A Pair of Merrie Ladies: Katherine Sedley & Nell Gwyn

Readers of The Countess and the King have been intrigued by the relationship between Katherine Sedley and actress Nell Gwyn, and have asked for more information about their friendship. I'm happy to oblige!

At first glance, the two seem to have little in common. Nell Gwyn (1650-1687), left, was born into extreme poverty. Raised by her mother in a brothel, she was saved from that fate by her beauty, her charm, and, most of all, her gift for being able to entertain others with her singing, dancing, and witty, bawdy banter. She was also lucky. The return of Charles II to the English throne in 1660 marked the end of Puritan rule. One of the first acts by Charles was to reopen the playhouses, and better still, permit women on the stage for the first time. The rowdy Restoration playhouse was the perfect place for Nell’s saucy exuberance, and she rose quickly from being an orange seller in the pit to a leading lady in comic roles. She was a favorite of audiences, and in 1667, when she first would have met Katherine, she was a seventeen-year-old superstar that had already been noticed by the king himself.

Katherine Sedley (1657-1717), right, was the daughter of baronet, poet, politician, and libertine Sir Charles Sedley (1639-1701.) Sir Charles was young, wealthy, and sufficiently connected at court that he regularly drank and played tennis with the king. But Sir Charles’s wife was mad, believing herself to be queen, and he soon sent her to live out her days in a foreign convent. This left Sir Charles as the only parent to their only child, and instead of having ten-year-old Katherine reared by relatives, he decided to include her in his life. This meant that Katherine stayed out late at playhouses and taverns, and that some of the town’s most disreputable, high-born gentlemen (known as the Merry Gang) became like indulgent uncles. In the company of her father’s friends, she learned to drink, swear, and gamble. Because she amused them, she was encouraged to speak freely, and outrageously. Whatever well-bred shyness she might have once possessed vanished, and unlike most young ladies her age, she came to enjoy being the center of attention for what she said.

She probably met Nell in a playhouse tiring room, for Sir Charles liked actresses, and kept at least one of Nell’s friends as a mistress. In turn Nell was mistress to one of Sir Charles’s closest friends, Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. Katherine certainly knew Nell by July of 1667, when Lord Buckhurst and Nell retreated to a house in Epsom for the summer. Sir Charles was a frequent visitor, and he often brought Katherine with him. Nell taught Katherine to dance the theatrical jigs that had made her famous, and amidst all the drunken partying and general excess that were the talk of Epsom –– another friend of Sir Charles, the infamous Earl of Rochester was a frequent guest as well –– it’s likely Katherine observed and learned a great deal more than just jigs. (I've included much of this summer at Epsom in my novel about Nell, The King's Favorite.)

Back in London, the baronet’s daughter and the actress continued to cross paths. Nell recognized a kindred spirit in the younger girl, and looked after her – if not exactly like a mother, then as an affectionate older sister. When Nell left Lord Buckhurst’s keeping for that of the king, becoming a royal mistress, Katherine took notice. Wives were banished to the country (or, like her mother, abroad), while mistresses stayed in town and had much more fun. Is it any wonder that when Sir Charles, belatedly worrying about his daughter’s future, began to speak of finding a husband for the teenaged Katherine, she wasn’t interested?

Instead Katherine became part of the royal court, first attending the palace with her father and later, as a maid of honor, in her own right. There she was again united with Nell. They must have been quite a pair to see: Katherine tall, dark, and angular, with snapping dark eyes that missed nothing, and tiny, doll-like Nell with her auburn curls. Together they must have struck fear in the hearts of all gentlemen who lacked the quickness to follow their wit, or worse, to deflect it. The two women were fast with jests, jibes, droll observations, and barbed insults, and because they were women, they often got away with saying things that might have landed a man in the Tower.  They also amused the King, and that, too, was a sure way to success at court. But women as clever as these two were a rarity, and being the only females connected to the Merry Band must have also strengthened their friendship.

Certainly Nell provided an example of the fun-loving royal mistress for Katherine, and neither one pretended to be better than they were. While Louise de Keroualle, another of Charles’s mistresses, clung to the French notion of a royal mistress as an honorable position of state, Nell and Katherine thought otherwise. When anti-Catholic sentiment makes a crowd stop Nell’s carriage, mistaking her for French Louise, Nell famously popped her head through the window and reassured the onlookers that they should be calm and let her pass, because she “was the Protestant whore.”

Katherine, too, believed in calling a spade a spade. It was James’s idea to make her a countess, not Katherine’s, and Katherine wickedly enjoyed reminding the reserved Mary of Orange (the Mary of William and Mary) that she had been Mary’s father’s whore. Shortly before Katherine’s death in 1717, she attended one of George I’s drawing rooms. Among those attending were two other former royal mistresses: Louise , and Elizabeth Villiers, mistress to William II. Cackling with delight, Katherine loudly announced their presence: “Who would have thought that we three old whores should meet here?”

Who, indeed?  By then the time of the Merry Gang were forever done, and no other English royal court would welcome two such outrageous ladies as Katherine and Nell. For better or worse, but certainly for quieter, the palace would never be the same.

Defusing a Difficult Situation with a Bit of Wit: Charles II & William Penn

Here in Pennsylvania where I live, William Penn (1644-1718) is a venerable figure. As the founder of the state, he is usually portrayed as a Quaker elder, wise, peace-loving, considerate, and just: everything a leader should be.

But that all came later, after 1682 and after he received the sizable grant of land that he would help colonize. The younger William Penn was the despair of his father, a career naval officer and administrator. To Admiral Penn, William was a rebellious idealist who stubbornly refused to take advantage of the family's connections at the court of the newly-crowned Charles II. Instead William chose to follow his own course, including becoming a member of the Society of Friends. The Friends – Quakers to the rest of the world – held many beliefs that infuriated the Admiral; most disturbing was the Friend's insistence that God had created all men equal, and that the concept of absolute monarchy (that kings had been determined directly by God) was rubbish. Friends did not curtsy or bow or remove their hats before their betters, because no one was better than anyone else. This was not only heresy to Anglican Englishmen like the Admiral, but also came perilously close to treason. Yet William was determined in his new faith, and refused to be shaken from it, eventually becoming one of its leaders.

Charles II, the king that William refused to acknowledge, was not a monarch who enjoyed public displays of conflict. Unlike many other rulers, Charles never indulged in petty tyranny or intemperate rages simply because he was king and everybody else wasn't. He saved his anger for important battles (like those with Parliament), and instead led his day-to-day life with mild and gentlemanly manners.

All of which makes the following, often-repeated story more fascinating. It may be apocryphal, but it rings so true to the characters of the two men that there must surely be more than a kernel of truth to it. This version comes by way of Royal Charles by Antonia Fraser.

One day Charles entered a crowded chamber in Whitehall Palace. As was the custom, every lady curtsied and every gentleman bowed and removed his hat. Except for one: William Penn, the Admiral's embarrassing Quaker son. Determined to make his point for his faith, William remained upstanding, his hat firmly on his head.

Charles stopped before him, pointedly taking note of what could be considered treasonous defiance, and could, too, be rewarded with quick trip to the Tower.

Then the king slowly removed his own hat.  This was not what anyone expected, including William himself.

"Friend Charles," William said, with even more daring. "Why dost thou not keep on thy hat?"

Unperturbed, the king answered. "Because it is the custom of this place that only one man should remain uncovered at a time."

Crisis averted!

Above: William Penn, copy of a portrait by Sir Peter Lely

Below: Charles II, by James Wright

Interview at "Versailles & More"

My fellow historical novelist Catherine Delors has interviewed me for her splendid blog, Versailles & More. Most of her questions were about Louise de Keroualle (shown left, in an opulent portrait by Mignard) and "The French Mistress", and there's always more to say about Louise and her place in Charles II's Court!

Browse around Catherine's blog while you're there, especially if you're a Francophile. She has many fascinating articles and images, and even a few videos, too.

Happy Birthday, Your Majesty!

May 29th is not only the 350th anniversary of the return of King Charles II (1630-1685) to London after his lengthy exile, but also his 380th birthday. I've written five historical novels in which Charles has featured prominently, and after those 600,000 or so words between us, I do feel I owe him the very best wishes for the day.

But I'll leave it to writer and diarist John Evelyn(1620-1707), who witnessed Charles's return to London, to describe the day and the jubilant welcome the king received:

"This day, His Majesty, Charles II, came to London, after a sad and long exile and calamitous suffering both of the King and the Church, being seventeen years. This was also his birthday, and with a triumph of above 20,000 horse and foot, brandishing their swords, and shouting with inexpressible joy; the ways strewn with flowers, the bells ringing, the streets hung with tapestry, fountains running with wine; the Mayor, Aldermen, and all the companies, in their liveries, chains of gold, and banners; Lords and Nobles, clad in cloth of silver, gold, and velvet; the windows and balconies, all set with ladies; trumpets, music, and myriads of people flocking, even so far as from Rochester, so as they were seven hours in passing the city, even from two in the afternoon till nine at night.

"I stood in the Strand and beheld it, and blessed God. And all this was done without one drop of blood shed, and by that very army which rebelled against him: but it was the Lord's doing, for such a restoration was never mentioned in any history, ancient or modern, since the return of the Jews from their Babylonish captivity; nor so joyful a day and so bright ever seen in this nation, this happening when to expect or effect it was past all human policy....The eagerness of men, women, and children, to see His Majesty, and kiss his hand, was so great, that he had scarce leisure to eat for some days, coming as they did from all parts of the nation; and the King being as willing to give them satisfaction, would have none kept out, but gave free access to all sorts of people."

From the Diary of John Evelyn, which has recently (finally!) become available for on-line reading here.

King Charles II, the Duke of Richmond, & Frances Stewart

King Charles II (1630-1685), left, of England loved women, and women in turn loved him. From high-born peeresses to humble orange-girls, literally hundreds of women enjoyed the royal person during his lifetime. Only one lady of his court is known to have refused him: a beautiful nineteen-year-old Maid of Honor named Frances Stewart (1647-1702), lower right. Although Charles pursued her for months, Frances clearly had other interests. This is an excerpt from the Memoirs of Philibert, Comte de Gramont, one of the greatest gossips of the 17th century.

It was near midnight: the king met [Frances's] chambermaids [at her bedchamber door], who respectfully opposed his entrance, and, in a very low voice, whispered to His Majesty that Miss Stewart had been very ill; but that, having gone to bed, she was God be thanked, in a very fine sleep.

"That I must see," said the king, pushing her back...He found Miss Stewart in bed, indeed, but far from being asleep: the Duke of Richmond was seated at her pillow, and in all probability was less inclined to sleep than herself. The perplexity of the one party, and the rage of the other, were such as may easily be imagined upon such a surprise. The king, who, of all men was one of the most mild and gentle, testified his resentment to the Duke of Richmond in such terms as he had never before used. The duke was speechless, and almost petrified...Miss Stewart's window was very convenient for a sudden revenge, the Thames flowing close beneath it..and seeing the king more incensed...than he thought his nature capable of, [the duke] made a profound bow, and retired, without a single word to the vast torrent of threats and menaces that were poured upon him.

Miss Stewart, having a little recovered from her first surprise, instead of justifying herself...said everything that was most capable to inflame the king's...resentment; that, if she were not allowed to receive visits from a man of the Duke of Richmond's rank, who came with honourable intentions, she was a slave in a free country;...if this was not permitted her...she did not believe that there was any power on earth that could hinder her from going over to France, and throwing herself into a convent, to enjoy there that tranquillity which was denied her in this court. The king, sometimes furious with anger, sometimes relenting at her tears...nearly was induced to throw himself upon his knees, and entreat pardon for the injury he had done her...when instead she desired him to retire, and leave her in repose, at least for the remainder of that night....This impertinent request provoked and irritated the king to the highest degree: he went out abruptly, vowing never to see her more.

Ladies who refuse kings, let alone berate them in their bedchambers, seldom fare well in history. But Frances won. Soon after this night in 1667, she eloped with her duke, and the pair were married – much to the displeasure and disappointment of the King.

Above: Charles II, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, by James Michael Wright

Below: Frances Teresa Stewart, by Sir Peter Lely

The King with the Pearl Earring

Today pearls are among the most common of precious "jewels." But before the development of cultured pearls and farming in the early 20th c., all pearls were natural pearls. These rare treasures could be discovered only by accident and at considerable peril. Natural pearls had great mystique and luminous beauty as well as value, which made them favorites of queens – and kings.

One of the most famous pearls of the 17th c. belonged toKing Charles I of England (1600-1649) – the father of the King Charles who appears in my novels. While the origins of this single pearl earring are unknown, Charles is first shown wearing it in a miniature, left, as the fifteen-year-old Prince of Wales. The pearl soon became what fashion-folk today call a "statement piece", and one that he was seldom without.

Charles's large teardrop-shaped pearl – an especially rare and desired shape –was made into a single dangling earring with a tiny gold crown as the cap, topped with an orb and cross that was most fitting for a future king. Since Queen Elizabeth's reign, fashionable English gentlemen had worn single earrings as a sign of courtly swagger and bravado, qualitiesthat the young prince was woefully lacking: Charles was slight and short (only 5'3"), he limped from childhood rickets, he stammered, and he suffered from acute shyness. Perhaps the sizable jewel gave him the confidence that nature had not.

Whatever the reason, Charles wore the pearl for the rest of his life, and it appears in nearly every portrait of him, including one of him dressed casually for hunting, right. He developed into a style-conscious king who patronized the arts, and the single earring suited him in that capacity, too, as the romantic, cavalier king.

Unfortunately, while Charles was a very good patron to artists, architects, and composers, he proved to be a wretched king to his people, stubbornly unable to reconcile his subjects' desires and expectations with his own. After barely surviving two civil wars, he was captured by the Parliamentary forces led by General Oliver Cromwell and found guilty of high treason. He was executed on 30 January 1649, beheaded with a single stroke of the ax on a scaffold before Whitehall Palace. He was still wearing the pearl earring as he placed his neck on the executioner's block.

Later historians seem to have been determined to give the execution a lurid, gory hysteria that no contemporary witness reported, and describe a (fictitious) howling mob surging forward to tear the precious jewel from the bloody, severed royal head.

Well, no. Even with regicide, this was still Puritan England, not Jacobin France.

Instead Charles's earring was respectfully removed when his head was sewn back to his body in preparation for burial. The earring was then sent as a final memento to his oldest daughter,Mary, Princess Royal (1631-1660), as Charles had requested. After Mary's death, the earring eventually found its way to one of the late king's most loyal supporters, William Cavendish,1st Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne (1592-1672), who had also been entrusted with the education of Charles's son, the future King Charles II. Today the earring, bottom left, remains in the collection of the duke's home, Welbeck Abbey in Nottinghamshire, now owned by the Dukes of Portland.

Top left: Charles, Prince of Wales (later Charles I) by Issac Oliver; the Berger Collection,

Denver Art Museum.

Top right: detail, Charles I, King of England, at the Hunt by Anthony van Dyck; the Louvre

Lower left: detail, Charles I, King of England, from Three Angles, by Anthony van Dyck; Windsor Castle, Royal Collection

Bottom right: Earring of Charles I, Harley Gallery, Welbeck, Worksop, Nottinghamshire

Meet the Merrie Monarch

Tired of the Tudors? Had enough of Henry? Do I have another English king for you! Charles II (1630-1685)was a monarch so intriguing, so charming, and so historically hot that he doesn’t need Jonathan Rhys Meyers to boost his reputation.

Like all heirs to thrones, Charles II was welcomed into the world with fireworks and ringing church bells. He had an idyllic childhood, even for a royal prince: his father, Charles I, was an unusually devoted father, his mother adored him, and he’d six brothers and sisters to round out the close-knit family. There were trips to the menagerie at the Tower of London, portraits painted by Sir Anthony van Dyck (such as the one below), and junkets on the Thames on the gilded royal barge.

But while Charles I was an excellent father, he was a miserable king. Hopelessly out of touch with his people, he tried to force an absolute monarchy on an unwilling Parliament. A long and bitter Civil War began in 1642, ending eventually in the trial and beheading of Charles I in 1649. In his place, a conservative army general, Oliver Cromwell, was made Lord Protector to rule with Parliament.

The nineteen-year-old Charles barely escaped to the Continent. Though nominally now Charles II, he was a king without a throne or a country, and perhaps more importantly, without any money. His mother and his younger brothers and sisters were scattered about various royal courts, poor relations that wore out their welcome. Charles himself became a wandering pauper-king in exile, his circumstances so straitened that he wore darned stockings, gave away his beloved dogs, and could only afford to dine on meat once a week.

Back in England, life under the Puritans was equally grim. In an effort to “purify” the country of its excesses, almost everything that was fun was outlawed by Parliament. Maypoles were burned, music, dancing, and theater forbidden, bright-colored clothing became illegal, and holidays scratched from the calendar. Church-going was about all that was permitted, and the Puritans made sure there wasn’t a scrap of pleasure there, either, smashing centuries-old stained-glass windows and forbidding music.

But by the time of Cromwell’s death in 1659, the English had become thoroughly weary of their Puritan Parliament. In retrospect a king didn’t seem so bad at all, and Charles was invited back. His return to the English throne gave his reign its name –– the “Restoration” –– and he was greeted with wild rejoicing and celebrations.

Riding into London on a white horse on his thirtieth birthday in 1660, Charles dazzled his people like a modern Hollywood star. He was tall (6’2”), dark, and handsome, lean and athletic and full of boundless energy. He wasn’t fair-haired-English-handsome, but favored his Italian grandmother, Marie de’Medici, with heavy-lidded, dark eyes, a sensual mouth, and long, black, curling hair. He was intelligent and well-spoken with a dry wit, and his own sufferings made him peculiarly sympathetic to his people, with a genuine kindness rare in kings. He had an appealing air of melancholy; the king known to posterity as the “Merrie Monarch” was in fact not very merry by nature (who can blame him?), but he surrounded himself with outrageously amusing friends that ensured his court was THE place to be.

That wasn’t all. Unlike most vengeance-crazed monarchs, Charles generously pardoned everyone except the men who’d signed his father’s death warrant, resulting in a country-wide sigh of relief. He brought back music, dancing, flirting, Christmas, and Maypoles. He reopened the theatres, and for the first time in English history, permitted actresses on the stage. He loved pretty women, fast horses, and dogs of every description. After a decade of Puritan dreariness, once again everyone began to dress to impress, and big-time partying was back in fashion. Was it any wonder that Charles was instantly, wildly popular?

And why not? While his cousin across the Channel, Louis XIV of France, kept himself aloof and distant in his grand palace at Versailles, Charles was always in the thick of things. He appreciated London all the more for having been exiled from it, and with a freedom that would horrify Secret Service agents today, he enjoyed the city like any other Londoner, and was infinitely accessible, even to his most humble people.

Every morning he rose early and walked briskly through St. James’s Park with his dogs (the King Charles spaniels so popular now are named after him) and any one who could keep pace with his long legs. He attended the theater as often as he could, cheering and jeering and buying over-priced fruit from the orange girls along with everyone else. He fed the ducks and swans in the park. He regularly swam naked in the Thames, even in the winter, and didn’t care who watched.

As one of his friends and part-time poet John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (yes, the same Rochester played by Johnny Depp in the movie Libertine) noted with approval: “Nor are [the king’s] high desires above his strength/His scepter and his p**** are of a length.”

When London was devastated by the Great Fire in 1666, Charles didn’t simply do the 17th century version of a fly-over to survey the damage: he joined the bucket brigades, fighting the fires himself. His intellectual curiosity led him to keep a scientific “closet” in the palace for puttering about with chemicals and curiosities like two-headed snakes. An excellent horseman, he would ride in races with the professional jockeys at Newmarket, and often win from his skill and daring, not because he was the king. Afterwards he would drink with the jockeys and grooms, enjoying being a regular guy. Following a formal court reception, he’d shed the silk and ermine, change into plain clothes, and go carousing in low-rent rum shops and brothels with friends, often not coming home to the palace until nearly dawn.

Ah, the brothels. For while Charles didn’t swear, smoke, or drink or eat to excess (unlike Henry VIII, he remained flat-bellied and athletic until his death), he did have one enormous vice: he loved, loved, loved women, and women loved him. Though he often made fun of his own appearance, he was by all reports incredibly attractive to the opposite sex. From high-born ladies to lowly milkmaids, women of every rank found him pretty near irresistible. It wasn’t just that he was king, either, or a matter of royal conquest by that good-sized scepter. Charles genuinely liked women, particularly clever, amusing women who could entertain them with their wit as well as in his bed, and they clearly returned the favor many times over. Many, many, many times.

No one knows the exact number of women Charles had sex with in his lifetime. It was not uncommon for him to call upon one mistress in the afternoon, visit his queen’s bed in the evening, frolic with another mistress after that, and then wind up the night at a brothel. The man famously required almost no sleep. In addition to his wife and queen, Catherine of Braganza, he kept three main mistresses over the course of his reign: Barbara Villiers Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland (she's there to the right), a hot-tempered, passionate lady that he’d first met in exile; Nell Gwyn, a common-born actress who entertained him with her impertinent wit; and Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth (to the left), a luscious French-born virgin sent as a gift (and a spy) to Charles by his cousin Louis XIV. These were the women rewarded with titles, houses, estates, incomes, and jewels, and political power. There were far more who only received the pleasure of the royal person, and perhaps a coin or two besides.

Unlike Henry VIII, Charles never sent any of his lovers to the chopping-block. Instead he managed the rare trick of remaining friends with his mistresses even after they’d ceased their mistress-ly obligations, and all of them evidently stayed in love with him. (Both Nell Gwyn and Louise de Keroualle remained faithful to his memory, for neither took another lover after his death –– though Louise outlived him by 50 years.) Even his homely little queen loved Charles dearly despite his raging infidelities, and though he was repeatedly urged to set her aside when she proved barren (shades of Henry!) he refused to shame her with a royal divorce.

The greatest irony of Charles’s reign is that while he sired fourteen natural children (!) that he acknowledged with titles, his queen never bore him a legitimate son and heir. While most of the noble families of Britain today can count Charles as an ancestor (Diana, Princess of Wales, Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, and Sarah, Duchess of York are only a few of his descendents) at his death in 1684, Charles’s crown passed to his incompetent brother James, and the Glorious Revolution of 1688 followed soon after.

Of course Charles wasn’t perfect. He was often at odds with his Parliaments. His relative poverty as a king led him accept secret subsidies from the French, and his attempts at wars on the Continent were costly and unproductive. His Roman Catholic leanings were worrisome for the nominal head of the Anglican Church. His constant need for activity and his wandering inattention to detail would today probably be diagnosed as some form of ADD; his contemporaries simply called him lazy. Later historians, particularly the Victorians, were so repulsed by his promiscuity that they overlook his other qualities, and wrote instead of him “lolling idle” on his throne.

But to the people he ruled, Charles was their much-loved and very human king, and at his death the country was plunged into grief-stricken despair. If there had been political approval ratings in the 17th century, Charles’s would have been off the charts. He unified a country torn by civil war, restored its economy, and placed England firmly on the world stage. What’s a mistress or two compared to that?

Louise & Amber: One Portrait, Two Covers

Any reader with a sharp eye has noticed how often the same paintings or portraits appear on the covers of historical fiction. Since many of the most popular pictures are also personal favorites of mine (the wide-eyed young Emma, Lady Hamilton, as painted by George Romney in the late 18th century, has appeared on as many covers as a modern-day supermodel), I don’t really object –– though with so much beautiful art in the world, duplicating does seem unnecessary, if not out-and-out lazy.

But sometimes these duplications seem almost fitting. The painting on the cover of my next historical novel, The French Mistress, features a portrait of the real-life heroine, Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth (1649-1734.) Painted around 1673 by King Charles II’s official court portraitist, Sir Peter Lely, the picture is captures Louise at her most lusciously seductive. Louise sat for her portrait many, many times during her long life, and for many different painters, but I like this one the best, and I’m grateful that the art director at NAL/Penguin Books chose it for my cover.

They, however, were not the first art directors to chose Louise’s portrait for a cover. When Kathleen Winsor’s scandalous 1944 novel of Restoration England Forever Amber was reissued in 2000 by the Chicago Review Press in a handsome new edition, this same portrait of Louise graced the cover as a stand-in for the fictional Amber St. Clare.

While the real Louise would most likely have been horrified to be connected in any way to the notorious Amber (for although Louise was a royal mistress, she was first a high-born lady of a noble French family), I wasn’t. My first introduction to Restoration England –– 1660-1682 –– came by way of Amber’s lusty adventures. One long-ago summer in my early teens, I discovered a well-thumbed copy of Forever Amber in my local library, and the rest, as they say, is history, albeit history filtered through Amber’s breathlessly thrilling adventures and amours. I was completely hooked. While I've since moved on to reading original sources like Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, I'll always be indebted to Kathleen Winsor for that first introduction to a fascinating era.

It’s been a long time since I devoured Forever Amber, but it remains one of those books I’ve always remembered, and one that still holds the original spell it cast on my adolescent imagination. I’m both delighted and honored now to share cover art with Ms. Winsor. I also invite all those readers who, over the years, have enjoyed Forever Amber to try my own interpretation of the bawdy royal court of King Charles II and his mistresses: Royal Harlot : A Novel of the Countess of Castlemaine & King Charles II; The King’s Favorite: A Novel of Nell Gwyn & King Charles II; and, to be released on July 7, The French Mistress: A Novel of the Duchess of Portsmouth & King Charles II.

Picturing Nell Gwyn

Once upon a time, before every last second of every other person’s life wasdocumented by way of a digital camera or cell-phone (at least every other person beneath a Certain Age), images were special. Before photography and daguerreotypes became widespread in the early 19th century, the overwhelming majority of people lived their entire lives without any sort of visual documentation. No photo-smiles, retouching, good sides or bad. One’s image was based entirely on the here and now, or memory.

Portraits belonged to the rich, the famous, and the infamous. Portraits were expensive, and the formal ones could take months, even years, to complete. Portraits celebrated beauty, rank, wealth, achievement, nobility, or notoriety, and did so for all posterity. Portraits could be viewed and venerated as stand-ins for the actual person, whether the king in a distant colonial outpost or a deceased dowager duchess respectfully added to the other ancestors in the family gallery.

Portraits also grace the covers of my historical novels. I’ve been phenomenally fortunate in my covers, which have each featured an actual portrait of my heroine. In the past, I’ve blogged about the portraits on the covers of Duchess and Royal Harlot, so it seems only fair that I write as well about the portrait of Nell Gwyn on the cover of my current novel, The King’s Favorite.

Those two earlier heroines –– Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, and Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland –– were both seventeenth century Ladies with a capital L, and as such they had their choice of the very best and most fashionable artists. They were painted grandly, lushly, extravagantly, with the trappings of their titles and wealth around them. (That's Sarah with her family to the right, and even the younger son is looking flawlessly aristocratic.)

Nell Gwyn was different. Nell was Common. True, she was a celebrity in an era that was just beginning to realize the concept, an immensely popular actress before she became a royal mistress. With her curly auburn hair, she wasn’t considered classically beautiful so much as charmingly pretty (what we’d now call “cute”), and her diminutive size (best modern guesses peg her at about 4’10”) made her an unlikely model for a goddess. She was gleefully unapologetic of her humble beginnings, and only affected grand airs to twit her betters.

But like many people who rise from poverty, Nell was acutely aware of the symbols of success. Although she could scarcely write her name, she made sure that all the silverware (and even many of the window panes) in her townhouse carried her monogram. Nell understood the importance of portraits. She wanted her beauty and success to be honored and preserved for future generations, but more importantly she wanted the notoriously unfaithful Charles to remember her now.

Nell sat for her portrait numerous times during her short life. She didn’t always have the most skilled painters (see the awkward effort to the right by Simon Verelst), and because of her background, she was often shown with one or both breasts bared. Her tiny stature makes her near-nude pose as Venus for Sir Peter Lely seem a little odd to modern eyes (and that's not to mention that weird vertical-futon-thingee she's lounging against), but Charles loved the picture so well that Nell had a copy of it painted for him to hang in his private quarters in the palace. The artists loved painting her as well; because of her great popularity, they could count on selling prints engraved after the original portrait.

The portrait of Nell by Sir Peter Lely on the cover of The King’s Favorite was painted and copied several times, too, and it’s unlikely that this version was the original. My cover is even further removed. For design purposes, my publisher asked for permission from the owners to reverse the painting, and to change the color of the gown from yellow to a more eye-catching red.

There’s another reason for the color change, too, the kind of weird coincidence that delights art historians. If you look back at the cover of Royal Harlot, you’ll see that Barbara is wearing the same yellow gown/blue cloak combination. And I mean the SAME gown and cloak. Because 17th century artists kept “costumes” (long swaths of rich fabric that could be pinned and clasped into a variety of vaguely classical styles) for posing in their studios, it’s very likely that both women are wearing the exact same length of yellow cloth pulled from Sir Peter’s wardrobe –– and I also imagine that Nell might have done so intentionally to irritate Barbara.

But in this painting meant as a gift for Charles, only Nell would have chosen to be painted in such a rural setting. She was Charles’s country mistress, his favorite companion on escapes from the London Court to Windsor Castle. She taught him to fish, and he tried to teach her to ride, and together they swam in the river and strolled through the fields and forests, and it’s likely she wished to remind the king of these balmy, happy days in her company. Her throat and ears bare of jewels and her hair carelessly tousled, she drapes a wreath of wildflowers around the neck of an adoring lamb who may (or may not) represent a besotted, tamed Charles himself.

What did Charles think? Ahh, for that you’ll just have to read The King’s Favorite, and find out for yourself.

Whither Bagnigge Wells

Writing novels set in the past presents its own special challenges. One of the hardest parts is determining exactly how much history you want or need to support your story, and then how much of your “writing time” to invest in research to support that history. Of course this varies from writer to writer, and from book to book, with results that vary from the most mundane “wallpaper history”, set in the indeterminate past where everyone has big houses and wears silk, to more thoughtful books with enough factual background to please a good university press.

I’m a self-proclaimed history nerd. I love history, and I love research, and I’m perfectly happy to wallow in original sources all the day long. This is much of the reason that I’ve shifted my writing from historical romance to historical fiction, where the characters are almost entirely based on historical figures and the plot is driven by fact. For me, that’s more-better-funner writing, about as good as a job can get. But all that lovely research can also become as sticky as the LaBrea Tar Pits, and suck up my time like so many wallowing mastodons.

Which is exactly what happened to me with Bagnigge Wells.

I know this sounds like I’m writing a Nancy Drew mystery (The Secret of the Bagnigge Wells). Actually, my WIP is a historical novel based on the life and times of 17th century actress and royal mistress Nell Gwyn (The King’s Favorite: A Novel of Nell Gwyn & King Charles II). Most of the book takes place in London, and a well-documented 17th century London at that, thanks to the writings of diarists Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, and a surprisingly large number of other surviving letters and journals.

There are many writers fortunate enough to be able to travel to the places their books are set, and be able to walk literally in the characters’ footsteps. Alas, I’m not one of them; I have two college-age children, and that puts a damper on research junkets to England. And, as I’ve also realized, many of the places I’d want to see no longer exist. Not only did the Great Fire of 1666 destroy much of Nell’s London, but another fire, later in the 17th century, claimed most of Charles’s Whitehall Palace, too. What remained of Restoration London has since been absorbed, knocked down, remodeled, bombed, renewed, and rebuilt by successive generations. I've no choice but to rely on the descriptions of others to create my interpretation of the past.

But back to Bagnigge Wells. In book after book about Nell, there are references made to her “summer house” on the Fleet, a bucolic retreat where she and Charles often went to swim, fish, and generally make mischief away from the court. I liked this, and I worked it into the story as the book evolved. I wrote along with some of those big **** in the middle of the scene, astrisks that mean Notes to Self, and are my way of saying, “come back here and put in more when you’ve researched it.”

So with my scene more or less written, I went back to fill in the blanks regarding Bagnigge Wells. Hah. To begin with, I found no mention of the place in my standard 17th diaries, journals, or references books. I figured it had to be within a day’s journey by water of the palace, but I couldn’t find it anywhere on any map, old or new. In fact, to my chagrin, I realized that the earliest mention of the place in connection with Nell was in a book published in 1878 (Old and New London by Walter Thornbury), which had been repeated as gospel in every successive book about Nell. Here’s the passage, in all its high Victorian splendor:

“Bagnigge Wells House was originally the summer residence of Nell Gwyn. Here, upon the Fleet and amid green fields, she entertained Charles and his saturnine brother with concerts and merry breakfasts, in the careless Bohemian way in which that noble specimen of divine right delighted.”

I probably should have tossed the whole scene then and there. Relying on the word of a historian writing more than two centuries after the fact isn’t generally a good idea. But the summer house on the Fleet was certainly plausible, and entirely probable, and besides, I liked the scene, and I didn’t want to give it up. It worked. And I just liked the word "Bagnigge", however it may be pronounced (anyone know for certain?)

And so back I went a-hunting.

What did I learn? That the reason I couldn’t find Bagnigge Wells on any map is that it no longer exists. For that matter, neither does the Fleet. The River Fleet was once one of the major rivers of London, running from its origins on Hampstead Heath, through Kings Cross and Clerkenwell, until it finally emptied into the Thames near Blackfriars.

Bagnigge Wells was located on the Fleet near St. Pancras. The site of two wells known for their healing properties, it may also have been the location of an earlier, abandoned religious order. In Nell’s time, the area was still surrounded by open fields, with only a single public-house (The Pindar of Wakefield) as a landmark, and the river was clear and clean, yet easily traveled back into the heart of London. It was also considered a place with strong royalist tendencies, filled with Charles’s supporters. In other words, the perfect place to escape the 17th century version of the paparazzi.

But as for those “telling details” that writers so cherish: nothing. Not a peep. Everything dealt with Bagnigge Wells in the 18th century, when the healing wells were developed, and the spot became fashionable with the “middling sort”, who came to take the waters, flirt, and play skittles. (To the left is a genre print of "The Bread and Buttery at Bagnigge") But by the early 19th century, the Wells were described as a ruin, with urban sprawl relentlessly approaching. Only the old Pindar had managed to continue the connection with Nell, with a chimney piece that featured the royal arms and a portrait-bust labeled “Eleanor Gwynne, a favorite of Charles II.)

The once-sparkling Fleet had become little better than an open sewer, and by the end of the 18th century, was completely arched over and built upon. The springs, too, vanished, and all that remains today are two streets in the area: Gwynne Place and Wells Street. (For more information, check out The River of Wells.)

I figure I spent the better part of a morning to learn all of this cool stuff, none of which was really of any use to me. In other words, if I wanted to put Nell and Charles at Bagnigge, I’d have to do so without specifics, and to rely more on my imagination than any hard fact. So this, then, is the sum of how Bagnigge Wells is described:

“I vow you can’t catch me, sir,” I taunted, raising my head from the river’s surface only enough so my lips would clear it. “Hey, ho, can’t catch me!”
I gulped as big a breath as I could and plunged deep into the water, swimming low so Charles wouldn’t spy me. Finally my lungs were burning and I could keep under no longer, and I popped up with a splatter, gasping. Swiftly I looked about me for Charles, shoving aside my tangled hair that clung to my face and breasts like duckweed.
All around me was still: the green riverbed, the willows trailing their feathery branches into the water, the few ducks already nesting for the night in the tall grass, their heads tucked demurely beneath their wings. The days were shorter now, making the sky that velvety blue that comes before true dusk, with stars just beginning to spark. The evening mist floated low over the fields beyond the river, softening the horizon. I could hear the first nightingale’s song over the rush of the water, and louder still the racing of my own heart. Our clothes lay where we’d left them on the grass, untidy piles of pale linen, and on top of Charles’s lay two of his piebald spaniels, curled contentedly, I suppose, in his scent. Not far beyond lay the shadowy shape of the house I’d hired for our use for the summer. . . .

That’s it. Was a morning of research to prove I’d have no hard facts worth that paragraph? Was this time I could ever justify well spent to my editor (if I ever had to do so, which, fortunately, writers seldom are called to do)? Or was that morning among my research books more a general refilling of my writerly imagination, whether it generated anything immediately useful? Could it just be chalked up to…fun?

Whether this works (or whither the Wells) remains to be seen, at least until next summer, when The King’s Favorite will be released. But here’s a question for now: do you think you can tell when a writer has enjoyed writing a book? Can you sense if the book was a joy, or a trial? Have you ever read books that in some intangible way felt as if the writer had written under pressure (health, family, financial, or simply an idea that had ceased to be magical), or one that felt so right that the words must have flown from the keyboard?

Hello, Harlot!

My second historical novel, Royal Harlot, follows the life and career of Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine, Duchess of Cleveland (1641-1709), and the most famous/infamous mistress of English King Charles II (1630-85.) and one of the most independent women in history.

Born to a noble family, Barbara Villiers took her first lover at 15, married at 18, and became Charles’s lover the following year. Following his Restoration to the throne, she was the unofficial queen of his bawdy, fun-loving court for nearly a decade, amassing enormous power and wealth along the way. She was feared for her political influence, acclaimed for her beauty, audacity, and wit, and damned from pulpits for her legendary amorality. Despite her long attachment to Charles, neither of them could stay faithful to the other, and like him, Barbara had scores of lovers, from rope-dancers to actors to high-born lords. She was a lousy wife, but an excellent friend and mother, devoted to her six illegitimate children (all of whom survived to adulthood, a rare achievement indeed.) After their own fashion, I think Charles did love her dearly, and she him: their version of a love story, a friendship, an alliance. They really were two of a kind. But Barbara did what she pleased, with whomever pleased her, and she didn’t give a fig for what anyone else thought.

To judge from contemporary diaries, it seems that at least half the men in 17th century London were fantasizing about her at any given time. And from the way she and Charles took over my writing-life for nearly a year, I’d have to say her power to fascinate is still strong after three hundred years.

As delighted as Barbara would be today to see her story in so many bookstores, I’m sure she would be horrified by her cropped, faceless portrait on the cover. I’ve mentioned here before that while my publisher wanted to use a real portrait of her, they felt that her much-vaunted beauty wouldn’t hold much appeal to modern readers. Tastes change. What was hot in 1660 ain’t necessarily so now, and today Barbara’s much-praised “languid eyes” look more drugged than seductive.

Yet Barbara understood the power of image in a thoroughly modern way. She knew her power lay in her extraordinary beauty, and she knew, too, that the more people who could see her and therefore appreciate that beauty, the more power in turn she’d have as a public figure.

Early in her relationship with Charles, she sat for artist Sir Peter Lely. He adored her beauty, and painted her repeatedly, becoming so bewitched by her that other sitters complained he’d given them Barbara’s eyes. In addition to seeing his portraits of Barbara hung in Palace, Sir Peter also commissioned and sold inexpensive prints of the portraits. Soon Barbara’s face became as ubiquitous as Paris Hilton’s is to us, with prints hanging in taverns and barracks all over England, as well as in the parlors of people who wished to be fashionable.

But Barbara’s portraits weren’t simply pretty pictures. Seventeenth-century portraits often showed their sitters in allegorical poses, as goddesses or Biblical figures, and Barbara, knowing how Charles delighted in clever jests, took care to have Sir Peter pack her portraits with all sorts of hidden meanings. For her first major portrait in 1661, she posed as the repentant prostitute and saint Mary Magdalene, in the wilderness with her long hair unbound (and a revealing, silver silk-satin dressing gown clasped with jewel brooches, but what else does one wear, really, for repenting in the wilderness?)

Barbara, of course, was neither saintly nor penitent, which her contemporaries would have understood at once. Yet they also would have understood the other, more subtle, implications of the painting –– that if Barbara were the Magdalene, then Charles, as the leader of the English Protestant Church, could also be likened to Jesus Christ –– that seem unsettlingly irreligious today.

But Barbara went further. In 1665, she had Sir Peter paint her without jewels, in the modest blue and red robes of the Virgin Mary. (Here's the link to see it.) In her arms is the baby Charles Fitzroy, later Duke of Cleveland, her first illegitimate son with the king. She is also visibly pregnant. As lovely a painting as this is, it managed to be simultaneously blasphemous and yet flattering to Charles (who liked it very much), while also presenting Barbara and her son as part of the Stuart royal dynasty. Charles was increasingly sensitive to the fact that his wife had yet to give him a much-needed heir, and he was reassured by this visible proof of his own potent virility. At the same time, the picture was a calculated jab at Charles’s Catholic queen. Catherine of Braganza, showing Barbara as the fertile (very fertile) Protestant Madonna, and a more suitable consort to an English king. (For more about this painting, read the article on the site of the National Portrait Gallery.)

The 1667 portrait on the cover of Royal Harlot is another calculated allegory, designed to make everyone talk. This time Barbara appropriates the queen’s own patron saint, posing as St. Catherine of Alexandria with the saint’s palm-front and the wheel of her martyrdom. Her hand on the suggestive (!!) sword’s hilt represented her readiness to fight for her place at the king’s side, even to the point of usurping the queen. Wearing decidedly unsaintly jewels (gifts from the king, natch), her voluptuous uncorseted body flaunts her obvious attractions (and the fact that she is again pregnant) in the face of the sallow little queen.

Barbara’s sly half-smile has a certain “what, can’t you take a joke?” feel to it that somehow makes the picture even more wicked. Did Charles see the joke, too, or had Barbara finally gone too far? Ah, you’ll have to read Royal Harlot, and find out for yourself…

Read the prologue for Royal Harlot, and learn how Barbara and Charles first meet.

Beauty & the Barbara

Since I’ve begun writing historical fiction, I’ve crossed over into a writing-world where nearly ALL the characters are based on real people. I won’t go into every one of the challenges of that kind of research in this blog; I’ll save that for another day. But to my surprise, one of the unexpected ones was having the appearances –– the “beauty”, as it were –– of those characters already determined for you by their portraits. And that beauty doesn’t always agree with contemporary conventions.

Just as most modern-day professional beauties –– fashion models and Hollywood actresses –– would have found little favor in a past that favored the more lushly appointed, it can be hard to look at three-hundred-year-old portraits with modern eyes and see the same thing. My next book, ROYAL HARLOT, is a fictionalized biography of Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine and Duchess of Cleveland. She was the most prominent mistress of King Charles II, and one of the baddest bad-girls in English history, which makes for a most entertaining heroine, if not perhaps the best girlfriend you’d call in a pinch. Barbara was universally regarded by her contemporaries as the most beautiful woman in 17th century England. Crowds would gather wherever she went, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Every head would turn when she entered her box at the theatre, and even happily-wed diarist Samuel Pepys made a point of walking by her house on laundry-day, just so he could see her lace-trimmed smocks hung out to dry and fantasize like mad.

Like most famous beauties of the past, Barbara was painted repeatedly, and her portraits by Sir Peter Lily are among the most enduring “images” of the Restoration. But her beauty hasn’t traveled well through the centuries. Sure, Alexander Pope wrote “Lely on animated Canvas stole/the sleepy Eye that spoke the melting soul”, but today those bedroom-eyes look, well, kind of burned-out and druggy, and the double-chins that were so celebrated among Restoration beauties seem matronly –– especially considering that most of these paintings were done before Barbara’s thirtieth birthday.

As a history-nerd, this didn’t bother me. I am up to the challenge. But the marketing folks at my publisher were scared to death, and as a result you won’t find Barbara’s face on the cover when the book hits stores on July 3. Instead we’ll be counting on readers to supply their own mental image of what the most beautiful woman in England looked like –– even if it’s not close to the 17th century truth.

Lady Day & Other Lost Holidays

Holidays have taken it hard in the last decade or so. Used to be, a glimpse at the windows of any elementary school could tell you the season: construction paper ghosts and witches meant Halloween, angels and Santas heralded Christmas, red hearts promised Valentine’s Day, and the eggs and bunnies appeared for Easter.

But political correction has taken its toll. Witches and ghosts are banned as promoting satanic sympathies, Christmas angels and Easter bunnies are too Christian to be tolerated, and Valentine’s Day is banned for raising the ugly possibility that some people really are loved more than others. Nativity scenes are banned from public places, and in the spirit of equal (negative) time, so are the giant menorahs. According to my friends with children in New York City schools, the students are so culturally diverse these days that the school system’s given up trying to sort out Christmas, Hanukah, and Kwanza, and the only mandated celebration now is Winter Solstice.

Secular holidays haven’t fared much better. We used to celebrate the birthdays of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln; now they’re jumbled today in a single three-day weekend marked by ski trips and lots of sales at the mall. In many offices, Martin Luther King Day falls under the “day of personal observation”, an employee’s choice. Even the Fourth of July is under attack, with many lobbying for making it a permanent long weekend regardless of whether it’s the second, third, or fifth of July.

Writing books set in the past means that your characters celebrate holidays often now long forgotten. As we’ve mentioned here before, Twelfth Night was a more festive celebration in 17th and 18th century England than Christmas. Most holidays still remained close to their religious beginnings as holy days.

In my July book, Royal Harlot, King Charles II and his Court enjoy a grand masque celebrating the February holiday of Candlemas in 1665. Ostensibly a Christian holy day, Candlemas marks the purification of the Virgin Mary and the first presentation of the infant Jesus Christ to the elders in the Temple. But in the way that those in power today can never resist turning almost anything into a good photo op, so Charles had decreed that the allegorical theme of the Candlemas Day masque would show how the various enemies of England should be righteously vanquished –– thinly disguised propaganda to build support for Charles to wage war on the Dutch.

Just as the king used the Candlemas masque for propaganda, his mistress (and my heroine) Barbara, Countes of Castlemaine, saw it as an opportunity to flaunt her own position. Seventeenth century court masques were a mixture of lavish display, music, and amateur theatrics that permitted the courtier to show off their “talents” and wear nifty costumes. Playing the part of Venus urging Mars to war, Lady Castlemaine’s costume included scandalously short men’s breeches (the Restoration version of Daisy Dukes) to display her long legs, and nearly every jewel the king had given her. The king was enchanted, the queen was put out, war was declared on the Dutch soon after, and what any of this had to do with the infant Jesus and the elders in the Temple is pretty hard to fathom.

Which brings me, finally, to Lady Day. Lady Day is another Christian holiday turned secular. Originally the Feast of the Annunciation on March 25, Lady Day was intended to honor the Virgin Mary –– the Lady. In Britain, it also became one of the Quarter Days (the other four are Midsummer Day, Michaelmas Day, and, of course, Christmas Day) when new servants were hired and rents and rates were paid.

Until 1752, when England shifted from the Julian Calendar to the Georgian, Lady Day also marked the start of the “official” year, rather like the modern American business year begins on July 1. According to the folks at Wikipedia, a vestige of the traditional rent-paying on Lady Day still lingers in the United Kingdom, where tax day is April 6 –– Lady Day adjusted for the days lost in the calendar change in 1752.
More on Lady Day