Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Your dirty secret is out, my darling,” Rochester teased, sitting down at my slim-legged dressing table. “You are a free woman, and all of London is waiting with bated breath to see who you will choose.”

  Sedley drew in a huge breath and held it to make his point. I ignored him. In the mirror I saw Kitty surreptitiously tug down her bodice to catch their attention.

  “Well, it cannot be you, you randy reprobate,” I threw back at Rochester, hurrying to finish my laces.

  “No, alas, I have entered that glorious temple of matrimonial bliss, never to emerge again,” he said in saintly tones, eyes pointed heavenward. Johnny finally married Elizabeth Malet, his captive heiress—much to their mutual delight, it is said.

  I looked at my friend, and in truth he was glowing beneath his unruffled façade.

  “Give him a month and he’ll be on the prowl again,” predicted Sedley, blowing out his cheeks and picking up various cosmetic pots, scattering powder hither and yon.

  Ruby, snuggled in her basket on the floor, promptly sneezed.

  “Do stop touching things you do not understand.” I took the pot away from him. “I am so pleased for you, Johnny. It is like a fairy-tale,” I said, tying the last of my laces and checking my face in the mirror—my cheeks were flushed pink, not enough powder, but heigh-ho.

  “Ah, fairy stories,” said Savile. “Keep in mind that they are peopled with witches and dragons and trolls and mean big-footed stepsisters and evil queens—”

  “And kings for that matter,” added Sedley absently. “Actually, the kings are more often careless, rather than evil, come to think of it,” he went on to no one in particular.

  “In short, beware of romance and royalty,” summed up Johnny, pinching my cheek and giving me a meaningful look—why? “We must eat,” he continued lightly. “I am ravenous and I’ve heard reported that I tend to go into a killing rage when vexed by hunger.” The rumours about Johnny are always astounding.

  We left by the side door and headed for the Bear Tavern. They serve the best pidgeon pie in London. I choose to believe in fairy-tales, I thought, walking alongside the three greatest cynics of our age. Funny, I’ll bet Johnny does, too.

  April 1667—Will’s Coffee-house (warm)

  Shocking gossip:

  La belle Stuart has run away from court and eloped with the Duke of Richmond! He is said to be handsome but somewhat simple (sounds an ideal match for her), has been widowed twice, and has an excellent income. The Earl of Clarendon supposedly helped her to arrange it. When the king confronted her, she challenged him that the duke could offer her the honourable state of matrimony—could he offer her such a thing? How could he deride her choice? The king is said to be in a terrible temper, and Castlemaine openly gloating. I hope it is a true romance. A fairy-tale, indeed!

  May 24—Theatre Royal

  Dryden has written me a brilliant part. Florimel (not a name I care for, but heigh-ho) is a mad, mad girl. She is tricked with sparkle and wit and a carnival heart. It is a huge role, and I am never off the stage. Daunting, but I refuse to be daunted. Unfortunately, it is only one of three plays we are putting on in the next fortnight. I have taken to memorizing scripts during meals, while I walk, and in the bath. Quel glamour, as Teddy would say. Hart plays Celadon (a name I do quite care for), and together we are sparring lovers who (bless Dryden’s tact) choose not to marry but instead remain mistress and gallant. It is getting easier to play opposite Hart, but I do not think I could bear to marry him again onstage.

  I spend part of the play disguised as a boy and in breeches. Quel glamour, indeed. What freedom! What fun! I can dance and dance, loose-legged and free. I become a naughty forest elf in breeches, neither man nor woman, just a small wild spirit. No idea what comes over me.

  Note—Johnny Rochester came to the tiring rooms this evening with Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. He cut a carelessly elegant figure with his thickly waved blond hair (his own—very handsome); his silver-trimmed, sage-green coat, and the rows and rows of expensive lace at his wrists (expensive but dusty—he is not careful with his cuffs like other men, but then I suppose he can always afford new ones). Unlike most men who come back to the tiring rooms, he did not fixate on the women undressing, nor drown me in empty compliments. Everything he says is sharp and pointy and aimed to provoke—a wicked tongue (forked, no doubt—must remember to check).

  TUNBRIDGE WELLS, ENGLAND

  TO OUR SISTER, THE DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  Minette,

  You may think me ill-natured, but if you consider how hard it is to swallow an injury done by a person for whom I have such tenderness, you may begin to understand my distress. The resentment I bear towards her matches the depth of my affection. If you were as acquainted with the fantastical little gentleman called Cupid as I am, you would neither wonder nor take ill at any change in affairs in his keeping.

  It is true that the idea of divorce has been much on my mind. Only Catherine’s inevitable wretchedness at such a separation, and the satisfaction this course of action will bring to her detractors, has thus far stopped me. And yet I tell you, Frances may have been worth it. Her unassailable virtue and her simple sweetness have driven me mad with wanting. I am sorry to be so blunt, but who else can I tell? If only she were to become ugly and undesirable and I could possess her without rivalry. The business has made me miserable.

  All love as I am your,

  Charles

  May 30—Will’s Coffee-house

  “Oh, my dear, astonishing news,” Teddy announced over our usual coffee and toast. “He’s done it.” Teddy’s breath was coming in brief, noisy bursts.

  “Done what?” I asked absently. I was trying to read yesterday’s smudged news sheet describing the queen happily frolicking at Tunbridge Wells in boy’s clothes—she seems to also undergo a magical woodland transformation in breeches. How chic. Despite all the rumours, there seems to be no hint of divorce for the royal couple, although it is said he would have thrown over the queen and married Frances Stuart. Well, if he would have done it, why didn’t he? People are so confident of what they would have done once they no longer have the chance. I think he had a lucky escape, frankly. The queen’s famed gentleness will only refine in time, whereas Frances’s shrill sweetness will rot the teeth. She is such a pedantically predictable woman; his passion is mystifying. I returned from my reverie to see Teddy nervously fidgeting with his breakfast.

  “Yes, Teddy?” I prompted. “What has Hart done now?” Hart’s behaviour had been so erratic of late and his temper increasingly short since I broke with him.

  “Hart, your Hart, has been…” He crumbled his toast, unsure how to proceed.

  “He is not my Hart.” I gritted my teeth against the inevitable pun.

  “Your erstwhile Hart? Well, he has been frequenting Castlemaine’s bed, and now the newshounds have it.” Teddy finally got in out all in one breath and then slumped in relief.

  “Castlemaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Castlemaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Do you mind, dearest?” Teddy delicately wiped his fingers on a napkin and took my hand with concern.

  “Since when?”

  Teddy shrugged as if to say, Does it matter when? Obviously, he has known for some time—therefore, their affair has been going on for some time. When…?

  “No, no,” I said automatically, collecting my thoughts. “But she—”

  “Yes I know, just out of childbed. Tacky, really. Goodness, she has energy.”

  “I am pleased for him,” I heard myself say, offering empty words, as if from a distance. Hart and Castlemaine? My Hart? His Castlemaine? Did I mind?

  Later—Drury Lane

  I am startled, surely. But do I mind? I probe the thought like a bruise, searching for the answering pain. No, I do not believe I do. I feel free.

  June 5—Theatr
e Royal

  I feel Hart’s eyes upon me. Do I know? Have I heard? Do I care? The theatre is full of whispers. I am made stronger by his shame.

  Later—Theatre Royal (after the show)

  Humming in the hallways, I keep encountering Hart. Tonight, I laughed aloud for no reason. Everyone turned to look.

  June 5, 1667

  Farm Cottage, Oxford

  Dearest Ellen,

  Great-Aunt Margaret is still weak but improving. Her foot stubbornly refuses to heal, but she is quite adept at manoeuvring on her crutch, and of course an absolute master at ordering people about, so I think she can manage without me for a few days. Your vague and infrequent letters have me worried. If they do not improve in volume and content, you shall have to suffer a visit from your old grandfather, who misses his granddaughter terribly.

  All my dearest love,

  Grandfather

  June 7—Will’s Coffee-house

  All the talk is of Mistress Mary “Moll” Davis, my rival at the Duke’s House. She sings her pathetic song “My Lodging, It Is on the Cold, Cold Ground” and then, to prove her point, curls into a weary little ball and sleeps on the stage. Somehow, at the end of the play she is revived sufficiently to dance a gigue in her breeches, à la myself. Everyone is comparing us: she has a superior voice, but I am the better dancer; she is all lush curves, and I am wand thin; she is a buttery blonde, while I am a pert, intelligent redhead; she looks well in yellow, while I … enough!

  Note—Although I would love a visit from Grandfather, I fear now is not the time. He will sense the distance between Hart and myself and only grow more anxious for my happiness. As well, life in Drury Lane is wretched. Mother lives only on the money I provide and no longer goes out, except to buy drink.

  Later—the Duke’s House (The Rivals, how fitting)

  It being our night off, Teddy and I sneaked off to watch this famous Mistress Davis. We were careful to go in disguise and had a roaring good time dressing up. Teddy went as a woman, naturally. He got to wear his lovely yellow silk gown—the one he wore as Juliet (he fretted over the tear in the sleeve and blames Becka, naturally). He looks lovely in yellow. I chose a starlight blue gown and matching wide-brimmed hat. The dark veil utterly concealed my face. Thus transformed, we hired a hackney and set out in the rain.

  Slipping in after the first act, we took seats in the middle gallery, close enough to see but not to be seen. Teddy was grumpy as he prefers either the pit or a good box—money spent on anything else is nonsense. She entered, lonely and forlorn, and sang her sad little song. It is affecting and she sings well enough, but with such sticky sweetness that I found her irritating. Her breeched dancing was pleasant, but she is quite plump and did not convey a sense of delicacy. I think it takes rather a lot to heave her considerable bulk off the ground. Goodness, how mean I am. Teddy enjoyed the dressing up much more than the play. I think he was disappointed that no one recognised us.

  ST. CLOUD, FRANCE

  TO HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS

  JUNE 10, 1667

  My dear,

  It is only the not having that has driven you mad—and not the object of desire herself. While she is undoubtedly a beautiful girl, and unusual in her determined virtue, she is not singular in her qualities. It is her refusal that sets her apart—and her refusal that inflames your desire. Understand your own character with greater nuance and perception, and you can free yourself from this unhappy tangle.

  Do not be angry with her, dearest. Even if you had divorced Catherine and married her, she still would only have been one among many in your affections; your heart is a well-populated country. As one man’s wife, she has a chance to be loved alone. It is what every woman wants, and you are incapable of giving it. It is a strange truth.

  With love, your,

  Minette

  When I Take a Great Risk

  June 30—Theatre Royal (Flora’s Vagaries, again)

  The last performance! Done for the season! To celebrate, Teddy, Lacy, Nick, Peg, and I went to Chatelin’s for a lovely roast supper. We were met by Rochester, Etheredge, Buckhurst, and Sedley—Buckingham could not join us, Johnny explained, as he was only recently out of hiding and currently enjoying a short stay in the Tower. They say that on his way to the Tower, he stopped for luncheon at the Sun Tavern in Bishopsgate and dined with Buckhurst and Lord Carbery.

  “Yes, he stopped for lunch, but no, I was not with him,” Buckhurst corrected. “Carbery might have been—I’ve no idea.”

  “Damned persistent story, that,” added Sedley, helping himself to more of the stewed pheasant and smacking his lips in anticipation. “I’ve heard it several places.”

  “Seems silly of him to stop at a mean pub on his way to the Tower,” Rochester observed, “‘specially when he has Louis, his own French cook, lodged with him.”

  “Mmm,” said Peg, “Louis has wonderful hands—very light pastry.”

  “He took a staff?” I asked, incredulously. “To prison?”

  “Naturally,” said Rochester. “Can’t manage there without a staff. Every time I go, I have to pack up the whole bloody house. Pots, pans, pets, coverlets, servants … It’s a bloody nightmare.”

  The “merry mob,” Lacy calls them. Buckhurst watched me all evening, not bothering to conceal his interest. He has a tendency to keep remarkably quiet and then say the most shocking things. I admit, I find him fascinating, but frightening, too, like looking over the edge of a high precipice. These rowdy boys have taken a house together in the country and have tried to recruit me to join their party.

  “Come away to Epsom! Let us leave foul London behind!” crowed Rochester, waving about his dripping cup and sending wine all over his new blond wig (he switched over this week from dark—doesn’t quite work). Peg quickly moved her skirts out of the way, but her pink silk slippers got splashed. Teddy’s forehead crumpled in mild distaste; he dislikes messy eaters.

  “The fresh country air, the spa, the music, the parties, the dancing!” Sedley sang, his eyes closed, his head lolling about—he was already quite drunk.

  “Not to mention the bathing!” Etheredge chimed in. “The bathing is wonderful.” Etheredge is a notorious fanatic for cleanliness and is always catching cold on account of his wet, clean hair.

  “Let’s be drunk for the summer!” Rochester said, shaking the droplets of wine from his curls. As if he would be sober in London?

  “Yes! Let us away tonight!” crowed Sedley, pouring another glass of wine (his fourth).

  “I will give you one hundred pounds a year to be my mistress,” said Buckhurst evenly, never taking his eyes from my face, his expression never changing, folding his hands calmly in his lap. Did anyone else hear that? I turned to look, but no, they were all chatting away as usual.

  One hundred pounds? A fortune. Could he be serious?

  July 5, 1667

  My dearest Mrs. Gwyn,

  Please have your things packed and ready by eleven a.m. tomorrow, at the very latest. My coachman Harris will be prompt and convey you to me with all speed.

  It is fate. I have decided. You are to be mine.

  Buckhurst

  July 5, 1667—Drury Lane

  How do I respond to such a letter? I find myself packing my trunk. But I know nothing of this man! Ruby is puzzled and looks at me expectantly from her travelling basket. Are we going away? her puggy eyes ask.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday July 13, 1667

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 265

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  Darlings!

  What news, my pets! From orange girl to actress to Epsom? The loveliest little songbird of the Theatre Royal has flown the coop. To Epsom, of all places. What will dear Tommy Killigrew do? Will she come back? A very reliable source whispered to me that she has returned all her parts
for next season and plans to give up the stage for good. Can it be true? Dommage! Dommage! Never fear, she will be kept well amused. The most dashing of the court wits have flown away with her: The Earl of Rochester, the Duke of Buckingham, and Charles Sedley—not to mention her current amour Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, perhaps the rakiest rake of them all. Au revoir, dearest Nelly. Fly home to us soon!

  À bientôt, dearests,

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  July 16, 1667

  Maiden Lane, London

  Ellen,

  I am at a loss to see how you could possibly justify your actions. To leave London in the company of such men is beneath you, Ellen. They are wits to be sure, but they are not men of strong character. Beyond issues of decorum, how could you depart this city and not inform me? Do you not know how deeply I care for your well-being? I am astounded at your effrontery and wounded by your wont of care.

  Hart

  July 18, 1667

  Maiden Lane, London

  Dearest Ellen,