Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  I had only ever heard the life and death of Mrs. Jordan in one telling with the hindsight of the teller. She was almost of the same age as my mother was now when she died. At that time I was sixteen and performing in Dublin. I remembered the other actors at the Old Crow bringing their Dublin newspapers with London news, two weeks late, telling us about the tragic circumstances of Mrs. Jordan’s death. I wondered what she had been like in her youth. And what her hopes had been when she first met the then Duke of Clarence who would one day become king. Had she, like me, simply accepted a single invitation? Had she been flattered by royal attention? Had she seen the possibility of a way out of her situation, or had she been motivated by the idea of love itself? Would she have become so successful if not for her alliance with the duke?

  I DREW THE CURTAINS and peered into the courtyard below. Light poured in through the window, and I returned to the bed. The light was that of late morning. I was free and completely alone. Before long there was knocking at the door, and Jane returned.

  “Did you sleep well, miss?” she asked.

  “Yes, very well thank you. What time is it?”

  “About half nine, miss. The master asks if you would care to join him and your mother for breakfast.”

  There was something very intimate about the word breakfast, and I wondered at sharing this meal with a man I barely knew.

  My mother seemed delighted with herself and her eggs in the dining room that morning. I was surprised to discover them both already eating, and I hoped my mother had not been discussing me in my absence. The duke got up from his chair to help me in to mine, and I bade him good morning.

  “Miss Smithson, you appear well rested.”

  “I am, thank you.”

  A maid poured my tea and brought eggs before I had a chance to ask for them. I looked up from my plate to see the duke watching me intently.

  “Miss Smithson, should you like to play the pianoforte or take a turn about the grounds after breakfast?” I chewed slowly, yearning for the peace of eating breakfast alone. My mother’s eyebrows arched expectantly.

  “I do not play, sir. And I would be happy to see the grounds, but we must leave soon after. I shall be performing again this evening.” For a moment I imagined a life of leisurely walks and music, a duke by my side to bend to my every wish; dinners, parties, no performances to attend. I allowed myself the hint of a smile in his direction. I wondered if I imagined his wink in reply.

  I BEGAN PREPARATION for my Lady Anne in earnest. My mother gave me the dress she had worn to mourn my father and altered it slightly to fit. We discovered some dark glass beads in the drawer of my dressing table at the theater, and my mother sewed these to the fabric, making patterns of flowers and stems. We hoped the beads would glimmer in the stage lights and help give an air of nobility to my performance. It was at this time that I bought my black veil. All day lines rushed through my mind. I came to think of myself as a pitiful widow. I perfected an expression of misery upon my countenance that caused my mother to ask what was wrong.

  One morning I stayed with Anne while my mother ran errands. I gave her bread and tea.

  “Harriet?” Her large eyes stared out from her tiny frame.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you marry the duke?”

  “Marry him? Where did you get such an idea?”

  “Mother says he will ask you to marry him. And then we will all go to live on his estate. And I shall be bought new dresses.”

  “Does she? This is news to me. Now, drink your tea.”

  Later, my mother offered her opinion, uncalled for though it was. “You will be safer with a man behind you, Harriet. We all will. Particularly a man of his standing. You will be free from the stage, free from all this hard work, free to go to church as often as you please,” she said.

  At times I was convinced of his love, and it was him I mourned, far in the future, as Lady Anne upon the stage. On other days I believed him indifferent. I would ask myself how he could possibly care for me when he knew so little of my life. He had not shown interest through the asking of questions. Yet when I saw him, he watched me intently and seemed at ease and open in my presence.

  I composed letters to Eliza in my mind as I walked to and from the theater and whenever I was not required on the stage. The letters were never the same twice and depended on my mood. Sometimes I told of the duke lightly, embellishing to make it a fairytale. Some days it was a comedy and we all lived happily ever after. Other days the story I recounted to Eliza was a romance ending in tragedy.

  Finally I sat down to write the letter at hand. I longed for her advice. I own I took pleasure in telling her of a romance of my own. And the man who paid me particular attention was not merely a lord, MP of Mallow, but a duke. If the duke should propose marriage, should I accept even though I did not know him well? What if he should ask to see me on my own? Was that safe? And what if he offered his protection? Was that not still better than being by myself? I yearned for someone to be there for me alone, to free me from the strange bonds I shared with my family. I did not want to be forced to give up the stage altogether but would have been happy to give up my dependence upon it.

  One afternoon as I was rehearsing in my dressing room there came a knock at the door. I was somewhat surprised for I had thought I was alone in the building.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the Duke of Wells. May I come in?”

  I wished I had been learning lines quietly rather than rehearsing stage movements. If only I had been silent enough to hide and convince him my room was empty. There had been no time to prepare myself.

  “Just a moment,” I said, snatching my mother’s lavender water from the dressing table and dabbing spots on my wrists and neck. I smoothed my hair in the mirror and stood, straightening my skirts. “Come in,” I said.

  “Ah, Miss Smithson.” He ducked under the doorway and stared around him as he came toward me, hand outstretched. His skin was warm as he clasped my hand.

  “Thank you for sending the flowers. It was very kind of you.” I looked up at him and then away, for I could not meet the intensity of that stare.

  “Not at all, not at all. Sweets for the sweet,” he added, smiling. “Miss Smithson, I must say you have been looking particularly beautiful of late.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I felt myself growing hot and cursed myself for wearing such a worn and stained gown to rehearsal. I had been expecting solitude. I was as unkempt as one of Macbeth’s witches.

  “Would you like to spend an evening reading Shakespeare with me, Miss Smithson?”

  “Oh, yes, that would be very pleasant. I shall have to ask my mother, though, and to consult my schedule.”

  “I think, Miss Smithson, that I should like to spend every evening with you and Shakespeare,” he moved closer and slipped his arm about my waist. I prayed he could not sense my trembling. “Alone. You would be freed from the stage, Miss Smithson.”

  I looked up, confused. For I had not heard the word marriage.

  “Miss Smithson, I propose to keep you in a very comfortable manner. There would be an allowance for your mother and sister, of course. In return you may accompany me whenever I desire it. You will not be seen with any other man.”

  I could hear footsteps outside my room and realized that the other actors must have arrived for rehearsal.

  “Thank you, no. I am otherwise engaged, sir.” I stepped around him and flung the door open, only to reveal a rather surprised Mr. Elliston.

  “Do you require assistance, Miss Smithson?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, sir. The duke is leaving; he has urgent business to attend to.”

  I WRAPPED MY CLOAK about my shoulders and ran from the theater, my head bowed, gasping for breath as tears flowed from my eyes.

  “Harriet, dear God, what has happened to you?” My mother led me to a chair and knelt at my feet. “Are you hurt?”

  I shook my head and sniffed. “It was the duke, Mother. He wanted me to come under his pro
tection. He was very forward, he—” I took a deep breath to compose myself.

  “His protection? What did you say?”

  “I said—I said—no.”

  “I see.”

  “I could not, I wanted. . . .”

  “I understand, Harriet. Surely there is something better waiting for you than to be mistress to a man of means and so easily cast aside.”

  “But he might not—perhaps I should have—”

  “I could not have blamed you if you had accepted him. It might have made our lives a little easier. But it is better this way.” My mother wiped my cheek and pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I am sorry I did not accompany you to rehearsal today; I should not have let you go alone.” She kissed my cheek and stood. “I shall bring something to calm your nerves.”

  The weeks following were difficult. I had tried to keep his courting private for fear the newspapers would take an interest. At the same time, I had secretly wanted all London to know of the affair. It linked me with Mrs. Jordan and Eliza O’Neill more than any other performance could have. It would have granted me much attention from actors and public alike. Now, Fanny Kelly and Madame Vestris raised eyebrows and smiled knowingly whenever I passed. Elliston took to winking at me during rehearsal.

  Privately I grieved. I knew I could have learned to love a man like the duke had I been given the opportunity. Eliza O’Neill’s marriage had given me hope that I could have a similar fate. How naïve I was! There could only be one Lord Becher in all of England. And it was true that my virtue could not have been as carefully guarded as those of the idle classes. Even when absorbed in my role I could not help noticing shapely women with long hair parading the aisles looking for custom. But was it not the gentlemen who used their services? Was there nothing better for me to hope for than to be paid for my services off stage as well as on?

  For some months I retreated within myself, barely opening my mouth except to utter my lines. My mother shook her head sadly at me and sighed as she said, “There will be other men, Harriet.” That was exactly what I feared.

  Anne Boleyn

  I WONDER HOW LONG it will be before my end. It is dark here, and I am alone apart from the women who bring me bread and water. They barely speak a word and will not tell me who else resides here. I remember Henry describing the Tower of London as a fortress for the most villainous of criminals, built so that even the most agile are unable to escape. A cold dark building with thick stone walls where people are sent to await death. And now it is the place of abode for his own wife. Sometimes I hear the cries of gulls, and they sound like people fighting death. I shall not fight. I shall embrace it with all my heart. For in it I will find certainty.

  I spend many hours thinking about my daughter Elizabeth. I pray she has not yet lost favor with her father and that she never shall. For the day my Elizabeth is queen of England will be the day I have my revenge.

  She has always been a favorite with the king. If he could not have a son, at least he has a daughter who is strong willed and knows her own mind. He thinks that by denying him a son, God is punishing him for wrongly marrying Queen Katharine. I think God is punishing him for so desiring a son and so neglecting his women. Even though Elizabeth is only three years old, Henry already thinks she has the wit of a man. I consider her more like me than her father, yet she is more interested in learning. She has begun studying poetry, learning verses and music by heart. Only once have I been permitted to see her dressed in velvet gowns, her hair neatly tied back from her face, reciting sensitively with occasional gesture. She is King Henry’s best exhibit whenever visitors come to the court.

  Now I know his ways. King Henry tires of everything before long. He will tire of his court. He will tire of the woman he has after me. One day he will even tire of being king. He does not have the disposition to be king. In part I blame his mother for she gave him everything he asked for as a child. He never had to learn patience, restraint, or sacrifice. Now all of England must bow to his every wish. Born into a different family he would be a different kind of man. He would have made a great explorer searching for new lands yet to be discovered. When he tired of rivers he would have found lakes, and when he tired of lakes he would have traveled oceans and then mountains. And in each place he could have had a different companion and a different wife.

  I ask my women whether he has taken a new wife. I long to hear news of any description to relieve the monotony of my days. But they ignore my pleas to such an extent that I wonder whether they understand me at all. I even tried speaking French to them but to no avail. Before long I shall lose my wits and the king will be right to have me locked up.

  Often nights, as I sit in the darkness of this cold tower, I return to sunny days in France. I had a nurse who loved me as a mother should. It was only when my father visited that I spent my days at learning, my legs heavy with the burden of a lady’s gowns, my shoulders and back stretching as straight as these walls, my head still and my hair pulled tight so that my head ached.

  When my father was not present, in the mornings my nurse dressed me in a lighter gown, kissed my forehead, and sent me out into the grounds. I met the gardeners there, and sometimes gruff men at the tradesman’s entrance where they dipped their caps at me and smiled. I learned a little lowly French from those men.

  I passed many, many days among the summer greens and yellows of Burgundy, roses in my hair. I ordered about my many subjects, people of all sizes and accents, visible only to myself. I knew that I would one day be queen.

  When I was fifteen, my father sent me to the court of King Henry VIII. I was maid to Queen Katharine at York Place. Father thought I would learn royal manners from her and that this would help me to make a good marriage.

  I came to know the body of the queen almost as my own. In the mornings I helped her bathe with warm water in the royal porcelain, with soap smelling like roses. The queen liked to begin with a clean face and work downward; she said she was truly herself with her cheeks pink and sweet. I sponged softly but firmly, watching her lift first one arm and then the other so that I would know where to clean. I followed the queen’s movements with my sponge, always watching only the skin I was cleaning and never allowing myself to stare. Queen Katharine was round and soft as are women who have borne many children.

  She was always bright of mood in the mornings, and sometimes she would let me use some of her rose soap and warm water when she had finished. In this way I came to think that we almost had the same blood, sharing sweet water like communion wine. The queen was almost twice my age, but until the trouble with King Henry her skin was smooth and firm. After that her body lost its form as though it could no longer hold itself together. When the trouble with King Henry began we were most surprised for it was not anything that had ever happened before in the history of England. I heard that on her deathbed Queen Katharine still wept for him and said she feared our Lord would punish him on Judgement Day.

  For two thousand nights I served my queen. After her toilette I shook out her skirts and tied them firmly around her waist. I did love the vivid reds, greens, and blues of her gowns. I could feel warmth in those shades that seemed to come straight from Queen Katharine’s heart to my fingers. I loved to brush her hair. It was fine and silver, and as I brushed it would begin to shine so that I longed to take a lock and put it under my pillow and watch it glisten whenever I wished. I never asked the queen for a lock of her hair. It was only after she died that I remembered it had been my wish, and I had a maid cut some from her waxy forehead. But when it arrived in a paper package the hair was already as dull and lifeless as her own bones. I kept it in my bureau where the king would not find it. I have it with me still.

  I only remember one night when King Henry came to Queen Katharine’s rooms. He must have used the back entrance, the door that looked like a line cut into the wallpaper. He must have crept stealthily for it was not until he climbed to her bed that I was awoken by a rustling and a grunting breathlessness. I heard cries of su
rprise from her at first, and then it sounded like pain. It took all my strength to stay in my own bed for I wanted to soothe her cries. In those days I was still ignorant of the ways of men. I did not know how quick King Henry was to have his way with a woman. That she could be in the midst of sweet sleep and woken by a piercing hot sharpness inside her. That was the only time I knew the king to come to the queen in the night.

  The queen passed her knowledge and wisdom to me. She warned me that beauty was a plaything of youth and that I must use it wisely. “Your face will not always be so fresh, nor your hair so dark,” she said to me once. “But those who truly love you will always see your beauty.” Queen Katharine was always beautiful to me.

  She told me never to trust men. This seemed strange to me since her husband was king of England. She said that marriage is different for people of our station than for the common people and that I was not to have fanciful notions of it.

  “Many days I do not even see my husband,” she said.

  I was already aware of this, spending all my days with the queen, but until that moment had not thought upon it.

  “Does this not sadden you, my lady?”

  “I have become accustomed to it,” she said. “And there are many aspects of my life which bring me joy. My daughter, the flowers in the grounds. And visitors from my homeland in the summer. I have much time to spend however I choose.”