Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

TWO

It was nearly two years later when Nell came back to London. Life was not easy in Oxford. She had gone back to selling fruit and fish when she could lay her hands on it. Rose worked with her, and the two girls from London, so sprightly and so pretty, were able to keep themselves and their mother alive during those two years.

News came from London—terrible news which set them all wondering whether they would ever return there. Travellers brought it to Oxford during the month of September, a year after Nell and her family had arrived there. Nell, eager for news of what was happening in Drury Lane and whether the players were back, heard instead of the disastrous fire which had broken out at a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane and quickly spread until half the city was ablaze. The wild rumors reaching Oxford were numerous. Many declared that this was the end of London, and that not a house was left standing; that the King and all his Court had been burned to death.

Nell for once was speechless. She stood still, thinking of Drury Lane and that squalid alley where she had spent most of her life, the old Cole-yard; she thought of Covent Garden, the Hop Garden and St. Martin’s Lane. She thought of the playhouse—that which she thought of as her own—and that rival house, both furiously burning.

“’Tis the judgment of God on a wicked city,” some people declared.

Rose cast down her eyes, but Nell was shrilly indignant. London had not been wicked, she cried; it was merry and full of pleasure, and she for one refused to believe that it was a sin to laugh and enjoy life.

But she was too wretched to retort with her wonted spirit.

Each day there came fresh rumors. They heard that the people had thrown the furniture from their houses and packed it into barges; that the flames had spanned the river; how the wooden houses on London Bridge had blazed; how the King and his brother the Duke had worked together to prevent the fire from spreading; that it had been necessary to use gunpowder and blow gaps in the rows of highly inflammable wooden houses.

And at length came good news.

It came from a gentleman riding through Oxford from London, a prelate who mourned the restoration of the King and looked yearningly back at the puritanism of the Protectorate.

Riding to Banbury, he stopped at Oxford and, seeing that he was a traveller who had doubtless come from London, Nell approached him, not to ask him to buy her herrings, but for news.

He looked at her with disapproval. No woman of virtue, he was sure, could look like this one. That luxuriant hair allowed to flow in riotous disorder, those hazel eyes adorned with the darkest of lashes and brows—such a contrast to the reddish tints in her hair—those plump cheeks and pretty teeth, those dimples and, above all, that pert nose, could not belong to a virtuous woman.

Nell dipped in a charming curtsy which would have become a lady of high rank and which Charles Hart had taught her.

“I see, fair sir, that you hie from London,” she addressed him. “I would fain have news of that town.”

“Ask me not for news of Babylon!” cried the good man.

“Nay, sir, I will not,” answered Nell. “’Tis of London I ask.”

“They are one and the same.”

Nell dropped her eyes demurely. “I hie from London, fair sir. Is it in your opinion a fit place for a poor woman to go home to?”

“I tell ye, ’tis Babylon itself. ’Tis full of whores and cutthroats.”

“More so than Oxford, sir … or Banbury?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “You mock me, woman,” he said. “You should go to London. Clearly ’tis where you belong. In that cesspool everywhere one looks one sees rubble in the streets—the evidence of God’s vengeance … and these people of London, what do they do? They make merry with their taverns and their playhouses….”

“You said playhouses!” cried Nell.

“God forgive them, I did.”

“And may He preserve you, sir, for such good news.”

A few days later she, with Rose and her mother, caught the stage wagon and, after a slow and tedious journey travelling two miles to the hour and sitting uncomfortably on the floor of the wagon as the wagoner led the horses over the rough roads, they were jolted to London.

Nell could scarcely help weeping when she saw the old city again. She had heard that old St. Paul’s, the Guildhall, and the Exchange, among many other well-known landmarks, had gone; she had heard that more than thirteen thousand dwelling houses and four hundred streets had been destroyed, and that two-thirds of the city lay in ruins—from the Tower, all along the river to the Temple Church, and from the northeast gate along the city wall to Holborn Bridge. Nevertheless she was not prepared for the sight which met her eyes.

But she was by nature an optimist and when she remembered her last sight of the city, with the grass growing between the cobbles, with its red crosses on the doors and its pest-carts in the streets, she cried: “Well, ’tis a better sight than we left.”

Moreover the King’s Servants were back at the playhouse.

Nell lost no time in presenting herself at the playhouse, miraculously preserved; and indeed Thomas Killigrew had, during the time it had not been used, enlarged his stage.

London was glad to see Nell back. She had changed in her two years’ absence. She was no longer a child. At seventeen she was a poised young woman; her charms had by no means diminished; she was as slender and as dainty as ever; her tongue was as quick; but all who saw her declared that her beauty was more striking than ever.

She scored an immediate success as Lady Wealthy in James Howard’s The English Monsieur, and later she played Celia in Fletcher’s Humorous Lieutenant.

There was still great anxiety throughout the country; the plague and the fire had crippled trade, and the Dutch were threatening. In her lodgings in Drury Lane which she had taken again Nell thought little of these things. She gave supper parties and entertained her friends with her singing and dancing. These friends talked of the scandals of the Court, of the theater, and the roles they had played; it never occurred to them to give a thought to state affairs or to imagine that such matters could concern them.

To these parties came men and women of the Court; even the great Duke of Buckingham came. He was something of a mimic, and he declared he wished to pit his skill against Mrs. Nelly’s. With him came Lady Castlemaine, who was graciously pleased to commend the little comedienne on her playing. She asked questions about Charles Hart, her great blue eyes rapaciously aglitter. Charles Hart was a very handsome man, and Nell had heard of the lady’s insatiable hunger for handsome men.

One of the lampoons which was being quoted throughout the city concerned the King’s chief mistress. It was:

“Full forty men a day provided for the whore

Yet like a bitch she wags her tail for more.”

This was said to have been composed by the Earl of Rochester—who was Lady Castlemaine’s own cousin and one of the wildest rakes at Court. He had recently been imprisoned for abducting an heiress; he was so daring that he cared not what he said even to the King; yet he remained in favor.

Henry Killigrew was there; he had been her friend since the days when she had begged him to help her obtain a pardon for Rose. Now she knew that he had been Lady Castlemaine’s lover as well as Rose’s and was the greatest liar in England. There was Sir George Etherege, lazy and good humored, known to them all as “Gentle George.” Another who came to her rooms was John Dryden, a fresh-complexioned little poet who had written several plays and promised to write another especially for Nell.

This he did and, very soon after her return to London, Nell was playing in Secret Love, or the Maiden Queen, and the part of Florimel, which had been specially written for her, was the greatest success of her career.

All the town was going to see Mrs. Nelly as Florimel, for in Florimel Dryden had created a madcap creature, witty, pretty, full of mischief, expert in mimicry; in other words Florimel was Nell, and Florimel enchanted all London.

She could now forget the terrible time of plague; she could forget poverty in Oxford, just as in the beginning she had forgotten the bawdy-house in Cole-yard and her life as orange-girl in the pit. Nell knew how to live gloriously in the joyous moment, and to remember from the past only that which made pleasant remembering.

She had lost Charles Hart. He had never forgiven her for choosing her family instead of him. Nell shrugged elegant shoulders. She had loved him when she had known little of love; her love had been trusting, experimental. She was grateful to Mr. Charles Hart, and she did not grudge him the pleasure he was said to be taking with my lady Castlemaine.

What she enjoyed now was swaggering across the stage, wearing an enormous periwig which made her seem smaller than ever—a grotesque yet enchanting figure, full of vitality, full of love of life, full of gamin charm which set the pit bouncing in its seats, and every little vizard mask trying to ape Nell Gwyn.

And at the end of the play she danced her jig.

“You must dance a jig,” Lacy had said. “Moll Davies is drawing them at the Duke’s with her dancing. By God, Nelly, she’s a pretty creature, Moll Davies; but you’re prettier.”

Nell turned away from his flattering glances; she did not want to seem ungrateful to one who had done so much for her, but she wanted no more lovers at this time.

She wanted no man unless she loved him, and there was so much else in life to love apart from men. She might have reminded him that Thomas Killigrew paid a woman twenty shillings a week to remain at the theater and keep his actors happy in their amorous moments. But being grateful to Lacy, she turned away as she had learned to turn away from so many who sought her.

And there were many seeking her. She was the most discussed actress of the day. There might have been better actresses on the stage but none was possessed of Nell’s charm; though some admitted that that mighty pretty creature, Moll Davies, at the Duke’s Theater, was the better dancer.

In the town they were quoting Flecknoe’s verses to a very pretty person:

“She is pretty and she knows it;

She is witty and she shows it;

And besides that she’s so witty,

And so little and so pretty,

Sh’ has a hundred other parts

For to take and conquer hearts …”

The gallants quoted it to her; in the pit they chanted it. And they roared the last two lines:

“But for that, suffice to tell ye,

’Tis the little pretty Nelly.”

And, although the times were bad and it was hard to fill a theater, those who could tear themselves from state matters came to see Nell Gwyn play Florimel and dance her jig.

The King was melancholy. Frances Stuart, whom he had been pursuing for so long, had run away with the Duke of Richmond; and matters of greater moment gave him cause for anxiety. His kingdom, well-nigh ruined by the disastrous events of the last two years, was facing a serious threat from the Dutch. He had no money to refit his ships, so he negotiated for a secret peace; the French were joining the Dutch against him; but the Dutch, who had suffered no such hardships, had no wish for peace.

The King rarely came to the play; he did not even come for John Howard’s new piece All Mistaken or The Mad Couple, in which Nelly had a comic part.

As Mirida she had two suitors—one fat, one thin—and she promised to marry the one if he could grow fatter, the other if he could lose his bulk. This gave her many opportunities for the sort of buffoonery in which she reveled. Lacy, stuffed with cushions, was the fat lover, and Nell and he had the audience hysterical with laughter. An additional attraction was Nell’s parody of Moll Davies in her role in The Rivals at The Duke’s; and with her fat lover she rolled about on the stage, displaying so much of her person that the gentlemen in the pit stood on their seats to see the better, so displeasing those behind them that this gave rise to much dissension.

There was one in his box who watched the scene with an avid interest. This was Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, a wit and poet, and he was filled with a great desire to make Nell his mistress.

Consequently after the play the first person to reach the tiring room to beg Mrs. Nelly to dine with him was Charles Sackville.

They dined at the Rose Tavern in Russell Street, and the innkeeper, recognizing his patrons, was filled with the desire to please them.

Nell had refused to ask the gentleman to her lodgings, as she had refused to go to his. She knew him for a rake and, although he was an extremely handsome one as well as a wit, she had no intention of giving way to his desires. Some of these Court gentlemen stopped at little. My lord Rochester and some of his boon companions, it was said, were beginning to consider seduction tame and were developing a taste for rape. She was not going to make matters easy for this noble lord.

He leaned his elbows on the table and bade her drink more wine.

“There’s not an actress in the town to touch you, Nelly,” he said.

“Nor shall any touch me—actress or noble lord—unless I wish it.”

“You are prickly, Nell! Wherefore?”

“I’m like a hedgehog, my lord. I know when to be on my guard.”

“Let us not talk of guards.”

“Then what should we talk of, the Dutch war?”

“I can think of happier subjects.”

“Such as what, my lord?”

“You … myself … alone somewhere together.”

“Would that be so happy? You would be demanding, I should be refusing. If you need my refusal to make you happier, sir, you can have it here and now.”

“Nelly, you’re a mad thing, but a little beauty like you should have better lodgings than those in Old Drury!”

“Is it a gentleman’s custom to sneer at the lodgings of his friends?”

“If he is prepared to provide a better.”

“My lodging is on cold boards,

And wonderful hard is my fare.

But that which troubles me most

Is the impertinence of my host …”

sang Nell, parodying the song in The Rivals.

“I pray thee, Nell, be serious. I offer you a beautiful apartment, a hundred pounds a year … all the jewels and good company you could wish for.”

“I do not wish for jewels,” she said, “and I doubt you could provide me with better company than that which I now enjoy.”

“An actress’s life! How long does that go on?”

“A little longer than that of a kept woman of a noble lord, I imagine.”

“I would love you forever.”

“Forever, forsooth! For ever is until you decide to pay court to Moll Davies or Beck Marshall.”

“Do you imagine that I shall lightly abandon this….”

“Nay, I do not. It is after seduction that such as you, my lord, concern themselves with the abandonment of a poor female.”

“Nell, your tongue’s too sharp for such a little person.”

“My lord, we all have our weapons. Some have jewels and a hundred a year with which to tempt the needy; others have a love of straight speaking with which to parry such thrusts.”

“One of these days,” said Charles Sackville, “you will come to me, Nell.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows, my lord? Who knows? Now, if you would prove to me that you are a good host, let me enjoy my food, I beg of you. And let me hear a piece of that wit for which I hear you are famous. For the man from whom I would accept jewels and an apartment and a hundred a year must needs be a witty man, a man who knows how to play the perfect host, and that—so my brief spell in high society tells me—is to talk, not of the host’s own inclinations, but of those of his guest.”

“I am reproved,” said Sackville.

He was exasperated, as he and his friends always were by the refusal of those they wished to fall immediate victims to their desires, but after that meal he was even more determined to make Nell his mistress.

The King was furious with his players. It was unlike the King to lose his temper; he was, it was said by many, the sweetest tempered man at Court. But there was a great deal to make him melancholy at this time.

A terrible disaster had overtaken the country. The Dutch fleet had sailed up the Medway as far as Chatham. They had taken temporary possession of Sheerness; they had burned the Great James, the Royal Oak, and the Loyal London (that ship which London had so recently had built to ennoble the Navy). They had sent up in smoke a magazine of stores worth £40,000 and, afraid lest they should reach London Bridge and inflict further damage, the English had sunk four ships at Blackwall and thirteen at Woolwich.

The sight of the triumphant and arrogant Dutchmen sailing up the Medway, towing the Royal Charles, was, many sober Englishmen declared, the greatest humiliation the English had ever suffered.

So the King, who loved his ships and had done more than any to promote the power of his Navy, was melancholy indeed; this melancholy was aggravated by those who went about the country declaring that this was God’s vengeance on England because of the vices of the Court. There came to him news that a Quaker, naked except for a loincloth, had run through Westminster Hall carrying burning coals in a dish on his head and calling on the people of the Court to repent of their lascivious ways which had clearly found disfavor in the eyes of the Lord.

Charles, the cynic and astute statesman, said to those about him that the disfavor of the Lord might have been averted by cash to repair his ships and make them ready to face the Dutchmen. But he was grieved. He could not see that the fire and the plague which had preceded it—and which in the crippling effects they had had on the country’s trade were the reasons for this humiliating defeat—had any connection with the merry lives he and his followers led. In his opinion God would not wish to deny a gentleman his pleasure.

The plague came on average twice a year to London, and had done so for many years; he knew this was due to the crowded hovels and the filthy conditions of the streets, rather than to his licentiousness; the fire had been so disastrous because those same houses were built of wood and huddled so close together that there was no means—except by making gaps in the buildings—of stopping the fire once it had started on such a gusty night.

But he knew it was useless to tell a superstitious people these things, for they counted it Divine vengeance when aught went wrong and Divine approval when things went right.

But even a man of the sweetest nature could feel exasperated at times and, when he heard that in the Change of Crowns which was being done at his own playhouse John Lacy was pouring further ridicule on the Court, Charles was really angry. At any other time he would have laughed and shrugged his shoulders; he had never been a man to turn from the truth; but now, with London prostrate from the effects of plague and fire, with the Dutch inflicting the most humiliating defeat in the country’s history and rebelion hanging in the air as patently as that miasma of haze and stench which came from the breweries, soap-boilers and tanneries ranged about the city, this ridicule of Lacy’s was more than indiscreet; it was criminal.

The King decided that Lacy should suffer a stern reprimand and the playhouse be closed down for a while. It was incongruous, to say the least, that the mummers should be acting at such a time; and the very existence of the playhouse gave those who were condemning the idle life of the Court more sticks with which to beat it.

So, during those hot months, Lacy went to prison and the King’s Theater was closed.

Once more Nell was an actress without a theater to act in.

Afterwards she wondered how she could have behaved as she did.

Was it the desperation which was in the London air at that time? Was it the long faces of all she met which made her turn to the merry rake who was importuning her?

She who loved to laugh felt in those weeks of inactivity that she must escape from a London grown so gloomy that she was reminded of the weeks of plague, when she had lived that wretched life in a deserted city.

Charles Sackville was at her elbow. “Come, Nelly. Come and make merry,” he said. “I have a pleasant house in Epsom Spa. Come with me and enjoy life. What can you do here? Cry ‘Fresh herrings, ten a groat’? Come with me and I’ll give you not only a handsome lover but a hundred pounds a year.”

In her mood of recklessness, Nell threw aside her principles. “I will come,” she said.

So they made merry, she and Charles Sackville, in the house at Epsom.

There they were in pleasant country, but not too quiet and not so far from London that their friends could not visit them.

Charles Sedley joined them. He was witty and amusing, this Little Sid; and highly amused to see that Nell had succumbed at last. He insisted on staying with them at Epsom. He hoped, he said, to have a share in pretty, witty Nell. He would disclaim at length on the greater virtues of Little Sid as compared with those of Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, and he was so amusing that neither Nell nor Buckhurst wished him to go.

They were wildly merry; and all the good people at Epsom talked of these newcomers in their midst. Little groups hung about outside the house hoping to catch a glimpse of the Court wits and the famous actress; and it seemed that a spirit of devilment came to all three of them, so that they acted with more wildness than came naturally even to them; and the people of Epsom were enchanted and shocked by turns.

Other members of the Court came down to see Lord Buckhurst and his newest mistress. Buckhurst was proud of his triumph. So many had laid siege to Nell without success. There was Sir Carr Scrope, squint-eyed and conceited, who made them all laugh by assuring Nell that he was irresistible to all women and, if she wished to be considered a woman of taste, she must immediately desert Buckhurst for him.

Rochester came; he read his latest satires. He told Nell that he set his footmen to wait each night at the doors of those whom he suspected of conducting intrigues, that he might be the first to compile a poem on their activities and circulate it throughout the taverns and coffeehouses. She believed him; there was no exploit which would be too fantastic for my lord Rochester.

Buckingham came; he was at this time full of plans. He swore that ere long they would see Clarendon out of office. He was working with all his mind and heart and he could tell them that his cousin, Barbara Castlemaine, was with him in this. Clarendon must go.

And so passed the weeks at Epsom—six of them—mad, feckless weeks, which Nell was often to remember with shame.

It was Sir George Etherege—Gentle George—who came riding to Epsom with news from London.

Lacy was released; the King had pardoned him; he could not remain long in anger against his players; moreover he knew the hardship this brought to those who worked in his theater. The ban was lifted. The King’s Servants were playing once more.

Nell looked at her player’s livery then—a cloak of bastard scarlet cloth with a black velvet collar. In the magnificence of the apartment which Buckhurst had given her, she put it on; and she felt that the girl she had now become was unworthy to wear that cloak.

She had done that which she had told herself she would never do. She had loved Charles Hart in her way, and if her feeling for him had not proved a lasting affection, at least she had thought it was at the time.

She accepted the morals of the age; but she had determined that her relationship with men must be based on love.

And then, because of a mood of recklessness, because she had been weak and careless and afraid of poverty, she had become involved in a sordid relationship with a man whom she did not love.

Buckhurst came to her and saw her in the cloak.

“God’s Body!” he cried. “What have we here?”

“My player’s livery,” she said.

He laughed at it and, taking it from her, threw it about his own shoulders. He began to mince about the apartment, waiting for her applause and laughter.

“You find me a bore?” he asked petulantly.

“Yes, Charles,” she said.

“Then the devil take you!”

“He did that when I came to you.”

“What means this?” he cried indignantly. “Are you not satisfied with what I give you?”

“I am not satisfied with what there is between us.”

“What! Nelly grown virtuous, sighing to be a maid once more?”

“Nay. Sighing to be myself.”

“Now the wench grows cryptic. Who is this woman who has been my mistress these last weeks, if not Nelly?”

“’Twas Nelly, sure enough, and for that I pity Nelly.”

“You feel I have neglected you of late?”

“Nay, I feel you have not neglected me enough.”

“Come, you want a present, eh?”

“Nay. I am going back to the playhouse.”

“What, for a miserable pittance?”

“Not so miserable. With it I get back my self-respect.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, now we have become high and mighty. Nelly the whore would become Nelly the nun. ’Tis a sad complaint but no unusual one. There are many who would be virtuous after they have lost their virtue, forgetting that those who have it are forever sighing to lose it.”

“I am leaving at once for London.”

“Leave me, and you’ll never come back!”

“I see that you and I are of an opinion. Good day to you, sir.”

“You’re a fool, Nelly,” he said.

“I am myself, and if that be a fool … then Nelly is a fool and must needs act like one.”

He caught her wrist and cried: “Who is it? Rochester?”

Her answer was to kick his shins.

He cried out with pain and released her. She picked up her player’s cloak, wrapped it about her, and walked out of the house.

Charles Hart was cool when she returned to the theater. He was not sure, he told her, whether she could have back any of her old parts.

Nell replied that she must then perforce play others.

The actresses were disdainful. They had been jealous of her quick rise to fame; and even more jealous of her liaison with Lord Buckhurst and the income which they had heard he had fixed upon her. They were delighted to see her back—humbled, as they thought.

This was humiliation for Nell, but she refused to be subdued. She went on the stage and played the smaller parts which were allotted to her, and very soon the pit was calling for more of Mrs. Nelly.

“It seems,” said Beck Marshall, after a particularly noisy demonstration, “that the people come here not to see the play but my lord Buckhurst’s whore.”

Nell rose in her fury and, facing Beck Marshall, cried in ringing tones as though she were playing a dramatic part: “I was but one man’s whore, though I was brought up in a bawdy-house to fill strong waters to the guests; and you are a whore to three or four, though a Presbyter’s praying daughter.”

This set the green room in fits of laughter, for it was true that Beck Marshall and her sister Ann did give themselves airs and were fond of reminding the rest that they did not come from the slums of London but from a respectable family.

Beck had no word to say to that; she had forgotten that it was folly to pit her wits against those of Nell.

The dainty little creature was more full of fire than any, and had the weapon of her wit with which to defend herself.

They all began to realize then that they were glad to have Nell back. Even Charles Hart—who, though in the toils of my lady Castlemaine, had regretted seeing Nell go to Buckhurst—found himself relenting. Moreover he had the business of the playhouse to consider, and audiences were poor, as they always were in times of disaster. Anything that could be done to bring people into the theater must be done; and Nell was a draw.

So, very soon after her brief retirement with Lord Buckhurst, she was back in all her old parts; and there were many who declared that, if there was one thing which could make them forget the unhappy state of the country’s affairs, it was pretty, witty Nell at the King’s playhouse.

All through that autumn Nell played her parts.

Meanwhile the country sought a scapegoat for the disasters, and Clarendon was forced to take this part. Buckingham and Lady Castlemaine were working together for his defeat, and although the King was reluctant to forsake an old friend he decided that, for Clarendon’s own safety, it would be wiser for him to leave the country.

So that November Clarendon escaped to France, and Buckingham and his cousin Castlemaine rejoiced to see him go, and congratulated themselves on bringing about his eclipse.

But it was not long before Buckingham and his cousin fell out. Lady Castlemaine with her mad rages, Buckingham with his mad schemes, could not remain in harmony for long. The Duke then began to make further wild plans, and this time they were directed against his fair cousin.

He conferred with his two friends, Edward Howard and his brother, Robert Howard, who wrote plays for the theater.

Buckingham said: “The Castlemaine’s power over the King is too great and should be broken. What we need to replace her is another woman, younger, more enticing.”

“And how could this be?” said Robert. “You know His most gracious Majesty never discards; he merely adds to his hand.”

“That is so; but let him add such a glorious creature, so beautiful, so enchanting, so amusing, that he has little time to spare for Castlemaine.”

“He would fain be rid of her and her tantrums now, but still he keeps her.”

“He was ever one to love a harem. Our gracious Sovereign says ‘Yes yes yes’ with such charm that he has never learned to say ‘No.’”

“He is too good-natured.”

“And his good-nature is our undoing. If Castlemaine remains mistress en titre she will ruin the country and the King.”

“Not to mention her good cousin, my lord Buckingham!”

“Aye, and all of us. Come, we are good friends—let us do something about it. Let us find the King a new mistress. I suggest one of the enchanting ladies of the theater. What of the incomparable Nelly?”

“Ah, Nelly,” said Robert. “She’s an enchantress, but every time she opens her mouth Cole-yard comes out. The King needs a lady.”

“There is Moll Davies at the Duke’s,” said Edward. Buckingham laughed, for he knew Moll to be a member of the Howard family—on the wrong side of the blanket. It was reasonable that the Howards should want to promote Moll, for she was a good choice, a docile girl. She would be sweet and gentle with the King and ready to take all the advice given her.

But Buckingham was the most perverse man in England. It would be such an easy matter to get Moll Davies into the King’s bed. But he liked more complicated schemes; he wanted to do more than discountenance Castlemaine. Moreover how would Moll stand up to her ladyship? The poor girl would be defeated at every turn.

No, he wanted to provide the King with a mistress who had some spirit; someone who could deal with Lady Castlemaine in a manner to make the King laugh, if he should witness conflict between them, and there was one person he had in mind for the task.

Let the Howards do all in their power to promote the leading actress from the Duke’s Theater; he would go to the King’s own playhouse for his protégée.

Mrs. Nelly! She was the girl for him. She had at times the language of the streets. What of it? That was piquant. It made a more amusing situation: a King and a girl from the gutter.

He turned to the Howards. “My friends,” he said, “if there is one thing His Majesty would appreciate more than one pretty actress, it is two pretty actresses. You try him with Moll; I’ll try him with Nelly. ’Twill be a merry game to watch what happens, eh? Let the pretty creatures fight it out for themselves. Her ladyship will be most disturbed, I vow.”

He could scarcely wait to bid them farewell. Nor did they wish to delay. They were off to the Duke’s to tell Moll to hold herself in readiness for what they proposed.

Buckingham was wondering whether he should first call Charles’ attention to Nell or warn Nell of the good fortune which awaited her. Nell was unaccountable. She had left Buckhurst and gone back to the comparative poverty of the stage. Mayhap it would be better to speak to Charles first.

He began to frame his sentences. “Has Your Majesty been to the playhouse of late? By God, what an incomparable creature is Mrs. Nelly!”

Buckingham was in high spirits by the time he reached Whitehall.