by Priya Parmar
“Majesty? Majesty! Are you … are you him?” I asked sleepily, shaking myself awake.
The king threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, I am he, and it is customary to curtsey when you meet me,” he teased.
“I, oh … oh, pardon me,” I said, flummoxed, leaping up to copy Hart’s bow exactly.
The king whooped with laughter. “Is that how ladies curtsey these days?”
Indignant and impatient, I forgot myself. “My sister is in prison this night. I do not worry about a proper curtsey!” I heard Hart’s sharp intake of breath beside me. The ladies stopped nattering, and the fops stood aghast. “I, oh, Your Majesty, forgive me!”
The king’s eyes crinkled merrily as he composed his mobile face into a serious countenance. “No, no, you are quite right. There are prostitutes in prison this night. This is no time to stand upon ceremony. Mistress … Gwyn, is it?”
“Ellen,” I said miserably. “Please, please, don’t hold my rudeness against my sister.” This was a disaster. One of the spaniels promptly sat upon my foot, rooting me to the spot.
“Ellen, do you suppose I am the sort of king who would?” he asked, gently lifting my chin with his long, cool fingers until I looked up into his intelligent face.
“No … no, I do not think you would. Please, help her,” I said softly.
“I have already sent Harry and John Browne to secure her release from Newgate, but now that I have met you, I will also send the royal berline to fetch her home. All charges against her will be dropped.” He waved his hand, sending servants flying to follow his commands.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I whispered, and sank into a deep and correct curtsey.
He chuckled, and bent low to whisper into my ear, “I preferred your first attempt. God give you good night, little Ellen.”
“And to you as well, Your Majesty.”
I watched him as he moved down the stone-vaulted gallery. The air felt so quiet once he had gone.
When I Enjoy Modest Success
Sunday, January 3, 1664
Morning service at St. Martin in the Fields with Grandfather and then home. Music sounds so beautiful ringing through that lovely old building. Rose is too anxious after her recent trouble to risk church. She is justified—everyone knows what happened. Madame Ross kept her on, but appearances mean everything to Rose. A thieving whore is worse than an ordinary whore. Mother spoke truly when she pointed out that she could hardly be more thoroughly pardoned than by the king himself, yet the whole event greatly pains Rose. This morning I saw Jane Smedley, who commented on Rose’s recent royal favour, as she phrased it with a smirk. I do wish Mother wouldn’t tell people. Rose won’t speak of it to anyone—including me.
I have told no one of my conversation with the king. The conversation I hear over and over as I fall asleep.
Later—in our room
“Rose,” I began awkwardly as she dried her hair with a bath sheet. “Madam Ross said something strange that night.”
“Mmm?” Rose shook out her heavy hair and, sitting on her bed, began to pull her white comb through the tendrils in long strokes.
“She said I had refused to speak to her before? Rose? Rose?”
Rose didn’t seem to hear me.
Wednesday, January 6, 1664—Twelfth Day (The Usurper)
Lacy brought me a tightly wound winter posy, and Hart brought me a new green silk hair ribbon.
“Ah! Our protégée! Just to stretch your theatre wings, mind you,” Lacy cautioned cheerily, holding the ribbon up to my skin. “Perfect for your complexion, my dear.”
“No reason to be nervous; save that for your real debut!” Hart said, gently tugging on my long curls.
“One for luck!” said Nick, firmly smacking my bottom.
“You’ll wrinkle me before I ever get out there,” I grumbled, smoothing my new skirts.
All this fuss just for me to stand at the back in the ballroom scene and deliver one line—it seemed excessive, but left me fizzing with excitement.
The flickering candles blur the faces of the audience. A wink from Teddy, who squeezes my hand behind my back. I swish my hips and say clearly, “My lady, there is a gentleman to see you without!”
And it is over.
“Brava!” said Teddy.
“Well done!” said Nick.
“Magnifique!” said Lacy.
“My clever mouse,” said Hart, dropping a quick kiss on my nose.
To: Mr. Thomas Killigrew
From: Mr. Charles Hart
Concerning Mistress Ellen Gwyn’s Progress as an Actress
Dear Tom,
She stands out. No question. Small and bold and neat as you like. With her fiery hair and pert little figure, she will make a brilliant foil to the current rash of dark, sloe-eyed favourites. She is fearless and quick, and she will thrive in this realm. We mustn’t waste her on nonsense roles. She must star, but it must be the right part. Best to keep her under my tutelage whilst we consider. Lacy agrees with me in this.
All best wishes,
Hart
January 8, 1664
Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
Hart,
Yes, I saw the performance as well. I left soon after Ellen’s scene. I agree that she deserves a proper debut. I will advise you as to my thoughts on her career at a later date. At present I am content for her to remain under your guidance, but really, Hart, she is quite young and, I find, quite singular. I do expect you to behave with some discretion and great care.
Yours, etc.…
Tom
Sunday January 10, 1664—Lord’s Day
Last night Hart took me to see Henry VIII at the Opera. (The play that everyone has been talking about.) All the talk is true, Betterton was ferociously regal as the king, and the procession with all the faces pressed against the windows and on the balconies was magnificent. During the interval a startlingly attractive man introduced to me as Johnny joined us in our box (I found out later from Teddy that this is the infamous Lord Johnny Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester). What I noticed most was his absolute equanimity of countenance. Whether dealing out his obviously scathing wit or delivering the most splendid compliment, his features remain uninvolved, as if he really cannot be bothered to muster expression.
“Watch out, he has made lechery his profession,” Teddy said seriously. “Well, lechery and drink, I suppose.” I could tell from his tone that he both liked and admired him.
I found Johnny serious and cynical by turns. His biting humour unsettles Hart but amuses me. He reminds me of a bored, restless dog who may bite, just for the fun of it.
Afterwards, we piled into carriages and went on to supper at Chatelin’s in Covent Garden with the actors of that house. Hart was much engaged with the serious Sir Will Davenant (who wears an inky black kerchief to cover the hole where his nose should be—gruesome). I try my best not to stare but find it difficult. Everyone was talking about the rising price of lace, tea (the curious new courtly drink), Davenant’s new Tempest (written in collaboration with Dryden), and war with Holland.
“The Dutch? Aren’t they our ally?” I quickly whispered to Hart, and was silenced by a small downturn of his mouth. Wasn’t Princess Mary of Orange the king’s sister? Now that she is dead they are our enemy? How disloyal, I thought silently. I was too afraid of looking ill informed to question further, and the conversation just moved on around me.
“Their pride is insufferable!” Hart proclaimed with feeling, banging his wine-glass down on the table.
Seeing my evident confusion, Johnny Rochester leaned in to explain. “They are perceived to be a threat to us,” he whispered under his breath, rolling his eyes to let me know that he considered them nothing of the sort.
“A threat to us how? By prospering away in Holland, planting tulips and…”
“Making cheese? Yes. Really by being smart and rich and unencumbered by self-doubt,” Johnny said quietly, taking a long swallow of a smelly something I could not identify. “They do not need a
war to assert their place in Europe.”
“Do we?”
“If the king would throw out his mousy, pandering, pompous, self-serving Council, then no, we wouldn’t. But he is too afraid of going the way of his father to refuse them this absurd war. Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Gwyn, but I really must…” He pushed his chair back from the table and deftly slipped off into the crowd.
“Jane,” said Henry Harris, the tall, lightly built actor from the Duke’s (permanently condemned to second leads but quite good, I understand), as Johnny left. “He has just seen Jane, who has been … away.”
“Jane? Jane Russell, the tavern maid?”
“Ha! Tavern maid—very genteel. Yes, Jane Russell, although bar-keeping is not her primary profession, but I would never expect someone so deliciously protected as you to know that.”
I looked at him in dumb wonder, my mouth hanging open like a broken door. Protected? Is that how I appear now that I enter the room on Hart’s arm? I was not about to apprise him of my intimate understanding of that profession and so laughed at his obvious and not particularly clever remark.
I was sleepy and a bit tipsy (Johnny Rochester had given me rum) and thoroughly ready to take off my pretty but pinching shoes. Hart walked me home and, at the end of our lane, kissed me sweetly. I allowed him to do so, and it was not, in truth, unpleasant.
Tuesday
Hart told me tonight that Jane Russell has been taking the mercury cure for the French pox—a whore’s curse. Mercury baths are said to be hideously painful and are often not successful. I worry for Rose! I shared my fears with Hart tonight, and he listened carefully and questioned me thoughtfully. It made me like him very much.
Getting somewhat used to kissing and have taken to stuffing a handkerchief up my sleeve to discreetly wipe my mouth when he is through. I have found that there is no point in wearing the berry lip paint that Peg gave me, as it just winds up all over both of us—messy. I cannot in truth say that I like the kissing, but I do enjoy the affection and protectiveness that come over him afterwards. What do I feel? Not great passion, certainly, but not dispassion, either—curious.
Early, six a.m.
I heard Rose come in just as it was getting light. Instead of readying for bed, she came and sat in the window-seat.
“Rose?”
“She asked me. Madame Ross. She kept asking me…” Her voice trailed off. This is how she has been lately, faraway and incomplete.
“Asking you what?” I prompted.
“About you. She wanted you. Sisters are very popular, you see.”
Oh. Oh, I did see. “And you said?”
“No. I just said no.”
Later
Hart has offered to give the commissions for the new costumes to Rose! She must sew two sets of green livery and one blue satin gown for Ophelia. Her designs are breathtaking, and her stitching is exquisite; he will not be disappointed.
When I Spend Time with Mr. Hart
Wednesday, January 13 (unseasonably warm)
Hart directed his coachman, Hugh, to take us to the river. We walked through the infamous riverside pleasure gardens at Foxhall, where illicit lovers are known to make use of the many private nooks and concealing hedges. Everywhere we looked were couples walking hand-clasped, or embracing under the wintry trees. I looked away, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Hart seemed unperturbed and loudly called out to acquaintances. He did not, however, get so close as to require an introduction, I noticed. He slipped my mittened hand in the crook of his arm as we ambled through the criss-crossed covered pathways, where you can find glasshouses; festive hawker’s stalls selling roasted nuts, cider, pastries, meats, and fruit; and pretty views of the river at each turning. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt in his company. We laughed easily (his: a great rolling baritone; mine: I fear, a sort of wild goat noise) and gossiped about the company: Becka’s efforts to ensnare an unenthusiastic young viscount; Michael’s troublesome gout, worse this winter; Lizzie Knep’s complicated ménage with her invalid, gambling husband, her ever visiting cousins, and her philandering lover; Sam Pepys, who is always in the tiring rooms. “He wears his spectacles so he can get a better look!” I laughed. We spoke of everything except us—and the company is currently rife with gossip about us.
Under a leafless mulberry tree, we sat on a turfed bench sharing a mug of steaming chocolate with snow cream. Abruptly jumping up and entering a glass-house, Hart returned with a white winter rose for me. I tucked it into the boned bodice of my new cloud-grey gown.
Without discussion, Hugh drove us to Hart’s enormous house in Maiden Lane. Once there, Hart looked at me apprehensively. “Only if it would please you, Ellen.”
“Would it please you very much, Hart?” I asked, teasingly.
“Very much,” he said gravely.
At that I burst into fits of giggles. “Oh Hart, you are so very good, aren’t you?”
“Only to you, my mouse,” he said, laughing, and with a light heart he bore me up to his bedroom.
Later—at home
Not terrible, but much more vigorous than I had imagined. He was tender and attentive. He declared himself “my truest heart.” He asked me to call him Charles, but I find it impossible and have settled on just “Hart.” With his proud broad chest he does resemble a hart, although much less rustic.
Sweetly, he cleaned me up afterwards with warm soapy water and carefully tucked me into the carriage with plenty of cushions and coverlets, instructing Hugh to go slowly, anxiously clutching my hand.
The berline was far too broad for our little alley. I alighted at the end of the lane and gingerly walked home. Gently lifting our sticky latch, I let myself in. Grandfather had waited up for me. The fire had nearly died out. Jeffrey lifted his head and licked my hand before resuming his snooze.
Without preamble, Grandfather asked, “Do you care for him?” I felt he had long been rehearsing this question. He continued, “Despite your great-aunt’s misgivings, I can believe that there is much good in this life you have found … as long as you are not … distressed by this man’s attentions.”
I busied myself hanging my cloak and scarf upon the peg. At last, turning back to face him, I replied, “Mr. Hart is a good man, Grandfather. He cares for me sincerely and I will be … safe in his care.” I sounded more confident than I felt, and I did not quite answer his question. In truth, I was not sure of the answer myself, but I wanted to reassure him of my present contentment. I think I knew where his deepest concerns lay. “Are you … concerned that I will follow in Rose’s … profession?” I hedged.
Outside, I heard the night watchman calling the hour and declaring the king’s peace. Eleven o’clock.
Grandfather sighed, “Ellen, let us call a spade a spade. Your sister, whom I love sincerely, is a common whore, and I could not wish such a life for you. You have not the temperament, and I have not the heart.”
I shifted uncomfortably, “I have no plans to become—”
“I’m sure Rose did not intend to become … no, no.” He shook his head, interrupting his own train of thought. “I know that you could not give your body without your affection. You are too much your father’s daughter for that.”
At that, I looked up, surprised, for Grandfather so rarely mentions his lost son. “Am I really like him? I know so little of my father,” I said cautiously, the name sounding unfamiliar on my tongue, not wanting to press, knowing his loss still pained Grandfather.
“Oh, my girl. You have his neat bright looks, his quick wit, and his passionate nature. People are drawn to you, the way that they were drawn to him. All his life he was very much loved, and now he is still very much missed. Your mother can hardly breathe for want of him, and I … I think of him every day.” Then, recovering himself, he said gruffly, “Now, no more questions, that is all much in the past. My concern is that you are cared for, and happy—and you are. That was all I needed to know.”
Now in my own bed, I hug my secret close. Not like Rose, I tell myself
. Not like Rose. I will be treasured. I will be cherished. I will be faithful to just one man, and I will love and appreciate him as best as I can. I do like him very much. That is something. That is a great deal. That is surely different from a common whore, isn’t it?
January 25, 1664—Theatre Royal (The Indian Queene, first performance)
Not such a secret, it seems. This morning, after rehearsal, Becka cornered me in the tiring rooms. “That gown is lovely,” she said in honeyed tones. (Another new gown from Hart, this one cut low after the French fashion, in pear-green taffeta, edged in cream Venice pointe, and beneath it is a beautiful fluffy petticoat.) “Is it new?” she asked, with false innocence.
“No,” I lied. “It was my sister’s before me.”
“Oh, Ellen,” she chided. “We all know it is new, and we all know who gave it to you.”
How do they all know, and why do they all care? Gossip is much less fun when I am the topic. No idea how to stop these rumours. So exasperating.
