Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “What?”

  “Ellen, you must see that it is impossible to be the mother of my natural child and an actress,” he said tersely, his eyes focusing somewhere above my head.

  “Charles, I was an actress when you met me, an actress when you took me into your bed, and I am still an actress now that I am carrying your child.” I felt panic rising in my throat. I had been down this utterly dependent, unhappy, landmarkless road before.

  “You must not upset yourself, my darling. As I said, it is impossible and not worth arguing over … especially now, when—”

  “It would make me unhappy,” I said bluntly, stopping on the path and sitting heavily down in the cold grass. “Is that not worth arguing over?”

  “What is it?” he asked, looking down at me in alarm. “Are you ill? Do you have pain?”

  “I am unhappy. I just told you. Weren’t you listening?”

  He set his mouth in a grim line and did not respond.

  Note—Again! He left after supper again! I wore my new creamy silk gown—very décolleté and meant to be irresistible, but obviously isn’t as he left without even going upstairs! He said he would not be able to overcome the temptation if he slept here. “Why are you so busy overcoming temptation?” I asked him, settling onto his lap.

  “Your health, my love,” he said lightly, setting me down in an armchair and moving across the room. “Good night, sweetheart,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Rubbish my health! I will ask Teddy what is going on. He and Tom arrive tomorrow to entertain the court.

  October 4, 1669—Church Street

  “Nope, no one, just you,” Teddy said, leaning back in the midday sun. We were seated in the garden amongst the last of the fragrant summer roses.

  “No one?” Ruby rolled over in my lap for her afternoon sleep.

  “Be careful, she is getting so fat,” Teddy observed, frowning at my pudgy dog. “If you keep feeding her—”

  “Teddy! There is truly no one who has caught his eye? Frances? Is she back?” I feared Frances’s hold on him.

  “No! She is off with her lumpy husband, twittering away in other pastures, thank God.” Frances irritates Teddy as well. “Honestly, just the queen.”

  “And no one is trying to catch his eye?” I asked hopefully.

  Teddy looked at me disdainfully and did not bother even to answer that.

  “Right, sorry.” This court is stacked ten deep with pretty young women hurling themselves at the king.

  “They’ve been imitating you, this last crop. Some wear their hair like you, some wear breeches, some laugh overloudly.” I pinched him at that. “What? You do! But when you do it, it is genuine and enchanting, and we love it and he loves it. I meant to tell you, Jemimah Sandwich said a couple of the latest bunch even tried to tint their hair red—came out a kind of awful carroty orange. Too bad.”

  “So what is he doing when he is not with me? I can’t be there all the time, and since we came to Windsor I haven’t had the energy to be there at all.” I leaned forward in my garden chair, eager to pry information out of my observant friend.

  “Do? Tennis, swimming, riding, a lot of hunting lately, but I suspect he told you that. The poor gamekeepers are going to have to go by night and kidnap stags from other forests and bring them here so the king can hunt them—he’s killed so many. Jemimah says she will never eat venison again after this season, she’s had so much of it. Oh, and his children are about and he has been much with them—but I expect he told you that, too.”

  I nodded. “Castlemaine around much?” I asked, attempting to sound casual. I knew it was she who had been spreading rumours of my request for a place in the queen’s household.

  “Barbara doesn’t really interest him anymore; only her children interest him. I know she wormed her way back in by perpetually renovating her houses and making them uninhabitable construction zones, but of course he sees through that,” Teddy said, stretching out his long legs. “I think she frankly gets on his nerves at this point, and she is loud and vulgar and is losing her looks at a terrifying rate. I give you permission to shoot me should I ever get that fat,” he pronounced, closing his eyes.

  I giggled and smelled the fading roses and watched the dying summer butterflies swirl around my friend.

  Later

  Teddy just left to head up to the castle dressed in all his masculine finery—his feminine finery is far more de luxe, but he does what he can. I am feeling too sleepy to go. If there is no one else charming him, then why does he not sleep here?

  October 5, 1669—Church Street, Windsor

  I did not attend the evening of cards in James York’s suite last night—yet another evening I was too exhausted to attend. Too exhausted and too puffy. It feels as if I shall never leave this house again. Teddy says that Hart has arrived to be with Castlemaine, and I find the whole affair too incongrously bothersome to witness. To bring her new lover, who is my old lover, to her old lover’s house—while I, his new lover, am here—ludicrous.

  In any case I was too irritated to see anyone. A note arrived from Charles this morning and has left me feeling on edge all day. Jerome gave me a rueful smile as he handed me the little envelope with the great gold seal. I asked Lucy, the new chambermaid, to take him through to the kitchen for some breakfast and sat down to read.

  DELIVERED BY HAND TO CHURCH STREET, WINDSOR

  Ellen,

  You are to receive a generous allowance from the Privy Purse, subject to increase at regular intervals, and if your expenditures should exceed this sum, you are to promptly send the receipts to Mr. Bab May, the Keeper of the Privy Purse. The deed to Newman’s Row shall be signed over to you, and a permanent legal pension will be drawn up after your confinement and the birth of our child.

  So you see, my love, there is no need for you to return to the stage. You will be well provided for. I have arranged everything. I hope this sets your mind at ease. There now, you see, there was no need to quarrel.

  I love you and am your,

  Charles

  A contract, then? If I am to receive a salary, he must believe that I am for hire, and if I am for hire, then I am a … No. I am not for hire. Gifts, yes. Salary, no. King or no king.

  Three p.m.

  A draft for a staggering sum arrived this afternoon along with a curt note from Mr. May, all inside a hideously gaudy envelope with a fat ornate seal. I find him an insubstantial yet sourish sort of person and am well aware that he favours Castlemaine, regardless of her dismissal in this ridiculous horse race for the king’s heart. She plays on his love of finery and wild, risky living and plies him with extravagant compliments and hints of undreamed of favours yet to come—absurd. All the while she has her sly fingers in the Privy Purse. Castlemaine is a mother five times over and ought to let go of her vixeny, compulsive flirting. It is unbecoming.

  I have decided to put the whole matter out of my head for the moment, as I can see there will be no changing Charles’s mind at present, nor any reason for me to give ground. In fact, I’ve a good mind to write to Tom and ensure my billing for the autumn season.

  Note—Teddy says the rumours have begun. My absence has been noticed, and everyone can guess the cause.

  October 7, 1669—Church Street, Windsor

  Rose is here visiting me while her husband is away in the Cinque Ports in Jemmy Monmouth’s bloated retinue, and this morning she and I sat in my cheery yellow closet sketching designs for new dresses.

  “Ivory taffeta, striped with palest cream, will be lovely for evening. And if we order a cream hat with matching veil from London today, Madame Sophie should be able to have them here by next week,” Rose said, looking at her diary. She takes her dress-making very seriously, and once she has promised, she is careful to deliver on the appointed day.

  “Ivory?” I asked, looking at her design. “I’m not sure wheaty colours will do much for me. Perhaps a bolder shade…”

  “Yes, but your skin is peachy from the sun—you’ve
obviously not been wearing your bonnet—so ivory will suit for evening: very pretty by candlelight, and more stylish than a dark colour,” she overruled. “Do you still have the gold slippers with the embroidered butterflies?”

  “No, I got them wet,” I said distractedly. I was looking for the right time to tell her my news—particularly as it would affect the dresses she was designing. This might not be the best season for stripes. I would look like a circus tent, and we would certainly need more material for the winter gowns once I was showing.

  “Rose…” This was proving more difficult than I thought.

  “Ellen, the way you go through slippers! You used to be able to make one pair last for two years!”

  “Well, they were made of sterner stuff. Rose…”

  “What about the green slippers edged in silver lace for the pink gown? No, the green may be too dark. You need something to temper that dress—if only I had known it was going to be such a bright pink.”

  “Yes, that sounds perfect. Rose…”

  “And a grey feathered hat for your new black walking gown? Something fluffy and grey will offset that dress—otherwise it’s a bit severe.

  “Rose…”

  “But on rainy days only, you must be sure to wear it on rainy days—not the pastel gowns you are always dragging through the mud, Ellen. Grey is lovely in the rain.”

  This wasn’t going to work.

  Later—Three p.m. (over warm chocolate and toast)

  “Rose! I had thought this would be welcome news—a bastard, of course, but welcome!”

  “It is happy! I am happy!” Her brown eyes grew bright with tears.

  “You don’t look happy.” I was watching her pace about the room—window to chaise, chaise to window.

  “I just wish … Oh, Ellen.” She dropped heavily onto the tufted armchair and began picking at the fraying fabric—the dogs are destroying that chair. “I worry that I won’t ever, can’t ever…” Her words dissolved into sobs.

  “Of course you can, Rose; it just takes time,” I said, sounding trite. I felt selfish; I’d had no idea she wanted a child so badly.

  “You don’t understand, Ellen … the things we did to get rid of them. We couldn’t, we just couldn’t have them.”

  I looked at her, horrified. “You mean you … on purpose? How?”

  She took a deep steadying breath. “Lots of ways: herbs, emetics, purgatives, if you caught it early enough … and if you didn’t, then you just … well, you just had to. Everyone did it. So many times. And now, when I want one so much, I can’t.”

  “Rose, you will,” I said, kneeling beside her and trying to sound confident. I brushed her loose curls off her face.

  “No, I won’t. I can’t. And it is right. A punishment,” she said dully, blowing her nose.

  “No, you can’t be punished for something you did when you were little more than a child yourself.” I was surprised at the conviction in my voice—inwardly, I grieved for her and was hurt that she had not told me.

  “Yes, you can,” she said flatly. “You can always be punished.” There was no doubt in her voice, only regret.

  Later

  Charles came for supper, and it was a forced, awkward affair. I did not bring it up. He did not bring it up. He returned to sleep in the castle. London tomorrow.

  To Lord John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, Le Marais, Paris

  From Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, Newman’s Row, London

  Dearest Johnny,

  Please do not take it amiss that I write so seldom. You are ever in my thoughts and are missed, by me, by the king, by everyone. Charles loves you—you must know that—but is saddened by your wildness. You are exiled out of exasperation and not anger. He does not understand the blackness at the bottom of you. Nor do I. All I can do is love you with all the light I possess. I hope you are well, my dearest. Your lovely wife has not been to town, but I have heard from Savile that she is well at Adderbury. I am glad of it. We are all waiting for you to come home.

  Dearest, what do I do? The king bids me to leave the stage, and I do not know how. It is not that the stage is my heart, for he is my heart, but the stage is my courage. I do not know how to enter the world as myself without it. He loves me, and I fear I am impossibly ordinary without the magic that happens in the dark of that great room. It will be my undoing, and he cannot and will not understand it.

  I am ever and ever your,

  Ellen

  October 31, 1669—Newman’s Row (All Hallows Eve)

  Ghosts are abroad tonight as the legends go. I feel I am becoming one of them. After a blazing row I have yielded to the king’s wishes and have accepted no roles this season—a truce, for now. I am writing this in the little curved window-seat in my bedroom. The fire has died down and the house is asleep, but I cannot stop running over and over tonight’s exchange with the king.

  “I will not have it!” Charles roared, knocking a small blue vase off the mantel. It rolled on the carpet, scattering the spaniels, but did not break. He did not notice, and I did not move to pick it up. This was truly the first time I had ever seen him lose his temper. “I would sooner shut down the theatre, both theatres, all theatres!” He struggled for patience and took a long breath. When he spoke, his voice had a cool sharpness, like a winter blade. “I gave the theatre patents, and I can revoke them just as easily,” he menaced. I found his quiet malice more devastating than his hot rage.

  I believed him and shuddered to think of my friends disbanded and Tom ruined. I shifted Ruby onto my lap in the yellow silk armchair. Think! Think! No. There was no recourse, and I must accept, but try as I might I could not make my lips form the words. No sound came, and so I closed my mouth like a goldfish.

  “Ellen, don’t you see,” he said, kneeling in front of me on the thick carpet. “If anything happened to you … last time you survived, but this time, what if…”

  “How did you know?” I asked, astonished. “How did you even know there was a last time?” Only a handful of people ever knew there was a baby. Teddy, Tom, Mother, Rose, Hugh, Cook…

  “Barbara.”

  “Barbara!” I had not expected that answer. I slowly puzzled it together: Hart must have told Barbara Castlemaine, and Barbara told the king—it was just the kind of juicy unfortunate sort of story she would be eager to pass on. But Hart … How could he? How could he discuss something so private and so painful with that horrible woman?

  “She told me out of concern,” he said solicitously, guessing my thoughts.

  I rolled my eyes. Barbara Castlemaine only concerned herself with one person. Why? Why would she tell him? She said it to keep him out of my bed! I turned quickly to face Charles, still kneeling on the rug. “Did she suggest we sleep apart until after the baby is born?”

  “Well, no, yes … in a way, but not a suggestion, really, more of a caution. She has, after all, had five children.”

  “And did you stay away from her bed during all those pregnancies?”

  “No, naturally not, but then she was saying how delicate you are, and then she told me about your baby—your baby baptised Elizabeth.”

  I drew my breath in sharply, stunned that Hart would share such a detail, and squeezed my eyes shut against the answering bright white pain. Charles took my hands gently, as if they were as fragile as robin’s eggs.

  “Barbara told me that you nearly died when you lost that baby,” he said simply. “That was enough for me … nothing would make me risk you. It matters not at all what else she said.”

  “Oh, Charles,” It was not our child he worried for—his concern was for me. I immediately softened towards him. “I wouldn’t do anything to endanger myself or the baby. It was a carriage accident. It could happen to anyone.”

  “I couldn’t bear it, Ellen,” he whispered, holding me tightly. “Please, for me. I just couldn’t bear it.”

  “I won’t,” I promised. “Not while I am carrying our child, I won’t.”

  November 1, 1669—All Souls’ Day

  I
lit a candle, as I do every year, for my dead: Father, Great-Aunt Margaret, Theo, lost baby Elizabeth…

  Monday—Theatre Royal, London

  I have become an unpleasant person. Tom and Teddy are disappointed, and I find I cannot discuss my distress with them. I roam reasonlessly about the theatre. I feel without anchor or purpose. I feel jealousy born of idleness and am snapping at everyone. I harbour undeserved and unbridled anger for Hart, who is currently enjoying a short country holiday.

  All I have is Charles and our baby, who does not even exist yet. I am riddled with envy for his wife, his children, his ministers … He is to be my whole life, but I am only to be a small part of his. I rage at the unfairness. I feel diminished, less, as if I am dissolving a little more each day. “Go back,” my heart whispers. But I promised.

  Barbara is gone; Moll is vanquished; I suppose I am now maîtresse en titre, but no one refers to me as such. As always, I remain Ellen. But I am less Ellen than I ever was before.

  November 22, 1669—Newman’s Row (early frosty morning)

  Charles went off to St. James’s Park for his morning constitutional, and I was left amongst the familiar debris: coffee cups, news sheets, dog bones, a forgotten tennis racquet, a book by Thucydides left face-down with the spine broken, papers and more papers, and half dismantled clocks. I must remember to tell Mrs. Lark not to disturb the pieces of this particular clock, or Charles will be cross—he has been working on it for two days.