by Priya Parmar
“Except?” queried Teddy, his eyes narrowing, like a fox-hound on the scent.
“Except … I did…” Should I tell them? “I did ask how his wife … fared,” I ventured timidly.
“You what!” Tom exploded.
“Well, she miscarried, and I know how badly he needs a child, and…” I cast about the room hopefully, looking for supporters. There were none.
“So you thought you would bring it up?” choked Teddy, aghast. “You thought he would want to discuss the queen’s, his wife’s, fertility over a private supper with an actress?”
“What did he say, my dear?” Lacy asked gently.
“He … he called for the footman to escort me to my carriage.” I flushed, remembering the abrupt, awkward moment. “And he told me he had to leave for Newmarket,” I finished lamely.
“In the middle of the night?” asked Lacy.
“Oh my.” “Marvellous,” said Teddy, heavily dropping into a chair.
Yes, I thought. He was marvellous.
May 8, 1668
Finished up Virgin Martyr (again, although I never tire of this role), very late as there was a ruckus during the performance and we had to stop. A drunken member of the audience climbed onto the stage and tried to embrace Becka. I was impressed; she kept herself in check and managed to stay in character (St. Dorothea) while the man was removed. She came back and did her death scene beautifully. The king, not back from Newmarket, did not attend the performance tonight.
May 9—Theatre Royal
“Anything?” Teddy asked, coming offstage.
“Nothing.” I was stumbling my way through a terrible performance, and smiled at Teddy, grateful for his patient forbearance.
“Mmm, difficult.” He was whispering. Everyone whispers, trying to be discreet. As if whispering bad news somehow improves it.
“Nothing.” I repeated. “Not even a note.” I was not expecting anything. But I hoped. Against reason and logic, I still hope.
Later—Theatre Royal
Hart brought me a mug of raspberry sack this evening after the performance, his face creased with worry.
“Ellen, are you … all right?” He eyed me anxiously.
“Yes, of course,” I said quickly, surprised and touched by his concern. I cannot remember a time in the last few months when he has been anything but vexed with me.
“Yes, of course,” Hart repeated awkwardly, as if I had refused him, and then hurried away, presumably for his nightly appointment.
May 10—Theatre Royal
Tom came to find me in the tiring room after rehearsal today.
“Ellen, I have spoken to Hart,” he said abruptly.
I waited for him to continue. Hart no longer criticised me openly but was perpetually going to Tom with his complaints: my posture, my singing, my untidy hair.
“I had to assure him that you were not … unwell.” Tom said, pulling me from my reverie.
“Unwell!” I said, startled. “Why would I be unwell?” I quickly touched the wood of my painted dressing table. I had mercifully escaped the most recent bout of company cold and fever.
“Perhaps not unwell,” Tom hedged. “More pregnant…”
“Pregnant! By who?”
“By ‘whom,’ “Tom corrected. “Well, no one, naturally, and I told him as much, but he knows something is afoot and is worried for you.”
“Nothing is afoot,” I said flatly. “Nothing at all.”
Later—tiring rooms
Before the performance tonight I heard Hart’s unmistakeable growl in the hallway outside.
“This oil is dripping all over the wall! Did you not see it?” he bellowed at Laurie, our lamplighter. “Clean it up, now!”
I slipped outside, pulling my silk wrapper closely around me. I had been waiting all day to catch Hart alone. I had to reassure him, to thank him.
“Hart … I—”
He rounded on me, swiftly redirecting all his irritation at me. “You what?” He scowled, his voice loaded with sarcasm and latent mistrust, all yesterday’s tenderness absent.
I slipped back into the tiring room without a word. A difficult man, I thought sadly, and one I no longer understand.
When Men Fall in Love with Their Wives
May 12—Theatre Royal (The Maiden Queen)
Dryden, Aphra, and Buckhurst were in the house tonight. Dryden was checking on Queen—he is perpetually tweaking his scripts and driving the actors mad. Buckhurst did not come back to the tiring rooms, as his presence still infuriates Hart. Then again, my presence still infuriates Hart. Everything seems to infuriate Hart. We discreetly joined them in the foyer, where Buckhurst was lurking with Dryden behind a large potted plant.
“We hear you were sent for, my dear,” said Dryden, adjusting his complicated hat in the long mirror (ostrich feathers and ruffled velvet bows). He is slightly built but insists on following the fashion of long wigs and hats, giving him a top-heavy look.
“Yes, but only once—is that true?” asked Buckhurst, elegant in a pale grey ensemble, with a touch of malice. Aphra shot him a dirty look.
So be it. “Yes, it is true. You may as well know, I was terribly dull and will never be sent for again.” There, I’ve said it.
“Dull? You?” squeaked Dryden, surprised. His genuine reaction heartened me, and I gratefully squeezed his arm.
“Yes, dull,” Well, dull with one small incidence of fireworks, I thought privately.
“Oh my,” said Aphra thoughtfully. “How to recover from dull?”
Exactly.
Note—Buckhurst just returned from Newmarket, brought us all the court news, and, after my anxious enquiries, told me that Johnny is sober but subdued. Alcock, on the other hand, is perpetually drunk, and Johnny encourages him. I did not ask about him.
Friday, May 15—Theatre Royal (The Sea Voyage)
Outrageous news: Buckingham brought his mistress, the Countess of Shrewsbury, a dreadful bullish sort of woman, home with him.
“When his wife objected that the two women could hardly share a roof,” Teddy recounted, aghast, “Buckingham told her he entirely understood and therefore had already ordered her a coach to take her to her father’s.”
“Booted out of her own home?” asked Nick, agog.
“The house her father paid for, no less,” said Teddy.
“Dangerous world for women,” I said softly, to no one.
May 18, 1668—Theatre Royal
Lovely talk with Johnny this evening; he is back to dark wigs, thank goodness. He returned with the king this morning. Everyone is in town for the debut of Sedley’s The Mulberry Garden—still too wordy and stiff. He showed me the draft of a letter he is writing to his wife, who is tucked away at his country home of Adderbury. He takes refuge in the overdone style of the time, but his true sentiment shows through. He does love her, but will not change to content her. He says he is “endeavouring to get away from this place I am so weary of…,” but he is not endeavouring terribly hard, I must say.
May 21—Theatre Royal
I am supposed to be making up for this afternoon and I find I cannot sit still. Nothing is wrong, exactly, but things feel just out of place, out of reach, and too loosely knit for me to feel true peace. I am enjoying the stage, but when I let myself look too far ahead, I feel a snaking unease. How will all this end? And who, if anyone, will it end with? I feel I am painting the scenery when I do not know the play. What does the puzzle look like? When will I feel the click of my life piecing together?
May (hot!)
“Everyone is falling in love with their wives, it is quite à la mode at the moment,” Johnny said, lazily fanning himself with my peacock-blue hat (new—I love it). We were lying in the grass in the Foxhall Gardens after a splendid picnic of olives, bread, cold meats, grapes, and cheese spread out over a pink-checked cloth.
“Everyone?” I asked cagily.
“Well, not everyone. Buckingham has wreaked havoc in his domestic affairs, and I never seem to see mine, although I
am fond, but the king is certainly spending time with the queen,” he said, watching me out of the corner of his eye. Trying to gauge my reaction, no doubt.
Later
I will not be so small as to feel jealousy. He is her husband, and it is her right. I hear of the joy his attention brings her and know her love to be profound and unselfish—that is what people say, anyway. I am glad for the unassuming queen—or so I keep telling myself. I have met this man less than a dozen times, and, king or no king, he should not loom so large in my irresponsible heart. No king—in fact, I do wish he were no king but an ordinary man, who might notice an ordinary girl.
May—Theatre Royal
“And when the little butterball came out to dance, the queen just up and left,” Teddy clucked. “Brava Caterina Regina!”
We had just finished our rehearsal and were lying on the stage, exhausted. Lacy had drilled us for hours, learning the steps for his new dance for the end of Act II. We were discussing the queen’s daring snub.
“The Great Snub of ‘68. That is what they will call it in years to come. And I was there, petals!” Teddy said with self-important glee. “Brilliant! Ah, to be a part of history.”
“Bold move,” Lizzie said, approving. “And how unlike her. She normally seems such a mouse.”
“Poor woman,” I said, propping myself up on my elbow. “It can’t be easy to applaud your husband’s mistress.”
“Moll Davis is hardly a mistress,” Nick interjected. “She is more of a hobby, like tennis. You know, something you pick up, and then when you get the knack of it, you drop. She will not be around long enough to be called a mistress.”
Can an actress be more than a hobby to a great man? To a king?
May 30—Theatre Royal (still hot)
Philaster with Hart—a Beaumont and Fletcher play we both love, although the heavy costumes were stifling in this heat. At least on that we can agree. I play Bellario, a part with wit and verve. The audience were wild for us, and the takings were huge; so little was needed—set, costumes, props, even playbills—as we have done it so many times before. I have finally asked Tom Killigrew to be my banker—unconventional, but I trust him, and I honestly do not know how to handle financial matters. He has explained various trusts he has established in order to keep my money safe—and even increasing. When I told Rose, she shook her head in disapproval.
“How can you trust them—men?”
“He is good to me and is my friend, and I do trust him. Surely you trust John?”
“It is he who must trust me,” she said severely, surprising me. “He gives over his wages, and I make the financial decisions. As you know,” she continued briskly, “I have managed my finances since I was quite young.”
“Oh, Rose.”
Note—Tom raised my wage to the promised fifty shillings per week!
June 1, 1668—Will’s Coffee-house
All the talk was of Dryden’s new poem.
“It really is smashing, Dryden,” said Teddy, bandying about his new mot du jour.
“‘Annus Mirabilis—Year of Wonders’ … well, it certainly was that, what with the plague and fire and all,” said Buckhurst, leaning his neat blond head back and closing his eyes. He was a bit hung over and prone to stating the obvious.
“I thought it was exciting. You found just the right note,” I encouraged. Dryden looked at me, clearly pleased. I know how much sincere praise means to him—well, any praise, I suppose.
“And now Tom has taken you on for three plays a year—smashing,” exclaimed Teddy.
“Yes,” said Dryden, covered in daffodil-yellow ruffles and lapping up the compliments like a milk-fed cat. “I am leaving for the country almost immediately to finish my latest, Evening Love.” He looked at me fondly and quickly added, “I intend for Nelly to star, naturally.”
“His success will go well for you, Nell,” Buckhurst said with sincerity.
Yes, I thought. It is good for me. Everything is good for me. Why, then, am I not more happy?
8.
Summer Ellen
When I Become Enmeshed in the Bedroom Plot
June 15, 1668
Whitehall
Nelly,
Please come and see me at once—today. The court is moving, and I am departing London on Thursday. Come directly to my rooms at Whitehall near the Holbein Gate. You will be expected. Wait for me there.
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham
Tuesday, June 15
After receiving Buckingham’s brief note, I went directly to Whitehall, taking the time only to change into my new pale green visiting gown (perfect with sky-grey slippers and a slim grey hat). I had never been to his rooms and had some difficulty finding them in that rambling labyrinth of a palace. I finally found them, surprisingly tucked behind the new tennis court, but they were as luxurious as I would expect for the king’s closest childhood companion. I was quickly ushered into an inner chamber and told to wait. And wait. And wait.
Eventually, Buckingham returned, clearly fresh off the tennis court. Without preamble, he addressed me. “So he sent for you, did he?” Then beckoned for his man, Geoffrey, to come and help him out of his tennis ensemble.
Startled, I tried to gather my thoughts. “I … uh … yes.” Geoffrey brought a laver and basin of soapy water and, pulling off Buckingham’s soiled shirt, began to sponge him off. My status as an actress exempts me from the common decencies accorded other women—it has its advantages and, at that moment, disadvantages. I rolled my eyes as a soap bubble landed on my hat.
Buckingham, unperturbed, continued, “And you bungled it—is that fair to say?” Geoffrey produced a clean shirt, and I waited for Buckingham’s head to pop through before I replied.
“Yes, I bungled it,” I repeated flatly. “I was nervous and tongue-tied and dull. And then when I did speak, I said exactly the wrong thing. It was awful.”
Buckingham was concentrating on dressing and did not seem particularly moved by my disaster. I sat on the chaise longue of striped silk—blue and silver, very pretty—and waited for my old friend to finish.
Buckingham closed his eyes as Geoffrey sprayed a great cloud of scent—Eau de Cassis? Too much, I thought as I began to cough. Thus perfumed and dressed in a fresh shirt, long cornflower-blue waistcoat, white hose, and matching blue ruffled breeches with satin pink bows, Buckingham turned to face me. “Yes, I heard about that. You asked about the wife. A mistake. He was disappointed with you. But it is not irredeemable, I think.” He paused for a moment to look over the heavily curled wigs Geoffrey had laid out before him. “Which one? The honey or the copper?”
“The blond,” I said, still struggling for breath through the fog of scent. “The copper would look utterly ridiculous on a man of your colouring.” The blond one looked absurd as well, given that George is naturally dark, but I did not say as much. I think he goes to great lengths to distinguish himself from the famously dark-locked king. Buckingham made a face at my disparaging remark but, nevertheless, reached for the blond wig.
“And so—what do you plan to do about it?” he asked, securing the wig on his head. He has quite a large head, and the voluminously long curly wig only served to accentuate it, but I did not say so.
“Do about it?” I asked, confused. I understood the situation to be at a dead end.
“Yes, do about it,” he replied with a touch of impatience. “You want to wind up in his bed, don’t you? It is certainly a rung up from Buckhurst—who, I gather, was disappointing.” I coloured. Was there anything he did not know?
“I may have spent most of that summer drunk on the music room floor, Nelly, but I am not entirely without deductive faculties. Anyway, you are better off. You never really liked Bucky all that much, did you?”
“I do like the king very much,” I ventured, in an effort to turn the conversation.
“Like him? What’s that got to do with it? He’s the king. You don’t have to like him.” George turned back to his reflection in the long glass.
/> Side-stepping his last remark with what grace I could muster, I returned to his original question. “There is nothing to do about it. He did not care for me. I was home by one a.m., and know for a fact that he spent the night in Castlemaine’s bed.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Buckingham, sitting on the bed. He had moved on to footwear and was perusing the selection laid out before him.
“She told me,” I said, painfully reliving that awful moment at the theatre.
“She told you?” He looked up from his shoes. “Castlemaine? And you believed her, didn’t you, my gullible goat?”
“Of course—why shouldn’t I?” I said, cringing at my schoolgirlish question.
“He has not shared her bed in months—just ask your gallant Mr. Hart.”
I flushed. Even now, Hart’s affair with Castlemaine was difficult for me to fathom.
Seeing my reaction, Buckingham chuckled aloud. “Nell, you must learn not to exhibit everything upon your pretty face.”
“Why would she say that if it were untrue?” I countered, sounding naïve, even to my own ears.
“Well”—he reached for a shiny pair of powder-blue court shoes with low heels—“it chases you away, which is—to be fair—not difficult to do, and reminds you of her position as maîtresse en titre, which you seem only too eager to recognise. No, I think the pink laced court shoes—don’t you?”
