Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Once we decided that we must leave, the entire household was thrown into a tizzy. Chests opened, clothes everywhere, valuables strewn about waiting to be packed. What to bring: Hart’s family portrait, the silver candlesticks that belonged to his mother, his wigs, my gowns, my seeds for the flower bed I am planning, and on and on. All foodstuffs are being left behind in case they are contaminated, except the eggs. I must ask Cook to hard cook eggs for the journey.

  Hart will send my family on to Oxford the day after tomorrow (we could not hire another coach as everyone is running away).

  Note—I can hear the cart moving past the house even though I try my best to block it out. The awful wooden burial cart and the tinny-sounding bell. It has stopped—on this street—this street! We have to get out of here.

  Note—Cook just told me: the cart stopped at the Griffin house, four doors down. So close! Both children were taken. Two little girls: Clemence, eight, and Polly, eleven. The parents are quarantined for a further thirty-six days and cannot attend the funeral. God help them. God help us all.

  Hill House, Surrey

  It was terrible. So many of the doors we passed bore red crosses and had guards posted outside—to keep the victims in, I thought, shuddering. The streets were crowded with carts and carriages and people on foot, carrying whatever was too precious to leave behind. It took us eleven hours to crawl the mile and a half out of the city gates. Grandfather sweetly held Ruby on his lap the whole way. In Lincoln’s Inn Fields there was a frantic knocking on the little door. When I went to look, Hart sharply asked me to close the coach curtains instead.

  “But we could fit—”

  “No, we couldn’t,” he said firmly. “We do not know who carries the disease.”

  Mother and Rose were silent for once. They did as they were bid and did not look out the windows. They were sure, as I was, that without Hart, we would be out there with them.

  Later—Hill House

  Once free of London we threw open the windows and breathed in huge gulps of country air. As soon as we arrived, Cook took all our travelling clothes off to be burned, and we each took turns scouring our skin clean in the big copper bath. Ruby went last and was most unhappy. Hugh must be exhausted but is not stopping to sleep before he returns for the rest of the household staff. He is so brave to go back. I could not face London again. I do not know when we will return.

  Note—Despite the fact that they are here for only one night, as I write this I can hear Mother and Rose out in the hallway arguing over rooms. Mother’s room overlooks the stables, and she would prefer Rose’s room, which has a view of the park. Good grief. If they were to sleep in the scullery, it would still be far nicer than Drury Lane.

  July 4—Hill House

  Hugh has safely returned with the rest of the household. He says he passed door after red-crossed door with “Lord have mercy on us” writ below and saw the burial carts stacked high with bodies—they are working during the day now as so many have died. Betsey says she covered her eyes and could not bear to look. “It feels safe here,” Cook said with a sigh.

  July 20, 1665—Hill House

  A proclamation was read out in the village this morning, giving thanks for our recent sea victory over the Dutch at Lowestoft. Our flagship, the Royal Charles, sank their flagship with the Dutch commander still aboard. It still feels like boys playing at soldiers and sailors, and that all the dead will return to shake hands at the end of the game—to do otherwise would be unsportsmanlike. Johnny has gone out to fight and has apparently distinguished himself, currying messages between commanders through dangerous waters, messages no one else was reckless enough to deliver. Funny to think of him out there. His belief in God must be absolute for him to take such risks.

  Note—Unpatriotic thoughts: Could this pestilence be a punishment for an unjust war? I put them from me, as they do not help present matters.

  SAINT GERMAIN

  22 JUIN 1665

  Dearest Charles,

  We cannot delay any longer, Monsieur and I, to send you this gentleman to congratulate you on your victory. I hope this success will enable you to bring the war to an end in an honourable way. I assure you that this is the opinion of all your friends here, of which you have many. You have now shown not only how great your power is but also how dangerous it is to have you for an enemy. Is that not enough?

  Thank you for sending Mam to me, as I have great need of her this summer. When she arrives, we will stop at Saint Germain and then continue on to Colombes before visiting the baths at Bourbon. Monsieur will stay behind in Saint Germain. I will always, always be your,

  Minette

  HAM HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE

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

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  JULY 20, 1665

  What a brood you have, my dearest. Congratulations! Another beautiful princesse for the House of Stuart. How brave you are! She will be a comfort to your ailing mother-inlaw, Queen Anne. Please tell the Monsieur and King Louis we pray for our beloved aunt. Take care, my sweetheart. Please, for my sake, take care.

  I am always your loving,

  Charles

  Note—Has the comet been seen in Paris? I have not yet seen it with the tail, although I stay up most nights watching the sky.

  July 28, 1665

  Hampton Court

  Dear Ellen,

  Thank you for your sweet note. We gratefully accept your invitation to Hill House, but first I had to journey to town to check on the theatre, and thence on to Hampton Court to see my brother Henry, the king’s chaplain. I am still with the court now, and we move on to Salisbury tomorrow. Is the middle of the next month convenient? Yes of course I will endeavour to bring my son, but Harry is ever with the court. I understand that Dryden and the Howards will also be returning to Surrey in August.

  The theatre is safe, but in truth London is in a sad state. Every street has boarded-up, marked houses, and the city is hot and still. Everyone breathes through beaked masks and chews tobacco to ward off the sickness. The numbers rose to above seventeen hundred this week, but I hear rumours through town that physicians are not even reporting the true numbers, in order to save families from the required forty-day quarantine within a plague house. Also, the poor are difficult to count, as are the Quakers, who will not have bells rung for their souls.

  It is pleasant and diverting here, but strange to enjoy such entertainments after the horrors I have just seen. I am called to billiards. I will be happily anticipating your reply.

  Yours,

  Tom Killigrew

  August 15—Hill House (still warm)

  Ring a ring a rosy

  Pocket full of posy

  A tishoo, a tishoo

  We all fall down.

  Children in the village are singing this gruesome song. Do they know what it means, I wonder? It has become custom to bless someone if he sneezes. Suspicion rules. We are all afraid.

  Note—The Bill shows the London numbers rose above six thousand this week, but Hart says the true reports are closer to ten thousand.

  September 1, 1665—Hill House (late afternoon)

  “Darling, the court has moved to Oxford,” Hart said when he returned from his morning ride. Oxford—which is still mercifully uninfected. Please God, let it stay that way.

  “Will we join them?” I asked, helping Hart out of his riding coat.

  “Ah, but here, we can be alone,” he said, hugging me close.

  Note—Scandalous news from Oxford: Teddy writes that while la belle Stuart still refuses the king, she does not refuse Lady Castlemaine. The two of them had a pretend marriage and then climbed into a marriage bed, for all to see. At the last moment, the king hopped in, replacing Castlemaine. La belle Stuart claimed indecency and fled, better late than never. I am amazed at what lengths Castlemaine will travel to manipulate the king. All this while the country is ravaged by plague.

  September 2

  Terrible news. Rose
writes that Mother is unable to live with Great-Aunt Margaret any longer and is returning to London. London! Unable to live—what she means is unable to drink. I despatched Hugh with an urgent note begging her to stay in Oxford or at the least to come here. Fretting. Fretting. Fretting.

  COLOMBES, FRANCE

  TO MY BROTHER, KING CHARLES II OF ENGLAND

  FROM PRINCESS HENRIETTE-ANNE, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  10 SEPTEMBRE 1665

  My dear,

  The reports we receive are frightening. France has embargoed all ships bound for England, so I have little hope of this letter reaching you, and yet for my own peace of mind I must write it. I know that your nature, so opposite from its reputation, tends towards action rather than patience, but I beg you to take care. There is little that you can do but send out monies and medical supplies, and I am sure you are already doing both. Protect yourself, my dear. For all our sakes.

  Mam arrived safely and is busy overseeing her renovations here at Colombes. Louis has agreed to the figure you suggested, but already I am quite sure she has spent twice that amount. I send my love to all your children and your dear queen. Tell them that I pray for their safety, as I pray for yours.

  All love,

  Minette

  September 14 (still summer)

  She’s done it! Rose writes that Mother has left for town.

  Later—six p.m.

  “I must go and fetch her!” I repeated for the tenth time. “She is my mother, I cannot just let her return to London! Everyone is dying in London!”

  “Be reasonable,” Hart said in his most patronising voice. “It is far too dangerous. I could never allow it.” Sitting heavily in his armchair, he picked up his news sheet, signalling an end to the discussion.

  Breathing deeply to collect my calm, I began to explain it to him again.

  Even later—eight p.m. (a cool country rain beats on the roof)

  I slammed the door. Utterly childish, but when one is treated as a child, what options are there? Many options, I know, but I chose not to take them.

  Everyone knows that the death toll is at least double what is reported in the Bills. Some say twenty thousand a week are dying of plague. No one can bear to turn in those they love, condemning them to die alone. Unable to stop myself, I imagine Mother bricked up in Drury Lane for forty days, waiting. And on the forty-first day?

  They say the stench of the dead is overpowering. Farmers cannot coerce their cattle to enter the city; the poor creatures would rather be whipped to death than venture into such a place.

  And Mother is there. Somehow I must get to town.

  Midnight

  Hart knocked gently on my closet door.

  “I would like a truce,” he said, his large hands held out to me in supplication.

  I remained where I was.

  “I understand: she must be fetched. Regardless of how foolish she may be, she is your mother, and she is in danger.”

  “That is what I was telling—”

  He held up his hands to cut me off: a commanding gesture that he uses to quiet the audience when he is about to make a great speech on the stage. I find it irritating. “I do not argue with that. I argue with your going. We will send someone to collect her, and you will stay here.”

  “When?” I challenged, pressing my advantage.

  “Tomorrow. I have already asked Hugh to find someone.”

  One a.m.—my closet

  I left Hart’s sleeping bulk and have come here to think. I know I should feel gratitude, relief, and even tenderness towards him, but I feel curiously bereft, almost robbed of a fight I wanted to have. Why? Why should I wish for discord? It is unlike me. Not discord, I think: freedom.

  September 16—early morning

  Daniel, one of the grooms, has gone to fetch her. I made him repeat the directions to Drury Lane twice before I let him leave. He will take Hart’s beaky mask and collect Mother as well as his cousin near Charing Cross. He is strangely undaunted and seems ready for adventure. How foolish.

  September 17 (sunny)

  Not back yet. I am waiting.

  September 18

  I was amazed and appalled when Daniel returned with his cousin Maybeth and her husband, George, but without my mother.

  “Where is she?” I shrieked as Henry handed Maybeth down. Maybeth obviously enjoyed her excursion in a fine carriage very much and seemed utterly unbothered by the plague—it must run in their family.

  “Oxford,” Henry said, bewildered. “Farm Cottage, River Meadows, Oxford,” he recited proudly. “See, I remembered.”

  “Ellen,” Hart said warningly from behind me. I had not heard him come onto the drive. “Come inside.”

  “You sent her to Oxford!” I screeched, wheeling on him. “She ran away from Oxford!” I stormed past him into the house.

  “Never in front of the servants, Ellen! How many times must I tell you?” Hart began without preamble. His huge frame looked even bigger in the pale green morning room (it is exquisite; the decorators have just finished it), his body overwhelming the delicate furnishings. I remained in the cushioned window-seat next to Ruby, who had been startled from her afternoon nap.

  “You have lied to me for three days, and you want me to hold my tongue in front of the servants?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice level.

  “Not lied!” he thundered, slamming his hand onto the writing desk and sending scripts flying and a glass candlestick shattering to the ground.

  One of a set. I will never be able to match it, I thought irrelevantly, looking at the mess.

  “I never said she was to come here!” Hart said, stepping over the broken glass and loose papers. “You simply assumed.”

  “Ha,” I snorted. “Not lying is not the same as telling the truth.”

  “She won’t run again. I have seen to it.” His meaty pink face took on an air of self-satisfied complacency. I wanted to reach through the thicket of his smug reserve and shake the puffy pride from his fat features.

  “Meaning you gave her enough money so that she can drink herself silly and have no need to run away?” I threw the words at him like sharpened icicles. They hit their mark, and he crumpled into petulance. This was a dangerous course for me to take. Hart could not bear any slight to his pride, but this was the health of my family he was risking. I threw my rage onto the table and waited for his response.

  “I did not have to do anything for her,” he said brutally. “Or for you. You are not my wife. Be grateful I did as much as I did.”

  I did not respond, as there was nothing to say.

  Later

  Supper in my closet tonight. It is true. I am not his wife. But then, do I wish to be? I know what I do not wish—to be out there, where death walks hungrily through the town.

  Sunday, September 25, 1665

  Church was awkward. He pretends nothing was said, and I pretend … what do I pretend? I feel unravelled and adrift.

  Wednesday (raining)

  “Ellen, would you please ask Cook for lemon cake instead of cinnamon?” Hart asked when he met me on the stairs. It was the “please” that caught my attention. “I think it might be the cinnamon that has been upsetting my stomach.”

  “Your stomach? Do you not feel well?” I asked, surprised out of my reserve, as Hart rarely admits to frailty of any kind.

  “I have felt sincerely unwell of late,” he said, taking my hands and bringing them to his lips. “Sickened from missing you.”

  I have relented. Peace: if not passion, then peace.

  September 30—Hill House

  A lovely day. Tom Killigrew sent a box of new scripts (not that we will get to perform any of them soon), and we spent the day reading the parts aloud. Hart particularly enjoyed my Julius Caesar, complete with a tablecloth toga and a walking stick sword. We are both trying.

  When I Meet the Court

  October 1, 1665 (still warm)

  I have become a passionate gardener—well, student of the garden, anyway. It is lovely to s
pend afternoons in the quiet green. Hart takes my industry for contentment and is happier than ever.

  Foley, Hart’s man of all work, has been taking me after luncheon, and slowly, slowly, I am learning to tell the plants from one another—medicinal, flowering, fruiting, perennial, coniferous. Ruby is not impressed. She does not care for dirt. I work with Cook each morning, choosing the menus—although we often have surprise guests, so they tend to change. Still, it is something to do, something to ward off the devouring boredom of this house. Hart is all my safety, I keep reminding myself—trying to rein in my wandering heart.

  Note—Our neighbour in Drury Lane, Mrs. Gresham, writes from Warwickshire that her husband has died, leaving her alone with the three children. He died when he went back to town to find work. He never returned to the country but suffered his quarantine and sad end alone. She does not know where he is buried, as the city has stopped keeping records. I send up a quick prayer of thanks for the safety of my own family.