by Priya Parmar
“Yes,” I said, amused.
“Do you dance and sing?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
She sucked in her breath sharply, considering this important information. “I love to dance and sing. May I be an actress?” she asked, turning to her mother.
Her mother laughed a throaty, rich laugh. “No, precious, daughters of kings do not go on the stage.”
Hearing his daughter’s voice, the king broke away from his conversation with Lord Arlington and joined our unlikely trio.
“What’s this?” he asked his daughter. “Up so late?”
“I thought Your Majesty would enjoy our daughter’s company on such a lovely evening.” Castlemaine said sweetly, with a sly hint of warning.
The king frowned. “I think it is time for bed, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to Charlotte.
She bobbed him a miniature curtsey good night, and her nurse stepped forward to whisk her off to bed.
“One a.m., madam?” the king said quietly.
Just then I heard la belle Stuart’s peal of laughter, and the king’s head swivelled round like a dog hearing his master’s call.
Without waiting for Castlemaine’s response, the king moved off into the crowd to find her. I looked at Castlemaine, who had forgotten my presence. Single-minded absorption played across her face. For a moment she dropped the careful masque of the unruffled first mistress and looked like an irritated fishwife.
Later in the big bed at Maiden Lane I considered the evening. I am flattered by Castlemaine’s attention, but find it unsettling, too. I cannot think what has possessed her to take me up. It might be because I am a particular friend of her cousin, George Buckingham. It might be because very rarely the king smiles and winks at me (twice in the last month!), although Hart makes sure never to leave us alone together. Hard to fathom Castlemaine’s motives—all I truly know is that they are not without calculation.
Note—Mr. Williamson, who publishes the London Gazette, wrote a scathing article defending the king. He said His Majesty would never consider profiting from the disaster, and shame on anyone who would think he would. Bravo!
November 17, 1666—Theatre Royal!
The theatres are reopened! Yet Hart does not seem pleased. How the audience has missed us. It is delicious to play for them again, and they are frantic in their adoration. They howl with delight and thunder their applause. It can be frightening.
Note—Women are still wearing the fashionable long trains of last season; Mrs. Kendall’s was petal pink, for God’s sake. It seems lunacy in this city of dust and dirt and reconstruction. They are trailing London mud all over the carpets—the new carpets Tom bought for the refurbishment. Tom hopes this horrid fashion will go away soon.
December 8, 1666—Maiden Lane (rainy and muddy)
A whole week off—heaven. We have on Beaumont and Fletcher’s The Maid’s Tragedy (dull and long) at the moment. Becka is playing Evadne, and I must say, she does do it well. Poor Teddy is mourning the loss of that part. Evadne was his favourite. “It was my best,” he said wistfully this morning over coffee and toast. “Better than my Epicoene, better than my Juliet … Ahem, Ellen!”
“What?” I said, surprised, looking up from my script—I am Becka’s understudy, and I am nowhere with my lines.
“Better than my Juliet?” he repeated, waving his toast for emphasis. “And then you say…?”
“I didn’t see it. I was too young.”
“Ellen!” he shrieked.
“No, Teddy, nothing has ever been better than your Juliet,” I placated, hiding my smile behind my coffee cup.
“Thank you,” he said graciously. “Becka, that thundering trollop, has no business in my roles—or my gowns. My yellow silk, she wore last night—the gossamer sleeves were perfection,” he moaned. “I’m sure she has ruined them with her beefy appendages.”
I laughed. Even if Becka turned in a flawless performance, Teddy would find fault. Thank heaven I am spared such critique. I do not want that part—even with yellow gossamer sleeves—and I could not bear to play another lamentable death scene. I happily leave it to the Marshall sisters.
Nick is cast opposite, so Teddy has the week off as well. We have been running about like truant children, gaming and dancing and dicing. Hart disapproves, naturally. I try my best to keep it from him, but he hears about it anyway; it is not the servants but the gossip sheets that give me away. Damn Ambrose Pink, whoever he may be. The theatre is a hotbed of gossip. Hart’s temper is growing, and I fear I shall never make him happy. If I am honest, I will admit that I have less and less of a heart to try.
6.
Independent Ellen
When My Heart Is Troubled
Tuesday, December 18, 1666—Theatre Royal (snow!)
Back in the harness. We are doing The English Monsieur again—and are receiving a wonderful response. London is so ready to laugh after all she has been through this twelvemonth. Parties every night and dancing to dawn, followed by a light cooked breakfast in the morning.
“You cannot keep up this pace, Ellen,” Johnny Rochester told me this morning, yawning. We had not yet been to bed. “Eventually, you will have to go home.”
I want to dance and dance and never go back to Maiden Lane, I thought ungratefully.
Note—Castlemaine spoke to me at Lady Jemimah’s this evening—strangely, I keep finding myself on the most extraordinary guest lists. “You brighten a room,” Teddy says. “Having you there pulls an evening together.” Odd, as I feel as though I stand out terribly in such company. Anyway, Castlemaine was determined to ensnare me in yet another of her inane conversations about toilette. I find her rapid shifts in tone and volume baffling—shrill and sing-songy when she speaks to women, and then throaty and husky when she speaks to men. I suppose she thinks the throatiness is alluring, but it just sounds like she needs to take a cough mixture. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, I looked to Teddy for rescue, but he was too busy admiring her shoes. Teddy loathes men’s shoes, not that his delicate, beribboned high-heeled confections look much like men’s shoes.
For lack of imagination, I found myself answering truthfully and pointing out that, yes, she wears too much lip paint and, yes, it does age her. She looked startled, not expecting that response, but if she does not want the answer, then she should learn not to ask the question. At least it ended the gruesome interview.
Wednesday, December 19—Theatre Royal (still The English Monsieur)
I am furious!
We were in the middle of the reconciliation scene when Hart (playing Wellbred) left the script entirely. I am quite accustomed to small adjustments everywhere, but when the time came for Hart to ask me to be his wife, he skipped the line completely. Thinking it an honest omission, I covered and proposed to him (most untraditionally—but then these are untraditional characters), and he declined! Dumbfounded, I responded tartly, “Well, that suits me, because as you well know I make a most suitable mistress.” The audience roared, roundly enjoying the inside joke, but Hart flushed angry red and was most discomfited by my bold reply. How dare he! I will not be shamed by him!
Note—Tom was in the house and thought the script change was brilliant. Now we must perform it like this every night. Torture! I told him if that were the case he must raise my salary by twenty shillings, and he agreed!
WHITEHALL, LONDON
TO OUR SISTER, THE MADAME OF FRANCE
FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II
DECEMBER 23, 1666
Happy Christmas, my dear sister,
Spending the Christmas season at Whitehall, again. I had hoped to be at Windsor or Greenwich (the new palace is coming along splendidly!), but it was not to be. I am overseeing the rebuilding, and alas, that means I must be near the rebuilding, and what noisy rebuilding it is. With all the talk of who might have started the fire—the Dutch, the Catholics, the Quakers—I have finally unmasked the culprit: the stonemasons. It must be! For th
ey are profiting from this disaster like none other.
I have finally come to understand the impossibility of implementing the modern city of my dreams. My Londoners are hell-bent on re-creating the cramped, overcrowded city of the past. It would require too much organisation, and certainly too much compensation to build the wide-avenued stone city I desire. Instead of neat, pleasantly laid-out squares, with communal gardens for all to enjoy, they want to fence in their hard-won little patch of earth. I do understand it. Time was when I, too, wanted only a small patch of earth all my own. Do you often think of those lean, desperate years? They seem so very far away now. The only benefit was seeing you often, my dear. Kiss your children for me.
I am ever your,
Charles
December 25—Christmas (frost)
Hart and I live like strangers. His anger grows apace with my success. I hardly recognise us—he is so tightly strung, and at this point I am uncaring of his discomfort. It is cruel, but I do feel as though I have tried every remedy to jolly him into mirth without success, so now I do my best to ignore it, which is a coarse solution and naturally only makes it worse. Tonight, we are going to the Duke’s House to see Macbeth (bad luck to say, turn around three times and spit), our own house being closed for Christmas. I ordered a new lilac moiré suit and a grey velvet coat especially, perfect with my new silver lace slippers. As I paid for it myself, Hart could not complain about the expense. Rose patterned the gown and Madame Leonine designed the coat, and I was pleased with all the results. Rose’s skill is growing, and I am often directing ladies to her for similar designs. I am pleased, as dressmaking is a skill that improves with age, while her other profession…
It (I’m not saying it again) is a ferociously menacing play and hardly in the spirit of Christmas joy, but I held my tongue as I did not want Hart to change his mind and decide we should stay here. We almost never go out together anymore, and he refuses to entertain at home. I should be happy for us to spend time alone, but instead I find it wearing and miserable. In company Hart is attentive and solicitous of my well-being. As soon as we are alone, I am invisible and he is foul-tempered. Betsey has made up the white bedroom for me.
December 29—Midnight
“Ellen, are you awake?” Ruby poked her head out from under the covers at the sound of Hart’s voice. He considers it ruinous to allow a dog to sleep in the bed, but I love her small sturdy warmth. I opened my eyes just enough to see him standing in the doorway holding a candle aloft, peering into my new room. It is smaller and quite cheery and looks over the garden. “I only thought if you are awake”—he continued awkwardly—“perhaps you two would like to come back to our room. Ellen, are you awake?”
I did not stir nor respond. I dread returning to his bedroom, with his heavy masculine furniture and oppressive presence. Ruby settled back down beside me, and eventually Hart closed the door. I listened to his retreating footsteps. How can I refuse him? But then, how can I consent? Comfortable or no, I must leave this house. If the baby had lived … but she didn’t.
ST. GERMAIN, FRANCE
TO KING CHARLES II
FROM LE ROI LOUIS XIV
The common loss we have had over the death of your sister’s son, our nephew, the Duc de Valois, touches us both so closely that the only difference in our mutual grief is that mine began a few days sooner than yours.
Louis
OXFORD, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1, 1667
My Minette,
Oh, my dear. I have just this minute had word—your son. I cannot bear to think of the pain this must cause your heart. I had to write to you, to tell you that I am thinking of you. There is nothing to say but that I will be praying for his soul and for yours.
Charles
When I Run Away
January 15, 1667—Drury Lane
I have done it. Hart and I can no longer live under the same roof. I am returned to Drury Lane. The house feels small and shabby, but here I am, beholden to no one. I miss Betsey, Hugh, Cook, and the ease of Maiden Lane, but I could not endure the constant suspicion and jealousy. In the last weeks, Hart had taken to interrogating Hugh as to my whereabouts and searching my dressing room for imagined love notes—I have had to carry this journal with me always—insufferable. Hart sends sad letters now, begging for my return, but I can never go back. I could not breathe in that pretty prison, and in my heart I know that his suspicions were grounded in fact. I do want truer love than what we shared. All my protestations (ever more fervent) were dishonest. I care deeply for his happiness, but I care for him as my friend and guardian, not as a lover. I grew up in his bed and can thank him for all my present success and security, but I cannot offer him my heart in return. I wish that I could, but I have tried and I have failed.
We have told no one of our separation and painfully maintain our relationship in public. “The public is not prepared for our dissolution,” Hart says plaintively, asking for more time. “Please come back to me.”
I do not care two figs for the public’s concern over my private life, but these matters of appearance affect him deeply. It is the least I can do for him. Ruby misses Hart terribly and is confused in our new home.
Note—Johnny is trying to win his abducted heiress again. Let us hope he does not wind up in the Tower. I hope someone ends up finding a true love.
January 29, 1667
London
To Mistress Elizabeth Malet,
She yields, she yields—pale Envy said “Amen!”
The first of women to the last of men.
Marry me.
Ever yours,
John Rochester
February 2, 1667—Theatre Royal (my seventeenth birthday)
Whispers:
Everyone knows now, but no one speaks openly of our separation. Hart threw me a magnificent birthday party tonight. There was music and dancing and heaps of beautifully wrapped presents.
“I cannot accept them,” I told him sadly.
“You must,” he told me firmly.
“I won’t.” Ruby and I went home to Drury Lane.
February 7, 1667—Drury Lane (early)
This morning, early, before rehearsals, Teddy hurtled in with a copy of the Gazette tucked under his arm. He was wearing his new ladybird-red waistcoat, and it suits him well, although his normally coiffed hair was disordered and his delicate cheeks splotched with colour.
“You must,” he puffed … He had been running, and he is not accustomed to running. “You must … read this,” he panted, thrusting the news sheet at me.
I scanned the page. “What?”
“Here! Here!” He jabbed the paper. “Look, it is Becka!” And there was a brief but astonishing article: “Mrs. Rebecca Marshall, having been attacked with a turd outside the Theatre Royal last night, is suing for ‘protection and justice for the future.’ “
“Becka…?” Disbelieving, for Becka was generally quite popular, I quickly scanned down the page. “In the face?” Good God.
“And the hair!” Teddy gasped. “It is fantastic! It is genius!” gasped Teddy, who has never liked the Marshall sisters.
Later—Theatre Royal
Teddy has not stopped giggling all day. I have caught cold and cannot stop sneezing.
Note—Two Dutch ships sunk, and one of ours fired. Absurd waste! After all we have lost recently, why do we risk more? As a country we should be united, peaceful, and constructive—not unheeding of our mistakes and bent on a course that has never suited us.
Later—Drury Lane
My cold has gotten worse. Mother consulted Grandfather’s volume of Culpeper’s English Physician, now worn with use.
“Wintergreen or willow tree juice, for fever,” she said, turning the pages. “And lungwort for your cough. You could line your boots with tansy leaves, but we haven’t got any. I’m sure Mr. Hart has—”
“No, Mother. I’ll stop at the apothecary tomorrow.”
“But Mr. Hart could—”
“No.”
February 14—St. Valentine’s Day
We opened Flora’s Vagaries today. I play the jade Flora. She is strong-willed and fickle and constant only in her own self-interest. Yet she is loveable and full of mischief as well. She is parts of myself, I admit.
The audience have made me their own. They seem to love my rougher edges and wilder ways. Is that really me? The edges of my self are getting fuzzy. They call out the name they have given me and cheer for me as the curtain comes down. It is an intoxicating thing to feel their love. It keeps me strong. It keeps me safe. No man can take this from me. Hart watches me from the wings. His expression unreadable.
Note—My cold has improved. Mother suggested blood-letting, but I believe it weakens rather than strengthens me—a lunatic opinion, as far as Mother is concerned.
When I Enjoy My Merry Mob
February 23—Theatre Royal (Flora’s Vagaries)
Johnny Rochester, Henry Savile, a hearty raw-boned sort of man whom Rochester obviously adores, and Lord Sedley came to the tiring rooms after the performance this evening:
I was changing out of my Flora costume and into my new taffy-pink gown with the soft belled sleeves, ruinously expensive but so pretty, when they sauntered through the door, taking no notice of the other players in varying states of undress.
