Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  I took myself downstairs so that the chambermaids could tidy up and roamed from room to room. The building work is nearly finished, and I could hear the carpenters, Mr. Lark, and Grandfather up on the second floor discussing plumbing for the new water closet. The broad books of fabric samples and paint colours and furniture designs were all lying out on the dining room table, where we left them last night. So far we have decided on periwinkle blue, pale gold, and creams for the formal drawing room—but have yet to order the furniture—and luscious reds for Charles’s closet, for which we have ordered two deep armchairs, a bookshelf, a writing table, and a chaise longue. I am too superstitious to design the nursery yet, and Charles agrees.

  I was too agitated to think about furniture and wandered out onto the front steps—yes, scandalous: a pregnant, unmarried actress and chief mistress of the King of England lounging about her front stoop in her dressing-gown. I squinted into the morning sunshine and saw Aphra come hurrying down the street. I raised my hand in greeting. She would not be shocked by such immodesty.

  “You’ll freeze!” she scolded. “Inside, inside!” she said, herding me back into the house.

  The dogs heard sounds of intruders and began to bark, setting off Molly, who is nearly full grown and makes a sort of nasally croaking squawk. I led Aphra though the noisy animals into my small downstairs sitting room (one of the few furnished rooms on the ground floor). I rang the bell for coffee and victuals, as Aphra shed her light coat and pulled off her stylish black hat.

  “Like it? Madame Sophie. Lady Herbert sent it back, and so she sold it to me for half off.”

  I giggled at my friend’s ever-unabashed economising.

  “My dear, I hope I don’t offend, but you look dreadful. Sort of grey and unloved. Is something the matter?”

  Trust Aphra to recognise a sickness of soul rather than body.

  “Is it the king?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Your mother?”

  My wild drunken mother perversely appealed to Aphra’s sense of female independence. Again, I shook my head. “I’m just not myself. I’ve been foul to everyone. I have agreed to give up the stage, and it grieves me in a way that I do not understand.”

  “Why should you not understand it?” she said briskly. “Of course you are grieved. You carved out a shiny sliver of life for yourself—just you—and now you must give it up and become someone else.” She shrugged dismissively. “Your sparkle came from your secret, Ellen. When we are young, very young, if we are lucky, we believe that we are guaranteed a special place in the world, all our own. It is only when we find out that there is no such place unless we scratch it out with our own hands that our lights begin to dim.”

  “My secret?” I asked, not following.

  “You were yourself by your own right. However much it may have looked like you were in someone’s possession. That was your great secret. That is why you sparkled beyond all others. You were free.”

  After Aphra had gone I mulled over what she had said. It is a grief, I thought. A grief for having lost something I did not care to lose. He prefers me not to act … but must I give up my theatre altogether? The performance is but a small part. I quickly wrote a note to Tom.

  November 26, 1669—Newman’s Row, London (sunny after days of rain)

  “Wrap up, Ellen; it is chilly,” Grandfather said, standing at the door of the church. In fact, it was not cold but a balmy autumn day, warmed with remembered summer. Dutifully, I pulled my green muffler around me.

  “You do realise that I have six months to go?” I teased affectionately. Grandfather is also terrified I will miscarry again and run into danger.

  “And step carefully here,” he said, leading me over a shallow puddle. Grandfather loves me with a steady discipline that underpins all he does.

  I rolled my eyes. Am I to be treated like spun marzipan until May? Yes, his look tells me.

  When we returned home, I tore open Tom’s note, waiting in the silver dish:

  To Mrs. Ellen Gwyn

  Newman’s Row, London

  My dear Ellen,

  Of course! I should welcome your insight into all facets of our theatre. Shall we begin today? Twelfth Night is proving a bear, and I would love your assistance. Let me know what time is convenient, and I will come with the set designer and stage manager if I may. I will send the script over to you directly. My groom is waiting for your reply.

  Affectionately your,

  Tom

  Thank God. Tom sent over several scripts for me to read through. I am rescued. He is coming over later with Mr. Fuller and Mr. Booth. I have also asked Rose to come to discuss set, costumes, and casting for Twelfth Night. The familiar rhythm of rehearsal and performance will steady and soothe me. I am at home in the midst of that chaos. I feel the brilliance of activity coming on.

  Later

  They just left after a heated discussion and a lovely supper of roasted meats and fresh salad. Becka is to play Maria, and Nan is to play Viola. Lizzie will take Olivia, and in a fit of malice, I suggested Hart play Malvolio, complete with yellow hose. I feel appeased, as it is a part he loathes. I am renewed and painted in bright colours once more.

  To Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn, Newman’s Row, London

  From Lord John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, in Paris

  December 10, 1669

  Ellen,

  Accede to his wishes until after the baby and then return. It would be somewhat disastrous if you were to insist on the stage and then have a mishap. Undoing the king’s child is not like undoing a private citizen, to put it crudely. Be sure to come back, Ellen. You are all my firelight, my dear, and I would be in darkness without you.

  Paris is dull, and I am dull with it. I miss myself dreadfully, how selfish. Tell Rose I shall bring her back lovely French fabric, and I won a pair of very pretty shoes of Babs Chatillon the other day—they shall go to Teddy. Savile has asked for the most outrageously expensive snuff, and I shall lie and tell him I could not find it anywhere. Etheredge is being pompous and has requested books. You will get the prize, my darling—as ever, my whole heart.

  Johnny Rochester

  Saturday, December 15—Newman’s Row

  It happened. It was bound to. Hart could not go on skulking about the theatre indefinitely, and I? I needed to know why. This afternoon:

  After dropping off a pile of costumes in the dress-maker’s room (it was particularly galling to hand over my costumes, and the roles they accompanied, to the Marshall sisters) I heard Hart humming in his private tiring room. He only hums when he is alone. Without hesitating, I pushed open the slim wooden door to find him halfway through his afternoon shave.

  “Ellen!” He quickly wiped the comically foamy shaving cream from his chin with a worn blue cloth.

  Having impulsively rushed into this confrontation, I found I was unsure of what I wanted to say. No. I balled my fists in renewed purpose. “Why?” I demanded in a low wolfish growl. Was that really my voice? “Why tell her?” I knew he would understand me. I braced myself for his inevitable rage and useless explanations and then, hating myself for it, I suddenly began to weep, the tears coursing down my face like a soft spring rain.

  “Ellen,” he said quietly, “I should not have told her. Castlemaine is not a woman to understand such a thing, and I regret it. Forgive me.”

  Caught off guard, I reached out for a nearby chair to steady myself. Instantly, he was at my side, gently helping me to sit down, pressing a clean handkerchief into my wet palm. “I hadn’t thought you would be sorry,” I said, bewildered and stating the obvious.

  “Yes.” He laughed, still holding my hand. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Why, Hart?” I asked earnestly. I was determined to know. “Something so private, so personal? Why tell her my secret?” And then I heard it: my secret, not our secret. My daughter, to be named Rose. His daughter, Elizabeth, for his mother. Our daughter. When had she become mine?

  “Because I cannot forget her,” he said, looki
ng away, his voice catching, tearing. “As I cannot forget you.”

  Without a word I kissed his hand, still closed around mine, and rose to go. He roughly stood and returned to the washstand. He did not turn as the door closed. I know we will never speak of it again. It is all I can do for him.

  Monday, December 20—Theatre Royal

  Sitting in on Twelfth Night rehearsals. Hart passed me in the wings without a word.

  December 26, 1669—Newman’s Row (snow!)

  We celebrated our Christmas tonight as Charles had to spend yesterday divided between Christmas festivities with his children (Chiffinch says he bought each of his daughters a compass and his sons new saddles) and the official court Christmas feast with his queen. Tonight is just for us. Mrs. Lark made her buttery yellow cakes with sugared lemon icing, while Mr. Lark and Grandfather decorated the banisters with lengths of evergreen. Rose and I hung a ball of mistletoe in my bedroom doorway—we can no longer close the door, but no matter. After supper and hot mulled wine we curled up on the sofa by the fire and opened our presents. Charles handed me a slim gilt-edged printed card wrapped in a golden ribbon:

  A FAREWELL PERFORMANCE

  BY MRS. ELLEN GWYN

  A performance sponsored by the King of England

  I turned to Charles. “Sponsored?”

  “Yes, costumes, sets, and a lovely party afterwards at Chatelin’s.”

  “Charles!”

  “I could not think of any gift that would please you more. It will be a lovely good-bye, my dear.”

  “Good-bye for now,” I added.

  January 15, 1670—Newman’s Row

  Charles told me this evening that the queen is planning to attend my performance. He was clearly surprised and pleased by this news. I am delighted but not surprised. She is a woman with a rare capacity to forgive, and I am honoured.

  When I Make My Last Entrance

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, February 13, 1670

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 400

  Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour

  Darlings,

  By order of His Majesty, our dearest divine Nelly will return to us for one bright night. What he hath plucked he hath returned for one glittering evening. Cherish it, my petals! They will say in years to come: “I was there at that beautiful moment when a beautiful girl left her beautiful stage.”

  And in addition, you will be treated to the creamiest de la crème: Dryden will write, Lacy will dance, Ned will sing, and naturellement, le roi will watch! And then, poof! Our darling girl will be gone, and she will be missed, for she has been most loved, and may I say, it is never been more deservedly so.

  À bientôt!

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Your bated and breathy,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  February 14—St. Valentine’s Day, Will’s Coffee-house

  “You must know him, Ellen,” Teddy said from behind his news sheet. I could hear him chewing his toasted gingerbread.

  “Or her,” Peg said, buttering her toast.

  She is in town for my farewell performance—farewell … until after the baby performance—I keep stipulating. No one believes me, and everyone is sure I will fall so in love with my baby that I will give up all thoughts of the theatre. “Look how you are with your goose,” Teddy keeps saying, as if that explains everything.

  “Sounds like a man’s writing to me,” Teddy said, not bothering to offer any proof whatsoever.

  “But…,” Peg interrupted.

  “Peg, how many women do you know named ‘Ambrose,’” Tom asked witheringly, not looking up from his sketches. He is finding it impossible to fit all of the distinguished guests attending this gala into appropriately distinguished boxes.

  “It is not her real name, naturally,” Peg said, dropping crumbs on her silk dress. “The language is too … I don’t know … floral to be a real man.”

  “Men can be floral,” Teddy insisted. “I can be a veritable bouquet. In any case, it was a lovely thing for him to write—whoever he may be,” Teddy said sincerely. We looked at him in surprise. He is usually vitriolic about Pink’s column. I wonder…

  “But he called you ‘Ned.’ You hate being called ‘Ned,’” Peg said.

  “Well, obviously I hated that part.” Teddy grimaced. “Ellen? Is the king your valentine?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Now he is. I had a false start. I woke up and saw Francis, the king’s groom, first. I got straight back into bed and tried again,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Rupert always leaves a blindfold beside the bed, and then I have to go stumbling around the castle looking for him. It’s an old castle, and the floors are not level. I never make it through unscathed,” Peg said, showing us her scraped elbow.

  “But then he gives you something delicious to make up, I see,” purred Teddy, eyeing Peg’s new ruby bracelet.

  “Oh dear,” said Tom in a small voice. “Cecilia usually reminds me … oh dear.”

  “You forgot?” Teddy asked, astonished. “I do not even like my wife, but I still send something,” Teddy scolded, pouring more coffee.

  “What did the king give you, Ellen?” Peg asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking at my miniature gold timepiece (a New Year’s gift from Charles). Oh dear, I was going to be late. “I’m off to meet him at Newman’s Row now.” I slung on my coat. At six months, I was starting to feel unwieldy. I said quick good-byes and then hurried out the door for home.

  The king, Buckingham, Buckhurst, Sedley, Rose, Grandfather, the Larks, and most of the household staff were waiting on the front steps when I arrived. “Has something happened?” I called, surprised to see them standing in the frosty air. A small crowd of onlookers had also gathered at the end of my street. My house has become something of a destination, and often people lurk there in the hope of catching a glimpse of the king. Today, their hopes were rewarded and then some; half the court seemed to be standing on my front stoop.

  “Nothing has happened; we are just impatient. You are four minutes late,” the meticulously punctual monarch reprimanded, snapping shut his timepiece. “If you had come in this”—he clapped his hands, grinning broadly—“you would have been on time.” Cook and Johnston came tearing around the corner carrying a beautiful japanned sedan chair between them. “Good St. Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” The king beamed, and everyone gathered on the steps began to cheer.

  “Wait, wait!” Teddy panted from down the street.

  I turned, surprised to see the little bunch I had just left at breakfast had followed me home. “Teddy—”

  “You left so quickly,” Tom said, reaching us and doubling over with exhaustion. “We hadn’t paid the bill or put on our coats or anything. We had to run to catch up.”

  “Well, now that you are all here,” said the king, descending the steps and encircling me in his arms, “what do you think?”

  “It is beautiful. Just beautiful,” I said, looking at the stylish contraption.

  “Rose and I picked the emerald green seat coverings,” Peg said proudly. Rose came down the steps and hugged me as well.

  “Your little feet will grace our ground no more,” trilled Buckhurst over-dramatically, his cheeks pinked with the cold.

  “Try it out!” Teddy called, as the king helped me into the boxy interior. With that, Johnston and Cook took up the long handles and off we went, bouncing down the street. It took a few moments for them to match their strides and for me to regain my balance, but eventually I was able to turn to see the group of beloved faces waving good-bye. I blew them a theatrical kiss from the window and settled down to enjoy the bumpy ride.

  Nine p.m., Newman’s Row

  “You truly like it, sweetheart?”

  We were settled into our bed, under the quilted satin coverlets. At last, Charles is happy to sleep here, despite his concerns.

 
“I love it,” I said, dropping a kiss on his nose. “Nothing could make me happier.”

  “Nothing?” he asked archly.

  I shook my head firmly. “Nothing.”

  “Not even this?” he asked softly, pulling out a light, wrapped box from beside the bed. “Open it.” He smiled and put the box into my hands.

  I gently unbound the grosgrain ribbon and stripped away the thin tissue. Inside was a long, ruffled christening robe. The creamy satin ran through my fingers like water.

  “It was used for my brother Henry and my sister.”

  “Minette?”

  He nodded. The favourites. I knew how much he still missed Henry. I fell into his arms. There was nothing to say.

  February 16, 1670—Theatre Royal

  I no longer walk anywhere. “It certainly makes me more conspicuous,” I confided to Teddy after the morning rehearsal for my farewell event. Today, I will rehearse the new monologue Dryden has written for me. I was hoping he would not have too many script changes.

  “Nothing wrong with conspicuous,” Teddy said, smiling. I had caught him this morning in a pretty pink walking frock, alighting from Lady Jemimah’s open carriage.

  “Ellen, would you look at this,” Dryden said, hurrying over to me, his hat plumes bobbing as he waved the newest playbill aloft.