by Priya Parmar
I am lost without you. Please return to me.
Your,
Hart
July 19, 1667
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London
Dear Ellen,
I know you have heard the rumours of Hart and Lady Castlemaine and can only imagine that they sowed the seeds of your departure. I must tell you, as your friend, that yes, they are true, but Hart would welcome you back without hesitation if that were what you chose, although I fear it is not your desire.
For myself, I miss your merry presence and harbour a hope that you will return to us for the coming season. The audience loves you, as does the company, as do I. Teddy is quite forlorn. Please advise me of your intentions as the autumn season has been built around you. I am coming to Epsom and will take this opportunity to call upon you. I hope you are well, my dear. Cecilia sends her best. You are in our thoughts.
Yours, etc.…
Tom
P.S.: Please forgive my brevity and my forthrightness. I look upon you as my daughter and take a profound interest in your happiness and welfare.
July 25, 1667—Epsom
I look around me and cannot quite believe what I have done. I am writing this in a room strewn with wine bottles, dirty clothes, coffee cups, overturned books, and slumbering men. No one managed to make it up to their bedrooms last night, and everyone seemed to have slept where they fell. Ruby picks her way among the debris, unimpressed with my choice of habitat. She has a point. What have I done?
We live in a rented house next to the King’s Head, and Buckhurst, Sedley, Rochester and I stay up all the night dicing, talking, and (they) drinking. I have not the head for such strong spirits. It is merry company but strange. Buckhurst treats me as a sister. He is playful and affectionate but only seldom comes to my bed. I do not feel I am getting to know him at all. We do not draw closer, despite my efforts—efforts that humiliate me in their desperation.
I felt so worldly when I flounced out of Hart’s bed and now realise I know nothing of the world and have misjudged my place in it. I had assumed Buckhurst would offer the same singular devotion and protection I received from Hart—how naïve! I had hoped he would open my heart and I would feel that sense of belonging, of which I know myself to be capable, but there is only empty formality and, occasionally, lewdness. What have I done?
July 21, 1667
Farm Cottage, Oxford
Dearest Ellen,
I heard the most extraordinary rumour today at the college. Is it possible that you have abandoned the stage for Epsom and a man named Buckworth? As you know, I trust you to make your wisest decisions in every moment, my dearest, but this change does seem rash. What of this man? Is he the love you have been seeking? I can only pray that he is.
Margaret still fares well and, although she would never admit it, is impressed by your exalted orbit. She cares for you truly, as of course do I. I miss you, my sweet elfin child.
All the love,
Grandfather
Note—I enclose a copy of Milton’s controversial Paradise Lost. It is frightening and awesome in its scope. Keep up your reading!
July 27, 1667—Epsom
Tom came to visit today. We went to the New Inn—to get away from the mad house in which I live. He swears that he is here purely for his wife to take the waters, but I know he is also here to see for himself that I am well. I am touched by his concern and amused by his pretext.
“But these Wits,” he said. “I know their ways.” Indeed, his son is counted among them, as he himself was years ago. “They will drop you when they have tired of you, and then where will you be?” he asked, settling into a winged chair by the fire.
Where am I now? I thought but did not say. “Will I always be welcome at the King’s?” I asked hopefully, smiling my most charming smile and pouring him more chocolate.
“London audiences are fickle, my dear. They may forget you. If you mean to return, do not tarry.”
July 31, 1667
Milk Street, London
My dearest dear,
You have made Epsom ever so chic. I have heard stories all over town of your madcap antics. Could they be true? Did Sedley truly swear loudly and continuously at Durdan House and then run about au naturel as God intended, shocking Lady Robartes? Did you dance upon the table at the King’s Head in your breeches and, when told to stop by a prudish innkeeper, invite everyone in the alehouse next door to your lodgings to continue the dancing? Did you really ask Bucky Buck for payment up front? Five hundred pounds, they say! (Preposterous—you have always been loath to ask for money.) Does little Catherine Sedley wear your clothes and carouse with you all late into the night? Goodness, my dear—to have run away with the most dangerously charming men in England. How clever you are.
London is dismal. The rebuilding is slow and messy, and people seem to be leaving the city, rather than suffer to live here. Dirt, stone, and building crews everywhere you look. The City still looks blackened and charred and frankly depressing—but it is better than my wife’s family in Suffolk.
I miss your gay heart and loving company. Do not stay away forever. I couldn’t bear it.
All the loveliest love I have,
Teddy
Note—Have you heard? Henry Jermyn has been sent away from court for fornicating (what a brilliant farmyard word) with Castlemaine—or aspiring to! She denies it, naturellement. Hart disappears directly after the show each night. It is said, to be with her. I thought you would wish to know.
August 15, 1667—Epsom
I read and re-read Teddy’s letter, my heart eased by familiarity. It is loneliness, I realised. I am lonely. But I do not know him yet, my heart reasons. Perhaps when I do he will … he will … he will what? He doesn’t even seem to like me!
August 19, 1667—Epsom (four a.m.)
Four nights alone! I hear them come into the house. The whole street can probably hear them, as these boys make no effort to be quiet. Some sleep where they land (Buckingham never seems to make it upstairs, and I always find him tangled up in the cushions on the floor), but Buckhurst is always careful to retire to his bedroom. He opens my door and wishes me a formal good night, never suggesting I follow him. When I try to suggest it, he pretends he has not heard me. A blandness has come over him, obscuring all the sharpened intensity that came before. In truth, my heart is not engaged either—only my pride and my hope.
Later—six a.m. (still up)
I know I have made a terrible mistake. But I dare not correct it. I feel painted into this unhappy corner. Why is admitting I am wrong so terrifying? Not that I am wrong, I think: that I am unloved—that is where humiliation lives. This is not the love I have sought, and I have travelled too far down this wrong road. I must make my way back. I feel small in my foolish disappointment.
August 20—Epsom
Late:
The boys went out carousing, Buckhurst, it seems, would rather common whores to me, and I was enjoying an evening of blessed quiet, cosy in my nightgown and socks, with Ruby asleep in her basket and Catherine, Sedley’s ten-year-old daughter, asleep upstairs, when Johnny Rochester returned early.
“Still up, my Ellen chickie?” he asked, lightly kissing my brow. He smelled strongly of drink. He pulled off his curled wig and scratched his short, dark hair. “Ah, you have tidied up! I was hoping you would. I thought if we left it long enough—”
“Why doesn’t he want me?” I burst out unexpectedly. I had not planned to confide my woes to anyone, but they could not be contained any longer.
“Because he got what he wanted, naturally,” he said easily, dropping onto the settle opposite. Even drunk, Johnny retains his grace.
I looked at him, uncomprehending.
“Ugh,” he said, impatient with my slow absorption. “He wanted to see if he could get you here. And he did. So?”
“But we—”
“Bedded?” he asked crassly, sounding bored and kicking off his shoes. I winced. “Well, yes, of course you did, but that was just for form’s sake,
really.”
Form?
He yawned and looked at me. “Bucky is only interested in what he cannot have. Once he can have it, there is no joy. That is the trouble with people who have everything. Terribly dull way to live, really.” He yawned again, but beneath the veneer of dispassion, I sensed an earnest care. “See, for myself, I seem to enjoy nothing. Neither what I can have, nor what I can’t have—which is even duller.”
“He does not want me?”
“No. Best thing you could do is run away. Go. Leave tonight. Then he will always want you. Vite, chérie! Vite!”
Later—two a.m.
Vite. Vite. I am packing.
7.
Returned Ellen
When I Am Re-engaged
August 21, 1667—Theatre Royal, London!
Hart’s burning passion has turned to impenetrable coldness. I am not sure I mind. It is easier to navigate his anger than his unfinished love. He opposes my return to the theatre. Dryden and Tom are interceding, but as a star and shareholder Hart carries much weight. I am desperate but try not to show it. We certainly cannot play mad couple parts at the moment.
I have engaged a cleaning woman for Drury Lane with the little money I have left from Buckhurst. Ridiculous for so dilapidated a house, but I cannot live in such a mess. I do not think Mother has washed the sheets since I left. Jill, a sweet girl from up the lane, starts tomorrow and will come twice a week. Four shillings. I feel weary with change.
GREENWICH, ENGLAND
AUGUST 22, 1667
Minette,
Finally. The terms of the peace agreement have at last been worked out. We concede our holdings in West Africa, the island of Pulo Run and Surinam, but we keep the former Dutch possessions of New York, New Jersey, and New Delaware—the Peace of Breda. Such as it is. At least it is over.
Charles
Note—The vultures have turned on Clarendon. The Privy Council now hold him responsible not only for arranging my barren marriage to Catherine but also for this unsatisfactory peace—forgetting entirely that Clarendon opposed this war from the beginning. They mostly supported the marriage, too, in fact. Unsurprisingly, Buckingham and Castlemaine are at the root of it. They truly believe that I am ignorant of their compulsive intriguing. I remain neutral and speak guardedly in his defence, but in truth I blame Clarendon for helping the Duchess of Richmond to elope. Petty, I know, but there it is.
Tuesday, August 25—Theatre Royal
Compromise—at last. I am to perform, but in Dryden’s Indian Emperor (Cydaria again to Hart’s Cortez), and then Samira in Dryden’s The Surprisal—not comedies. Heigh-ho.
“This way he can exude gravitas,” reasoned Dryden.
“Not sure Cortez had gravitas,” countered Teddy.
“Well, he certainly killed a lot of people,” said Tom, “which Hart is certainly up for at the moment.”
Oh dear. Will he hold a grudge forever?
“A wounded pride strikes more deeply than a wounded heart—but then you rather smashed both, so I don’t know,” Tom offered. “But both mend in time.”
Any idea how much time?
Thursday, August 27—Theatre Royal (Emperor)
We get through it. Hart manages to convince the audience that he is in love with me, despite never looking me in the eyes and flinching when I touch him. I manage to appear an adoring mistress, though I am a tightly wound ball of contempt. Until the epilogue. Hart claimed the prologue, but the epilogue is my moment. The audience—ever up on current gossip—watch us closely for outward signs of our turmoil. Dryden has tactfully written out the kiss at the end. Thank God.
Note—I feel as if the audience has cooled towards me. I am perceived as a wayward harlot. Johnny confirmed it this evening. I am the talk of the town. I am thought to be a fickle, money-grubbing orange girl, raised above her station. My switch from orange girl to actress used to enchant them. I mind much more than I expected.
Note—Teddy was right. Hart does disappear just after the show.
August 30, 1667
New Dorset House
My dearest Mrs. Gwyn,
Epsom was desolate without you. I have returned seeking only your company. Will you do me the honour of dining with me tomorrow evening? My soul wastes without you.
I wait upon your reply,
Lord Charles Buckhurst
Undated
His soul—what rot. His soul did not notice I was there, so I think it will do nicely without me. Mother is already ordering poor Jill about, and so I have raised her wage to four and a half shillings. At this rate I must get back to playing leads soon.
When I Tire of These Games
August 31—Will’s Coffee-house (breakfast)
“You see. Now he is on the run,” Rochester said, pouring brandy into his coffee (it was only ten in the morning).
“Goodness, you people get up damnably early,” Etheredge said, trying to shake himself awake.
“We would rather be in our beds, but duty calls,” said Teddy, addressing Ruby in a sing-song voice, dunking his toast wedge into his coffee. I had requested an emergency family conference at the coffee-house and insisted they rise before noon. Buckhurst’s notes were arriving in droves, and I needed help.
“But I do not want a man who only wants me if I run away,” I said, to no one in particular.
“Then you do not want this man at all,” said Rochester.
“Keep running,” said Teddy.
Later
Johnny is right: I do not want this man at all. I wanted to be free of Hart, to be swept away by an ardent lover, to be reckless, and, most of all, to be loved. I have returned in defeat, and I have no interest in trying again.
Note—After several unanswered notes, I finally stopped by Madame Ross’s (still terrifying) in search of Rose. I was astonished to learn that she no longer works there. Then where is she? Worrying.
Even later—two a.m. (can’t sleep)
Wrapped in my counterpane, I am curled in the window-seat. The glass is cool against my forehead as I look out to the sleeping street below. A mother cat and her new litter are nestled into a pile of loose sacking against the next house, the lamplighters are working to repair the lamp across the street, and the baker and his wife are having a row in their house on the corner. It is a poor neighbourhood, one I had hoped to leave by now.
The money from Buckhurst is dwindling, and I have already had to dismiss Jill, although I recommended her to Peg, and so she is assured a far better position. I am unable to support Mother any longer. I hope that she will return to the tavern, but I fear that she will resort to her other profession and seek out a group of girls to sell—will I ever cease to be shocked by her selfishness? At least Grandfather has found work once more in Oxford and is happily occupied in the library at Christ Church.
Once I have won back the audience, I will be able to command a higher wage, but at the moment, with Hart (a major shareholder) against me, I remain poorly paid. If I become a crowd favourite, then Hart’s enmity will count for nothing. If I could only play comic roles, I know I could earn their love. If, if, if: there is a great deal of “if” in my life at the moment.
Rose’s absence worries me. I try to imagine her eloping with a wealthy lover—being whisked away in a coach and four—but I know how unlikely that is for one so thoroughly tainted. So where is she?
September 1—Theatre Royal
Buckhurst has been officially banned from the theatre. The doormen, stagehands, and hawkers have all been given instructions to pitch him out should he appear. And he definitely has been appearing. He has been making a nuisance of himself (yesterday he recited love poetry loudly outside the theatre) as the audience leave—insisting to all and sundry that he must see me. Everyone certainly saw him: an elegant, golden youth crowned in silver-blond curls, dressed in flamboyant pastels, shrieking sonnets in the street. He was definitely conspicuous … pity. So far he hasn’t disrupted a performance, but I have no doubt he soon will. Grandfather, up from O
xford for a few days, came to the second show yesterday and was disconcerted to see this young man, restrained by two doormen, drunkenly yelling for me to come out. I feel a bit like a princess in a fairy-tale, with her knight climbing the tower walls.
“But if the knight gets inside, he will dump the princess,” reminds Teddy. “Keep away from him—that’ll fix his wagon.” Teddy’s talk is rife with endearing old-lady expressions.
How silly this all is. And how sad.
Later—Drury Lane (eleven p.m.)
Rose arrived home!
“Where have you been?” I yelped, leaping out of bed when I saw her. Fumbling in the dark, I struggled to light the lamp.
“Where? Where do you think? Madame Ross’s,” she said, careful to turn away from me as she spoke—Rose flushes when she lies. She began undressing for bed as though it was entirely normal that we two were returned to the bedroom of our childhood.
