Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Could it…?”

  “No. Definitely not. This baby is most likely that toad Jermyn’s, and he won’t ‘fess up. Swine.”

  I looked quickly at Chiffinch, who had just slipped in the private door. He has a way of appearing when the king has need of him.

  “Did you…?”

  “Confront him? Of course not. I am not about to go trawling for this child’s father. Henry Jermyn can look after his own bastard or not as he chooses. Of course it could be Hart’s child, or Wycherly’s, or that circus performer’s, or even my own grandchild! That woman.”

  He sat down heavily on a pink embroidered chair, gathering his spaniel Dot into his lap.

  “Your grand—” I began, but when I saw Chiffinch, behind the king’s chair, vigorously shake his head, I stopped.

  “Let her speak, William,” the king said, without looking up. “We have no secrets between us.”

  An overstatement at best, but I let it lie.

  “Monmouth?” I breathed in disbelief. “She wouldn’t. Jemmy wouldn’t. It is unthinkable.”

  “Oh, they would and do, often it seems, and I honestly do not care,” he said, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips to his temples. “Barbara Castlemaine is a grasping, greedy whore, and Jemmy has not the sense to see it, nor the character or the respect for me to refrain.”

  “But are you sure?” I saw Chiffinch shaking his head, warning me to stop, but I persisted. “Perhaps it is just rumour.”

  “Not a rumour, Ellen: a certainty.” He paused, opening his eyes. “We crossed paths.”

  I bridled at that. I had assumed he no longer visited Castlemaine’s rooms, but then I had never asked, and was not so frequently at Whitehall to see for myself. Charles more often visited my small house to escape the suffocating court and was now giving me a new house in town so I could be nearer. I smoothed the skirt of my gown—coffee-coloured silk. It had a mud stain on the hem. I must have Mrs. Lark look at it, I thought randomly.

  “While I was visiting the children, Nell,” he stressed, guessing my thoughts.

  He rose from his chair and crossed to me. I saw Chiffinch leave, soundlessly closing the door to the secret stairwell behind him. I did not respond.

  “Be reasonable,” he coaxed. “Their nurseries are in her apartments, too, if you recall. You cannot expect me not to visit them,” he continued, tilting my face up to his. “You must not worry so. What you have, you will always have. I have, of late, been with no other women but you. Nor do I have any plans to.”

  “I am always reasonable,” I countered spikily.

  He kissed me gently, and I softened in his arms. It is impossible to stay angry with this man. His labyrinthine selfish logic is too endearing and too genuine. The evening moved on, the incident was forgotten, and we went on to discuss this and that: his daughter Charlotte’s aptitude for compass reading, King Louis’s affair with la Vallière, the construction of the hospital, Buckingham’s scandalous ménage, anything and everything but her.

  What I have. What is that exactly? The precious property that I have claimed in his heart will always be mine, but the rest is reserved for whatever comes next? Yes, I suppose so.

  “The heart is an ever-expanding organ,” I could hear Grandfather saying. “Do not underestimate it.”

  I must believe it.

  June 3, 1669—Whitehall

  Good God! Castlemaine has threatened to dash that baby’s skull on the stone floor if Charles does not recognise her. Dreadful woman. Charles is in a state and believes she might actually do it.

  Note—Awful reviews for Tyrannick Love. The news sheets hated it; the audience hated it; Dryden hated it; I hated it. All wrong.

  Later

  A note arrived from Johnny in Paris asking Charles to stand godfather to Nan. Peace at last.

  June 4—Theatre Royal

  “I am sorry, my dear,” Dryden said, the ostrich plumes on his enormous hat quivering as he spoke. “I should have known it would not suit you, but I wanted to write something more serious, more lasting. But in my self-service, I have done you a disservice,” he said forlornly.

  “It is lovely play, an important play,” I said, taking his arm, knowing that was what he needed to hear. “It will be remembered long after my appalling performance is forgotten.”

  “But what to do now?” he asked, wiping his eyes with his heavily embroidered handkerchief. Did every inch of this man require ornamentation? It was a typical Dryden ensemble: long velvet jacket in a garish yellow, frilly laced cuffs, gold breeches, pink shoes with huge pink satin bows, and a terrible yellow velvet hat with pink ribbons and ostrich feathers: disaster.

  “Now,” I said firmly, tucking his awful hankie back into his awful coat, “you will write me a superb epilogue so that I may rise up as myself and apologise in person to my audience.”

  “Oh, yes!” He brightened. “That is a wonderful idea! I can add something light and humorous without ruining the play—and you can still play Valeria.” I cringed at the hideous name.

  “Yes. Now get to work. I’ll not have another performance like last night. The applause did not last long enough for me even to exit the stage. Very embarrassing.”

  Note—The epilogue did the trick. After my deplorable death scene—I cannot figure out how to fall gracefully and so make the most God-awful thud—I rose up as Nelly and sparkled anew. I am saved.

  By Most Particular Desire

  THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN

  Audiences Brilliant and Overflowing

  Are Invited to Attend the Premiere Performance of

  TYRANNICK LOVE

  Or

  THE ROYAL MARTYR

  A Heroic Tragedy by Poet Laureate, Mr. John Dryden

  Now with a New Prologue and Epilogue

  Written for and Performed by Mrs. Nelly Gwyn

  This Present Wednesday, June 4, 1669

  It will be repeated tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday next

  PRESENTED BY THOMAS KILLIGREW,

  LEASEE AND ROYAL PATENT HOLDER

  To Be Performed by:

  THE KING’S COMPANY (ESTABLISHED 1660)

  With: Mrs. Nelly Gwyn, Mr. John Lacy, Mr. Michael Mohun,

  And: Mr. Nicholas Burt, Mrs. Lizzie Knep,

  and Mrs. Anne Marshall

  PERFORMANCES BEGIN AT 3 O’CLOCK DAILY

  Five a.m., Tuesday—Bagnigge House

  “He’s not coming back,” Charles announced as he strode into my little bedroom under the eaves.

  “Careful!”

  “Owww!” Charles hit his head, as he always does, on the low doorway. He is just so tall. I loved to see him in the pearly grey light. It is almost like waking up together, I tell myself—almost.

  The mattresses finally arrived, and Charles had Mrs. Chiffinch sew me some delicious snowy bedclothes. My tiny house is slowly coming together—naturally, as next week I shall have to move.

  “Who is not coming back?” I asked sleepily, sitting up in bed. It was early, not yet light. Charles must have already completed his requisite five miles of walking in the dark. It is what he does when he cannot sleep.

  I had fallen asleep over my latest script. Tom says I am improvising too much and must be more diligent—improvising instead of acting, not good.

  “Johnny, of course.” Charles sat on the small coffer at the end of the bed and began to remove his muddy boots.

  When he is here, he prefers to dismiss his retinue and dress himself—he is much quicker than one would expect for a prince, but then he was for a long time a stone-broke prince in exile.

  “Why?” I asked, now fully awake and moving the pile of pages over to the bedside table.

  I had been looking forward to Johnny’s return, as I know he had. Johnny still has not seen little Nan, who is now two months old, although I know he has written rhymes and songs for her mother to sing to her—her mother, who must have heard of his numerous infidelities in France. All the rumours cannot be true. There are not enough hours in the day.<
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  “He has been brawling again, drunk, and making a public nuisance of himself—this time at the Opera,” Charles said in an exasperated voice. “Naturally he selects the most highly trafficked location in Paris as the stage for his spectacle. All of the French court frequents the Opera. I am sure my illustrious cousin Louis has heard all about Johnny’s behaviour. Apparently, he has not sobered up yet. I cannot take him back now. I would look foolish.”

  “Drunk since he left London?”

  “I think drunk since he left the navy, and that was three years ago.” Charles rolled his eyes. “In any case, Dr. Denis would like to keep him in Paris a bit longer for some additional treatments. But all will be well, and we need talk no more about that,” Charles said, glossing over any unpleasantness as usual. He cannot bear for me or any other woman to be distressed.

  Yawning, Charles haphazardly slung his clothes and wig over the damask chair, put his blue enamel travel clock on the marble-topped nightstand, and climbed into bed next to me, nuzzling his face into my neck.

  “Have you decided what to do about Castlemaine?” I asked. It is a subject that has lately been preoccupying me—her power to manipulate the king. I try not to let it rankle, but I am not terribly successful.

  “Shh, we are not going to allow her into our bed,” he said, resuming his nuzzling.

  I gave up and snuggled deeper into the thick covers and soon forgot all about her.

  Note—The audience numbers have greatly improved for Tyrannick Love, but they are coming for the prologue, leaving to dine during the play itself, and then returning for the epilogue. Heigh-ho. I am not built for serious theatre.

  Later

  An unexpected note arrived this afternoon. A letter from Duncan! He asks after the family (Mother and Grandfather, in particular, but no mention of Rose) and begs a favour of me. Could I recommend him to the Coldstream Guards? His letter is a sweet blend of over-formality and childhood familiarity. He always wanted to join the military. I will see what I can do.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, June 5, 1669

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 363

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  Darlings,

  Can you believe it? The greatest goose in England rousted from her roost! The Duchess of Cleveland (the former Lady Castlemaine) has been invited to vacate her sumptuous apartments at Whitehall. We can be sure that she will not go quietly. Quel fireworks! Mon Dieu, the rumpus this will cause in the complicated ménage of His Majesty. Yet the steadfast Queen Catherine remains above the fray. Bien, as it should be.

  But where does that leave our Nell? Can we now call her maîtresse en titre? Will she move into the palace and replenish the vacated royal nurseries? Can such a quixotic sprite be happy without her beloved theatre? J’espère non!

  À bientôt,

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  June 5, 1669—Theatre Royal (after morning rehearsal)

  “My dear, have you heard?” Teddy hissed, as I rushed into rehearsal, late as usual.

  “Mrs. Gwyn, that will be five shillings for tardiness,” Mr. Booth called out officiously.

  “Honestly, Nell, you are going to rack up enough late fees to buy that man a house,” Nick whispered.

  “Shh, both of you, or I will be fined for talking as well.”

  “But have you heard?” Teddy persisted. “No, I can see by your face that you haven’t.”

  “Heard what?” Nick asked.

  “He’s asked her to clear out. Of the palace: furniture, dogs, children—well, I suppose the children could stay if they wanted to, but they probably won’t—”

  “What are you talking about?” I hissed as we took our places for Lacy’s dancing class.

  Hart was glaring at us from across the stage. He hates chatter during rehearsal. We took up our places. Teddy, standing opposite, shook out his long limbs, turned out his pretty feet, and, lifting his chin, assumed his elegant opening stance. Honestly, sometimes his grace makes me feel like a squat little hen.

  “Glad dance: four count rhythm, jeté on the first pass, capriole on the second,” Lacy called out, banging his counting stick on the floor. “Partners: Lizzie and Nick, Ellen and Teddy, Hart and Kitty, Rob and Nan, Becka and Will. On four, please! One [bang], two [bang], three [bang], and [bang] now.”

  “Quick, tell us!” Nick said, edging Lizzie closer so he could hear.

  “Castlemaine, Cleveland, Nunsuch, whatever! Barbara! He is insisting she move out! One and two and—”

  “When?” Nick and I asked in unison as we began moving through the figures.

  “Today, tomorrow, as soon as possible.” Teddy said, completing a perfect capriole.

  “Long neck, Nell!” Lacy called out. “You are not a tortoise!”

  “Why?” Lizzie asked during the third pass.

  Teddy caught my eye. I shot him a warning look in return. Lizzie is incapable of keeping any information to herself and would tell anything and everything to her nosey gossipy lover, Sam, within the hour. In strict confidence I had shared Charles’s paternity trouble with Teddy. Teddy kept his own counsel and blandly shrugged at Lizzie.

  “Shoulders down, Edward!” called out Lacy, “three and [bang].”

  Later

  It’s true. I had to see for myself. I needed some black gloves at the New Exchange and told Lark to meet me by York House—the traffic is less congested there. I walked south, having every intention of stopping at the Exchange, but found myself in front of Whitehall instead. In front of Castlemaine’s special entrance there stood all manner of carts and wagons being loaded with household goods. A steady stream of royal staff carried beds, toys, rugs, tables, mirrors, and even a silver bath-tub to the overfull vehicles. A small crowd had turned out to watch. I pulled my hat low and stood carefully at the back so as not to be recognised.

  “It’s that Davis woman, the actress. He is finally throwing her out,” a thickly built woman in a feathered hat commented.

  “She doesn’t live in the palace, never did. No. It’s Buckingham’s awful woman, the Countess of Sherborne,” said a baker, still smelling of pastry.

  “Shrewsbury, not Sherborne, and she doesn’t live in the palace, either,” his wife corrected. She, too, was covered in flour.

  “Well, it’s not Nelly,” the feathered hat said loudly. “She’d never be so presumptuous as to take a room at the palace, and quite right, too.

  “No, she belongs out here with us,” the baker’s wife agreed. There were murmurs of approval. I pulled my hat lower and took a half step back under the shade of a horse-chestnut tree.

  “Bet it’s Cleveland,” offered an old woman who was holding an equally old black pug.

  “Nah, we’d never be that lucky,” the baker countered. “She’ll hang on to the end, that woman. An institution, that’s what she is.”

  “An institution of prostitution?” snickered a young errand boy in patched breeches. The feathered hat shot him a disapproving look. “That is an ugly word, young man.”

  “Did you hear that she actually invited that circus man—what did he do, something with fire? Acrobatics? Anyway, she asked him to dine at the palace. What kind of court is that? The old king would never have borne it,” clucked the baker’s wife with authority. “My sister-in-law’s nephew works in the kitchens and swears it’s true.”

  “The old king had no mistresses. He was a family man,” pointed out the black-pug woman. “That’s the trouble. This king has lost his family, and he now thinks that he can just do as he likes. No foundation. No principles. Tearing around Europe from the age of twelve. What sort of upbringing is that? Bastards everywhere.”

  “That is another ugly word,” said the feathered hat primly.

  The boy in patched breeches snickered again.

  I could not listen to more and quietly stepped away from this opinionated
little bunch. Remarkable that they feel so able to judge him, judge us, all of us. I must never move into the palace, I resolved, and moved on to meet Lark.

  Note—I asked Jemmy Monmouth, as he is in charge of the Coldstream Guards, and he readily agreed to take on Duncan. I am happy to be able to do something to help my old friend. He is now thirty-one and has never married—how sad.

  When I Move to Newman’s Row

  June 16, 1669—Newman’s Row, Lincoln’s Inn Fields

  We’ve done it: the Larks, the chickens, the dogs, the ducks, Jezebel, Grandfather, Molly, and me—quite a brood when you see us all together; good thing we have an enormous back garden opening onto the open fields. We left our furnishings behind on the king’s instruction. Bagnigge Wells is to be used as our country home. Charles has promised that we will visit often. I feel terribly decadent having two houses but also bereft. Bagnigge Wells is mine. I found it, bought it, furnished it, and love it. A house I receive as a gift, however beautiful, will never feel as inviolably safe to me. The little house is still there, I remind myself. I can always go back.

  When we arrived in town, exhausted and dirty and expecting a half-renovated empty house, we found that the king had ordered the decoration and supply of my suite of rooms! My private closet is a pale sage green, trimmed in alabaster white, with a delicate painted chaise covered in soft green damask with a beautiful tulipwood desk, and my bedroom is done in pinks and creams. In the gilt-edged wardrobe I found rows of new gowns, crisp white chemises, gauzy petticoats, whalebone corsets (watered silk!), and delicate slippers in all colours—all in my size and to my taste. I sat down on the bed, stunned at the magnitude of his gift.