Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Rose!”

  “Not yet, Ellen,” she said with steely conviction. “I will not speak of it yet.” She slipped her nightgown over her head.

  “But…!”

  “No.”

  “Good night, girls,” Grandfather said, poking his head round the door. “I do hope, on your first night home together, you have not decided to quarrel?”

  I had the decency to look shamefaced. Rose just looked exhausted.

  “I thought not.” He twinkled. “Good night.”

  Impasse.

  Note—Good news! Rose will officially apprentice with Madame Leonine!

  September 2—Theatre Royal (anniversary of the fire)

  Notes, presents, trinkets. Will he ever stop? Johnny says no. As long as I run, he will chase. This is what Bucky likes. This is what he lives for. I am confused—how can anyone enjoy this? I am miserable.

  “Because you have a real heart,” Rochester said, in a quiet moment of gentleness, giving me a lopsided smile. “It is rare in our glittering world, and we don’t know quite what to do with it.”

  “Everyone has a real heart,” I shot back. “They just employ a false one.”

  “You think too well of people, my unicorn. It is why I love you so.”

  Note—I had a costume fitting today with Rose for the upcoming Howard play. Now that Hart no longer pays for my clothes, I must economise where I can. It was a difficult two hours. Rose not only refuses to say where she has been, but she refuses to tell me where she goes now! She is often inexplicably out in the evenings and refuses to talk about it—frustrating! At least she seems happy. Whether it is her renewed interest in sewing or her mysterious absences, I do not know, but I am grateful for her happiness. Grateful and making an effort to be gracious. Until she establishes herself as a seamstress, I am left funding this bizarre household. I have decided: no more chocolate and meat only twice a week—depressing but necessary.

  September 3, 1667

  Whitehall

  Dearest Ellen,

  Please may I see you? Do not torture me this way.

  Buckhurst

  September 3—Drury Lane

  I cannot bear to torture anyone. Against all advice, I have agreed to meet him—briefly.

  September 4—Theatre Royal (The Surprisal)

  Only a few minutes as I am onstage in an hour and have not yet made up, nor curled my wig.

  What happened:

  I met him at the Swan Inn—a seedy place and no one knows me there—and nothing happened. I was not moved by his pleas or his declarations of love. In fact, I was not moved by him at all and felt I was in the presence of a stranger. Did this man ever share my bed? How strange men and women can be.

  “But we are fated,” he insisted loudly (drunk, I suspect), bringing me back to the conversation with a jolt.

  “Why then, it would be so,” I reasoned quietly. “But here we are, and it is not so. How then can it be fate?”

  I offered him my friendship.

  He is considering.

  FONTAINEBLEAU, FRANCE

  TO KING CHARLES II

  FROM HENRIETTE-ANNE, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  SEPTEMBER 4, 1667

  Dear one,

  Don’t do it. The men (and women) who urge you to do this are looking to their own interests. Buckingham opposes anyone who carries any weight with you. He is charming but selfish and spoiled and even more calculating than you credit him. Clarendon looked out for your best interests when there was nothing to be gained. He was against his daughter’s marriage to James, even though it would likely put his grandson on the throne. This old man has served you well. Clarendon is quite right about the petticoat influence. You go too far to avoid conflict, my dear. Lady Castlemaine runs towards it head-on, and you must meet her there.

  Henriette

  Note—Dr. Jean Baptiste Denis, Louis’s physician, performed a miraculous surgery in Paris this week. A fifteen-year-old boy, weakened by excessive blood-letting, was infused with half a pint of lamb’s blood and was successfully revived and is now enjoying robust health.

  September 5, 1667—Theatre Royal

  Friendship, it is. I am at peace.

  “You will forever haunt my soul,” he declared plaintively.

  “But I am not dead yet,” I responded. I am weary of this overblown talk.

  When I Find My Footing on the Stage

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  TO OUR SISTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES

  NOVEMBER 30, 1667

  My dear,

  I understand your concern, but you must understand that the ill conduct of my Lord Clarendon in my affairs has forced me to permit Parliament to make many enquiries to which otherwise I would never have suffered. It is time. Do not think I would take such a step lightly. Clarendon will be well looked after in France. This course of action suits me, as I would lessen the restraints upon my rule. He is a good man and has fulfilled his office. Now I seek to govern alone.

  Be assured that I am entirely your,

  CR

  Note—Jemmy is considering a visit to Paris in the new year. I hope that such diversion will distract him from his desire to join the army. I also hope that it will induce him to adopt French fashions and disregard the periwig. It is fitting on an old man like me, but I much prefer Jemmy’s hair short.

  December 28, 1667—Theatre Royal (All Mistaken or The Mad Couple)

  I finally feel as if this part has won me back the London audience (and with them comes the pay increase I have hoped for! Forty shillings a week, to be raised to fifty by the summer—meat and chocolate every day!). James Howard (another playwriting Howard boy) has written me a brilliant role. Mirida was made for me—quite literally, in fact. Rose’s costume was a success (Madame Leonine helped her with the difficult neckline), and Lizzie Knep has already ordered two similar dresses. I have advised Rose to charge top prices—her work is of fine quality—and it is only fair. I was surprised when she mentioned that Hart had offered the same advice. I did not realise they still spoke. How kind of him.

  At last, Hart and I can be easier in each other’s company, onstage at least. I feel as though the Londoners cheer for us unreservedly now. I have missed their love more than I care to admit.

  To be fair, Hart has softened offstage as well. He brought lovely Christmas gifts to the little house in Drury Lane: a delicately inlaid music box and a heavy crystal bottle of Eau du Cassis; as well as presents for Rose and Mother: French soap for Rose and Venice lace for Mother. Luckily, I had a gift for him as well—a new silver engraved hairbrush. He even brought a Christmas ribbon for Ruby, who gets terribly over-excited when she sees him and needs a nap to generally collect herself afterwards. It was a nostalgic family evening, and I missed him when he left, although I did not want him to stay.

  Note—I am still widely thought to be a wanton—ironic, since I have slept alone for this half year.

  January 1, 1668—Drury Lane

  I have woken up to a new year. Ruby looks at me expectantly. Will this year be different?

  When My Sister Finds Joy

  January 12, 1668—Drury Lane

  Incredible news!

  Rose is to be married! Mr. John Cassels, a member of the Duke of Monmouth’s sprawling household, has asked Rose to be his wife! I am pleased for her, as I know to be respectably married has always been her truest wish.

  “That is where you were?” I confronted her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I pulled my counterpane closer around me

  “Have you ever wanted something so much that you were afraid to put even the smallest weight upon it in case it should crumble?”

  I looked at my sister; she was shot through with happiness.

  “No, Rose,” I said, feeling literal and earthbound, “I have never wanted anything that much.”

  January 17—Will’s Coffee-house

  Cards and coffee with Teddy and Rose; we are not on until three p.m.—Flo
ra again.

  “How did you meet him?” Teddy asked, playing a card.

  Rose made a face.

  “Oh. I see. Nothing wrong with trying out the goods before you buy them,” Teddy quipped easily. I smiled. Teddy always knows just what to say to Rose.

  January 20—Drury Lane

  It was a small but lovely ceremony. Rose, looking radiant, wore a simple blue gown with a pink satin sash and carried a small posy of white winter roses. John wore a new blue waistcoat and looked quite smart. I keep thinking he is taller than he is. Mother wore her best gown of deep clover green trimmed with paler green ribbons and remained sober throughout the service—miraculous! Unexpectedly, Hart turned up and stood at the back of the church. I was touched. Next to him was a tall man with a heavy wig and his hat pulled low—Duncan! Good God. He left just before John kissed his bride.

  Oh, Rose.

  Note—She has decided not to open her own atelier but will continue to assist Madame Leonine and take in sewing herself.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, January, 23 1668

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 291

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  My Darlings!

  Quel shock! Quel shame! A challenge! A duel! Rapiers at dawn! The Earl of Shrewsbury challenged the great Duke of Buckingham to a duel, set for early on the morning of this past January 16. The outraged earl could stomach the duke’s public liaison with his countess no longer. Their flagrant disregard for even the barest subterfuge rendered the poor duchess in a sorry state and the earl ready to die for his honour.

  Unfortunately, he received his wish and now will not have to bear witness to their passion, as he was wounded and killed after only a brief engagement. Let none say that he was not brave. A warning to wandering husbands and flirtatious wives. It is a dangerous row to hoe, mes amis!

  À bientôt,

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  January 25—Drury Lane

  The Earl of Shrewsbury was a pompous hypocrite who often came behind the curtain to leer at the actresses but could not bear to see his wife take the same pleasure—but one cannot say such things of one who has passed. I can say that his wife flaunted her affair before all of London, taking every opportunity to humiliate her husband. She is a dreadful woman and their marriage could not have been happy, but what a sad end. It is Buckingham I cannot believe. To stand up and kill a man, when you know that it is you who have done wrong, and then to go about your day?

  “But it is the perfect solution for the wicked couple,” Teddy said, laying down his news sheet and recrossing his slender ankles. “She is now a very rich widow, all the better to help Buckingham out of his current financial embarrassment. My God, can that man spend money—and now they no longer have to concern themselves with her irritating husband. C’est parfait! And so simple—one has only to be as ruthless as Buckingham to follow such a course.”

  “But that is just it. How could he?”

  “Oh, my dear, I am sure this incident did not even disrupt his breakfast, let alone his conscience. He is a very good swordsman—remember, he is a war hero—and would have been sure of the outcome. The bumbling, nervous earl was hardly a match for him.”

  “Poor man,” I said, fidgeting with my script but not really reading it.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Teddy said, unfolding his long limbs and yawning. “Now at least he no longer has to live with that horrid woman. If she were my wife, it is probably what I would choose, too.”

  After he left, I cleared away the coffee things and thought about marriage. So much risked on such a chancy thing—like poor Mary Fairfax, Buckingham’s irrelevant little duchess. She was so useful to him when he needed to ingratiate himself with her Cromwellian general father—and so useless to him now that he is the king’s man. She is unwanted and unnecessary and dull to boot. How grim.

  Rose and John have moved into a small house in Cockspur Lane near Whitehall. Rose—Mrs. Cassels, now—keeps it shiningly clean and has taken several orders for gowns. She is loath to call herself “Madame Rose,” as is customary for dress-makers, as she has had too many madames in her life. She is so happy to stay at home—so happy to have a home—so happy to have left Madam Ross’s—so happy to love just one man. I hope her marriage is happy, and I am envious of her peace, I admit.

  When Others Find Love

  March 1, 1668—Will’s Coffee-house (raining)

  Gossip:

  Prince Rupert of the Rhine has been sending for Peg! I keep catching her daydreaming during rehearsal.

  COLOMBES, FRANCE

  TO OUR SON, KING CHARLES OF ENGLAND

  FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  MARCH 1, 1668

  Charles,

  I had hardly set foot in France before I heard all manner of rumour that George Buckingham was truly governing England and that Parliament won’t vote you any money. For heaven’s sake, Charles, stop frolicking through the countryside like a milkmaid and get a tighter rein on your government. Lord St. Albans brought up your penury at a fête at Versailles last week, and it was very embarrassing. And how can you be writing to King Louis for money? Where is your own money? Taxes, Charles, taxes create revenue. This should not be difficult for you to grasp. You are king—rule, for God’s sake!

  Maman

  Tuesday, March 17, 1668—Will’s Coffee-house

  “Well, is it true?” demanded Teddy, before Peg could even sit down (she did not have much time as she is on this afternoon in The Storme).

  “Yes, it’s true. Ohh, is that lemon-seed cake?” Peg shrugged off her winter wool cloak.

  “That is all?” Teddy shrilled. “You are visiting,” he said, vigorously wiggling his eyebrows, “the dashing Prince Rupert, and all you say is ‘yes, it’s true’?” I giggled at Teddy’s impatience. Peg smiled a smile full of mischief and would not say any more.

  Later—Theatre Royal

  Finely wrapped boxes arrive each evening before the second performance. The Marshall sisters are choked by envy, marking carefully Peg’s accumulating treasures: a spotted yellow moiré gown, a soft pink quilted petticoat, a striped green travelling suit, a white rabbit muff and matching mittens, boxes of creamy underclothes trimmed with lace, sapphire ear-drops, a small gold timepiece. Peg and I open the parcels with glee, furiously ripping through the tissue wrappings. I, too, am filled with envy, but it is her happiness I crave. She is alight with happiness. The beautiful blue calèche arrives promptly at curtain fall to whisk Peg away. Dashing Prince Rupert (thicker around the middle and slightly balding, but light-footed and beautifully turned out, nonetheless) opens the door for her himself. Nightly, we watch from the stairwell windows. We see him sweep her a courtly bow. We sigh.

  Later

  The king (yesterday in a wine-red velvet coat—beautiful!) has been attending the theatre with Prince Rupert lately. He (always surrounded by his circus of courtiers) wanders through the tiring rooms, easy in our company, stopping to chat here and there, and sometimes even helping an actress to unlace her gown. Castlemaine, who often accompanies him and stays very close, works hard to seem unbothered by these brief intimacies. Although when no one is watching her, she occasionally slips and her face takes on the pointy, pinched dimensions of a sniffing fox. I stand back as the raucous royal parade winds through our house. So far the king has never stopped to speak to me. I cannot think what I would say if he did. So why do I find myself hoping and holding my breath until I hear his carriage pull away? What am I hoping for?

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  TO OUR MOTHER, QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  FROM KING CHARLES II

  MARCH 25, 1668

  Maman,

  I assure you that the Duke of Buckingham does not govern affairs here. I have no doubt that you have heard such rumours from Lord Clarendon’s supporters in France. I will say no mo
re on the subject.

  Parliament has promised to vote me three hundred thousand pounds to fit out the navy as soon as they find the means to raise it. This is England, Maman, not France. The people no longer believe in the divinity of kings, as Father so abruptly found out. You should remember how strong the will of the English can be.

  I will send James down to escort you to London as soon as you arrive in Portsmouth. Please give my most special love to Minette.

  I am always your,

  CR

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday March 27, 1668

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 300

  Ambrose Pink’s theatrical observations du jour

  Darlings!

  Our lovely Mrs. Margaret Hughes (Peg, to those in the know) has been carried off! Her royal amour, the dashing Prince Rupert, wants her all to himself. She is to give up the stage for good, my pets. To the theatre, my dears! Vite! Vite! See her while you can, for she is leaving us for the rarefied royal air of Whitehall.