by Priya Parmar
Darlings,
It is all topsy turvy at the palace, my pets. The ladies of court have run quite mad. This week, Mrs. Sarah Jennings, of the Duchess of York’s household, got herself all dressed up as an orange wench and began pitching her wares throughout the corridors of Whitehall. It is now the epitome of fashion to dress as if one is off to market day—the boots, the bonnet and the très décolleté bodice—well, if one is to attract a customer…
And if that were not enough news for one week, la famille Castlemaine is airing their royally dirty laundry in public again. Lord Roger Castlemaine is returning from France, apparently intending to make amends with his famous wife. Ignoring her impending nuptial visit, Lady Castlemaine has been heard to proclaim this week that her royal daughter, the lovely little Lady Charlotte Fitzroy, at two years old, will be the first of the king’s daughters to marry—and it will be a wedding fit for a princess. Quelle effronterie! Who will give her away, do you suppose? Dommage, my darlings—families can be so difficult, don’t you think?
À bientôt, dearests,
Ever your eyes and ears,
Ambrose Pink, Esq.
Sunday—Will’s Coffee-house (light snow)
“Ohh! You have to listen to this!” squealed Teddy over coffee this morning.
“They say she actually sold some of the oranges! What will be next? Castlemaine peddling fish?”
“I’ll bet she couldn’t outsell our Ellen,” Lacy said fondly.
“I’ll bet Mrs. Jennings could afford to give them a better price,” I countered, cutting a slice of apple cake for Hart.
“Yes, but I’ll bet she gave ’em less for their money,” giggled Becka. It was a crude joke, and I looked at Hart with unease. Thankfully, he had not been paying her any attention. He does not like our relationship to be discussed publicly.
Hart grunted from behind his news sheet. “Lacy, do you think our navy is up to this?”
He disapproves of my gossiping, refuses to listen to the tattle, and only wants to discuss the impending war with the Dutch.
“We’ll have to be, if it comes to it,” responded Lacy with equanimity—he is given to politics and gossip in equal measure.
The conversation moved on to state matters, and I was able to concentrate upon feeding Ruby wedges of buttered toast.
Note—Hart told me after supper this evening that it was officially read out in the Exchange—we are at war with Holland. What does this mean?
Tuesday, March 7, 1665
Sad news:
The London, one of our great ships, sank today. Twenty-four men and women were saved, but three hundred drowned in the lost ship. Three hundred. All the bells toll out a sad, steady beat. May God have mercy upon their souls.
Tuesday, March 14, 1665—Maiden Lane
It is today. All the staff of Maiden Lane wished me luck as I left for the theatre. Strange, after so much fuss and to do, I feel quite calm. I am sure the butterflies will come once the make-up is on and the house fills up. My costume, finished by the seamstress at three o’clock this morning (Hart spent a fortune), is perfect: green and gold, with just a touch of Aztec mystery. Rose suggested the design, and her creations always have a certain dramatic flair.
Hart just poked his head into the tiring room to check on me. He has been anxious about me since the accident. Peg has just arrived to help with my toilette. I can hear her in the hall outside…
As I was waiting in the wings for my entrance, I caught Hart looking at me sadly, as if I were a great treasure he was giving away. I put my arms about his neck and kissed him more than usual.
March 15, 1665—Will’s Coffee-house
“A triumph!” Teddy squealed theatrically, pulling me out of my chair and twirling me about.
“Yes, I must say you did look well in that green,” Lacy said, watching us pirouette about the room.
“Ooh! Mind Ruby!” Nick warned.
My patient puppy darted out of the path of our wild courante. Teddy loves the French dances. My green hat came off and rolled under a chair. Hart picked up Ruby and held her on his lap, watching us spin round and round, but did not join us. Another performance this evening—Mother, Rose, and Grandfather are coming. It all happens so fast.
Later
The audience goes mad for us, and I am awed by their affection. It is not a thought-out organised thing to perform a play but a wild irregular roar, impossible to tame. My blood thrums and my heart bumps noisily in my own ears, but I am happy. In the midst of the terror and chaos, I am vibrant with happiness.
March 17—Theatre Royal
Listen: Can you hear them?
They call me Nell.
They gave me a new name.
They call for me to come and take an extra bow when the curtain comes down.
They send me flowers and trinkets and letters and cards.
They write as if they know me.
They want to know where I buy my shoes, my gowns, my creams, my soaps.
They like my small feet and forgive my red hair.
They wait outside the theatre.
They call me Nell.
But I am Ellen, I think.
When I Solve the Mystery
Monday, March 23—Maiden Lane
Hart no longer likes to dine out after the show:
“We are never alone,” he complains.
“We can always be alone,” I answer, pulling on my coat.
March 24, 1665
Farm Cottage, Oxford
Dear Ellen,
While I thank you for your courteous invitation, I find myself unable to attend such a performance in such an establishment. It is also far too cold to visit London at this time of year, and I am sure that Nora does not keep the house heated properly. I wish you well in this unusual and, if I may point out, unsuitable endeavour of yours, but I do hope that reason will prevail and you will give it up and make a proper match. I assume that Rose has also followed this path? Your grandfather is in great remiss and does not inform me of her doings.
Take care of your grandfather. His cough is often troublesome in early spring. Make sure he wears the thick red muffler I knitted for him myself—it is much warmer than that threadbare blue one he insists on wearing.
Great-Aunt Margaret
Note—I assume you know how to make a paste against consumption, should his cough worsen? Your mother will know, and if she doesn’t she ought to.
Thursday, March 26, 1665—Maiden Lane
We are going away! Tomorrow evening, after the performance, Hart and I will depart for his country home and stay away for four whole days. As tomorrow is Good Friday and Saturday is Lady Day (end of Lent, thank goodness—I have been breaking rules with abandon) and Sunday is Easter, Hart decided to take me to his newly purchased country house as a treat. Tom Killigrew is furious, as the last performance of Emperor is on Lady Day, but Kitty (she will have to let out my costume) will fill in for me, and Nick will fill in for Hart. I must admit, I am sad to be missing it and have grown self-important enough to think the audience might miss me just the tiniest bit.
Saturday, Lady’s Day—Hill House, Surrey
The country is plushly green and heavy with quiet, and the blue air feels crisp and pure—it is difficult to adjust to such peace.
Hart began teaching me to ride yesterday. He gave me long, soft riding boots and a black velvet riding suit. I looked quite smart until I actually sat on the horse. My horse is called Danny, and she is gentle and patient with my ineptitude—to a point, and then she turns and, despite my instructions, heads for home. “Use your legs! Heels down!” Hart calls out to my retreating back, but it is hopeless.
Hart, a natural horseman, showed off doing high caprioles in the air. His horse Sampson, an enormous grey, looked nonplussed at all this effort, only to hop up and then go nowhere. I feel far from the bustle and spark of London, and I must own that I miss the vitality of the city. Hart is happy here. His great bear’s body makes more sense out of doors, as if his natural exp
ansiveness is confined by the smallness of the city. The sun bronzes his pink cheeks, and his damp sullenness gives way to an easier affection. Regardless of his happiness, he looks at me all the time with an expression of wanting. Wanting me to take to the quiet. Wanting me to be content. Wanting me only to want him. I am anxious for more company but do my best not to let it show.
But then in company, he is only interested in the news of the Dutch war, so at least I am spared that. I am heartily sick of the Dutch war. I seem to be alone in my lack of patriotism, but heigh-ho.
Early, five a.m—Hill House
I solved the mystery!
This morning Ruby woke me earlier than usual, anxiously licking my face and whining to be let out. I obliged, throwing on a warm dressing gown and slippers. When I opened our bedroom door, I found Hugh, the coachman, sitting on the landing tying a familiar twine around some bushy white hydrangeas. “It’s you!” I said happily. “I’m so glad!”
“Shh, Mrs. Ellen,” he said hastily. “I wouldn’t want Mr. Hart to hear.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t mind. In fact, we must tell him at once. Your posies have been making me so happy,” I bubbled, smelling the flowers.
“Oh no! I wish you wouldn’t. He might not understand. I know he is a jealous … as he should be … as any man—”
“But Hugh,” I said with sincerity, “they have brightened my day and cheered my world at a time when I’ve needed it.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” He began to shift his weight from foot to foot in his discomfort. “When I pulled you out of that carriage, you just seemed so small and so alone, and I knew, we all knew, right then that you’d lose the babe—”
My face must have registered my shock, for he quickly changed tack.
“I don’t mean to bring it up … I just thought you could use some cheering … Mrs. Ellen, are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you, Hugh, I’m fine. It’s just that no one has spoken of it. Not really, not directly. The baby, I mean. This is the first time”—I took a deep, steadying breath—“the first time I mentioned … her.”
“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. “A little girl, was it? Cook thought as much, said you were carrying high. Did you give her a name?”
I shook my head.
“No, you wouldn’t have been able to, would you, being unconscious and all. Well, I’m sure Mr. Hart gave her one for you. Can’t have an unnamed baby baptised, and we saw the priest come…”
I regarded him with wonder. “A priest?” I repeated like a parakeet. “A priest was here?” I straightened, recovering myself. “Thank you, Hugh.”
“Best to get it out in the open, I say,” Hugh said, clearing his throat nervously but looking me straight in the eye with absolute complicity.
“Yes. Well again, thank you, Hugh,” I repeated formally. “Thank you for saving me and for the flowers and for, for remembering—” I stopped, unable to go on.
“It isn’t just me. Cook, she picks ’em mostly, but I sometimes do, if I’m out and about and see something pretty. I always wrap ’em, though,” he said with a touch of pride. “Keep my string ’ere in my pocket. I’m glad they helped. Would you like me to take Ruby for you? She looks like she’s itchin’ to go, and it’s cold out there.”
“Yes, thank you again, Hugh.” I grimaced at my repetition and handed over the wiggling Ruby. I opened my bedroom door and heard him move down the stairs. “You are quite right, you know,” I said, turning back to him. “Flowers always do help.”
“Yes, they do,” he said, and continued on his way.
WINDSOR CASTLE, ENGLAND
TO OUR PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS AT VERSAILLES
FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II OF ENGLAND
EASTER SUNDAY, 1665
My dear sister,
Sam Cooper has finished his portrait of me, and I am well pleased. He finally agreed to paint me in semi-profile. I am sending him to you, whom he can paint from any angle and you will look like the angelic beauty you are, although perhaps I should wait until late summer before I send him—after the event ?
De Grammont tells me how you love your new English barge. I am delighted! And thank you for sending him with the French sealing wax I have been longing for—the English excel at a great many things but the production of golden wax is not among them.
With dearest love I remain your,
Charles
Easter Sunday—Hill House (raining)
A house party! Dryden and his wife, Lady Elizabeth (Beth) Howard—she is a tall bony sort of woman with a surprisingly wry wit and is the eldest daughter of the Earl of Berkshire and sister to the four playwriting Howard boys: Robert, Edward, James, and Henry—arrived in this morning and will return to London with us tomorrow. After attending church in the village we enjoyed a lively afternoon of dancing and music—Cook was shocked—dancing on Easter Sunday. Beth played exquisitely and taught me the latest French gigue, much more complicated, with a very quick capriole in the first pass. For such a tall woman, her timing is excellent. After supper Dryden and Hart were much taken up with plans for a new heroic tragedy. I keep telling them that I long to play a character who possesses a gaieté du coeur—and does not die at the end. I feel so terribly awkward, dying onstage, and each time I worry that my gown will fly up and I’ll just have to lie there with unseemly bits of underclothing hanging out. A corpse can hardly adjust her skirts.
Note—I have made so bold as to ban all talk of the war and insist on frivolous light conversation. Hart looked askance at me but complied. He was shocked I would make such a firm request.
Monday, March 27—London (at last!)
What a trip! It never ceased raining, one of the horses threw a shoe, the baggage cart got stuck in the mud, and Hart got a cold. I cheered our party by doing imitations while we waited at the inn (the blacksmith took forever). Dryden and Beth were falling about laughing but Hart was out of sorts and disinclined to be amused. Now perversely he refuses to talk about the war—what a bore.
Note—Pink peonies with a note: For our Mrs. Ellen, Love from H & C.
Later (three a.m.)
“Hart.” I nudged him. “Hart, are you awake?”
“Mmm.”
“Hart, may I ask you something about the accident?”
“What is it, my dear?” he asked tenderly, instantly roused.
“The … baby. Hugh said a priest was here—did you have her baptised?” I held my breath. I did not put much faith in religion, but I did not want my baby to wander forever as a lost soul.
“Of course I did, my dear, while she was still—just before, just before—” He broke off, unable to go on.
“Before I lost her?” I finished for him.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Before we lost her.”
“Her name?” All baptised babies are named—it was a comfort, a recognition. I gently took his hand.
“Elizabeth, for my mother.”
“Elizabeth?” I tried the unfamiliar name on my tongue. I looked at him, puzzled. Hart knew well if it was a girl, I had wanted to call her Rose, for my sister.
“But … why?”
“You were unconscious, and I had to make a decision. I felt it was the right thing. In any case, it did not matter terribly to you—did it?”
“No. Not terribly,” I lied.
The unshed tears burned my eyes, and I turned away from him and went to sleep.
When I See the Merry King
Monday, April 3, 1665—Maiden Lane (home, late)
An extraordinary evening:
Went to the Duke’s House to see Roger Boyle in Lord Orrerey’s Mustapha. Betterton dazzled as Solyman, and Mary played Roxelana (Hester Davenport’s famous role). Henry Harris played Mustapha, and while I would love to be able to tell him that he was wonderful, I avoided him for Hart’s sake. Teddy was meant to join me, but at the last minute he had to fill in for Nick, who has caught Hart’s cold and could not make it. Becka came along in his pl
ace—not my favourite. Outside the theatre, we were recognised by an audience member who offered us a bottle of canary wine in return for a kiss. I allowed Becka to do the honours, as it was surely her kiss he was after, but I drank my share of the wine. We got rowdy and giggly (she is much improved by drink) and made somewhat of a spectacle of ourselves before the show even began, but no one seemed to mind.
It was only once we were quite tipsy that we realised that the king and Castlemaine had slipped into their box. Ignoring the play, we watched them, fascinated, but then we suddenly lost sight of the king. Castlemaine apparently did, too, as she craned her neck about to see where he might have got to. Wondrously, he turned up in our box! The audience all turned to gape, and even Mrs. Betterton on the stage took note. Becka instantly tugged her already low-cut bodice lower.
“Ladies, it would seem that you have some available wine. Perhaps you would care to share?” he asked, casually dropping into a gilt chair beside Becka, folding his long legs neatly under the seat. I was struck by a surprising sense of familiarity: his great height, the drape of his soft amethyst coat cut in the latest French style, and his large-featured grace—all so right, like a bolt sliding into place. I shook my head in an attempt to rejoin my scattered thoughts. Did we get up and curtsey? Had the moment passed?
