Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Ellen, you really are the most diabolical liar. Everyone will soon know. It shows upon your pretty face when anyone mentions the king. What a silly girl you are, my sweet.”

  I bristled under his criticism, however kindly meant. “Yes, I am his mistress. What of it? I am happy!”

  “Happy, but in a dreadfully precarious position,” Teddy said quietly. “That note, I would wager that it tells you that he is indisposed this evening and cannot meet you. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Yes, because the Duchess of Richmond, Frances Stuart, la belle Stuart herself, is ill. She has the small pox.”

  “Oh,” I recoiled at the mention of the dreaded, disfiguring disease.

  “It has not altered her appearance and her case was light, it is said, but the king has been ever attentive, even at the risk of his own health.”

  “He has seen her?” He had told me that he has business in Oxford with the architect Christopher Wren this past week. He had told me that since her elopement they have been estranged.

  “He has not left her side since she fell ill, and even now, when she is out of danger, he clings to her.”

  Later

  Now away and alone, I think on what Teddy has said. I am the invisible mistress, the secret mistress, the whore. It is for my well-being, I can hear Charles argue—my well-being or his convenience? I did not believe he would forgo all others—not really, not forever—but I did think there would be an honesty between us, an accountability of sorts. That is not true. I had hoped that for now, now when we are so happy … Well, I suppose it was only I who was so happy.

  The truth: his heart still belongs to another. The clocks have chimed at midnight.

  Friday, September 18, 1668 (grey and drizzly)

  Teddy and I went to Bartholomew’s Fair this afternoon. We are rehearsing The Silent Woman, a comedy, in the mornings, but neither of us is cast in Rollo, which we have on at the moment. The fair was lively, and the puppets and children and music and sweets were all diverting, but I find myself unable to fully enter my surroundings. I feel as though I am set apart by my thoughts and cannot engage with the world. Teddy understands and is patient with my ongoing strangeness. I am making a decision, I realised. Can I do this? Do I want to do this? It will mean giving my heart to a man who will not protect it. It is a dangerous game to play, for I will love. I will love with all of myself, and I will not gain entrance to all of his heart in return. My stubborn hope still flickers. Perhaps, perhaps.

  “You will never be on equal footing,” Teddy says in answer to my unspoken thoughts. “It is only your heart that will break.”

  “But, Frances—”

  “Frances never capitulated. She just conceded the field. You cannot compete with that.”

  I do not want to compete. I want to love and be loved in return. But love requires honesty, and that is not where this path seems to lead.

  Still thinking.

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

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

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  SEPTEMBER 18, 1668

  My dear sister,

  Frances has contracted small-pox. I think with horror upon my selfish wish for her beauty to fade—and now this, my God. I have been too harsh on her in the past. She wanted a simple life and was true to that simplicity. I cannot help but wish her well now. Guilt spurs me to her bedside. Do not fear, I take precautions not to touch her and am careful to breathe through a cloth mask. Pray for her, my dear one. Will you send one of Louis’s famed physicians—Dr. Denis, if at all possible? I would feel better knowing that I had done all I can.

  Keep safe,

  Charles

  Postscript: Thank you for the gloves, my dearest. They are as soft and lovely as they could possibly be. I will take them with me to Newmarket this month.

  When I Walk with Peg

  Friday September 18, 1668—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book

  Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington

  A successful motion this morning to reduce staff meals in His Majesty’s residences today. Senior members of the household will be given two meals per day, and lesser servants shall be given none. This should reduce the court expenditures significantly.

  Nothing further to report.

  Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington

  Saturday, September 19, 1668—Theatre Royal (The Silent Woman)

  A great success. Finally!

  We played to a full house—this being the second night of the run and word having got out that this is a worthy comedy. The pit laughed hard.

  Lizzie Knep was superb as Epicoene, the title role. My part was smaller but well written, and my breeched dancing much anticipated and well clapped. Even Ruby seemed excited after the show and leapt out of her backstage basket to lick me. I am returned. I am awake to my life. I am still undecided. The court is in Newmarket and then off to Audley End this month. I can think more clearly when I know he is not close by. I will do nothing. The answer will come—now off to supper with Aphra, Teddy, and Johnny.

  Note—A brief message today from the king, congratulating me on my success. Inviting me to the races at Newmarket. I have not replied.

  Sunday, September 20, 1668—Will’s Coffee-house

  Such a lot of nonsense. I am losing patience with grown men everywhere. Today in the coffee-house:

  Dryden; his brother-in-law, Rob Howard; his wife, Beth; Aphra; and I were enjoying a leisurely Sunday repast after church. The discussion fell to Dryden’s A Defence of an Essay (his answer to Rob’s Essay of Poesy). I have made it a point to read neither, as they both seem quite silly and seem to inevitably lead to shouting and disagreements. The argument became heated, as Aphra tried to gently mediate. I finally caught the gist of the thing and was shocked.

  “Rhyme? You are arguing like this over rhyme?”

  “Rhyme in drama, my dear. Quite another thing,” Dryden said pompously. “It truly elevates the form.”

  “No, it muddies it,” countered Rob. “A true dramatist can keep it pure.”

  I looked at Aphra, who rolled her eyes as if to say, Men. She is now trying to get her first play produced and is not remotely concerned about elevation or purity, only revenue. Just then Johnny Rochester came in, fresh from Newmarket, and, depositing a kiss upon my head, dropped into the nearest armchair. Ruby excitedly began to scale his legs and climbed into his lap.

  “John,” began Dryden officiously, “you will be able to arbitrate this matter.”

  “I doubt it,” said Johnny, affectionately rubbing Ruby’s soft, crumply ears.

  “Well, regardless,” Dryden plodded on, his heavy curls bobbing, “how do you feel about rhyme in drama? Don’t you believe it to be an essential tool? An art, an asset?” Dryden was warming to his theme. I looked towards Aphra with apprehension. Dryden can be tiresome in this mood. And Johnny never brings out the best in him, as Dryden is so eager, so desperate to impress him that he rapidly becomes unbearable.

  “I think that it is second-rate writers who worry about tools and arts and assets,” Johnny said levelly, not looking up from Ruby. “First-rate writers write originally in their own forms and are guided by God.” I recognised this reckless, dangerous mood of Johnny’s and was anxious to steer poor Dryden away.

  “But my dear Lord Rochester … look at Shakespeare, his use of—”

  “That is right. Look at Shakespeare. He copied no one.” I prudently held my tongue—in other moods I have heard Johnny refer to Shakespeare as an outright thief, unable to originate a plotline. “Unlike your pale, imitative dribblings. It is pathetic to think that we go to such trouble to enact them—or to watch them, for that matter. How truly bored must we be in our gilded, debauched age.”

  Dryden’s round face flushed.

  “Johnny,” I said, placing my hand lightly on his arm, desperate to change the s
ubject and knowing that Dryden would be mortally wounded by this lacerating criticism—he fairly worships Johnny. “Have you eaten, my dear? May I order you some seed cake? It is particularly lemony today.”

  “Well,” Dryden said pompously, his blond curls bouncing again in righteous indignation, rising and putting on his ridiculous hat (another one), “I certainly don’t see God’s hand guiding you.”

  “Ah, God.” Johnny said thoughtfully. He looked up at Dryden for the first time. “God and I parted ways long ago.”

  Later

  How sad. Sometimes I truly feel that Johnny believes that. It is at the root of his wild ways: the unbridled freedom of an already condemned man. How lonely and afraid it must make him.

  Note—I still have not replied.

  Monday, September 28—Theatre Royal

  Ladies’ Day today at the playhouses. All the profits go to us! Teddy made a guest appearance in his sugar-pink frock (didn’t get paid but had great fun) and was cheered mightily. Lady Jemimah Sandwich blew him a kiss, and Lady Fenworth’s powder-puff dog yipped. All the Wits turned out in support. Buckhurst cheered me particularly loudly and tossed a heavy bag of coins at my feet during my curtsey. Johnny brought me yellow roses tied in a black ribbon after the performance.

  Note—I had half hoped, despite my injunction, the king would come. If I wish for something, I should learn to ask for it. But then, I wish to be whole and unharmed, singularly cherished and unhurt—a tricky thing with this man.

  Tuesday, September 29, 1668—Michaelmas Day (warm and sunny)

  Peg stopped into the theatre after rehearsal (I am not on the rest of this week) and whisked me away for some afternoon shopping in Paternoster Row. “But I have lines to learn!” I wailed. And a new prologue and new steps for Lacy’s dance…

  And, and, and. I keep my thoughts perpetually occupied with and. And is my armour against the devouring unhappiness of wanting something I cannot have. Better to break my own heart now than to have it broken for me later, I tell myself again and again.

  “Get your hat. We’re leaving.” She would brook no refusal.

  Shopping with Peg nowadays is a joyous experience, as she is on Rupert’s seemingly unlimited budget. We strolled arm in arm and talked of this and that: the renovations for their sumptuous apartments at Windsor (they have moved into a suite of rooms in the Round Tower, and Rupert has proposed several ingenious alterations), her favourite spaniel’s new litter (half-pug and half-spaniel—not what she expected and ugly as can be, but she adores them), plans for her new flower garden at Windsor. Walking past the great Westminster Abbey, I recognised this gnawing at my heart: envy.

  In the dress-maker’s shop:

  “How does the queen fare?” I asked, talking around my subject.

  “Well enough, what with the circus she must contend with. Three ambassadors—Venetian, Spanish, and French—all not speaking to one another, all feeling slighted. Ugh.” She blew out her cheeks in an exasperated sigh, then held up a particularly lovely length of crimson silk. “What do you think?”

  “Not for your colouring, Madame Hughes,” clucked Madame Leonine. “Try the deeper blue, in the softer fabric. What do you think, Madame Gwyn?”

  I think it would cost me a week’s wages. I think I cannot afford such luxury.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  In the candle-maker’s shop:

  “Why slighted?” I could not care less about these spoilt foreign ambassadors and was only hungry for news of him but, even with Peg, was determined not to ask.

  “Oh, such silliness. The Venetian did not greet the Spaniard at the door, and now they will not speak,” said Peg impatiently, handing her man a fat bundle of long white wax tapers—an unimaginable expense.

  “And the French?”

  “He’s French,” she said, throwing up her hands as if this explained everything. “Heaven knows why he has taken umbrage. It is all a mess and has landed in the queen’s lap, as the king is unwilling to deal with these brawling diplomats.”

  In the milliner’s shop:

  “The queen will find a way to soothe everyone,” I said, thinking of her tranquil air.

  “She’s working on soothing Monmouth. The king promoted him to Lord Gerard’s post as the head of the Royal Life Guards last week—after years of Jemmy’s pestering. Jemmy is sweet but frightfully stubborn. Now he is strutting about in rich clothes, expecting to be named heir to the throne any day, but the king told him absolutely not. He didn’t take it well and is being difficult about it. In any case, Monmouth makes the queen uncomfortable, as he openly assumes she will never…” She glanced quickly at the milliner Madame Sophie.

  I shook my head slightly. “No.” Best to be discreet; Madame Sophie is a notorious gossip.

  “I had no idea Gerard was retiring,” I said, changing the subject and picking up a wide-brimmed pink hat—all wrong for my hair.

  “He wasn’t going to retire. The king bought the post for Monmouth for fifteen thousand pounds, plus the cost of the swearing-in ceremony. Gets expensive, especially for this king and his currently … restricted budget. Ooh, what about this one?” Peg reached for a small green hat with ostrich feathers. She turned this way and that in the glass. It did not suit.

  “So the queen is having to manage Monmouth’s growing expectations? That won’t be easy,” I said, putting my own hat back on.

  “Perhaps the cream voile, Madame Hughes?” offered Madame Sophie, holding out a light, puffed creation.

  “Frankly, I do not think she is up to it,” Peg said, trying the hat. “Confrontation of any kind is quite beyond her, and he is quite volatile.” She turned, examining herself in the glass. “Oh yes!” she exclaimed, turning to me. I nodded my approval; it set off her high pale forehead beautifully. “I’ll take two,” she said.

  In the apothecary’s shop:

  “Well, are you going to ask me?” questioned Peg, sniffing a pot of rose-scented face cream.

  “I was trying not to,” I confessed, fidgeting with a vial of verbena scent. “Is it so very obvious?”

  “He does care for you truly, Ellen. He knows you are distressed. He sent me—”

  “He sent you?” I shrilled, louder than I had intended.

  “Yes, I was supposed to make it look natural, but I could not lie to you. He sent me to find out if you would care to … that is, if you want to continue—”

  “Continue,” I said, roughly picking up the glass pots and banging them down again on the marble counter. The apothecary looked at me warily. “Continue what? What is it that he wants of me?”

  “To be your friend … and more, if you will permit,” Peg said simply.

  “Is that you talking or him?” My voice sounded roughened and coarse.

  “It is me, but the question came from him to Rupert to me.”

  “Have you nothing to say in your own words?” I asked meanly, and then instantly regretted it. Peg has always been my friend and does not deserve such treatment.

  “He wants you back, Ellen … if in fact you have deserted him.”

  “All in secret though. Not like Castlemaine, constantly pregnant, like a ship in full sail. And not like dull, doughy Moll, also pregnant and quite obviously his mistress, although also quite obviously second tier.” I sat down on the bench with a hard, indelicate thump.

  “No, not like them, like you,” Peg said gently, taking a seat beside me.

  “And what is that, like me?” I asked warily, thinking of Rose.

  “Ah, that is for you to determine.” Peg distractedly pulled at the lace of her cuff. I regretted my harsh words. Peg was clearly in the process of determining her own way as well. “He likes you, much more than he lets on,” she continued. “Rupert says he is quite smitten.”

  “When does he find the time,” I asked bitterly. “Between Castlemaine and Moll and Frances Stuart and the queen and his horses and presumably ruling the country—”

  “You know you care for him deeply. I can see that you miss him,
” Peg said quietly.

  “But how will it end?” I whispered, my true fear.

  “For girls like us, how can we ever know that?” responded Peg.

  Slowly, we wandered back to the theatre.

  Later

  I have sent a note. I will see him and talk—no more than that. I have forbidden him to come to the theatre; that is my stronghold, my strength.

  AUDLEY END

  TO BE CARRIED BY HAND TO MRS. ELLEN GWYN, THEATRE ROYAL

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1668

  Dearest,

  Rupert tells me that you spoke to Peg. My heart hangs in the balance. Please inform me of your decision.

  Your Charlemagne

  AUDLEY END

  TO BE CARRIED BY HAND TO MRS. ELLEN GWYN, THEATRE ROYAL

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1668

  My love,

  Yes, of course, I will send the carriage for you. It will be waiting for you in the usual place at the end of your performance. I must tell you that I have heard reports of you this week and am tempted to disobey your harsh command and spy on you as you dance upon the stage. Why should those loutish brutes of the pit enjoy your pretty legs and not I?

  Your Charlemagne

  WHITEHALL

  TO BE CARRIED BY HAND TO MRS. ELLEN GWYN, THEATRE ROYAL

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1668

  Ellen,

  I am not sure I understand. You wish the carriage to wait in front of the theatre? I am not sure that is wise, my little love. Perhaps you should come here and we discuss it together.