“Long live Nelly,” they cried. “God bless pretty, witty Nell.”
There was one occasion when she was in a closed carriage and people mistook her for Louise. They gathered round, shouting abuse, and someone threw a stone. Nell let down the window and looked out.
“You are mistaken, good people,” she cried. “This is not the Catholic whore but the Protestant one.”
There was much laughter and cheering, and shouts of “God bless Nelly.”
Nell bowed and smiled and waved her hand in imitation of a languid royal personage, which amused them the more; and, instead of a dangerous situation, it turned out to be a very merry one.
IT OFTEN AMAZED ME, when I looked back on that innocent girl I had been on my arrival in England, that I had been able to accept Charles’s mistress as a matter of course. There could have been only a few faithful husbands at court, or wives for that matter. Licentiousness was the way of life here. I deplored it and sometimes thought how happy I could have been if Charles had loved me as I loved him; but that was not to be and I had had to come to terms with it.
I was grateful to him because he had refused to set me aside. I must be relieved because he had a great deal of kindness in his nature and the rare ability of putting himself in the place of others. He understood my love for him and appreciated it; he understood that Monmouth’s arrogance grew out of his insecurity. There was so much love in Charles and I had long before decided that I would rather accept his mistresses than be without him.
The war with the Dutch gave cause for anxiety. We had our victories but, like many such, they were hollow ones.
There was news that a battle had taken place under the Duke of York at Southwold Bay. Ineffectual as James could be in so many ways, the navy was an obsession with him and he had become a good commander. Against him on that occasion was De Ruyter, the Dutch commander of some renown. It had been a fierce battle and the struggle a desperate one. Many ships were lost and among the casualties was the Earl of Sandwich.
I was saddened, remembering the day he had come to bring me to England, and felt how pointless were those hard-won victories which turned out to be so indecisive.
Charles too was distressed by the death of Sandwich. He sailed to the Nore to meet James who was returning with the fleet. Many of the ships had been severely damaged and the number of wounded appalled him. He was particularly depressed by the latter and gave orders that care for them must be the primary concern.
About a month later he took me down to inspect the ships. Then all signs of battle had been removed and I enjoyed the expedition with him. It was on such occasions that I felt that I truly was the Queen.
And so the time was passing. Charles showed little sign of age. He was as vigorous as ever; when he removed his wigs one did see that his black hair was liberally streaked with gray, but when the wig of luxurious curls was on his head he seemed as young as ever.
James was looking for a wife and when Mary Beatrice of Modena was found for him, there was dissatisfaction throughout the country. The English, as ever, were wary of Catholics. I was one — but I think that by this time they had come to realize I was a docile one. But Catholicism allied with barrenness could make a queen very unpopular.
However, the marriage went ahead. Mary Beatrice, a young girl of fifteen, could not have much influence, and in any case James was already too steeped in his religion to be weaned from it even if he did have a Protestant wife.
I was also sad when I heard that the Earl of Clarendon had died abroad. I remembered him so well and wondered if he had felt a twinge of conscience when his daughter Anne died. He had not been very kind to her at a time when she needed kindness. But he had been a good husband…if that meant a faithful one. He was a man of high moral standing, but lacking in kindliness, so different from Charles who would never have turned against his own daughter in her time of need. Clarendon had not always been a friend to me — still I could be saddened by his death.
A certain interest was aroused when workmen, doing repairs in the Tower of London, found the skeletons of two young boys buried under the stairs. These, it seemed without doubt, were the remains of the young princes who had disappeared some two hundred years before — little Edward V and his brother the Duke of York. It was during the reign of Richard III that they disappeared, and it was said that they had been murdered on the orders of King Richard. People talked of the unfortunate boys for a while and then forgot them.
Life went on much as usual. Louise de Keroualle and Nell Gwynne still reigned in Charles’s seraglio, but I had my place and if Charles often preferred the society of his mistresses, there was a growing affection between us. There were times when he came to me, I believe, for quietness and peace.
I began to feel a certain satisfaction in my role. At least I had some place in his life.
But behind the serenity the storm was growing. It was still what many people in England thought of as the Catholic menace. It was the old story: the Queen was Catholic and barren; James, the heir to the throne, was openly Catholic, and now he had married a Catholic wife.
Something was certain to erupt.
I HAD PROMISED ANNE HYDE that I would keep an eye on her daughters, and I was a frequent visitor to Richmond Palace where they were being brought up.
The Duke of York was an indulgent father, as Anne had been another. There was, I have to say, little discipline in the household. Anne, the younger, had taken very little advantage of the tuition which was provided. It was a matter of study if you want to — and Anne clearly did not want to.
Her handwriting was indecipherable and if she were reproved she would say that writing made her eyes tired. She did have an affliction of the eyes which seemed to contract her lids, and it was true that she was short-sighted. So this excuse was accepted, for the Duke had made it clear that above all things he wanted his daughters to be happy. It may be that he remembered his own childhood when, like most of the family, he had been a homeless exile; and I imagined that Henrietta Maria might have been an exacting parent even with James, one of her favorites.
It was always interesting to go to Richmond and on this occasion I wanted to see them, particularly Mary, because I knew of the secret negotiations which were in progress, now we were at peace with Holland, for a marriage between her and Prince William of Orange. Mary was only fifteen, and I could guess how disturbed she would be at the prospect of leaving her comfortable home.
Moreover, from what I knew, William was not the most attractive of young men. He was a Protestant, though, and the country would approve; and it was very necessary to have that approval.
I remembered, some years ago, William had paid a visit to our court. He had probably been about twenty then, for he was twelve years older than Mary. His mother was Charles’s sister Mary, who had been the Princess Royal of England, and his father, the Prince of Orange, had died at the time of young William’s birth, so in his cradle the boy became Prince of Orange.
He must have been amazed by what he discovered at his uncle’s court. Young, inexperienced as he was, he attracted the interest of the courtiers and they decided to amuse themselves at his expense.
I remember the occasion well, for I felt sorry for the young man.
They had made him drunk — a condition which was new to him. They had caroused with him…leading him on to such mischief that he tried to force his way into the quarters of the ladies-in-waiting, and when he met resistance, broke a window and attempted to climb in. The jokers then thought that was enough and took him away. I recall how Charles laughed about his sober nephew’s drunken attempts at depravity.