by Priya Parmar
Later—in the tiring rooms
“I swear I didn’t tell.” Teddy held up his right hand in a mock oath. “Anyway, why are you so bloody concerned? It is just bloody Becka, after all.” Teddy dislikes the Marshall sisters.
“Yes, but if it is Becka, then it is Nan, too. I just don’t like people knowing. Knowing that I go to his house. That we—”
“What you mean is that you don’t like people talking. Talking about you going to his rooms, and what you do once you get there,” said Teddy, going straight to the heart as usual. “In any case, I don’t see how it could stay a secret for long, not with the way he moons around after you.”
“Shh!” There were others in the tiring room.
“I think it’s sweet, and your gown is pretty,” chimed Peg from her dressing table.
“Oh! Is there anyone who doesn’t know?” I wailed, quickly unhitching my skirts, concealing my beautiful petticoat.
“Know what?” asked Theo, entering the tiring room. “Teddy, have you seen my boot buckles? Anne shined them, and I thought I put them on the vanity, but somehow already I seem to have—”
“Here,” Teddy rooted around and produced the missing buckles. “They were under Rob’s wig.” Theo is always losing everything. “Know about Ellen and you know who,” he finished in a noisy stage whisper.
“Teddy!” I protested.
“I didn’t actually say it!” Teddy countered amiably.
“Oh, yes, Anne told me,” Theo said absently. “You two seem to get on so well. I think it is lovely, my dear.”
“Anne!” I screeched, “How did Anne know?”
“Oh, sweetheart”—Peg shot me a pitying glance—” everyone knows. It is not such a bad thing, after all,” said Peg, checking her pale blond wig in the mirror (she is on this afternoon). “He seems gone on you, and he is a major shareholder and really is the star of the theatre. It could be Teddy here, who is just a lowly—” She ducked as Teddy sent a powder puff flying in her direction.
“Oh really, Teddy!” exclaimed Theo, who suffered a direct hit. I giggled in spite of myself.
Note—Hart has insisted I give up working for Meg. “Why should you tire yourself out peddling fruit when I can easily provide for you?” he asked genially, erasing the structure of my life. He is giving me a generous weekly allowance that will support Mother and Grandfather and Rose as well as afford me any luxury I could wish.
“But surely I will be earning a salary as an actress soon?” I hinted leadenly. He did not respond.
WHITEHALL, LONDON
TO OUR SISTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS
FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II
January 25, 1664
There you see! A boy! A healthy boy! You did it, my darling. As a princess, as a duchess, as the Madame—it is your greatest duty, and you have fulfilled it. Philippe Charles, an auspicious name; I am deeply touched. Of course I will stand as godfather. I am forever your,
Charles
Note—My poor queen wept upon hearing the news. She is most pleased for you but too overcome to write at present. Dr. Fronard prescribed a restive tonic of juniper and feverfew to help her sleep. Our own lack of such happy news is breaking her heart.
Another—Thank you for the snuff, it was very well received here. Could you also send some gold sealing wax—the kind that you use on your letters? There is none to be got in this town.
January 25—Drury Lane (late)
My family is impossible! Mother has already spent all of my week’s allowance on drink (I had to confess my penury to Hart—very embarrassing), and Rose still insists on staying on with Madame Ross. I had hoped she would turn her hand to full-time sewing, but she has refused. “The work’s not steady enough, Ellen.” She shrugged. “Besides, Lewkenor Lane is what I know.” Hopeless.
When We Endure a Great Loss
Tuesday January 26—Will’s Coffee-house (rain and fog)
The morning began like any other:
“We must have another one soon, Dryden!” said Hart, waving his toast for emphasis.
“Not too soon,” cautioned Tom, stroking Kitt’s folded ears.
“Well, that is good to hear, as I have not yet started on another play. I only finished Queene last week!” said John Dryden, dramatically putting his hand to his brow. He is a slight, round-faced, mannered man, given to theatrical gestures.
“Ugh, quel désastre!” said Teddy dramatically. “Three weeks of script changes!” I looked at Dryden, who did not seem the least apologetic for the turmoil he has caused in the last month. He was wearing the most astonishing canary-yellow hat, complete with ostrich plumes and small feathers and velvet ribbons and gold buttons plus an enormous blond periwig with ringlets almost reaching his waist. He looked like a frosted lemon wedding cake. He is not a tall man, and I feared he might crumple under the weight of this complicated confection. He was holding his coffee cup in the most curiously affected way, with his smallest finger arched awkwardly in the air. Did he think it elegant? His new play, written with his esteemed brother-in-law, Mr. Robert Howard (whom he never seems to mention), is a raging hit, and I know that Hart wants him to write him a significant heroic role in the next one, but is tactfully waiting for Dryden to suggest it first.
“Is it true they are queuing up already?” Teddy reached for a second slice of pie. “Mmm, this is delicious. Theo, you must have some.”
“No, no, I am all right,” said Theo quietly, sitting beside me, closest to the fire.
“Darling, you have hardly been eating and are withering away. Isn’t Anne feeding you?” Teddy clucked automatically. As Teddy lives with the Bird family, he well knows that Anne keeps a hearty table, easily feeding him as well as Theo, young Theo, Eliza, Michael, and their new baby. Teddy married two years ago, but his young wife, whom we never see, seems to be forever visiting her parents in the country.
“Yes,” said Tom, with contained pride. “They have been outside the theatre since nine, and the chief constable called just before I left to discuss the troublesome traffic congestion we are causing.”
Dryden took another dainty sip, crooked finger still hanging in the air. Yes, I decided, he must think it is elegant. His heavy curls bobbed as he spoke. “Ah … I have been thinking about this problem—”
I sat back in my great chair, warmed by the fire, and let my thoughts drift away. This conversation did not require my attention, as it seemed as if my stage ambitions were to end in Hart’s bed. Since I became his mistress, all talk of my famed debut has vanished. Ah well, so long as I am warm and dry, what matter if it happens sooner or later?
“Theo, Theo!” I suddenly heard Teddy cry anxiously, leaping from his chair.
Alarmed, I came back to the room with a jolt. “Theo?” I asked, kneeling beside him, ignoring the commotion around me. I gently took his hand in mine. His head had pitched forward oddly, and he looked down at me with strange, clouded eyes.
“Anne,” he said simply.
“No, it is Ellen. Dearest, we will find Anne and get you home.” I felt Hart’s solid bulk behind me. His hands were firm on my shoulders.
He said in a low and steady voice, “Tom has already gone to fetch his personal physician, and Dryden’s gone to bring his carriage from the theatre. Teddy and I will stay here with him. Quickly, go now and find Anne.”
“Yes,” I said, gathering my skirts and throwing on my cloak. I squeezed Theo’s hand once more and firmly kissed his cheek.
“You know where it is?” called Hart. “Katherine Street!” But I was already out the door.
I knew just where it was. The snug and happy yellow house with the blue door. I ran through the grey streets until I found it.
Wednesday, January 27, 1664—one in the morning
Hart has finally brought me home to Maiden Lane to sleep for a few hours. Although I doubt if I can sleep. Dr. Bangs says Theo has had an apoplexy, and he will not survive it. How calm and accepting I sound, and most likely that is how I app
ear to others, but it is so untrue. I hurry and prepare remedies of egg whites, orange water, and liquorice and soothing poultices of relaxing herbs in the hope of relieving the horrible constriction in Theo’s limbs. Anne applies them with diligence, but we both know they are of no use. I just need to do something, as does she. In truth, we are just waiting.
Anne—the only word Theo has spoken since this nightmare began.
Will Cartwright stood in for Teddy tonight, even though he is far too old for the role and does not know the lines. He carried the script onto the stage with him. Teddy would not be persuaded to leave Katherine Street. He hovers outside the door to the sickroom. He is also waiting.
Anne sits beside the bed and murmurs into her husband’s ear. He senses her there and rests easy with her beside him. Eliza keeps busy, bringing victuals, endless cups of coffee, canary wine, and small beer to the many friends crowding into the little sitting room. Michael watches over her anxiously. Everyone returned after the performance. Young Theo plays with baby Elisabeth, who at nearly a year old is beginning to talk.
Wednesday—midday
“Anne,” Theo said clearly, opening his eyes and looking at his wife.
“Yes.”
“Anne,” he said again, with a lifetime of tenderness.
“Yes,” she answered, gently smoothing his hair from his brow.
He closed his eyes again, and slept.
Wednesday, January 28, 1664—quarter past nine in the evening
At last Anne came out of their bedroom and shut the door behind her. It was the first time she had left that room since Tom and Teddy first laid Theo on their bed. Teddy, white-faced with pain, needed only to look at her to know. Theo died tonight, in the happy yellow house, privately and quietly beside his Anne.
4.
Actress Ellen
When I Protect My Secret Joy
November 11, 1664—Maiden Lane
It has been some time since I took up my quill, but in truth the year has flown by. I have become somewhat mistress of this house and have taken to it with an ease that surprises me. I sleep here most nights but return to Drury Lane for Sunday church and supper with Grandfather and Rose—Mother is often out. Out. Out and drunk—God knows where. Their household rumbles steadily along, and with the added benefit of my allowance they do well. Hart is calling for me as we are to dine at Tom and Cecilia Killigrew’s home today, although the prospect of eating is nearly unbearable. Mustn’t forget…
Later
… My green hat. Cecilia wanted to try it on and have Madame Sophie make up a similar design. She wears her hair all bundled on top of her head, and so the design must take this encumbrance into account. I find many women want to imitate my clothes and dress of late. It pleases Hart endlessly to have me admired by other women so. Men’s admiration—far more troublesome.
Cook has made sugared wafers to tempt me, but I find all they do is make me ill. I left the tray untouched in my closet and have come to my small sitting room to write. I will encourage Hart to eat them after his bath, as I do not want Cook’s feelings hurt, although perhaps he shouldn’t. His already fleshy face seems to be getting fleshier lately. And he is wearing his neckcloths higher on his neck to conceal his jowliness, but I have pretended not to notice.
I just had to leap up to shut the door to the cooking smells wafting up the stairs from the kitchens. I find the strong smells of spiced food, meats, ale, goats, or horses make me retch. I have begun wearing a lemon-nutmeg-scented sachet tucked into my bodice. I missed my course again this month but have told no one but Hart and Rose my news, yet this whole household seems to know. Betsey cautions me to go slowly up the stairs, and Hugh is driving less recklessly (and more soberly) of late. Cook has suggested I avoid herrings. Hart is pleased. Rose scolded me for not taking more care. I had no idea there were so many different ways to take care. Whores’ tricks, said Rose flippantly, tossing her head to avoid meeting my eyes.
Lady’s Household Companion
A Complete Guide to an Englishwoman’s Home
Scented Small Linen Bags:
Mix dried lemon peel, angelica root, and finely beaten nutmeg into a smooth dry powder.
Fill a soft linen bag with this powder, adding a sprig of dried rosemary if desired.
Wear the linen bag about the body to detract from unpleasant odors.
WHITEHALL, LONDON
TO THE PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, THE MADAME OF FRANCE
FROM HIS ROYAL MAJESTY KING CHARLES II
NOVEMBER 2, 1664
My dear sister,
I am puzzled as to the naked aggression of my countrymen towards the Dutch. The Dutchmen do not seem particularly interested in war with us, and have no great need to provoke this nation, but each and every Englishman seems passionately committed to war with them. It is motivated by our jealousy—of their wealthy navy and prolific trade. I am being urged towards war on all sides, but I am resolved to allow them to strike first, and thereby avoid the appearance of provocation.
Could you not persuade King Louis to join with me, or, at least, could he stop supporting them? The last thing that I desire is conflict with France.
I remain forever your,
Charles
Note—We are guilty of at least one act of aggression as we have captured their colonial city of New Amsterdam, on the coast of America, but I do not feel that is such a substantial crime as to constitute a need for war here at home. We have renamed the town New York.
November 21—Theatre Royal
Coffee-house rumours:
Tom Killigrew is finally going to put on his great epic, The Wanderer—a dramatic, true-to-life, two-parter telling the story of the beleaguered brave Cavaliers in exile, tra la la. He has been sitting on it for ten years. “Now is the time!” he proclaims with gusto.
Lacy predicts that Hart will play the king, pompously—although he does do royalty well (they say that kings could take lessons from him). Nick says that I would be perfect for the courtesan Paulina. Bright, kept, and full of mischief—but it will not come to pass.
“My protégée,” brags Hart in company.
Your protégée who will never be permitted to perform, I think.
A courtesan. True enough to life.
At this rate I will never be cast.
SOMERSET HOUSE, THE STRAND, LONDON
TO OUR DAUGHTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE
FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
NOVEMBER 30, 1664
Ma fille,
Terrible rumours are circulating here: that your brother has advocated war only then to declare peace and use the voted funds for himself. I have told everyone that Charles is absolutely in favour of war and will use the funds to bring England to victory over the Dutch (who, in my opinion, richly deserve what they get). Charles, on the other hand, keeps harping on about the cost and refuses to increase the hearth tax as I have suggested. Instead, he is accepting loans at eight to ten percent interest—ridiculous. He really ought to show more backbone.
Please stop any such similar rumours in France.
With affection,
Maman
P.S.: As you are now in a delicate condition you must forgo the green salad vegetables you are so fond of. A woman in your condition cannot risk such impure foods—meat and plenty of red wine will ensure a healthy male child. Do not loosen your stays like some sort of baker’s wife.
December 1, 1664—Drury Lane
I am no longer enraged but am worn out by my anger and am strangely empty of feeling. I understand his jealousy—or at least I pretend to—but tonight he went too far!
I have left Maiden Lane for Drury Lane, vowing never to return. Hart arrived back after the theatre tonight (in cups and in temper) and was upset to find me not at home. Tonight, Peg and I went to the Duke’s House to see Davenant’s The Rivalls. Betterton was excellent as Philander, and his wife Mary was passable as Heraclia, although she is getting quite stout for that role. Henry Harris, who played Theocles thi
s time around—in September he played Polycines with greater success—treated us to a late supper at the Bear, and we were well received and joined by the jolly members of that house. I know they are meant to be our competitors, but in fact I enjoy their company, and to see a play acted on a different stage makes for such a glorious change. As well the Duke’s are so much more lavish with their staging than we. Their stage machinery is more varied and complex (and less noisy) than ours. It is exciting to watch, for no matter what they enact, we are sure to see a spectacle.
We were seated at the cosy long table by the fire, enjoying canary wine and pots of sweet custard, when Hart barrelled through the door. Brushing aside the greetings of his fellow actors, he jerked me to my feet. “Ellen, I am taking you home now,” he growled for all to hear.
Mortified but composed, I shook off his hands and answered back sweetly, “Why, Hart, we were just enjoying lemon custard, your favourite. Perhaps you would care to sit and join us, instead of exhibiting such rudeness in front of our friends.” That elicited twitters from Henry and John Downes, the company prompter, serving only to further enrage Hart. Tightening his grip on my arm, he marched me from my chair and into the waiting barouche, leaving behind a tavern full of gawking witnesses. Heigh-ho. He would not look or speak to me once inside and did not loosen his hold upon my arm, even when we were well away from that company.
