Plague

by C. C. Humphreys

  “Look!” cried Lucy Absolute, directing Sarah’s gaze to the opposite side of the stage. “Sir Charles Sedley is trying again to pass Mrs. Sanderson something. What could it be? Coin?”

  “Nay, Lucy. Mary’s never been bought for mere silver.”

  “You’re right. ’Tis paper. An assignation, do you think? Or the deed to some property? The king’s been after her for all of a week now and we know Sedley is his pander. If Charles’s image in silver won’t open her knees, some of his land in Buckinghamshire might. Look how Old Rowley watches! His chin is so upon his chest he could catch flies in his mouth.”

  Both turned to regard the king—easy to do, since he dwarfed most of his companions. He was different from them in other ways as well. He wore a thin black moustache, unlike the shaven faces about him. His black wig was thick and richly curled, flowing over his shoulders, a neat contrast to the pearl white of his doublet.

  “And can you believe he looks so hungrily when two of his mistresses—two!—are here present and circling like masked hawks?”

  They swiftly spotted the vizards. Their masks might indeed conceal their faces, but gossip and their sumptuous gowns revealed them. Lady Castlemaine was one. It was said she had borne the king five children already. The other, by her full and shapely figure could be no other than Winifred Wells. She’d had at least one babe by him.

  Lucy let out her famously coarse laugh and Sarah joined her. Then both sighed. Two hundred pounds per annum was a lot of money in exchange for a few regal caresses. Besides, bear him a child and a woman would be made for life. Charles was renowned as much for his paternal love as for his roving eye.

  “Nay, look, Lucy, she’s thrust the paper back. I tell you, Mary Sanderson will take no comers. She’s only ever had eyes for our leader Thomas.”

  “What? Do you think that the title ‘Mrs. Betterton’ will keep the lusty monarch’s hands off her? Thomas may be the prince of players, but in the end he is merely an actor.”

  “My John’s an actor.”

  “Aye, but your John was also a soldier. Look at the size of his fists. All know he’s killed with ’em. His reputation keeps you safe.”

  Sarah looked into the pit. John was there, a circle of friends and admirers before him. He was telling some ribald story, throwing his arms wide. Men laughed. “Maybe he keeps me too safe. Sometimes I think it costs me.”

  “How so?”

  “Does our trade not require us to offer something on account, even if we do not pay, uh, the full reckoning? Perhaps my roles would improve if I was allowed a little more freedom.”

  “Kate Covey’s roles have certainly improved since she let our manager Davenant place his ancient prick inside her. But did you hear her tonight? Like an owl, screeched the entire role, she did. It should have been your part.”

  Sarah smiled and studied her young companion. Lucy truly was a delight, the newest member of the company, whom Sarah had taken under her wing as soon as the girl had arrived. There was a freshness to her, the country glow still on her cheeks, a touch of Cornwall still in her voice. It made Sarah as protective as a mother swan. In her years with the Duke’s Company she had seen others arrive with just this brightness, only to have it snuffed out. She was determined not to let it happen to Lucy. Yet she had not entirely succeeded in sheltering her. Lust could oft be deflected, but love was trickier to ward against—as the light suddenly coming into Lucy’s gaze now proved.

  “He’s here,” she said, her voice as charged as her eyes.

  Sarah turned and saw the bringer of the light, the newcomer making straight for the king’s party. He was younger even than Lucy was, and bounced across the stage with all youth’s energy. No wig for him: his light-brown locks fell in waves down his back. The crowd parted so that the monarch’s new favourite could be the more swiftly admitted to the royal bosom.

  “Johnnie!” came the delighted regal cry. “My Lord of Rochester. You missed the play.”

  “You would have me listen to another man’s words when I am brimful of my own?”

  “Recite, Johnnie,” commanded Charles. “Delight us.”

  “My words are too vulgar for the general ear … and thus perfect for Your Majesty. Draw close, all.”

  The men formed into a tight ball around the king and young earl. Yet the moment before he was quite sucked in, he glanced to where the actresses stood and winked at Lucy.

  Sarah saw her companion’s skin flush. “My dear—” she began.

  “Nay, do not counsel me, dear Sarah.” Lucy grabbed her hand. “Just be happy for me.”

  “I am happy for you now. It is for your future that I worry.”

  “Do not. My John will be as true as yours.”

  “But my John and I are married. Besides, we’ve known each other since we were children.” She squeezed the hand that held hers. “You have known my Lord of Rochester a bare three months.”

  “Five.” Lucy closed her eyes. “Four really, plus two weeks and two days, since he became enamoured of my role as Celia and presented me with violets picked himself, along with his first ode to me.” She opened her eyes. “You do not know how well he treats me when we are alone.”

  “It is when you are alone with him that worries me.” The girl tried to withdraw her hand, but Sarah held on. “I am afraid that as soon as he has his desire of you, he will be done with you. And then—”

  “Well, you are wrong,” Lucy interrupted, defiant. “Behold him still here. For me.”

  “You do not mean that you …?”

  “You see? You do not always know everything, Mrs. Chalker.”

  There was something behind the defiance now, something vulnerable. Suddenly Sarah knew for certain what she’d glimpsed and chosen not to fully notice till this moment. And it did not take a cunning woman to see it.

  “Child,” she whispered, “how long is it since you bled?”

  Lucy eyes flooded. “Four months,” she said, speaking over Sarah’s gasp. “But it does not matter,” she added. “My love will do the right thing by me.”

  “Lucy, he is an earl. He cannot marry you.”

  “I know that. Even though I am the granddaughter of a Cornish knight.” This last flash of boldness was there, then gone. “But,” she continued, “maybe I could be as … as one of these those vizards are to the king. I would not mind sharing the earl with a wife if he would be but kind to me and our child.”

  As the tears flowed, Sarah put an arm around her. “Have you told him?”

  “Nay. I did not know if the child would linger. After your loss.” She squeezed Sarah’s arm. “I thought I might tell him tonight.” She looked up. “Will you stay close, Sarah, when I do?”

  Sarah swallowed. Two months since she had lost the child she’d carried and still that void when she remembered it. She took a breath, squeezed back. “Do you doubt it?”

  The younger woman held her for a moment, then drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “He says he likes my tears. But only a certain kind, I fear.” She rose. “I must go and repair. Will you get word to him that I would see him below?”

  “I will attempt it.”

  “What would I do without you, Sarah?” Lucy sniffed, then stood, tucking her hands under her busk, pushing the piece of whalebone up until her breasts were prominent. Now that Sarah knew, she could see how they had altered. “Am I repaired enough for a swift exit?”

  “You are as lovely as ever, child.”

  Lucy was an actress and this was her stage. After picking up the glass she’d lately been sipping from, she swept across with a cry of “Nay! Here’s a brimmer then to her, and all the fleas about her!” She stopped mid stage, threw the contents down and then started, as if only that moment noticing the king’s party. They opened for her, revealing Rochester and His Majesty at their centre. “Sire,” she said, her voice husky. “Forgive me. I did not see you there.” She followed this with a curtsy that took her to the floor and her bosom into the fullest of views. She held th
e curtsy not a moment too long, and without even a glance at John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, she was gone.

  With all eyes upon the exit, Sarah was able to move discreetly closer. She had no idea how she would cut the earl from the pack, but she had promised to try.

  “Now, there’s a pair of oranges I would not mind peeling,” declared Sir Charles Sedley.

  “You’ll have to sharpen your knife to attempt it, Charlie,” replied the king. “For I heard yours is much, shall we say, dulled of late?”

  Groans as well as laughter greeted the king’s comment. Rumour had it that Sedley had recently taken the mercury cure for the pox.

  Other voices arose from the group.

  “I have a shilling here. ’Twill buy two such Sevilles in Covent Garden.”

  “Nay, gentlemen, they say this lady’s not for turning.”

  “Tope’s the word, all actresses can be bought, sure!”

  “All women indeed. It is merely a matter of price,” said Rochester, stepping forward. “Sometimes it takes but a shilling. Sometimes, with all due respect to Her Majesty, it takes a crown.”

  It was never certain with the king what topics were open for jest. Yet tonight it appeared that even his wife, Henrietta Maria, who never accompanied him to the playhouse, leaving that field to the vizards, was within bounds. For Charles laughed loudly, his courtiers swiftly joining in. “Ah, Johnnie,” the monarch said, “the newest and already the most cutting of my wits. My queen placed in a sentence with players and … Beware, sir. I see the Tower in your future.” He waved a finger. “Yet Young Rochester seeks to parry with his wit so that his own knife’s actions are not discernible.” Charles pressed his hand into his forehead. “Nay, sure we have cracked the wind of this poor metaphor. Let me then be as blunt as Sedley’s blade.” Over the laughter he continued, “ ’Tis Lord Rochester who’s already had the peeling of those oranges. Aye, and has licked out all the luscious flesh too. For he has been occupying Mrs. Absolute these several months!” Sarah was watching John Wilmot as laughter and jeering came. At least he blushed, murmured a protest: “Sir, that news was for your ears alone.” But a smile grew as he received the slaps and congratulations of the crowd—none of which boded well for her poor friend. The sooner Sarah informed the earl of Lucy’s new state the better. Corruption only awaited the young man in this circle.

  A pop interrupted the laughter. Many in the group, the king included, had been soldiers, and several ducked. “Never fear, Sire,” declared a newcomer, an older gentleman than most around the monarch, and twice the girth of any there, “for ’tis not bullets that I bring but Champagne.”

  “Clarendon,” cried Charles. “You missed the play!”

  “I did.” Clarendon strode close. “Business of state kept me away from it and you. Hang it, sir, by appointing me your lord chancellor, you have robbed me of all my leisure.” He sighed. “Still, I trust I will make amends with this.”

  He signalled, more pops sounded and servants moved forward to pour what had become in recent years London’s most fashionable drink. Sarah wrinkled her nose; she couldn’t abide the bubbles. But the courtiers were delighted, and eagerly held up their bumpers to be filled.

  When toasts had been made, ladies pledged and the Dutch damned—war had been declared a little over a month earlier—Charles asked, “And does the business that has kept you from us, Edward, demand my immediate attention?”

  “Good my lord, enjoy your night. We will speak anon.”

  There was something strained behind the casual words. Charles frowned. “Is it the Hollanders? There has been no battle?”

  “Nay, Your Majesty, it is only … only some slight increase in the week’s bills of mortality. Let us consider it tomorrow and continue tonight with—”

  “Increase?” the king interrupted, raising his hand. “And the cause of this increase?”

  Not only the king’s party fell silent. It seemed to Sarah that the words “bills of mortality” had drawn the attention of many. Like all who paused to listen, Sarah leaned a little closer to hear the answer to the king’s question.

  Clarendon was now aware his audience had grown. He swallowed. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we should ret—”

  “It’s the plague,” interrupted Sedley, his words wine-slurred. “By God, it’s growing, ain’t it?”

  A murmur arose, which Clarendon topped forcefully. “I said a slight increase and I meant it, sir. Also, the increase is where it has always been, in the outlying parishes, St. Giles and the like. A few more dying in such areas will not affect things much. It might even help. Remember the old verse ‘St. Giles breed, better hang than seed.’ ” When no one laughed, he coughed and continued, “There are no deaths reported in the two Cities’ bills, London nor Westminster. Not one.”

  There was a general breathing out at that, the relief clear. But not for Sarah. St. Giles! It was her old parish, her former neighbours, cousins even, being so readily dismissed. But she also knew, as all there knew, that deaths were reported for a variety of causes with plague the least acknowledged and most disguised—for the consequences of owning it were far too grave.

  “Well,” the king said, raising his voice so it carried, “though even the death of one of my subjects, wherever they live, saddens me, I am happy that the outbreak is contained. Our enemies will not be heartened and our friends will not fear visiting our ports. We will watch but not concern ourselves overly much.” He lifted his empty tankard. “What concerns me more is the lack where once there was plenty. Champagne, sirrahs! Fill me up! And fiddlers, strike me up a less mournful tune, damn ye!”

  A loud stamping reel started up and his cry echoed; mugs were drained, then raised again. Champagne was yet rare enough for Clarendon’s—who as chief minister was able always to secure the best of all imports—to be the last of it. It was swiftly finished, and more sent for. Meantime, sack and ale flowed.

  The group around the king fractured. Charles, despite his bluster, had taken Clarendon upstage for a private, and intense, conversation. Sedley had produced some dice and gallants clamoured around him to have turns at Hazard. As Rochester was slightly on the fringe of the group, Sarah saw her chance to draw him aside. She took a step.

  The soft voice came from near her shoulder; the touch, fingers at her elbow, was light. And in an instant, she recognized both touch and voice. Not because she had ever heard him, nor felt him, before. Yet she knew this for certain: the man who gripped her and spoke was the same whose stare had so unnerved her upon the stage. The man slowly turning her towards him now.

  THE NOBLEMAN

  He said, “A word, Mrs. Chalker, if you will.”

  As he spoke, before she turned, he looked down at his fingers. They felt warm—no, hot. Yet he’d been rubbing them all night in his box because they’d felt so cold.

  Touching her had done that. Her skin warmed him instantly, even though he felt it through her costume. The dress that had appeared sumptuous from his box here showed itself frayed, cheap. This close, he could see that her hair was auburn, though some attempt had been made to lighten it. It was why he hated the theatre, its falseness, its front. Like the whole of society. He wanted to tear all that away, get to the essence. Beginning with the woman turning to him now, her elbow burning his fingertips.

  “Sir,” she said, finally facing him, and he could barely restrain a gasp. He had never been this near to her. Yet despite the cosmetics that all women applied—and actresses did to excess—she was no more painted than any other. True, the ceruse was starting to crack, the cochineal on her cheek losing its fire, and she was missing at least one beauty spot, pinkness now in the gap. But all that was mere appearance, for beneath the crayoning her eyes … oh, her eyes! They were of a blue he’d never seen, speckled with brown flecks as if thrushes flew across a cloudless summer sky. Yet far, far more shocking than their colour was what he saw within them. Oh, the light they held! A mirror for his, shining for him as his shone for her.

  The relief made his k
nees weak. He’d feared. Because even if he’d loved her utterly and completely from the moment he’d first seen her walk out upon the stage three weeks before, how could she come close to loving him the same way, when she did not know him? Now he realized he’d been foolish to doubt, even for a moment. She had known him, even in that same blinding instant and then, in the weeks since, had acknowledged him in every discreet way she could—in how she did not play for him in his box so near to the stage, in the way her eyes deliberately did not seek him out. Because—and here was the pure beauty of it—she’d been saving herself for this moment. This one, right now, when she could turn to him and, ever so discreetly, remove her elbow from his grasp. Speak, with all the matter of their love in it, one simple word.

  “Sir,” she’d said. Her gaze moved over him, while his discovered a pulse in her neck that seemed to him almost a living thing, pushing against flesh walls, trying to break free.

  He looked into her eyes again. He’d been silent too long. It was the problem of rarely being in company. Some things had to be spoken aloud, after all.

  “Madam.” He repeated his short half bow. “My name is Sir Roland, Lord Garnthorpe. Pledged to you.”

  He observed her closely. Sometimes his name affected people. However, she did not react, just said, “I am grateful for your approbation, my lord. It is always good to be admired for one’s craft.”

  No! He wanted to yell at her, “You do not need to play for me.” Yet she was probably simply being careful. Discretion was required in such a public setting. In private, though …

  He took a breath. “Are you a Jewess, madam?”

  It startled her, he could see. He was unused to the courtesies of conversation. He had been too blunt and had suddenly changed subjects, ever his faults. “It is only that the first time I saw you perform, lady, ’twas as a daughter of Zion.”