had used the stick less on you, Nell. Little did she think to what you would come.”