The Darling Strumpet Part 9

Dorset laughed and stretched himself lazily. He was handsome and golden haired, and he reminded Nell of the young lion she had seen once when the menagerie at the Tower was open to the public. Powerful and utterly a.s.sured.

"Damme, but the wench has the finest oranges I've ever seen," he drawled. "They positively set me to hungering."

He picked up an orange and rolled it in his hand, squeezing it, then brought it to his nose and inhaled its scent, his eyes never leaving Nell's. He tossed the orange to Harry, trapped Nell's hand between his, and pressed sixpence into her palm. The touch of his skin made her heart race. To her annoyance, she felt herself blus.h.i.+ng, and she slipped away, Harry's laughter in her ears.

That night, Nell remembered the pressure of Dorset's hand on hers and how his gaze had made her catch her breath and look away. He stirred something within her, and it was clear that she had excited his interest as well, but her experience at Madam Ross's had taught her that if she succ.u.mbed easily, even for a handsome price, he would lose interest and she would forfeit what power she had with him. She determined to keep her head when next she saw him and see what might befall.

The next day Nell watched Dorset as he stood with one booted foot on a bench, surrounded by Harry, Sedley, and a couple of other young bloods. The cut of his elegant clothes emphasized his well-muscled figure. The other men leaned in to listen to him, crowing with laughter and clapping him on the back. The leader of the pack, that's what he was, she thought. And yes, one who would relish a chase.

"So you're the dimber-damber, then?" she dimpled at him.

"I'm the what?" he asked, looking her over languidly.

"Dimber-damber. Top man. King of the thieves. Chief rogue of the crew."

Dorset laughed. "Why, I suppose I am. And if I'm king," he said, tracing a finger down Nell's throat, "who's to be my queen?"

"Only time will tell, my lord," she said, batting his hand away. "Now, do you mean to buy any oranges of me today or am I to stand here all the afternoon listening to your fiddle-faddle?"

Nell was annoyed with herself that she was allowing Dorset to fascinate her, but she could not stop herself from thinking about him.

"What do you think of him?" she asked Rose one evening as they walked home. Rose blew out her cheeks and shook her head.

"A h.e.l.lcat, born and bred. I swear I don't understand these gents. Harry Killigrew says Dorset and Sedley have just done a translation of a French tragedy that brings tears to his eyes for the beauty and grace of the poetry, and yet the pair of them near caused a riot the other night."

"Really?" Nell giggled. "What happened?"

"They were with Tom Ogle at the c.o.c.k Inn, drunk as dogs, and stood on the balcony, singing lewd verses. A crowd began to gather, and at length they stripped off their clothes, and Dorset and Ogle began to strike lascivious postures. When the people below cried out to them to behave decently, Sedley p.i.s.sed on their heads. The folk in the street were so enraged that they started throwing stones, Harry said, and near tore down the house."

Nell laughed, picturing Dorset and Sedley's antics, and Rose looked at her sharply.

"You'd do better to keep clear of that one, Nell, is my opinion. He'll bring you nothing but hurt."

THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT WAS A ROARING SUCCESS, AND PLAYED day after day. After the first performance, it was John Lacy instead of Walter Clun who played the lieutenant, and as funny as Wat had been, Lacy was even better. Nell never tired of watching him in the part, marveling at his transformation as the love potion took effect and the rangy, slow-moving lieutenant, inflamed with giddy pa.s.sion, capered about the stage, long arms and legs a-spraddle with the ungainly appearance of a chicken in flight, howling, "Oh, King, that thou knew'st I loved thee, how I lov'd thee!"

Nell learned that the girl playing Celia, Hart's lover in the play, was Anne Marshall, who had played Desdemona at the Vere Street theater, thus becoming the first woman to act on an English stage. Nell admired Anne's blue eyes and porcelain skin, and wondered how she had been lucky enough to become an actress. She also wondered if the onstage love between Demetrius and Celia carried over into real life. She thought again of Charles Hart and Anne Marshall sitting together on the afternoon of the first performance. They had seemed comfortable, companionable. Because they were lovers? Or because they were not?

Nell watched Hart day after day, always finding something new to admire in his performance as the prince. Her feelings for him, she realized, were far more profound and confusing than the carnal rush of blood that Dorset induced in her. She held her breath as she awaited Hart's entrance, felt her heart quicken as he appeared. She loved the quick grace of his lean body, the play of his shoulders under his soldier's coat of red, the fall of his dark hair tied into a club at the back of his neck.

In his first scene, he stood silently by while the actor playing the king rhapsodized about him-"This nature, that in one look carries more fire and fierceness than all your masters in their lives. . . ."

There was an intense stillness within him, his eyes deep wells of emotion, and she found it impossible to look at anyone else when he was on the stage.

She mouthed Celia's lines along with Anne Marshall: "'Now he speaks! O, I could dwell upon that tongue forever.'"

Her skin broke out in gooseflesh at his deep growl of a voice-"'. . . this face, this beauty, this heart, where all my hopes are locked'"-and she wished it was she that he crushed in his embrace for a last kiss as he cried, "'I must have one farewell more.'"

She thought he was the essence of perfection in a man-impa.s.sioned, witty, a.s.sured, but tempered with soulfulness-and by the tenth consecutive day that The Humorous Lieutenant was played, she found that she could think of little else but him. She lingered in the greenroom after the performance, bantering with Wat Clun and young Theo Bird as she settled with Moll and put her wares away, but her entire body was alert and listening for the sound of Hart's voice. When there was no longer any pretext for her to remain, she dragged herself home, thinking of Celia's words-"It was a kind of death, sir, I suffered in your absence."

As she lay in bed his voice echoed in her head, and his image seemed printed on the inside of her eyelids. She slept fitfully, seeing his dark eyes in her dreams, her skin burning with his imagined touch.

She had never felt this way before, and it was all at once exciting and frightening and painful. She longed to speak to him, though she did not know what she wanted to say. She wanted to be caressed by him, to be devoured by him like tinder in a raging fire. She had taken many men to her bed as a matter of business, and had spent many nights in Robbie's arms. But she had never ached with desire, had never been consumed by thoughts of a man as she was now.

And she found herself increasingly anxious as each day pa.s.sed. She had never seen Hart's eye upon her, and he had not spoken to her. Perhaps he had not noticed her, did not remember her. How awful it would be, to speak to this G.o.d and receive a cold and unknowing stare in response. Yet it would be absurd to ask someone to introduce her to him when they daily worked within feet of each other. And that course would be fraught with even worse peril-what if he remembered her well, as a child wh.o.r.e, beneath his dignity to converse with now? In any case, her feelings were far too tender to expose. She felt ashamed and helpless and hopeless.

And then a miracle happened. One evening when Rose had felt unwell and gone home immediately after the play was done, Nell was putting her basket in the little storage cubby, when someone behind her asked, "And how is Nelly today?"

She turned, her insides contracting at the sound of his voice. Charles Hart, only a few feet away, smiling down at her. She had just been thinking of him, as she was always thinking of him now, and the surprise of him so solidly and suddenly there deprived her of all composure. The intensity of his dark eyes so close was almost more than she could bear.

"I'm very well," she stammered. "I'm Nell." She blushed at the idiocy of the remark, and Hart laughed good-naturedly.

"I know. And I'm Charles." Nell tried desperately to think of something to say and was relieved when he spoke again.

"Do you like it here at the playhouse, then?"

"Yes," Nell gulped. "It's-I didn't know it would be so-so grand."

Hart nodded at her as he turned to leave.

"Mr. Hart!" Nell continued in a rush. "I watch you every day. I think you're wonderful. I thank you for-I thank you."

Hart smiled gently. "I thank you, Nelly. See you tomorrow."

And he was gone. Nell exhaled heavily and leaned against the wall, giddy and light-headed. He did know who she was. He knew her name. He had spoken to her. She giggled at the joy of it and raced home, whooping, to tell Rose.

ONCE THE ICE HAD BEEN BROKEN, NELL FOUND IT EASIER TO SPEAK to Charles Hart, though she still held him in awe. She chatted more easily with the other actors she had met before, and was pleased that they remembered her.

"Look at you-our little wench is all grown up!" Wat Clun cried when he first saw her backstage.

"Could I watch a rehearsal again?" she asked him.

"I don't know why not," he said, "but best to ask Lacy. He and Hart and Mohun have the daily running of the company, you know."

"To be sure you may," said Lacy, to Nell's joy. "Come tomorrow. We'll be getting The Committee back on its feet."

Nell arrived at the theater at ten the next morning. It was the first time she had been there so early, when there was no one there but the actors and other playhouse people. With the bright morning light spilling through the windows of the greenroom, it felt homey and peaceful, and a completely different place than in the bustle just before a performance.

Beck Marshall, the darker-haired sister of Anne, who had spoken the prologue to The Humorous Lieutenant, sat at a table with a roll of papers before her, brow furrowed and lips moving as she muttered lines to herself. She glanced up as Nell came in and, though Beck said nothing, Nell saw appraisal and annoyance in her eyes.

Lacy, Wat, and other actors were already on the stage, so Nell took a seat in the pit near Hart. From the confidence with which the actors walked through their movements and spoke their lines, it was apparent that they knew the play already. Only occasionally did one of them call "Line!" and the prompter read out what they were to say.

Nell laughed in delight at Lacy's personification of the well-meaning but intensely obtuse Irish footman named Teague.

"It's one of John's best parts," Hart whispered to her. "Never fails to bring down the house."

Just as good as Lacy was Katherine Corey, the round-faced actress playing the overbearing rattle-mouth Mrs. Day. Nell had seen her only in smaller parts, and backstage, and had immediately been drawn to her sunny good humor and infectious laugh. This role allowed Katherine to make gloriously comic use of her ringing voice and ferocious energy. Nell observed her closely, trying to determine what made her performance so hilarious, and watched that afternoon's show with a newly a.n.a.lytical eye.

Nell was putting her basket away after the show when Hart greeted her and Orange Moll.

"Come and have supper with us," he said. Nell's heart skipped, but then she realized that of course he must be speaking to Moll.

"Well?" he persisted, and she raised her eyes to see that he was looking at her.

"It's you he's speaking to, pet, not me," Moll laughed. "He's got no use for a homely old Joan like me."

MANY OF THE PATRONS AT THE ROSE HAD JUST COME FROM THE play, and called out greetings and approval to Hart as Nell followed him to the table where Lacy, Mohun, and Clun sat. When supper arrived, talk turned to the afternoon's show.

"It's a bit rough in places, isn't it?" Lacy asked.

"A bit," Mohun agreed. "You're fine, but the girls still need some work."

"Bad enough to need another rehearsal?"

"Oh, no," Hart said. "It'll settle. The English Monsieur needs more work."

"What did you think, Nell?" Hart asked.

"It was very funny." Nell struggled to think of something intelligent to say. "Why are the women's parts so much better than in the other plays I've seen you give?"

"A very good question, indeed," Lacy said. "And with a simple answer. In the old days, the playwrights knew that young boys, without so much experience as the other players, would be playing the women's roles. But now they write knowing that the parts will be played by real women."

"In fact," Hart added, "Sir Robert Howard wrote the part of Mrs. Day knowing that Kate Corey would be playing it, and suited it to her talents."

It began to rain, and Nell listened to the drum of raindrops on the windows as the actors lingered over their meal. She felt at ease with them. They accepted her as she was, and seemed to enjoy her company. They did not regard her with the coolly predatory eyes of the cullies in Lewkenor's Lane or with the leering superiority of the gallants in the pit. They did not treat her like a wh.o.r.e. She studied Hart's face, noticed a tiny scar across one of his high cheekbones, the heaviness of his dark eyelashes, the fullness of his lips.

"How did you come to be actors?" she asked when there was a lull in their conversation.

"Well, Charlie and I were bred up as boys together at the old Blackfriars to play the women's roles." Wat grinned. "Can you see the pair of us in skirts? It's true, though. Charlie was apprenticed to d.i.c.k Robinson and made a name for himself as the d.u.c.h.ess in The Cardinal. A rare performance that was, heartbreaking and grand, and him only thirteen at the time. I can hear him yet-'There's not one little star in heaven will look on me!'"

"He's hiding his own light under a bushel," Hart told Nell. "We played together in Philaster, and he near made me weep every day."

"Did you apprentice, too?" Nell turned to Lacy.

"I did," he replied, "but as a dancer." Nell found it comically incongruous to think of the great stocky man who sat before her, his deep voice rumbling with its thick Yorks.h.i.+re accent, as a dancing boy, and she giggled.

"Truly?" she asked.

"Aye, truly," he laughed. "I was apprenticed to John Ogilby and played at the old c.o.c.kpit, not two hundred paces from here."

"Tonight's on me, lads," Wat said, drawing out his purse as the serving man presented the reckoning. Hart shook his head as Wat counted out coins from a handful of glinting gold and silver.

"You shouldn't carry so much money, Wat," he murmured, giving a glance about the room. "You never know who's taking more of an interest than is comfortable."

Wat waved him away with a bearlike paw. "Charlie, I've spent too much of my life without two pennies to rub together. Now that I'm a bit more flush in the pocket, thanks to the success of the King's Company, I like to know that I've got enough of the ready about me to lay out on my friends." He grinned around the table, his broad lopsided face alight with wine and happiness.

The rain had stopped by the time Nell and the actors left the tavern, and a full moon hung in the watery night sky. As the other men took their leave, Hart looked up to the heavens and breathed in the scent of the summer evening.

"Shall we walk a bit, as it's so fine?" he asked, and Nell nodded, happy to prolong her time in his company.

They ambled north to Holborn and then east. The sky was still light, and others were out enjoying their leisure at the end of the day.

"What did Wat mean about having so much money because of the company's success?" Nell asked.

"He was a sharer in the building," Hart said. "Ten of us put in money to build the playhouse. Tom Killigrew and Sir Robert Howard own the greatest part, but Wat bought two of the thirty-six shares for about a hundred and twenty-five pounds. He sold them a few months ago for near four times that much, and he and some of the others put the money into the building of three houses to be let, so he hopes to keep making money."

"Was that wise?" Nell asked.

Hart shrugged. "Who can say? I've got two shares in the building myself, as well as a share and a quarter of the twelve and three-quarter shares of the company and its profit."

"Twelve and three-quarter shares?" Nell giggled. "That's a funny number."

"Aye, don't ask; it's not worth the trouble of explaining it," Hart said. "But if the company lasts I should do well, and I've no mind to sell my shares anytime soon. But as we know to our cost, anything can happen, and theater is even more chancy a business than most."

The clouds were clearing, and stars glimmered above in the blackening sky.

"What did you do when the theaters were closed and you could act no more?" Nell asked.

"Went to war," Hart said. "Many of us who were King's Men as players came to serve him as soldiers. I was in Prince Rupert's regiment of horse. Mohun served in Flanders. There was nothing for us here, and the king's return was our only hope."

"What was it like?" Nell asked. "The war?" A shadow seemed to pa.s.s over Hart's face.

"Like h.e.l.l itself," he said, and walked silently for some time before speaking again. "Not like in the plays. There's nothing grand about seeing your fellows bleeding and screaming in the mud."

"Were you a hero?" Nell asked. Hart's mouth twisted in a bleakly ironic smile.

"I did my duty. Like many more who did not come back. My old master Robinson was captured, and though he gave up his arms readily, I watched him shot like a dog."

They had turned south toward the river. A bunch of boys ran in the narrow lane, shouting and laughing as they kicked a ball along between them. Hart stopped before some houses, and gazed at them before looking down at Nell.

"This is where it stood," he said. "The Blackfriars, where I acted as a boy."

"What happened to it?" Nell asked.

"Pulled down to the ground by Cromwell's men," he said. "On a beautiful summer's day. I wept to see it, as I had not wept at all the horrors I saw in the war."

CHAPTER NINE.

NELL AND ROSE WERE LEAVING THE THEATER AFTER A PERFORMANCE when a familiar voice hailed them.

"Rose! Nelly!" Jane, their friend from Madam Ross's, bustled toward the stage door. "I hoped as how I'd catch you." Her straw blonde hair was disheveled, and her eyes were dark with worry.

"Jane! What's the trouble?" Rose asked.