Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Much later

  In the interval Lizzie Knep came down with her courses and was unable to perform the last act, and Mr. Hart himself sent Meg to find me. I was whisked backstage and quickly stuffed into Lizzie’s dancing costume; she is small like me, but her slippers were too big—I packed paper in the toes to make them fit. Hart came striding offstage and abruptly said I would be led out to dance La Duchesse but to a slow sombre beat, in the final scene, by Benvolio (Nick) and then left to stand at the back and silently feign to weep when the Prince (Theo) makes his speech and they bring in the dead lovers (Kitty and Mr. Hart).

  “Remember,” he said briskly, “you are playing a lady of the court: head up, languid eyes, soft fingers but a strong grip on your partner, supple neck, straight spine. Think: seduction. Do not make a misstep.” With that, he turned and, frowning at the stage, ferociously concentrated upon his entrance. It is extraordinary how still he stands in private before launching himself into public vitality. I felt fidgety and slight next to him, and I wished he had not given me so much instruction and just left me to do it as I did the other day. Standing in the wings, I thought seriously about being sick, so great was my fear. At least it would be Nick who would partner me as I had danced with him before. Hopefully, in these fine clothes, no one will recognise me.

  I waited, trying to remember the steps, when Nick came up behind me. “Ready?” he whispered. The music swelled, and out we went. Terrifying! I could not make out the faces of the audience. The dance ended, no missteps, but then most likely my spine was bent and my neck unsupple, but at least I did not topple over in Lizzie’s big shoes. Nick left me behind the tomb (Juliet’s bed without the coverings) to weep. From there I peeked out at the pit from behind my hands but could not see Alice or Meg. I wish Mother and Rose and Grandfather had been there! But then, I was behind a particularly robust Capulet, so I don’t think they would have been able to see much of me anyway.

  SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON

  TO OUR SON, HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS

  FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  JULY 22, 1663

  Charles,

  Just a few things to remember:

  She must avoid heavily salted foods and pickled foods of any kind. Herrings would be disastrous. She must limit her physical exertions out of doors. I do understand that she is a young queen away with her court (remember I also took the waters there), but she must remember her purpose and not overtax herself. She has told me of her passion for archery, but I do not think such strenuous activity can bring about the result you desire. In the mornings (after you have been to her chamber—which I hope you will do frequently—this is for your country, Charles, and must be taken with all seriousness), she must elevate her legs for at least two hours. James writes that she drinks water. Is it true? Ruinous. She must stop immediately. I am sending my physician, Dr. Fronard, to personally see to her health. In truth, Charles—affection. That is the key to a happy marriage and to a happy country. Just affection. Be good to her.

  Maman,

  Her Majesty Queen Henrietta Maria

  August 1, 1663

  Coal Yard Alley, London Margaret,

  So sorry that you were not able to visit us here this summer. I hope your foot is much recovered. All is well here. Rose is growing up faster than any of us could have imagined and is more beautiful each day. Ellen is still small and seems likely to stay that way. Oddly, it seems to suit her fairy spirit. I am as well as ever. I think Jezebel is a perfect name for the new goat—particularly if she has such a tempestuous disposition. Please do not allow her to eat my books.

  My best love,

  Edward

  Tuesday, August 6—Will’s Coffee-house, one p.m. (hot and clear)

  The delicious smells of apple cakes baking and warm French macaroons drifted from the vast kitchens. I entered the famous coffee-house with some trepidation. It is holy ground reserved only for actors and writers and artists and politicians, but Meg had sent me with a message for Teddy, and I was determined to deliver it. The dark, wood-panelled interior was austere, but the scene inside was convivial, noisy, relaxed, and crowded. The next room smelled of coffee, new bread, and people. Lots of people. Men and women lounged everywhere, on everything: faded sprigged sofas and peeling painted chaise longues, spindly ladder-back chairs, stained window-seats, even on the rough plank trestle tables themselves. By the enormous open fireplace were two men sleeping in patched overstuffed armchairs that were losing their stuffing. (I have heard that Mr. Dryden keeps an armchair reserved by the fire.) Everywhere people were eating, laughing, dicing, talking, drinking, and in one corner dancing. A man played a violin but could hardly be heard over the ruckus. Dogs lay on the floor and waited for scraps. It was chaos. How would I ever find Teddy in this mess?

  After some effort, I caught the barmaid’s attention, and she pointed me to a corner table by an open window. Theo was drinking cold chocolate, and Teddy was fanning himself with a script against the heat. The table was heaped with summer fruit pies, sugary glazed cakes, and pots of fresh snow cream.

  “Ellen,” Teddy said, looking up and scooting down on his bench to make room. He has a way of always making me feel welcome.

  “Oh no,” I started, “I can’t stay. Meg just wanted me to tell you that Lady Fenworth has come up from the country and has arrived at the theatre looking for you.”

  “Ugh!” Teddy slapped his forehead in an elegantly affected gesture. “I was meant to ride in St. James’s Park with her this afternoon, and I forgot.” He turned to me. “Is she very cross?”

  “I wouldn’t keep her waiting,” I told him with sincerity, taking a seat beside him. I’d seen her sweep into the theatre, swathed in voluminous black silk and carrying an incongruously small dog. She probably outweighed Teddy by at least two hundred pounds and looked exactly like an impatient rhinoceros. “When I left, Lacy had found her a seat in the great foyer to wait for you. But she did not look too comfortable.”

  “Time to go,” Teddy said, getting wearily to his feet. “It will take me half an hour to dress, at least. Thank you, Ellen, for finding me so swiftly. No, no, stay.” He waved me back to my seat. “Eat something. You look famished. Theo, until this evening.” With that he hurried out the door.

  “He … rides with them, these older ladies?” I tentatively asked Theo once Teddy had gone.

  “They like to be seen beside him in their carriages. He is somewhat of a favourite companion with the women of this town.” From what I’d heard, he was equally a friend to the gentlemen, but I kept these thoughts to myself.

  “And he wears—”

  “Yes, he loves to dress up. He was so good at it, you see, and then everything changed. Not that we don’t appreciate having lovely creatures like you around, my dear, but it used to be so … different. And Teddy, of course, he was the star. I think he must miss it, but he would never say so.”

  When I returned to the theatre, I encountered Lady Fenworth, now standing and calling her fluffy dog. The ferocious air about her had dissipated, and she was coquettishly giggling and girlishly fluttering her eyelashes. With her was a delicately beautiful woman, wearing a light walking gown of spotted yellow silk. Watching her fluid gait, it took me a moment to realise that it was Teddy. He winked at me as he went by.

  Lady’s Household Companion

  A Complete Guide to an Englishwoman’s Home

  To Make French Macaroons

  Wash a pound of Jordan almonds and then beat them to a fine paste.

  Add half a pound of finely ground sugar and dampen with rose-water.

  Add the whites of two new beaten eggs and bake until crisped white.

  SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON

  TO OUR SON, HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS

  FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  AUGUST 5, 1663

  Charles,

  A most disturbing report has reached me. Does your queen dress as a man? James writes to say that
she has embraced a peculiar new fashion, and all the young people are following suit. She has been seen publicly in velvet breeches, an embroidered surcoat, and a plumed hat. You must put a stop to this at once. It is neither dignified nor safe. Does this mean she has been riding astride? As you know, I dislike strong language, but this behaviour in a lady of rank, never mind a queen, is unthinkably disgusting. At this rate she will never have children and the country will come to ruin, and it will be squarely on your head. Manage your affairs better.

  Queen Henrietta Maria

  Your (displeased) maman

  Postscript: I have heard from Queen Anne that Phillipe has been opening Minette’s letters. Minette naturally dislikes her husband’s intrusiveness but cannot stop his bad behaviour, no more than she can prevent his fruity choice of hats. I recommend you engage a special courier at once in order to correspond with your sister.

  Saturday, August 15, 1663—late (everyone asleep)

  Cannot sleep. Rose was in the theatre tonight. It did not go well.

  This evening:

  Meg, Lil, and I were in the middle gallery counting up the day’s takings, forty-seven oranges and seventeen limes (a good sum) when we heard a frightful commotion below. A woman’s voice: “Harry! No! Put me down! Not here!” as the Venice lamp for the new Claracilla crashed to the floor. I turned sharply at the sound of the voice. Quietly, we three peeked over the gallery banisters. On the stage were a drunken Harry Killigrew, Tom Killigrew’s eldest son, and an equally drunken young woman in a tightly laced pink gown. Her brown side curls had come undone, and the loose hair concealed her heavily made-up face. Harry was fumbling with her bodice but unable to manage the laces, changed his mind, and decided to lead her in a disorderly pavane instead, smudging the wet paint of the new flats as he went. The woman was careful to keep her dress away from the paint. Something in the set of her shoulders…

  “Oooh, no! Mr. Fuller hasn’t even finished ‘em yet!” Lil whispered as Harry brushed against the fresh paint.

  “Shh!” Meg hissed, intent on watching the couple on the stage.

  “There we go! You’ve got it! Brava! Now bow to the audience.” Harry applauded his partner. The woman, giggling overloudly, turned and curtseyed to the pit. She tipped her face up to us…

  Rose—and her young gallant.

  “Go,” Meg said quietly, turning to me. “Get her out of here. I won’t say a word, but do it now and be quick.”

  “Who is it?” Lil whispered, confused.

  “You never mind. Ellen, go now.”

  I scrambled down the back steps to the pit and ran up the side aisle towards the stage. “Rose! Rose!” I whispered urgently. “It’s me. Come away with me now.”

  “Ellen?”

  Just then the main house doors banged open behind me. Mr. Killigrew and old Samuel, the night watchman, stood framed in the light of the doorway. “God Almighty, Harry!” Mr. Killigrew thundered, squinting into the dimness and stalking down the centre aisle with his great dog Kitt trotting beside him.

  Quickly, I vaulted up onto the stage. “Now, Rose, you must come with me,” I half pulled, half dragged her into the shadowy wings and then pushed her out through the stage door.

  “But, Harry—”

  “No, Rose!” I said, manoeuvring her down the lane away from the theatre. “That was Harry’s father. It’s his theatre,” I panted, pulling her down the wet cobbled street. “You two have just destroyed the new scenery for Claracilla, the play Mr. Killigrew himself wrote. Please, believe me. You cannot go back there. He could hold you for the damage, or worse, you could wind up in the clink.”

  “But Harry—” Rose repeated, belligerently dragging her feet.

  “Harry will never say it was you,” I said, impatiently tugging her along. “Don’t worry, Rose. You won’t be blamed. Rose, move!”

  “No!” Rose turned to face me squarely, her jaw grimly set. “Harry hasn’t paid yet. For tonight. I need my money, or Madame Ross will turn me out. It’s been a whole evening, Ellen. I can’t come away with nothing to show for it.”

  “Oh!” Instantly, I loosed her arm.

  “I will wait in the alley by the stage door,” she continued. “Harry won’t let me down. He will come,” she finished with quiet dignity. How odd: she was not drunk at all.

  I watched dumbly as she smoothed her gown, straightened her small hat, and pinched colour back into her cheeks. She flashed a bright smile. Her professional face, I suppose. Composed, she turned and began walking back towards the theatre.

  “Ellen”—she turned—“you have nothing to fear, I would never tell them that you are my sister.”

  “Rose—” I flushed, mortified that she had guessed my thoughts.

  “I would never want to shame you, Ellen,” she said softly, looking like Rose again.

  In one movement, I was beside her. I squeezed her hand tightly. “Good night, dearest Rose,” I said, kissing her still pale cheek.

  “Good night, Ellen.”

  I watched her disappear up the lane. She did not turn round again.

  Loyal Rose.

  Watching her go, I determined, from now on, always to be proud that she is my sister.

  Sunday, August 16, 1663 (exhausted)

  No one but Meg knows it was Rose. Harry, bless his lying tongue, said he was drunk and alone and lost his way, and so came to the theatre in search of his father. An unlikely story, but he is sticking to it. Mr. Killigrew keeps asking who was with him, but Harry will not give way. I keep my head up—sally, jibe, and flirt with the audience. Just like any other day. It is any other day, I tell myself.

  Mr. Fuller was brought in to repair his beautiful scenery. It will take him all night. Mr. Killigrew is stony-faced but silent. He didn’t make his usual fuss about the cost. How could he? Harry is keeping himself scarce. I have not yet seen Rose. Say nothing. Smile.

  Later—Drury Lane

  Rose was hemming my new gown with tiny, clean stitches when I came home. “Do they know?” she asked, expertly snipping off a thread.

  “Not yet.”

  When I Am All Alone Up There

  Tuesday, August 18—Theatre Royal

  “Ellen!” Alice hurried up the aisle to me. “Mr. Hart and Mr. Killigrew want to see you.”

  “Why?” I asked, alarmed, nearly dropping my basket.

  “No idea, but they said they wanted you and Meg sent me to fetch you up to Mr. Killigrew’s private office. You’d best hurry.”

  “How do I look?” I asked, anxiously unpinning my skirts to cover my dusty boots. I wished I had worn my best skirt, but no matter now. At least I was wearing my new vanilla-water scent, a present from Mr. Adams, the apothecary—he mixed too much in the last batch and saved the extra for me.

  “All right,” Alice said, standing back to appraise me. “If I just loosen these,” she said, pulling some curls free from under my cap.

  “But…” It takes me forever to get them all under my cap.

  “No, leave it a bit undone. It’s alluring.” She looked at me, squinting critically. “Now, bite your lips. Good.” Her gaze travelled downward. “It’s your bosom.”

  I rolled my eyes. It always seems to be my bosom.

  “Too flat. But if I just tighten these,” she said, nimbly retying my laces, pushing my small breasts firmly up into two soft curves. “Better.”

  I paused outside the heavy oak door. My hand was trembling, raised to knock. Head up, Ellen. Heart and courage. Smile.

  “Mistress Gwyn, come in,” invited Mr. Killigrew, his ample figure seated behind the surprisingly delicate desk. Kitt slept on his bed by the fire; he lifted his great bear head and thumped his tail when I entered. Mr. Hart was lounging close to the window, his round face flushed. Meg, standing beside him, smiled in encouragement. I moved to the centre of the chamber and stood before him, feeling every bit like a prize goat.

  “She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll grant you, but there is not much to her, is there?” said Mr. Killigrew after a long s
ilence, stroking his greying beard. Looking me over carefully, he pronounced his verdict: “Red hair, not ideal. But her eyelashes are dark, and that is something.” I stood a bit taller in my shoes. I was particularly proud of my inky eyelashes and darker brows, happy to have escaped that carroty look so many redheads have. “Good, creamy skin, but not enough of it to notice,” he went on. “Doesn’t have a shape. May as well be a boy. Pull up your skirts; let’s see your feet.” I obliged, quickly pulling off my boot, raising my hem, and poking my stockinged foot towards him. Kitt immediately began to sniff my discarded boot and then nose about in my skirts, hopeful of the treats I usually keep for him in my pockets.

  “Shh, not now, good boy.” I eased him away.

  “Mmm, small, well-shaped ankles. And you say she can dance?” Mr. Killigrew asked, dropping my foot.

  “Yes, Lacy has been watching her and thinks she has a natural grace, although wholly untrained, of course,” Mr. Hart offered easily. I sat between them, a spectator in this exchange. Should I put my boot back on? Kitt was contentedly gnawing on it. “But she seems to learn quickly enough,” Mr. Hart continued. Yes, I was supposed to put my boot back on, I decided. I stooped and retrieved it from the big dog. He promptly slurped my outstretched hand. Mr. Hart was still speaking: “She picked up Duchesse in half the time it took Peg, danced it better, and then remembered it well enough to fill in for Lizzie, with a tempo change. Not many can do that.”

  “Yes, I saw that,” Killigrew said evenly, his eyes fixed on me. “But that is not enough. She didn’t have to speak, and Nick is a strong partner. Can you read, mistress? Or write? Or play? Or sing?”