Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Eventually, we heard Rose. I leapt up at the sound of the latch.

  “Sit, Ellen,” Grandfather said, and, stooping, kissed us each good night.

  Once we were alone, Rose pulled at her fraying sleeve and began awkwardly, “Mother has a group of girls.”

  “For what?” I asked blankly.

  “For men … to buy. To go to the alley. Or to the rooms above the tavern. To be with.” She looked at me steadily, folding and refolding her hands in her lap. “Mother asked me to be one of the girls. You must understand, Ellen,” she continued, catching my hand, “this is the only way. It is so difficult for her; she lost Father, her home, all her fine things. She was a captain’s wife and now … we must do something to get it back.”

  “Oh, Rose, no!” I struggled to make sense of her words. “No, Rose, this will never…” This will never, ever bring that back. This will only bring us lower, I thought, but I did not say so. How could I explain what she ought to know already? Instead, I asked bluntly, “Does everyone know? Jane? Grandfather?”

  “Yes. Grandfather knows.”

  That explains his bizarre lack of outrage, I thought.

  “He was shocked, but then it is paying for the added expense of his board, so he can hardly object,” Rose continued. “Aunt Margaret could not afford to keep him in Oxford, since he left Christ Church. But it is not all bad,” she said brightly. “Haven’t you noticed that we have meat every week? And the chocolate? And the extra tallow? By next month I will be able to afford an entirely new ensemble, shoes, hats, petticoats, gloves, everything, and then I shall attract customers of quality and really be able to earn some money. Well, perhaps not a hat and gloves, but certainly one or the other. It will be a step up, Ellen, I promise.”

  “A step up to where?” I cut in sharply. “Where does all this go? Regardless of your hats and petticoats, you will be, as you so gently put it, with quality people, and then what? You will be nothing to them.”

  “Not nothing,” Rose challenged. “Perhaps not as high as a kept mistress, but better than an oyster girl. Anyway, who knows whom I might meet and what might happen? With good clothes, smelling of real perfume—not just strong soap? Mother says if we do this, all will be well again.”

  “Mother does it, too?” I interrupted, appalled.

  “At first. But it works better if it is younger women. Mother is, after all, thirty-nine.” Rose suddenly sounded like a woman grown worldly and not like my sister at all.

  “Who are the other girls?” I asked, faintly.

  “Maggie, Susannah, and Lucy mostly. A few others, but they are the regulars. Susannah has already saved enough to buy French underclothes. They are true white. I’m perfectly jealous,” Rose said dreamily.

  French underclothes? You give up your whole life for French underclothes? That is a bad bargain no matter how white they are, I thought, looking angrily at my frivolous sister.

  “How did this happen? When did this happen?”

  “Oh, some time ago. Mother wanted to wait until we were grown up before we started. Lucy just turned thirteen, but she looks so much older, because her you know have filled in.” Rose gestured vaguely to her chest. “I was worried because mine were taking so long. But it is all right now.” Rose has been recently blessed with a high full bosom. She looked down at my as-yet flat chest. “Don’t fret, Ellen; mine took ages. You still may turn out all right.”

  “How could Mother ask them?” I shook my head as if to clear it of this nightmare. I know many girls do it, but not us. We are better than that, aren’t we? Our father was a captain. Grandfather is in the church. We don’t do this. And yet Mother … “How much does she take?” I asked, suddenly furious. “Her fee? After all, she is the madam.” I spat out the harsh brothel word.

  “I suppose she is,” Rose said thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t thought of it quite like that before, “but it is not like she has, you know, an establishment. Her fee? I don’t know. I still haven’t gone upstairs, so I haven’t been with anyone yet. But I am sure I will soon. Everyone else has,” Rose said vaguely. “Mother just has set the price so high to be with me because I am her best girl and I cost a fortune.” She giggled. There was pride in her voice. “You would, too, if you did it—even more because you are younger. I’m sure they would overlook your flat bosom because you are so young. Some men even like that—you might find one of them? Eventually, of course, we were going to ask—”

  “No,” I cut her off brusquely, unwilling to hear more. “Don’t ask.”

  Later (grey-pink sky)

  I am still wakeful, wrapped in the counterpane and sitting in the window, my thoughts wound too tightly to sleep. Outside the sky was brightening in long pink streaks, but the early light had not yet touched our windows and our room still lay in deep shadow. I pulled the coverlet closer and let my thoughts swing along the well-worn track of shock and understanding. Rose wanted to become a seamstress, I thought irrelevantly. Her designs are so lovely and her hand is so neat … and now. What does a young whore grow up to become? Rose did not seem to share my turmoil and was lightly snoring.

  “Rose,” I whispered into the dark. She stirred but did not wake. I had to ask. “Rose,” I whispered again, “Duncan didn’t know?”

  She turned over to face me but did not open her eyes, “No. I hoped he wouldn’t find out.”

  That explained her aloofness, her high-handed refusal to see him of late.

  Then, when I was sure she was asleep, softly, I heard her: “I did so want him to love me.”

  Oh, Rose.

  WINDSOR CASTLE, ENGLAND

  TO OUR SISTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  JULY 16, 1662

  My dear sister,

  Escaping the heat and chaos of London, I have decamped to Windsor before moving on to Hampton Court—well, my enormous retinue and I. Do you remember Windsor? You were a baby here before you were secreted away to safety in France. It is beautiful, as only the English countryside can be. I have great plans for renovating the castle. I mean to level the skyline, modernising the structure; it has a disorganised higgledy-piggledy feel at the moment—not surprising, as it has been rebuilt relentlessly during the last eight centuries. It is currently a bellicose sort of layout, and I mean to soften the rough-hewn feel. I am planning to create a series of large airy salons adorned with painted ceilings and gilt boiseries, replant the gardens and restock the lakes, build glasshouses to grow tropical fruits never yet to be tasted on our shores, and, in short, make it the envy of all Europe—including the French—I suppose especially the French. I understand Louis’s plans for Versailles are extraordinary, but they are mostly just plans, non? Has the building begun in earnest? Surely it will take him fifty years?

  So to domestic business: yes, Catherine is with me, as is James. Catherine first: our wedding night was not a success, and for many reasons: timidity and homesickness on her part, and for myself an indisposition due to travel sickness being among them. I have chosen to put off my conjugal obligations for the time being and give the poor girl time to adjust.

  Now James: I am trying to be patient as you suggested, but he is a difficult brother and an even more difficult heir presumptive. The least he could do after getting that poor girl pregnant and then secretly marrying her is to stand by her. But does he? No! Now, as his ardour (how he mustered ardour for that one I’ll never know; she is a lethal bore) has cooled and the baby was stillborn, he wants to disavow the match and abandon the girl. She is the daughter of my chief minister—not suitable for marriage but not deserving of that sort of roguish treatment, either—I cannot think what woman would be. He is furious with me for forcing him to honour the union, and Mam (as no doubt you know) is furious that I allowed the appalling match in the first place. I do naturally point out that it was a secret marriage, and I did not allow it, but as you can imagine, it is to no avail. Without Henry, you are the last peacekeeper in our family, and you are
sorely missed!

  I cannot express how much I am your,

  Charles

  Note —What do you mean erratic? Has he forbidden you to visit your own family? Truth be told, French alliance or no, we may have made a mistake giving you to this man. Naturellement, burn this letter.

  July 27 (Lord’s Day)

  I watch Rose at her toilette. She has new tortoiseshell hair-combs (expensive!). I won’t ask her where she got them. She frowns into the cracked glass, trying them this way and that. Today she rouged her cheeks with Spanish paper—something I have never seen her do, as her cheeks are pink anyway—blew me a kiss, and left.

  Later (still can’t sleep)

  Four in the morning and they are not home. Fretful, I crept downstairs; Grandfather in his nightshirt and slippers was dozing in his chair. Jeffrey, beside him, was softly wheezing in his sleep. How can she do this?

  Six in the morning. She must have done it.

  Tuesday, July 29, 1662 (sunny)

  Up early and off to the market. Mr. Morton (Rose and I call him the Octopus—eight hands, fishy smell) is now doubling my share of oysters to sell. Rose sleeps late in the mornings as she is out so late at night. I do not ask her where she has been. “You could sleep, too, if you—”

  “No.”

  August 8, 1662

  Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane, London Dear Margaret,

  A brief missive to tell you that I am happily settled here and the girls are well. I am pleased to report that both my granddaughters are beautiful. Rose (fourteen) is taller than I expected for her age and slim, with a rosy, farm-girl complexion, as befits her name, and a great mane of chestnut waves. Ellen (twelve) is small but bright and carries herself neatly. She has an expressive, heart-shaped little face, and although her hair curls beautifully, it is an unfortunate copper colour—perhaps it will darken later? She is a quick, sensitive child, and her lively antics are the heart of the family.

  I wish I could tell you that Thomas’s wife, Nora, is also well, but I fear she is not. She amply provides for her girls and myself, but I fear she has had to lower herself to fearsome depths to do so. I think of you, Margaret, in the snug house by the river and can hear the evening bells chiming out over the colleges. How are the chicks? Are they laying yet?

  Your loving brother,

  Dr. Edward Gwyn

  When We Watch the Procession

  Saturday, August 23, 1662 (what a day!)

  It was splendid! This morning the king brought his new queen to London from the palace at Hampton Court. All of London turned out for the royal couple. It was like a feast day: a man was playing a bass violl, people were singing and leading rowdy country reels right in the road, the streets were hung with garlands and ribbons, and all the street sellers were shouting to be heard above the fray. On each corner men in royal livery with flowers in their hats liberally poured out wine. The result was drunken but good-natured chaos. Duncan and I adorned ourselves with flowers: a fat peony in my hair and a yellow rose tucked into his smart blue hat. Nowadays, we do not speak of Rose.

  The crowd was so great outside Whitehall, drifting up from the riverbank, that the palace guards (also wearing flowers) were having trouble preventing the people from climbing the wall and entering the Privy Garden. Squinting into the bright sun, we saw a small group of onlookers who had climbed the rickety scaffolding and were watching from atop the great Banqueting Hall.

  “Yes,” I said with conviction.

  “Oh no. Ellen!” Duncan called after me, but I had already begun to climb.

  We scrambled up the scaffolding, and people already on top of the Banqueting Hall hoisted us up—it is much higher than it seems, but such an orderly pretty building up close, hard to imagine that this is where they executed the old king. Today, the sun was hot in an empty blue sky, and the river below us was blanketed in colour. I pushed back my cap and shaded my eyes to get a better view. Looking down, I couldn’t see the water for the crush of boats and barges. Each boat was festooned with bright canopies and trimmed with ribbons and ropes of fresh flowers. One of the men who had pulled me up pointed out the king’s tented barge shimmering in green and gold and behind it the queen’s barge covered by a pink-and-white-striped awning.

  I could see the king standing (so tall!) in the prow of his barge—not under the canopy but waving to the crowds lining the banks and bridges—but I could not make out the queen. My informed neighbour, a Mr. Peeps (funny name, I wonder how he spells it?), also pointed out Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine, cutting a fierce and bright (she was covered in glittering stones—not quite right for this time of day, I’d say) silhouette on a lower platform at the edge of the river. She is dark, with a generous figure and the heavy lidded eyes that are so fashionable now but to me just look sleepy. Next to her was a nurse with a starched collar holding a baby—a red-faced, screaming baby.

  “Is that the king’s baby?” I shouted to my neighbour, but he could not hear me above the crowd.

  The great guns on either side of the river sounded as the royal barges landed at Whitehall Bridge and the king himself handed down his little queen (she is tiny!) and led her towards the palace. I could not see her face as her head was bowed, but it was sweet the way she clung to her new husband. Rose was right—her hair is enormous, sticking out on either side of her head like elephant ears.

  “Foreign,” the man behind me grunted.

  “Mmm, dark and foreign,” my neighbour agreed.

  “She dresses English—that’s a start,” a woman behind me in striped taffeta remarked, squinting down at the new queen. “But she looks like a hairy little field mouse, just the same.” Others around her laughed in accord.

  People up and down the riverbank must be watching, criticising, and making similar comments right now, I thought with disgust. I felt compelled to rise to this little woman’s defence when the king, passing below the balcony, looked up and, with a flourish, bowed to Lady Castlemaine! She did not modestly cast her eyes down, but boldly kept her head up and deliberately took the squalling baby from the nurse and slowly dropped into a long, deep curtsey—displaying her expansive bosom. The court and crowds were riveted, waiting for a reaction from the royal couple. The king casually watched her rise and nodded in easy acknowledgement, and the procession moved on. The little queen looked around for explanation from her ministers and her Portuguese ladies (all in black and not dressed English). Everyone carefully avoided her eyes.

  Later, Duncan and I wandered home, sharing a cone of sugar-cakes. He used his linen cuff to brush the sugar from my chin, and finally mentioned the unmentionable. “Is she happy?” he asked, faltering. “Doing that, I mean.”

  “Oh, Duncan.” I did not know how to answer him.

  Sunday, September 21 (Lord’s Day)

  Farm Cottage, Oxford

  Dear Edward,

  So happy to hear that you are comfortably settled in London. The girls sound attractive—make sure to watch them. Ellen in particular sounds the very picture of her father. He was always such an able and likeable mimic and had such tidy movements. He, too, suffered fiery curls. I am sorry to hear that Nora is not thriving, but then she has always been a selfish woman, given to melancholy and exaggeration. You must not let her influence the girls. Are they attending church? Washing regularly? Practicing their music? Minding your lessons? I am quite sure Nora did not pay the least attention to their education. You did not mention any of this in your letter. Do try to be more specific when you write next, dear.

  Edward, is Nora taking proper care of you? I worry with winter coming on and your delicate health. Does she know how to make the bread and milk poultice for your cough? The Michaelmas term is starting, and Oxford is bustling again. The chickens are laying, and the calf is weaned. The cheese is heavenly.

  Your loving (and worried) sister,

  Margaret

  Note —A don called Pressman has applied for the room. He will be teaching history at Pembroke beginning this term. He is clean and quiet and ca
n pay the rent (a month in advance, and I was sure to check under his fingernails for dirt). I have decided to take him on, provided he is willing to bring in his own bath-water and feed the goats.

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  TO OUR BELOVED SISTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1662

  My dear sister,

  Yes, Queen Catherine is lovely and amenable and gentle and pretty, but entirely incomprehensible. I have two tutors working with her teaching her French and English, but languages are not her forte, and unfortunately, she speaks only Portuguese and Spanish. Currently, we are conversing in broken Latin, which you can imagine is tedious and worrying to my Anglican subjects. To date, I have engaged: a dancing master, a music master (her voice is exceptionally low and pretty), a riding master, and, curiously, an archery instructor—at her request. I hardly see her for her swarm of tutors. When not with them, she is attending mass with Mam at Somerset House.

  What touches me is her painful shyness. Although she is twenty-three (yes, I know, ancient for a first marriage), she is so child-like it is easy to forget. I wish to protect her from the harsher elements of my court—in particular a certain lady who has been less than generous about her appearance. You understand of whom I speak. Unfortunately, Catherine’s Portuguese fashions (James persuaded her to take them up again, arguing that she would feel more comfortable—silly) look frightfully homely here. I can only imagine that they would fare worse in brutally fashionable France. She has led such a sheltered convent sort of life and seems provincial and so young that I would spare her criticism if I can. Could you, perhaps, in your next letter, advise her on matters of hair and dress and deportment? I feel it would be better coming from a sister rather than a husband or, worse, another tutor. Write simply, her French is terrifying, but I will ensure a patient translator.