“Sweetheart, let me tell you something. Never give
But Nelly was just seventeen and thirty was a thousand years away. “I’ve never been hungry. I’ll live somehow. What did you want to see me for, Mary?”
“I want to take you calling. Are you dressed? Is your hair combed?” The light from the torches was too unsteady to see distinctly.
“Well enough, I warrant. Who’re we calling on?”
“A gentleman named Charles Stuart.” She paused a moment, for Nelly sat in silence, not realizing whom she meant. “His Majesty, King Charles II!” The words rolled off her tongue like the flare of trumpets and a chill ran over Nelly’s flesh, along her arms and down her back.
“King Charles!” she whispered. “He wants to see me!”
“He does. And he asked me, as an old friend, to carry the invitation.”
Nelly sat perfectly rigid, staring straight ahead of her. “Holy Mother of God!” she whispered. And then she flew into a sudden tempest of indecision and fright. “But I’m all undone! My hair’s down! I haven’t got any stockings on! Oh, Mary! I
Mary put one hand over hers. “Of course you can, sweetheart. I’ll lend you my cloak. And I’ve got a comb here.”
“Oh, but Mary—I can’t! I just can’t!” She stabbed about for an excuse and suddenly remembered Hart and Lacy waiting upstairs for her. She started to get out. “I’ve got callers myself, I just remembered. I—”
Mary took her arm and firmly pulled her back again. “He’s expecting you.” She leaned forward and rapped on the front wall of the coach. “Drive away!”
It was only a little more than half a mile to Whitehall and Nelly spent that time dragging Mary’s comb through the snarls of her coarse thick blonde hair, her stomach fluttering and the palms of her hands cold and wet. Her throat was so tight she could scarcely speak, though from time to time she murmured, “Oh, Jesus!”
At the Palace she got out, Mary’s cloak flung over her shoulders, and just before she ran off Mary slid the pearl drops from her ears and handed them to her. “Wear these, sweetheart. I’ll wait for you to drive you home.”
Nelly took them, made a step or two away, then turned suddenly and came back to the coach. “I can’t go, Mary! I can’t! He’s the King!”
“Go along, child. He’s waiting for you.”
Nelly closed her eyes hard and murmured a prayer and then crossed the courtyard, went through the door Mary had pointed out and along a winding hall-way, down a flight of stairs to another door; there she knocked. A footman opened it, she gave him her name, and was admitted. She found herself in a handsomely furnished room. There were gold-framed portraits on the walls, a great carved fireplace, embroidered chairs from France. For a long moment she stood just inside the doorway, staring about her in awe, nervously cleaning the dirt from beneath her finger-nails.
After two or three minutes William Chiffinch came in, well-fed and silky, with pouches under his eyes and a sensual mouth, belching gently as though he had just risen from a too rich meal. His appearance put her somewhat at ease, for he was no more fearsome than any other man, even if he was the King’s Page of the Backstairs.
He raised his eyebrows faintly as he saw her standing there. “Madame Gwynne?”
Nelly gave a little curtsy. “Aye.”
“You know, I suppose, madame, that it is not I who sent for you?”
“Lord, I hope not, sir!” said Nelly. And then she added quickly, for fear of having hurt his feelings, “Not that I wouldn’t be pleased if it had been—”
“I understand, madame. And do you feel that you are correctly costumed for an interview with his Majesty?”
Nelly glanced down at her blue woollen gown and found it spotted with food and wine, stained in the armpits from many weeks of wear; there was a rent low in the skirt through which her red linen petticoat showed. She was unconcerned about her dress, as she was about all her appearance, and took her prettiness very much for granted. Though she was paid the good wage of sixty pounds a year she spent it carelessly, entertaining friends who came to see her, buying brandy for her fat sodden mother and gifts for Rose, tossing coins to every beggar who approached her in the streets.
“It’s what I was wearing, sir, when Mrs. Knight called for me. I didn’t know—I can go back and change—I have a very fine gown for special occasions—blue satin, with a silver petticoat and—”
“There isn’t time now. But here—try some of this.”
He crossed the room, picked up a bottle and gave it to her. Nelly took out the stopper, rolling her eyes ecstatically as she smelled the heavy-sweet odour. Then she tipped the bottle against her bodice until the perfume made a wet round circle, dabbing more of it on her breasts and wrists and live curling hair.
“That’s enough!” warned Chiffinch, and took it away from her. He glanced at a clock in a standing walnut case. “It’s time. Come with me.”
