Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  November 1668

  “I need the wig-maker for John and stay-maker for me, and to pick up supplies for the Nursery Theatre (ribbons, paper, and rouge), and if I cannot find Venice lace here, I’d best go over to Madame Leonine’s,” Rose said, listing her errands as we walked up the Strand.

  We were off to the Exchange, to do some shopping on a crisp November morning. The light had shifted to the slanted, amber light of autumn, and the air smelled faintly of snow—of a dozen other less savoury things as well, but also of snow. The shopkeepers were sweeping out their doorways with thickly bound brooms, and the hawkers, out far earlier than the shopkeepers, were already doing brisk business in the morning sun. The cheesemonger was bringing up an armful of waxy wrapped cheeses from his cold storage below, and the flower seller was winding together bushy bundles of creamy pink roses. Rose, still disdainful of her eponymous flower, did not slow her pace, but I dawdled and daydreamed at the pretty gardened window.

  “Where do you need … Ellen? Ellen?” Rose called impatiently as I hurried to catch up.

  “I also need to stop at Madame Leonine’s,” I said, “and the apothecary, and I would love to pop into the hat shop, but only if there is time.” I had rehearsal at one.

  “Madame Sophie?” she asked, making a face.

  Her hats were exquisite but expensive, and her clientele was very exclusive and not the sort of place where Rose, without me, would otherwise be welcome. I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “It will be fine,” I told her confidently.

  Rose just tossed her head as if she was untroubled by the opinion of others—a blatant untruth, but no matter. I needed a new hat, something with a veil. Going out has become more complicated lately, as more and more I am recognised on the street. A more concealing hat would help. Perversely, I had hoped for a few more months of anonymity, but it is not to be. Everywhere I go, people look and point as if I am an animal in a menagerie. Charles was right—it is difficult. Even now, two young and elegant men, out for a morning walk, were obviously following us several paces behind.

  “You must adjust,” Rose whispered beside me. “You are the most famous actress in London and the king’s mistress—it is natural that they be curious about you. Anyway, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  But I could tell that even she was taken aback by the degree of their interest.

  In the apothecary’s shop an overly made-up woman with frightful red hair approached me. “Nelly,” she addressed me informally—everyone seems to do this, to behave as if they know me. “What do you use on your skin? I have red hair as you do, but I am afflicted by freckles. Your skin is just lovely.”

  I warmed to this sincere clown-faced woman immediately.

  “She uses our Adams Cowslip Wash,” interjected Mr. Adams, the apothecary, proudly. “She has done for years.”

  “It’s true,” I said cheerfully. “I am sure it is the sole reason for my lack of freckles.”

  Rose rolled her eyes beside me. Even as a child I never suffered from freckles like others of my colouring. But it helps Mr. Adams, and it is a lovely wash, to be fair—much better than the sticky buttermilk or the smelly puppy dog water usually prescribed.

  “I’ll take six bottles,” the woman decided, turning to Mr. Adams.

  “I’m afraid I only have four in stock, but we do have the velvety soft Adams Honey Almond Meal Face Cream that Mrs. Gwyn also favours.”

  The woman looked to me to confirm it, and I nodded.

  “I’ll take four pots.”

  Mr. Adams busied himself wrapping up her purchases while Rose and I patiently waited.

  “And your scent?” the woman asked, pointedly sniffing me. I involuntarily stepped back.

  “Lemon verbena,” Rose answered for me (not true—I use vanilla water with a hint of apple).

  I started to protest, but Rose made a face as if to say, They do not need to know everything. Mr. Adams popped another vial in her bag.

  “He had better not charge you after that little performance,” Rose hissed in my ear.

  “He won’t,” I said easily. “He hasn’t done for years.”

  “Well, good luck in all your endeavours, Ellen,” the woman said, meaningfully waggling her eyebrows. “My husband and I do so like to see you upon the stage. When are you next—?”

  “We are readying Dryden’s new play now,” I reassured her. “Do not worry, I’ll never leave the theatre!”

  “Good thing, too,” the woman said pompously. “After all, we are the ones who brought you where you are today.”

  “Very true, and I shan’t forget it.”

  I felt Rose shaking with suppressed giggles behind me.

  Lady’s Household Companion

  A Complete Guide to an Englishwoman’s Home

  Freckle Remedies

  The Water Cure

  Water, either human or canine, will cure the complexion of unsightly freckles as well as soften the skin.

  Mix with rose-water and a hint of wine.

  Apply to afflicted area twice daily for two weeks.

  The Lemon Cure

  Grind seven lemon peels into a grainy paste.

  Mix with rose-water or sheep or goat’s milk.

  Apply to face morning and evening for as long as desired.

  Undated

  Rose tells me that Mr. Adams now has a sign in his window listing all the products favoured by Mrs. Nelly Gwyn of the King’s Theatre and Whitehall. Good grief.

  PALAIS, D’ORLÉANS, PARIS

  TO MY BELOVED BROTHER, HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  10 NOVEMBER 1668

  Chéri,

  Sad news. Our Dr. Denis gave a patient three transfusions in an effort to save him after a riding accident. Unfortunately, the poor man died, and now his widow is suing the good doctor. There is talk of passing a law banning his transfusions.

  I am ever and ever your,

  Minette

  November 12, 1668—Theatre Royal

  George Buckingham dropped by the tiring room after the performance. I had removed my costume and was wearing just my corset, chemise, and petticoats (Teddy quickly threw me a silk wrapper) and was beginning to remove my heavy stage make-up when George ambled in. With a twitch of his head he dismissed Teddy (the high-handed gall of that man!). Teddy, who was taking down my tightly upswept hair and had a mouth full of pins, made a move to go. I turned around to glare at Buckingham. How dare he appear in my tiring room and send my Teddy away, my look told him in no uncertain terms.

  “Stay,” I said in a studiedly casual tone, turning back to the mirror.

  “Go,” said Buckingham evenly, matching me pitch for pitch.

  Teddy just stood there with the pins in his mouth, not sure what to do and clearly disliking the idea of a scene. George Buckingham, as Teddy is forever pointing out, has a ruthless streak—beware.

  “George, my love,” I said with sugary sweetness into the mirror, “Teddy, as you can see, is taking down my hair just at present; if you want to see me alone, then you can bloody well wait.”

  That did it. Teddy turned back to my hair and worked quickly, fingers flying, eager to escape.

  “Oh, fine then,” Buckingham said, conceding defeat and restlessly moving about the room.

  “What is the matter with you anyway?” I asked, watching him fidget. “You should be happy.”

  This past week Buckingham’s position as first man of the realm has been truly cemented. It has been all the talk of court. He is set high—even above the Duke of York, his mortal enemy du jour. The gruesome vultures are picking over the bodies Buckingham leaves behind. Buckingham had Lord Anglesey removed from his lifetime appointment as Treasurer, and it looks as if he will also have Lord Ormonde (such a sweet man, really a pity) replaced as Governor of Ireland. The Council will soon be made up of entirely his men. The king seems strangely uninterested in this obvious strategising and is disinclined to discu
ss it.

  “I am happy. I just wish—” He shot a look at Teddy. “She is still as present as ever, and I find it grating.”

  She. Castlemaine: the pregnant, meddling, opinionated, rich, and still powerful maîtresse en titre. She—still angling for a higher income and a grander title, even though she no longer shares the king’s bed. She, who has wormed her way into the good graces of Bab May, the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and now has seemingly unlimited access to the royal purse. She, who wears enough diamonds and rubies to outshine the queen—as if her evident fertility were not triumph enough. Wretched woman.

  “If anyone should desire her downfall, it should be me, yet you seem far more put out at her continuing influence,” I said lightly.

  “Her influence,” Buckingham said, through gritted teeth, “is driving me mad.”

  “Ha! Only because she could be doing much to advance you and isn’t.” I laughed. Buckingham’s motives are always far more transparent than he thinks they are.

  Note—Tom mentioned as we were leaving that Her Majesty the Queen attended the performance tonight. “But she did not laugh and left before the final act,” he said, holding the door for me.

  “I suppose there can be no worse thing than watching hundreds of people standing and applauding your husband’s mistress,” I replied sadly.

  “Especially if your husband is the one leading the applause,” he said as we wandered home. “You could only keep one, Ellen,” he said, watching me carefully. “You could have the love of either the king or queen, but never both.”

  November 13—Whitehall

  Damn and blast. Grandfather would cringe to hear me using such language, but honestly, the monarch and his Parliament are both behaving like school-yard enemies. Each only wants the other to pay due deference, but no! Pride before all! It is at a standstill. For heaven’s sake—say whatever they want to hear to make them feel involved and then get the money to pay the navy! I am starting to sound like Buckingham, who is always banging on about the navy and fairness to the common man.

  Charles says he is working on a solution with his sister Henriette-Anne, the Madame of France. She is secretly brokering some sort of deal between France and England—well, between her brother-in-law and her brother, really. God knows what Charles will have to promise to elicit money from the fanatically organised Louis; he was vague about the details. It is really too bad that Louis married Marie Theresa, the Spanish heifer, as Charles called her, instead of the elegant Henriette-Anne, who is said to be the most beautiful, most loveable, and most accomplished woman in France, and married to the most frivolous man in all Europe.

  Note—Buckingham has made the situation a great deal worse. Tonight at dinner he loudly and unfavourably compared Charles to his cousin Louis. Unfortunately, Buckingham described Louis as a king who understands how to make his kingdom great, and then went on to liken Cliveden, his new country house (hardly a house yet, as the construction is taking forever), to Louis’s great building project at Versailles. Unlike our own king, who is having trouble managing his legislators—unlike our king, who has no such monies to indulge his passion for building. I could wring Buckingham’s neck for the unnecessary hurt he causes Charles.

  November 26, 1668—late

  It happened. And it was as awful as I feared.

  Last night we attended an evening of cards in the Duke of York’s apartments.

  “Everyone is happy you’re here. You twinkle. Most people don’t twinkle,” Buckhurst quietly encouraged, smoothing his beautifully cut velvet coat and taking a seat at the card table. He knows how the king’s brother still can make me nervous. I squeezed his arm in gratitude.

  “Vino!” Johnny called from his chair by the fire. He had been sitting there for some time, and I was not sure he could stand if he tried. His black curled wig was askew, and his eyes seemed unfocused. A pretty actress from the Duke’s was sitting with him, and I caught him shamelessly leering down her bodice.

  I frowned at him.

  “You’ve drunk it all,” Sedley said, reclining on a golden silk-covered sofa with his eyes closed. It was well after four, and the room had thinned out to only ten people or so. Charles was involved in a heated discussion with his brother and his son Jemmy by the matching fireplace on the far side of the room, and I was quietly dozing off in the armchair opposite Johnny.

  “Can’t have drunk it all,” Johnny said, slurring his words so it sounded as if he had a stuffy nose. “Where’s our host, the heir to the throne?” (It sounded like thwone.) “He should send some flunky out to the yard to squeeze more grapes.” (Gwapth.) “James, find some young women with good feet and tell them to get out there. Nell, you have lovely feet … maybe too small to squeeze grapes…”

  I ignored him. Charles had invited him to attend his private chapel that morning, and it had left him in a foul mood all day. Johnny and God did not seem to be on good terms at the moment.

  “Mmm, yes, more wine … tell James,” Savile murmured distractedly from the card table, not looking up from his hand. He had bet an unthinkably enormous sum and lost it all in the last hand.

  “Bucky, more wine, whad’ya say?” Johnny yelled belligerently.

  “Splendid idea—make sure the flunky has clean feet,” said Buckhurst, laying down his cards and grinning.

  Abruptly, Johnny stood up unsteadily, stepping on the pretty actress. “Well, I’m off to look for some. Nell? You coming?” The actress looked put out that she had been trod on and then not invited. Without waiting for my answer, and without bowing to James, he swished out of the room. Turned out he could walk. But he had left without a word to—

  “Nelly, are you there?” Sedley asked. His head was tipped back and his eyes were lightly shut.

  “Mmm.”

  “Did he bow? Or ask for York’s leave? Or the king’s, for that matter? Did I miss it?”

  Cultivating a relaxed tone, I lied, “Yes, he bowed, and asked for their leave, didn’t you hear him?” Such a flagrant breach of conduct would be difficult even for Johnny to shrug off, especially in James York’s own apartments. James is sensitive to slights and is meticulous about form.

  “Hmm, going deaf, I suppose. You should go to bed, Nelly; you must be tired,” Savile said sleepily.

  Just then Charles appeared at my side and took my arm to lead me off to bed, his face a hard blank shell. James remained on the far side of the room, and Jemmy, tense and white-faced, rigidly bowed good night to his father. They have been arguing lately, and I know how much it pains Jemmy. I gave him a sympathetic smile and dropped my curtsey good night.

  Once tucked in the royal bed I felt wide awake again, and together Charles and I stayed up to watch the dawn break, laughing and loving and whispering in the fading dark.

  “We shall sleep late tomorrow,” Charles said, pulling the bed curtains closed.

  I looked at him, surprised. He always awoke at six for his constitutional exercise, regardless of the hour he went to bed. As a result I almost never awoke next to him.

  “But…” I yawned.

  “The queen wanted me to … ah … visit last night, and I told her I was unwell, so I can’t very well go walking in the morning.”

  I squirmed in discomfort. It was not jealousy, as I truly want the queen to be happy, but rather a profound wish that Charles was not married to such a good woman. I snuggled deeper into the covers, determined not to unravel my contradictory wants.

  An hour later, at about six, I heard the doors to the anteroom opening and a woman’s voice. It was a woman speaking English with a ripe, rolling accent. Good God! The queen. The queen, here! “Charles”—I shook him awake—“the queen!” I could hear the startled sentry in the outer room, stammering and moving to open the great doors.

  Panicked, I hopped out of bed—whatever happened I did not want her to discover me in the bed—and hid behind the heavy window curtains.

  “Ellen … where are you,” Charles hissed, poking his head out of the bed hangings. At the sound
of the door he disappeared once more into the great bed.

  “Good morning, sweetheart, and how are you feeling? Improved?” Queen Catherine asked from the open doors. It was a seductive private voice I had never heard her use.

  “Oh, yes, vastly,” I heard my lover answer his wife.

  “Well, your fever is down, but you do not look as if you slept well. Did you take the posset I made up?”

  “Mmm, the lemon and sugar…” He trailed off into a dense silence. I heard a rustling of silk like autumn leaves underfoot. “Catherine…”

  “You had better return this,” she said evenly. “I wouldn’t want the owner of such a little foot to catch cold.” Her shoes clicked across the floor, and I heard the bedroom doors bang shut behind her.

  When I emerged from my hiding place, I found Charles seated on the edge of the bed with my shell-pink slipper in his hand.

  Lady’s Household Companion

  A Complete Guide to an Englishwoman’s Home

  A Remedy for a Sickened Body

  Make up a pot of lemon posset.

  Thicken it with the yolks of six eggs.

  Sweeten it with sugar and kindness.

  Later

  Charles left for his walk, snapping his fingers for his spaniels. “You mustn’t mind, Ellen,” he said, gently lifting my chin. “She does understand, you know. She understands me very well.”

  I threw on my clothes without waiting for Mrs. Chiffinch to bring in the bath-tub or to help me dress. I pulled my hair up into a messy twist, crammed my hat on my head, and hurried out the door. It was in the long gallery I saw her coming. She was walking with her household chaplain, surrounded by her swarm of brightly gowned ladies. I dropped swiftly into my deepest curtsey. I felt her standing above me, waiting for me to rise.