Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Grandfather has come, he says, to guide our educations but has brought a long list of instructions from his sister, the ferocious Great-Aunt Margaret, concerning “our health and well-being,” he said vaguely. I worry about that list. Unfortunately, he has already disagreed with Mother on a number of subjects, including our hygiene, dress, and vocabulary.

  “You see!” Mother shrilled. “I knew you were only coming here to criticise. You have never approved of me. You think I could have done something more for him! You think I could have found someone to help poor Thomas, but I tell you once I saw that leg, I knew…”

  “But, Nora,” he said calmly. “Surely Thomas’s pension will ensure more than this?” He gestured to our dreary sitting room. “After all, he died in the war, and isn’t his widow entitled to the maximum amount? Yet his daughters…” Rose and I, sitting on the stair, held our breath.

  “Yes?” challenged Mother. Oh dear, we knew that tone of voice. Do not push her further, or we will not have peace in the house for a week.

  “They are running about London like street urchins!” Grandfather reasoned. “Why, Ellen told me that she has been wearing the same dress for a month! And Rose can hardly spell her name! And they both smell of fish!” Rose flinched and instinctively sniffed her fingers.

  “Oysters. Not fish.”

  “Is there a difference? Is one more desirable than the other?”

  Mother then launched into her familiar long litany of domestic woes.

  “How am I to: clean them, clothe them, feed them, house them, and educate them?” she wailed. “On what? With what? There is no one to help me, now that my Thomas is gone.”

  With that she sank to her knees and began to sob noisily, pulling her voluminous handkerchief from her roomy bosom. Rose and I exchanged glances. “That’s done it.” Once she starts, it is difficult for her to stop. Grandfather tried tactfully to suggest that she spend less on refreshment (too obvious) and more on books, outer clothes, underclothes, soap, and new boots, but Mother only sobbed louder and refused to listen. She will remain like this for days.

  This morning, Mother had still not come out of her room; Grandfather stomped off to the Exchange himself and returned with three books (used); a block of lemon castle-soap; cloth for: new chemises, summer and winter drawers, and woollen skirts for us; and a new cambric handkerchief for Mother. He laid it outside her door as a peace offering.

  Friday, May 16, 1662—Drury Lane (still raining)

  Too wet to sell oysters. Instead, Rose went with Mother to the tavern, and I stayed at home and concentrated on my lessons—my often neglected lessons, as Mother is only really interested in teaching us to sing and play the violin. Today: reading, French, history, and mathematics with Grandfather—whom Mother is finally speaking to. The handkerchief helped. Rose told me that Grandfather had to pawn his father’s gold timepiece in order to buy clothes for us. She told Mother, but Mother replied that it was only right that he shoulder some of the family expenses and we were all doing our best and so why shouldn’t he? Rose held her tongue and did not tell her that spending nearly all Father’s pension on drink really wasn’t her best.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, May 17, 1662

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 22

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  Darlings,

  When I heard I became positively a-flutter, a-float, a-fizz with delight. Grands Dieux, les possibilités les gowns, les chapeaux, les boot buckles, le scandale! A royal wedding in London, at last, tra la la!

  And then I received the news—mon Dieu the news:

  At Lady Jemima’s Tuesday evening salon—she played the virginals divinely by the by, and wicked Sir Charlie Sedley sang his own racy compositions—Lord Montagu mentioned having to take his fleet to collect the royal bride and then stay for the wedding, to be held in…. Portsmouth. Portsmouth? Portsmouth, you say? Imagine Bonnie Charlie choosing provincial Portsmouth over chicest London? Quelle horreur! For shame, my darlings. I suppose poor old London will have to hear all the news by second-hand. Dommage, we shall have to pack our finest frippery away for another time. A royal christening, perhaps?

  À bientôt, dearests,

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  An inconsolable,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  May 20, 1662—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on

  This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book

  Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington

  Today: A review of monies allotted for the renovation of Hampton Court Palace, where our new Queen Catherine of Braganza and King Charles II will spend their honeymoon. New matched daises have been built and upholstered measuring 16 feet by 10 feet. The carving about the queen’s bed has been mended and regilded, although another balustrade will have to be brought from Greenwich later in the summer, requiring auxiliary funds. The Office of the Works will submit the proper applications. Beyond that, all is in readiness for the queen’s arrival on the 29th. The contingency funds have already been allotted for household items, and further funds are needed as: the palace kitchens have requested extra sugar, flour, wine, and marzipan for the king’s birthday celebration. The head valet has requested forty-seven more pots of boot-blacking, and the housekeeper requires twenty-two additional bath-tubs.

  Nothing further to report.

  Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington

  May 22, 1662—Drury Lane (late—but everyone about on the streets)

  The streets are alight with bonfires. We have a new queen! Princess Catherine of Braganza, the Portuguese Infanta, now Queen Catherine of England. What a mouthful, and a Catholic to boot. They say the queen’s damask rose gown was trimmed with blue love knots, which she cut off and gave to everyone—a Portuguese custom, as I understand it, but ruinous for the dress—poor dress. They also say the new queen asks for tea instead of coffee or ale. Mother says that foreigners can always be relied upon to do foreign things.

  Rose heard that she is small, but has huge, stiff hair—also a Portuguese custom? Best to discontinue it now, I would think; the English style is more unaffected and less lacquered. Rose also told me tonight that the famously overbearing Lady Barbara Castlemaine, the king’s companion (lover is such an overblown windswept sort of word—and I certainly doubt that Castlemaine loves our king), refused to light a fire by her door. How small of her; she cannot hope to outflank the queen, his wife. She must give way.

  Jane Smedley, who serves in the Rose Tavern with Mother and is always in a foul temper, said that I am to stay away tonight as I am twelve and no longer a child but not ready yet, ready for what she did not explain. Rose is clearly ready at fourteen and has gone to help Mother. Irritating, as she will only spend the extra money she earns on hair ribbons—pink hair ribbons that I can never wear, as my hair is impossibly red.

  All the bells in town are ringing, and the city looks all lit up—the smell of burning almost covers the hot, rank London smells, so much worse in summer. With a bonfire before every door it is a wonder the night did not end disastrously.

  Note—Rose just got in and was a bit clumsy on the stairs. As well her hair was all disordered—very unlike her. Could she be drunk? How extraordinary. Mother is still not home.

  July 1, 1662 (hot!)

  Rose and I slipped away to wade in the river after dinner. We left our shoes on the bank and, holding up our skirts, stood on the slimy stones and let the cool, muddy current rush around our ankles. Enjoying the falling light of the warm dusk and in the mood for mischief, I grabbed Rose’s hands and began to swing us about the shallow water through an unsteady gigue, splashing and singing lustily as I went. Rose shrieked in soaked dismay but soon caught my mood and joined me in her sweet soprano.

  Rose insisted we wash with lots of hot water when we got home; we both smelled like river rats.

 
July 12, 1662—Drury Lane

  Rose slept through work again today. She has been helping Mother and Jane Smedley serve ale in the tavern for the past few weeks and has been arriving home later and later in the evenings. Last night she did not get in until after three a.m. Once in our room she refuses to light a candle for fear of waking me and washes and undresses in the dark. Worried that she might lose her position, I told Mr. Morton that she was ill and that I was to take her share. Luckily, Mr. Bens from the Hare and Glove needed a double order of oysters; otherwise, I would not have been able to sell them all.

  Walking home at nearly seven, I thought I saw Rose (pink hair ribbons) far ahead of me in Long Acre Street. She was speaking to a man I did not recognise. And she scolds me for speaking to strangers!

  Two a.m.

  Sleepy—Rose is still not home. I did not leave a candle lit for her tonight. Let her undress in the dark, for all I care.

  VERSAILLES, FRANCE

  COURT OF KING LOUIS XIV

  TO MY BELOVED BROTHER, KING CHARLES II OF ENGLAND

  FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  SAMEDI, 21 JUILLET 1662

  Charles,

  I am so pleased! I was hoping you would choose from the royal house of Portugal instead of a cold Protestant princess from the north. From all I hear Queen Catherine is a quiet, gentle soul with an angelic face and regal bearing. And she is of the Catholic faith, which pleases our mam and, naturellement, pleases me also.

  But let us not speak of things that divide us. How are your many adorable children? Is Jemmy’s horsemanship improving? Mam writes that you are considering a dukedom for him. He would enjoy that honour—he enjoys any honour.

  Mam also writes of the extensive and ongoing building and redecorating at her palace, Somerset House—the woodwork alone, mon Dieu, so lavish, I tremble at the cost. I know she has a tendency to find fault (the dust, the noise, the fabrics, the colours, the weather) and seems difficult to please—but you do please her in this, even if she cannot bring herself to say so.

  Is it true that Lady Castlemaine is expecting again? While I cannot pretend to an affection I do not feel for her, I do welcome her children, as they bring joy and delight to you. Just be sure, my dearest, that it is you who gives shape to their unformed souls and not their mother, as she is of inferior sensibilities.

  How is our darling brother James? Does he still grieve terribly for our blessed Henry? I do. I do every day, as I know Mam does, too. You must believe that she only did what she thought was best at the time, and as you know, once her mind is decided, her resolve is absolute and she is not plagued by doubt. Such determination would be a gift indeed if only her decisions were more thoughtfully considered. I hope that James has resigned himself to his marriage. Anne is a plain but intelligent girl, however unsuitable for our house. I pray for him. I pray for you and think of you every day.

  I am ever your,

  Minette

  Note —I wish I could accept your invitation to visit England, but it really wouldn’t be prudent for me to disobey my husband just now, as his temperament is growing increasingly erratic and unpredictable. As well there is so much to see to with all this building going on. Louis’s plans for Versailles are truly extraordinary—there shall be nothing left of this charming little hunting lodge. Could you have your new queen’s portrait painted for me instead? Une autre note —I heard that you wrote your love letters to Catherine in Spanish ? Your Spanish is terrible, can this be true? And that when you had no immediate response from Catherine, you wrote to her mother as well? Oh la la!

  July 21, 1662—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on

  This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book

  Notations taken by Mr. Henry Bennet

  Evening session:

  News arrived by courier from Hampton Court:

  Item: James Duke of York arrived in time to welcome his brother the king and his new queen as they entered the palace grounds. Unfortunately, the Duke of York’s luggage train was delayed on the road and will not arrive until tomorrow.

  Item: The Portuguese queen’s retinue was much larger than expected, and the Office of the Works has allotted no rooms for their use. They must seek lodging in Kingston and are displeased.

  Item: One of His Majesty’s pastry cooks was run over by a furniture wagon this afternoon. They were understaffed tonight in the great kitchens.

  Nothing further to report.

  Sir Henry Bennet

  Wednesday, five p.m. (still very hot!)

  The house was too warm for lessons, so Grandfather agreed to a walk instead, on the condition that we conjugate French verbs as we go.

  “Regular verbs,” I specified. “Too hot for irregular verbs.”

  “Very well,” he agreed. “To love: first person, present tense.”

  “J’aime,” I answered confidently. “Did you hear about the mess at Hampton Court yesterday? Everyone was talking about it today. People run over, carts gone missing—chaos.”

  “You love: familiar, past tense,” he prompted, refusing to be diverted by gossip.

  “Tu aimas…. She must be very brave, to sail to a new country, knowing no one, and then to marry an utter stranger?” I said thoughtfully.

  “Third person singular, future tense. Queen Catherine? I am sure she is very happy. After all, he is the king.” Grandfather shrugged, as if a sovereign is guaranteed love and devotion.

  “Elle aimera. That doesn’t mean she will love him,” I said. “I wouldn’t do it. I will not marry where there is no love—not even a king.”

  Grandfather gave me a worried look. My romantic notions concern him, I know. Most girls hope to marry a man with a stable income rather than a man to love. Ever patient, he forbore to criticise and we moved on to the verb “to play.”

  When I Discover the Truth

  Thursday, July 21, 1662—Drury Lane

  I am shaking with shock and rage. There has been a tremendous row. I should insist and argue and rant, but I find I am too stunned even to weep.

  After oysters I stopped at home. Finding no one about—Grandfather had gone to the Sun Tavern in Wych Street to play backgammon; Rose, I believed, was still not finished with her basket; and Mother was already at the tavern—I went to visit Duncan at his father’s shop in Bow Street. I had not seen him in weeks, as he no longer calls on Rose; she is so often occupied in the evenings now. He demanded all the news of the family (meaning Rose) and politely enquired after my appetite: my enormous appetite. And so we went along to the cook shop on the Strand for fish pies, green cucumbers, and apple cream fritters, my favourite.

  “I am glad to see you eating,” Duncan said with custard cream running down his chin. “You are far to thin for your age.”

  I grimaced. My thinness was a frequent topic of discussion in our house—regardless of how much I eat. Rose, tall, with a long, curvy figure, has no patience for my small height or thin frame, and Mother is always quick to point out that men enjoy “flesh, and not bones, Ellen.”

  After a whole pie, and five fritters, plus a fruit tart—even the baker was impressed—Duncan walked me home to Drury Lane. I was walking slower than usual as my new stays—Rose insisted I begin wearing them and I have yet to adjust to the discomfort, not pain so much as pressure—were even tighter with a full stomach and were making it difficult to breathe. In our street, Duncan stopped short when we came upon two people embracing. The man had his hand inside the woman’s bodice, and her head was tucked inside his arm. I hurried towards our door, mortified that we live in such a street, but Duncan had stopped a few paces behind me. He was looking at them. Then, quite abruptly, he turned on his heel and left without speaking. Just then the couple disentangled. Pink ribbons. Rose! It was Rose! With a drunk and dirty man’s hand down her chemise.

  “Ellen!” She rushed towards me, wild-eyed. “How could you?” She shrieked. “How could you bring him here?” The dirty man grinned and staggered off, tuggin
g at his breeches.

  “How could I?” I fired back. “What were you doing—with him? What if Mother or Grandfather saw you?” I glanced up to make sure the house shutters were closed. A stripe of candlelight under the door—Grandfather was home. I struggled to open our door (it sticks), and clattered the handle.

  “You really have no idea of anything, do you?” she screeched. “You think Mother did not know I was here. You think she did not ask me to be here?”

  “Mother knows about this?” I asked, shocked. Then, all at once, the fury left her in one great puff, and she sagged against the door-frame.

  “Ellen,” she sobbed. “You have ruined everything. He will never, never forgive me.” She turned, picked up her skirts, and ran out through the alley.

  Grandfather, who had heard everything, was sitting by the fire with Jeffrey curled at his feet. Mother is still not home.

  Much later (everyone asleep)

  Mother did come home—late. I tried to speak to her about what happened, but she had had too much to drink and waved me away. Grandfather, in his linen nightcap, came and gently helped her to bed. Then we waited. Grandfather asked no questions, although he must have heard everything through our thin walls, but just kept quiet company throughout my agitated vigil.