Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Touchstone

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Priya Parmar

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Touchstone trade paperback edition February 2011

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  Designed by Renata Di Biase

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parmar, Priya.

  Exit the actress / by Priya Parmar.

  p. cm.

  1. Gwyn, Nell, 1650–1687—Fiction. 2. Charles II, King of England, 1630–1685—Fiction. 3. Mistresses—Great Britain—Fiction 4. Actresses—Great Britain—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—Kings and rulers—Paramours—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616. A757 E95 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2009048703

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7117-2

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7118-9 (ebook)

  for my mother and father

  from nora who left for plumbean’s house

  to see the moon with you

  Exit the Actress

  By Most Particular Desire

  THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN

  Audiences Brilliant and Overflowing

  Are Invited to Attend the Premiere of

  EXIT THE ACTRESS

  This Present Wednesday, May 1, 1662

  will be repeated tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday next

  PRESENTED BY MR. THOMAS KILLIGREW,

  LEASEE AND ROYAL PATENT HOLDER

  With: the cast as listed below

  Gwyn Family

  Mrs.* Eleanor Gwyn (Ellen/Nell/Nelly)—an orange girl turned actress at the King’s Theatre

  Mrs. Rose Cassels (née Gwyn)—Ellen’s older sister

  Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn (Nora)—Ellen and Rose’s mother; a serving woman at the Rose Tavern

  Captain Thomas Gwyn**—Nora’s husband; an officer in the Royal Army

  Dr. Edward Gwyn (Grandfather)—Captain Gwyn’s father; a canon of Christ Church, Oxford

  Mrs. Margaret Gwyn*** (Great-Aunt Margaret)—Dr. Gwyn’s sister; living in Oxford

  Theatre

  Mr. Theophilus Bird (Theo)—Actor at the King’s Theatre

  Mr. Nicholas Burt (Nick)—Actor at the King’s Theatre

  Mr. William Davenant—Manager of the Duke’s Theatre

  Mrs. Moll Davis—Actress at the Duke’s Theatre; mistress to King Charles II

  Mr. John Dryden—Playwright; Poet Laureate

  Sir George Etheredge—Wit; playwright

  Mr. Charles Hart—Actor; major shareholder of the King’s Theatre

  Mrs. Margaret Hughes (Peg)—Actress at the King’s Theatre and possibly the first woman to act upon the London stage

  Mr. Harry Killigrew—Groom of the Bedchamber; Wit; son of Thomas Killigrew

  Mr. Thomas Killigrew—Patent holder; manager and major shareholder of the King’s Theatre; former Groom of the Bedchamber

  Mrs. Elizabeth Knep (Lizzie)—Actress; mistress of diarist Samuel Peyps

  Mr. Edward Kynaston (Teddy)—Former cross-dressing star; Wit; well-loved actor

  Mr. John Lacy—Actor, choreographer at the King’s Theatre

  Mrs. Rebecca Marshall (Becka)—Actress at the King’s Theatre

  Mrs. Mary Megs (Orange Moll)—Orange seller at the King’s Theatre; employs the orange girls

  Royal Families of England and France

  King Charles I**—King of England; executed in 1649

  Queen Henrietta Maria—His queen; daughter of King Henri IV of France; aunt to King Louis XIV of France

  King Charles II—Son of King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria and cousin to King Louis XIV of France; restored to the throne in 1660

  Queen Catherine of Braganza—Wife to King Charles II; former Portuguese Infanta

  King Louis XIV—King of France; first cousin to King Charles II

  James, Duke of Monmouth (Jemmy)—Illegitimate first-born son of King Charles II and Lucy Walker

  Henry, Duke of Gloucester**—Brother of King Charles II; died of the sweat in 1660

  James, Duke of York—Younger brother of King Charles II

  Anne, Duchess of York—His wife, daughter to the Earl of Clarendon

  Henriette-Anne (Minette)—Youngest child of King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria; the Madame of France; Duchesse d’Orléans; married to Philippe, Duc d’Orléans

  Philippe Charles d’Orléans—Brother of King Louis XIV; the Monsieur of France; Duc d’Orléans, husband of Minette

  Royal Court of England

  Sir Henry Bennet—Lord Arlington; Secretary of State

  Earl of Clarendon—Chancellor, Privy Councillor, father of Anne, Duchess of York

  Lady Barbara Palmer (née Villiers)—Countess of Castlemaine; Duchess of

  Cleveland; mistress to King Charles II, mother of their five children

  Lord Buckhurst (Charles Sackville)—Earl of Dorset and Middlesex; Wit, poet

  Sir Charles Sedley—Wit, poet

  George Villiers—Duke of Buckingham; Wit; Privy Councillor; childhood friend of King Charles II, cousin of Barbara Castlemaine

  Lord John Wilmot (Johnny)—Earl of Rochester; Wit; poet

  To Be Performed by:

  THE KING’S COMPANY (ESTABLISHED 1660)

  PERFORMANCES BEGIN AT 3 O’CLOCK DAILY

  PROLOGUE

  SPOKEN BY THE ACTRESS

  MRS. NELLY GWYN

  upon her Farewell Performance

  THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, LONDON

  Prompt Copy

  TAKEN BY STAGE MANAGER BOOTH

  March 1, 1670

  Mrs. Nelly Gwyn: (Whispering in the wing, hands folded, eyes closed.) Take a breath. Count three. Curtain up. Now.

  (Curtain rises. Enter the Actress stage left.)

  Mrs. Nelly Gwyn: Here I am. Back by request: for one night only, at his behest. (Deep court curtsey to KING CHARLES II, seated in the royal box.) What a lark and what a loss that such things are no longer fit for one such as me. How impossible is my unlikely luck: For here we are for one last night, to whirl like a dervish, and dance in delight, to look round and round at the faces bright, brightened still by candlelight. And then the curtain will fall and the thing will be done.

  (Noisy sigh.) So if it be now: Good-bye to you and good-bye to me. To what we’ve loved and what we’ve been. To the villains punished and the good set free and love scenes played under the apple tree. There. Done it. (Skipping.) So off I go into the big blue swirl, to become a star, and to glitter far from home—but I will be your star, marked with affection, stamped and sealed. From you and of you: polished up, and good as new—well better than new; I once was a merry but meanly fed scamp but now I eat for two. Oh, I had forgotten how free this is. It has been many months since…. well, you all know what I have been doing since. (Laughter.) And now I have a different life. I am to be an unmarried mother and devoted wife. So f
ar a life well lived, I’d say. Turning left and left into unexpectedness I’ve flown through and through. Down the corridor, up the stair, over the road that leads nowhere, with candied daisies in my hair. And what did I find? A sugar-spun life of fruit and fancy shot straight through with gold. How extraordinary.

  But at what cost? you ask. I’ll show you. Here, over your shoulder: look closely. Look again: in the dark, there, do you see? The velvet, the hush, the eyes on me? Quiet. Back away. Disappear. It is a delicate alchemy balanced on a pin, gifted with luck, defined by illusion, brittle with fragility, but so beautiful.

  Ah, you patrons and saints of the theatre…. in the world at the edge of the world, where the king comes down from his mountain top to love the orange girl. Where reason and right run rampant and no one ever grows old. Where women are pirates and princes and wildflowers grow in the soul. The magical door will close behind me and then? Who will I be? But oh, I can live without the talk! The scandal, the chatter, the news today, and who went rolling in the hay. The who did what to whom and why? And how and when and by and by—the time is gone—and it is not life after all, this talk.

  Still—it is fun. They say: I am charming. They say: I am charmed. They who? Ah yes…. I know. Just remember: They are very powerful. Keep on the right side of They.

  I gamble at the golden table, where the air is thick with time and chance and each night hundreds of scarlet slippers wear through from dancing.

  Will you risk? Will you play? If you do, if you dare: wish and wish and should you win, when it is done, if morning comes: sneak away, snap for luck, and bless the day.

  Hurry home. Fast and faster. Pull your curtains. Bolt your door. Close your eyes and wish some more. Love your neighbour. Sweep your floor. Beware. Luck can turn in a mouse’s breath; before you notice, it is gone. So wish and wish for all your life to be kissed by bounty and freed of strife, and always, always for you and yours, joy upon joy upon joy—after all, it is all there is.

  And as for our ordinary days: they are quicked with silver, bright and brief—and if you are snug as a beetle and free as a leaf—then shout thanks to heaven and breathe relief, for: our happiness is sewn in delicate threads. Use a thimble and sew, sew, sew.

  But don’t forget, love cannot protect the lover. It will bend but it will break. For it is not enough. Be careful what you choose.

  Young girls ask how did you do it? Your cheeks are so pink? Your hair is so red? True, you are a stage delight, your waist is slim, your tread is light—but is that all? After all, you are so small. You are so like us. So here. So wicked. And yet, he loves you so. Why?

  (Quietly.) And the answer is always the same: I really do not know.

  (Deep curtsey. Exit the Actress stage right.)

  1.

  London Ellen

  When We Live in No. 9 Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane

  May 1, 1662, one p.m. (May Day!)

  Isn’t it pretty? I guess I should say “you” rather than “it.” Isn’t that what one does in a journal, address it personally, like a friend, like a confidante? I am not sure of the etiquette, but I do know that “you” sounds precious and forced and not for me. Grumble. I dusted and rinsed this old sea chest twice before setting this book down upon it to write, and I have still managed to get grime on my sleeve. Rose will be cross. My sister, Rose, and I share this tiny back room above the kitchen, sparely furnished with only our narrow beds, a wobbly three-legged night table, and this damp sea chest pushed up to the draughty window. I only have a few minutes as I am waiting for Rose, who is dressing in front of the long mirror in Mother’s room. Rose is often in front of the mirror. Oh, another grumble, these are not very auspicious opening lines, nothing of the elegant, eloquent young woman I hope to be. Never mind, ink is precious, onward.

  It is pretty: butter yellow cover, thick creamy pages, bound with pale pink thread. It was really meant for my sister, as it is her birthday today. Rose is two years older than me and is turning fourteen and ought to be better behaved, frankly.

  This morning:

  Rose’s friend Duncan, the stationer’s son, a tall, finely turned-out young man who looks so wrong in our cramped, damp house, was wrapping his birthday gift for Rose, this beautiful journal plus: two fluffy quills, a sleek little penknife, and a heavy crystal inkpot, all stuffed in a stiff pink silk writing box. Too much for one box—the lid wouldn’t shut.

  “So she can record her most private thoughts and deepest desires”, Duncan informed me loftily this morning, jamming the lid closed—it bulged but finally latched. We were seated on the worn rug in our tiny kitchen, working quickly to arrange Rose’s gifts before she and Mother returned from church. I worried for Duncan’s pale cream silk breeches on our gritty floor. I also worried that his gift would not be a success with Rose.

  “Duncan?” I faltered. How to word this? Rose’s deepest desire was for lady’s gloves or enamel hair-combs or silk dancing slippers for her birthday—luxuries she would dearly love but cannot afford: pretty things. She has no interest in writing or reading or anything else much. If I were being unkind, I would say that Rose is only interested in beautifying Rose—but I am not that mean.

  “Fetch over that pink ribbon, Ellen. The one edged in silver,” he said without looking up from his task. I hurried to his hamper to find the right colour while he wrapped this lumpy gift in coloured paper—also pink—Rose likes pink. I handed him the ribbon, thinking that Rose will likely prefer the wrapping to the gift, and sat down again beside him. “A perfect choice,” he gushed, wrestling with the paper and getting the lace of his frilly cuff tangled in the ribbon. “It will perfectly reflect my regard for her perfectly tender sensibilities.” I bit my lip to keep from giggling. Duncan uses the word perfect a lot.

  “When are they due back?” he asked, looking up at the tidy oak and brass clock Mother is so proud of. Ten to eleven.

  “Soon. Father Pelham gives short sermons on sunny days.”

  “Lilacs or roses?” He held up generous bunches of both—good grief he came prepared.

  “Lilacs.” Rose detests roses—too predictable.

  Two p.m. (stuffed after eating two custard tarts and still waiting for Rose to finish dressing)

  Anyway, unsurprisingly, she did not like it, and did not take particular pains to hide it from Duncan—so rude! His face crumpled with distress when he realised his mistake. She did, however, like the new hat I gave her—grey felt wool with a wide green ribbon—the sharp, new pair of sewing scissors sent from Grandfather and Great-Aunt Margaret in Oxford, and the cake of orange blossom soap from Mother. “To get rid of the fishy smell,” I chimed in thoughtlessly, trying to enliven the gloomy air. Rose sniffed, tossed her head, and ignored me. She doesn’t like people to know that we are oyster girls and wishes I wouldn’t refer to it aloud, certainly not in front of Duncan, who works in his father’s stationery shop and smells of paper. “But people will know when they buy oysters from us,” I am forever pointing out. A fact she chooses not to recognise—Rose does not like to be bothered with facts.

  Rose just popped her head in, having changed her thick bronze hair from the simple, and I thought elegant, twist at the back to the more fashionable clumps of heavy dangling curls on each side of her head—perhaps fashionable but certainly not an improvement, they look like bunches of grapes. Heigh-ho. She scowled when she saw my sleeve. Now Rose is ready, but Duncan, who is in the kitchen eating crusted bread with butter and jam and getting crumbs on his velvet coat, is not.

  Half past one a.m. (writing by candlelight)

  So many people: jostling and hot and very smelly. People should wash more. Still, it was a magic day, and the freshly ribboned maypole in front of Somerset House was enormous. By next week, it will be a soggy grey mess, but no matter. It took us ages to pick our way through the crowded streets down to the Strand, and along the way I spoke to strangers, something Rose wishes I would not do, sang a May Day song with Mr. Lake, the cheesemonger, and ate sugared almond comfits until I felt i
ll. Too ill even to eat a slice of Rose’s frosted sugar-cake (more pink), another gift from Duncan, who danced the noisy country reels over and over again with Rose. He is forgiven for the journal and has slavishly promised to make it up to her—revolting.

  Mother chose not to come, no surprise. She received her weekly wages yesterday, and I’d bet she has already spent them on drink. Remember, Ellen: patience and kindness, patience and kindness.

  Note—Must stop. Mother will be angry if she catches me wasting candles.

  May 15, 1662 (chilly and wet)

  Grandfather, very distinguished, not looking nearly as old as I thought he would (he was after all too old to fight for the old king), and nothing of the dour disapproving figure I had feared—surprising, after all he is a man of the church and aren’t they required to be dour and disapproving?—has come down from Oxford, bringing with him his ancient, wheezing pug, Jeffrey. “He snuffles as he shuffles,” Rose giggled. We have not seen Grandfather since our fortunes turned to ill and we left Oxford—and I was too small at only six years to have much memory of him. Rose says she can remember tugging his beard and watching him play cards and drink cider with Father. I cannot remember Father (who Mother calls “poor Thomas of blessed memory”) at all.