“Nell, my mother was married to the King.”
“The black box!” said Nell scornfully.
“Well, why should there not have been a black box?”
“Because the King says there’s not.”
“What if the King tells not the truth?”
“He says it all the same, and if he says ‘no black box,’ then there should be none.”
“Nelly, you’re a strange woman.”
“Strange because I don’t bring my little Earl up to prate about a black box which carries my marriage lines?”
“Don’t joke, Nell. Will you keep me here? Will you let me stay? ’Twill only be for a short while, and mayhap you can persuade the King to see me. I’ve nowhere to go, Nell. There’s no one I can trust.”
Nell looked at him. Dark hair, so like my lord Burford’s. Dark eyes … big lustrous Stuart eyes. Well, after all, they were half-brothers.
“You must be well-nigh starving,” said Nell. “And there’ll be a bed for you here as long as you want it.”
Monmouth stayed in her house, and the whole of London knew. It was typical that the King, knowing, should have said nothing. He was glad Nell was looking after the boy. He needed a mother; he needed Nell’s sharp common sense.
Nell pleaded with Charles to see his son.
“He grows pale and long-visaged, fearing Your Majesty no longer loves him.”
“It is well that he should have such fears,” said Charles. “I will not see him. Bid him be gone, Nelly, for his own sake.”
Nell was universally known now as the “Protestant whore.” In the turmoil that existed it was necessary to take sides. She was cheered in the streets; for the London mob, fed on stories of Popish plots, looked upon her as their champion.
They loved the King, for his easy affability was remembered by all, and in this time of stress they sought to lay blame for everything that happened in his name on the people who surrounded him. The Duchess of Portsmouth was the enemy; Nell was the friend of the people.
One day, as she was riding home in her carriage, the mob surrounded it, and, believing that it was Louise inside, they threw mud, cursed the passenger, and would have wrecked the vehicle.
Nell put her head out of the window and begged them to stop. “Pray, good people, be civil,” she cried. “I am the Protestant whore.”
“’Tis Nelly, not Carwell,” shouted one and they all took up the cry: “God bless Nelly! Long life to little Nell.”
They surrounded the coach, and they walked with her as she was carried on her way.
She was stimulated. It was pleasant to know that Squintabella, from whom it had been impossible to turn the King’s favor, was so disliked and herself so popular. Nell enjoyed dabbling in their politics, even though she understood so little. Still she had understood enough to keep her place; she knew that she was no politician; she knew that the King could not discuss politics with her as he could with Louise. As she had said on one occasion: “I do not seek to lead the King in politics. I am just his sleeping partner.”
So she was carried home.
The troublous winter had passed into spring and now it was June. Nell never forgot that June day, because some joy went out of her life then, and she knew that no matter what happened to her she would never be completely happy again.
A messenger arrived at her house. Her servants looked subdued and she knew at once that something had gone wrong and that they were afraid to tell her.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A messenger,” said her steward, Groundes. “He comes from France.”
“From France. Jamie!”
“My lord Beauclerk was suffering from a sore leg.”
“A sore leg! Why was I not told?”
“Madam, it happened so quickly. The little boy was running about happily one day, and the next …”
“Dead,” said Nell blankly.
“Madam, all was done that could be done.”
Nell threw herself onto a couch and covered her face with her hands. “It is not true,” she sobbed. “There was nothing wrong with Jamie. He had a cough at times, that was all. Why was I not told? … My little boy, to die of a sore leg!”
“Madam, he did not suffer long. He died peacefully in his sleep.”
“I should not have let him go,” said Nell. “I should have kept him with me. He was only a baby. My little boy …”
They tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. She drove them all away. For once Nell wanted to be alone.
Her little James, Lord Beauclerk, for whom she had planned such a glorious future, was now dead and she would never see those wondering dark eyes looking at her again, never hear the baby lips begging her to dance a jig.
“I let him go,” she said. “I should never have let him go. He was only a baby. But I wanted to make him a Duke, so I let him go, and now I have lost him. I’ll never see my little lord again.”
They sent Lord Burford in to comfort her. He wiped her eyes and put his arms about her.
“I’m here, Mama,” he said. “I’m still here.”
Then she held him fiercely in her arms. She did not care if he was never a Duke. The only important thing was that she held him in her arms.
She would keep him with her forever.
Nell shut herself in with her grief. Life seemed to have little meaning for her. She blamed herself. She had so wanted the child to be educated like a lord. How thankful she was that she had kept one of her sons at home.
She was still mourning the death of James when the news of another death was brought to her. It was that of the Earl of Rochester. Rochester had been a good friend to her; his advice had always been sound; and because he was merry and wicked and, although three years older than she was, had seemed but a boy to her, she grieved for him. It seemed a sad thing that he, after only thirty-three years of life, should have died, worn out by his excesses. Poor Rochester, so witty, so brilliant—and now there was nothing of him but the few verses he had left behind.
Death was horrible. Her mother was gone, but she was old and Nell had never loved her. It was a marvel that the gin had not carried her off long before. But these deaths of such as Rochester and little Jamie moved her deeply. She might laugh; she might dance and sing; but she was aware of change.
She was glad she had known nothing of that fever which had attacked Charles so recently. There had been no need to feel anxiety then, because he was well again before she heard of it. But it could happen suddenly and mayhap next time it would not end so happily.
Rochester … Jamie … She could not forget.
Charles, sharing her grief in the loss of their son though not by any means feeling it as deeply as she did, was sad to see the change in her.
He wanted his merry Nell back again.
He took her to Windsor and showed her a beautiful house not far from the Castle.
This was to be Burford House, and it was the King’s gift to Nell. It was a delightful place. “And so convenient to the Castle,” said the King with a smile.
It was impossible not be charmed with the house. It seemed a fitting residence for my lord Burford. And Nell showed her gratitude by trying to dismiss all thoughts of her lost child from her mind. She had the interior of Burford House decorated by Verrio, the Court painter, who was also working on the Castle at this time. And Potevine, her upholsterer in Pall Mall, furnished the place to her satisfaction. The gardens, facing south, were a delight, and she and the King planned them together, with my lord Burford running from one to the other, happy to see his mother more like herself, and his father with her in the new home.
With the terror at its height, the Whigs made an effort to force Charles to legitimize Monmouth. Thus only, they argued, could the King protect his own life and save his people from the Catholic plotters.