Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Undated

  Rose writes that Mother has been drunk for three weeks. Heigh-ho. Drunk but alive.

  After supper—nine p.m.

  Hart is called to Oxford to entertain the king! We leave tomorrow. What luck! Frantically packing.

  Can’t find: my violet embroidered dancing slippers, riding gloves, new dandelion-yellow hat with the grosgrain ribbon, veiled hat with the striped ribbon that needs replacing, my silver hairbrush, or my copy of Fitzherbert’s Guide to Husbandry. Hart can’t find his gold-tipped walking stick for town, his silver hairbrush, his good riding boots, or Dryden’s new manuscript—disaster: Dryden is travelling with us and will be so cross if it is left behind. Hart has asked Dryden particularly not to employ his new chicken-dung remedy for baldness during the journey.

  Later—after midnight

  Betsey had taken our brushes for polishing, my book was in the garden shed, and Dryden’s script was under the armchair. Must remember to…

  November 15, 1665—Oxford

  No idea what I was trying to remember. Life has finally settled down here. Betsey no longer gets lost on her way to the market. Hugh has found a man able to mend the coach wheel—the new coach wheel. Cook has ordered replacement pots from London, as these are not up to her standard, and Ruby has piddled on every tree in our garden—something Hart feels I should not allow: even his dog must show decorum. Some things can be taken to excess.

  Hart has yet to do much entertaining as the king is mostly entertained by Lady Castlemaine, but is regardless away all day with the court. I find it lovely to be in the city of my birth. Hart has rented a large house on Long-wall Street, very near Magdalen College, with its even quadrangle of golden stone. The house is light and airy and has an enormous, gracefully weeping willow tree in the garden.

  Grandfather remains in Farm Cottage by the river with Great-Aunt Margaret, who is bossy but good-hearted, but Rose and Mother have come to live with us here. I am quite strict and will not permit their ridiculous quarreling. Mother is difficult to manage, and I have taken to locking the pantry closets against her drinking, but I would rather her here than with Great-Aunt Margaret, who heartily and loudly disapproves of her. At least I know she will not try to return to London again. When she arrived in town, she passed Jane Smedley’s house and could hear her inside beating upon the red-crossed door, begging to be let out. Mother hurried past, unable to help. When next she passed the house, it was silent, the door hung with black ribbon.

  The news:

  Dr. Hodges, who bravely has stayed in London ministering to the sick, has introduced a new Virginian snake-root cure and is having some success! Hart has ordered some of the good doctor’s anise-and-angelica-root lozenges from town, also said to be effective against plague.

  I saw him. The king. He was standing at the edge of the duck pond, throwing crumbs: half for the ducks and half for the dogs. I did not notice him at first (he was wearing a great black curly wig), but then that swimmy, giddy feeling came over me when I recognised the long line of his back and the supple tilt of his head. Failing the courage to approach him, I stood in the shade and watched.

  November 20, 1665—Oxford

  Teddy is called to the king and has arrived full of news. He tells of a drunken bagpiper who, mistaken for a dead plague victim, was placed on the burial cart. When he awoke and began to play his pipes, everyone began to scream, taking him for the devil himself! Teddy says that grass grows on Whitehall, there is so little traffic in the streets. I, on the other hand, have no news, as I spend all of my time with my family or cooped up in this house—safe but crushingly dull.

  * * *

  “I am far too low-born and unimportant to be presented at court,” I told Teddy when he stopped by for lunch—luncheon at the court is too rowdy for his taste. The court seems all the more debauched in contrast to the sick and fearful citizenry.

  “But you are a great actress now!” he argued, wiping the honey water from his lips. “Anyway, what else is there to do here?”

  Not a lot.

  Later

  Hart, on the other hand, has not encouraged me to join the court. I try not to be resentful but find myself complaining to Teddy. Why should he want to keep me here?

  “Well away from the eyes of the king and his cronies,” says Teddy.

  “Piffle,” I say. The king is too wrapped up in Castlemaine, who is nearing her time, and la belle Stuart to take any notice of me, great actress or not.

  Teddy will brook no refusal and is taking me with him to court tomorrow!

  November 21, 1665—Oxford

  A glorious day!

  After Hart departed this morning, Teddy arrived with his box of paints and his magical trunk of shoes—shoes in all styles and sizes, of which he is a passionate collector. “Shoes are everything, Ellen,” he gravely instructs. “They ground and centre your ensemble. Now, we shall begin with the silver lace mules, although they might be a bit big. Perhaps the embroidered black? I bought them off Peg after her divine Desdemona two years ago. Pity Desdemona spends so much of that play in her nightie,” he clucked, unpacking his goodies.

  We settled on an apple-green gown with a wide pink sash, slim black slippers (“to cut the sweetness,” he says), and velvet ribbons woven through my curls instead of a hat. Teddy could not find a hat that suited.

  “Ribbons give you a fresh look, in any case,” he said thoughtfully. “Everyone will be wearing hats, and you will stand out.” He stood back to appraise his work. “Perfect!” he declared, twirling me about, sending my dress out in swirls of frothy green.

  “Make-up?” I asked, breathless, sitting down at my vanity table.

  “No,” he said, studying my reflection in the glass. “You look perfect as you are, with all that pinkness whipped into your cheeks.”

  Later—Longwall Street (late)

  They have such fun: games and entertainments and amusement all the day. The king (elegant in a soft grey surcoat) is relaxed and encourages an informal court. He also seems to wink at the lewd behaviour rampaging around him. He laughs at the bawdy jokes but, I noticed, does not make them himself and encourages outrageous flirting but does not join in. His manners are beautiful and his easy demeanour appears effortless, but I suspect is too consistent to be natural; I do not think anything is natural in this world. Castlemaine appeared tonight with a midnight-blue patch on her cheek depicting a galloping coach and four. Is there any part of her vast person she does not wish to decorate?

  Blind man’s bluff is la belle Stuart’s favourite game and thus their most frequent entertainment. When it is announced, she claps her hands, widens her eyes in childish wonder, and exhales a soft breath of contentment. The men stand enraptured, the king among them. It is silly game, and as far as I can tell only a pretext for courtiers to grab one another in places they shouldn’t—still, it is the favourite’s favourite, and so they all pretend to be enchanted.

  I kept to the edge of the lawn under a leafy horse-chestnut tree. All went well until Hart discovered me in the crowd, and his eyes bulged in anger.

  “Ellen! How could you! When I told you … And yet you still…” He was unable to finish his thoughts in his fury.

  I tried to speak soothingly to quiet him, but it was useless. He would not stop. Instead, he rounded on Teddy.

  “And you! You pansy! You brought her here! You knew I did not want it, and still you insisted. Just so you could play at dress-up!”

  Teddy just shrugged. “She was bored. Why should you have all the fun?” Hart’s face flushed with fresh rage, and he let out a steady stream of invectives. I was getting nervous. Hart was entirely capable of a public scene—he would never tolerate someone else creating one but was easily able to excuse his own. Teddy just wrinkled his nose at him as if he had smelled something distasteful but did not stoop to argue with him. Hart’s voice grew loud, louder than he intended, and others were noticing, but he persisted, deaf to my warnings. Hearing the ruckus, the king ambled over, startling Hart
.

  “Ellen!” he said warmly, as I dropped him a pretty curtsey. “Hart, how can you keep such a treasure at home?” he went on, raising me up. Hart looked uncomfortable but forced a horribly mechanical laugh.

  The king extended his arm and whirled me away for lawn games. I felt surprisingly comfortable and made the king laugh with my imitation of Henry Bennet’s laboured, breathy voice that he uses when he visits the tiring rooms. Henry Bennet gets very excited in the tiring rooms. “A jewel!” the king declared, and I am commanded to return tomorrow. I shot Hart a triumphant look, but there was no pleasure in my victory as he only looked like a wounded bear.

  Later

  He became a sulky bear the moment we arrived home. He ordered his supper to be brought to his closet and has refused to come out. In truth, I did not really mind. Teddy joined me for a cold chicken supper in the kitchen instead. A jewel. A jewel.

  December 1—Oxford (raining)

  Tonight:

  Billiards with Elizabeth and Teddy. I won two games but got red chalk on my new ivory gown. Rose will be furious. I secretly watch the well-born ladies of the court: how they sit and speak and move and eat. Teddy caught me watching.

  “I will never acquire such grace,” I confided, missing my shot.

  “Do you really want to?” he asked, sinking two. “You are unpredictable. You sparkle and others take notice. It is a different kind of grace. It is all your own.”

  It is certainly my own, whatever it is, but is it grace? Do other women worry incessantly over making mistakes, as I do? I am sure not. The washed-out, dainty women of the court flap and flutter and follow a set of unseen rules: who takes precedence over whom, when to sit, when to stand, how low to curtsey—endless. I try to keep to the background, but my noisy laugh has already drawn much attention, and although men and women alike profess to love it, I cannot help but feel like a wild girl who has stumbled into an unfamiliar land.

  December 10—Oxford

  A wild girl, perhaps, but one who is having a wonderful time! Life has become a whirlwind of theatricals, games, suppers, treasure hunts, and parties. I am boisterous and no longer mindful of my rougher ways. I can make others laugh, and it sets me apart from the great sheep herd of squeaky, moonfaced, giggling women.

  Castlemaine, too, stands out—speaking her mind loudly and loosely, uncaring of decorum. The queen is distinguished by her gracious demeanour. Although it is said that she passionately loves her husband and despises Castlemaine, her placid expression and regal bearing never betray her. She is at the heart of this court and yet keeps much to herself.

  Hart vacillates between extraordinary pride in my popularity and a fierce possessiveness that results in petulance—very trying.

  I still cannot get used to the sight of the king, and my soul dissolves into a million bumble-bees at his approach. I sometimes wonder if he can hear me buzzing.

  I am called to dance!

  Later

  This company seems to exist without sleep! We stay up until three, and then some rise again with the king at six for his customary exercise—walking and swimming and tennis—and then he spends hours in his laboratory, preparing experiments for his beloved Royal Society. I do not have such stamina and, after a late night, sleep through most of the morning. People are kind—kinder than I would expect to one such as me. Only yesterday, the Duke of Buckingham came to find me.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said. “We are about to begin the dancing, and you must allow me to partner you for the sarabande. It is imperative.”

  This is how they speak—dramatically. I have become known for my light dancing and my small feet, and courtiers often make such requests of me. Tonight, Buckingham asked again, and off we went. Hart, who was partnering Beth Howard, looked unhappy when he saw us take our places at the top of the figure, as did Buckingham’s dumpy little duchess, Mary Fairfax. I caught Hart’s eye and smiled at him down the line of dancers, but he turned his head away.

  I never see Rose, as she is not part of these exalted circles, but I understand from Harry Killigrew, recently back from Paris, that she enjoys friendships with several young men of the court. Friendships conducted well away from this glittering golden world. Friendships that keep her away from home for days at a time.

  Note—Reports from London indicate the plague is in retreat. God be thanked. Finally, there is mercy for our city. Rose sewed a pale blue ribbon on my ivory gown to cover the chalk marks. An improvment, I think.

  Undated

  Rose flirts with the young men and, what with the new ensembles Hart has bought for her (hats, slippers, and cloth: three shades of taffeta and one of moiré for new gowns), has risen somewhat above her station and more or less left her profession for the moment. Nevertheless, her reputation still clings to her. As I fear it will always cling. Hart is being an angel and endures my wayward family with grace. It is all for love of me. I am finding affection again, and surprised by how much it pleases me.

  Note—Castlemaine actually tried to lead off the dancing tonight instead of the queen! The queen just gently nodded to the musicians, signalling them to stop playing! Happy to oblige her, they stopped at once, and Castlemaine was left to dance without music. The queen did not stay to gloat but led the court off to the gaming tables. I admire her enormous pluck.

  December 28, 1665—Oxford

  Castlemaine gave birth to a son today, at her lodgings in Merton College. The whole court circles around her in her joy, and she revels gaudily in the attention. If only she wouldn’t gloat so. The childless queen must be so lonely tonight.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, February 4, 1666

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 216

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  Londoners,

  The king is returned to Whitehall, and the dreaded sickness is in full flight. Our poor bedraggled city will revive, my dears. The list of whom we lost is too long to count, but they shall be remembered, by each and every one of us. Most solemnly. God has at last shown mercy to our fair city, and we are most humbly grateful to receive his blessing. Amen.

  À bientôt, brave friends,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  TO OUR SISTER, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  FEBRUARY 1, 1666

  I left Hampton Court this morning and arrived at Whitehall in time for luncheon (late). Already the plague is, in effect, nothing, although our women are still terrified. Catherine and Castlemaine both stayed behind in Oxford (an uncomfortable pairing, I know, but what to do in time of crisis?). Castlemaine’s new son is well made and sucking strongly. Perhaps this time Catherine can … Pray for us.

  Affectionately and forever your,

  Charles

  Note—Have you heard the rumour that the plague is God’s judgement upon my unruly court? If God wanted to punish me, why would he inflict sickness upon the lowest among us? Not logical.

  And another—Exciting developments in the Royal Society. The artery of a small mastiff was joined by a quill to the vein of a spaniel (not one of mine), and then another of the spaniel’s veins was opened to allow the equivalent amount of blood. The mastiff sadly bled to death, but a week later the spaniel is still thriving. In time, perhaps such practices can be used to revitalise people instead of the abhorrent practice of bleeding an already weakened patient. A report is being prepared to send to King Louis, as I know he shares my passion for the anatomical sciences.

  February 19, 1666—London!

  We are returned! Mother elected to stay in Oxford for another month, as the house is leased through March, and Grandfather has chosen to stay on to look after Great-Aunt Margaret, who has been poorly this winter, but Hart and I are back! The court has slowly been filtering in this week, and the queen (whom I have never spoken to but who seems so dignified and sweet) returned to Whit
ehall yesterday.

  London is a sad shade of itself. Many of the houses and shops are boarded up, and grass does grow in the streets. A young family is living in Jane Smedley’s house. We no longer know our neighbours; so many have moved away or … There are only two options these days: moved away or … They say officially that one in five Londoners died, although I have heard the figure was closer to one in three. Everyone knows someone … lost someone. Lizzie lost her father-in-law; Elizabeth lost her sister and aunt. From the theatre, we lost: Daniel, our doorkeeper; two stagehands; one of the dray horses (not from plague, of course); Mary, the wig mistress; and Sue, our charwoman. I think the Duke’s only lost Paul, their lamplighter. The plague pits, just beyond the city, are shallow and full. Oh London, what have you been through?

  Tom is recalling everyone, as the Lord Chamberlain is thought to be reopening the theatres this week. Nick should arrive tonight. Teddy travelled down with us. We are, all of us, ready to laugh.