“Mrs. Perry wears real diamonds as Castlemaine. Her lover, the Duke of Ambrose, gave them to her, and she insists on flaunting them.”
“Most unwise of her, I should think, with Lord Blackie on such a rampage,” Dottie said. “You can’t open a paper nowadays without reading about another of his exploits. Captured the public’s fancy, he has—haven’t seen anything like it since the heyday of Jonathan Wild. One of these nights he’s likely to break into Perry’s flat and politely divest her of those diamonds.”
“And it would serve the slut right. I can’t abide the woman—always giving herself airs just because she’s got a noble protector—but she is a gifted actress. I’d better go, Dottie.”
“You’re going to be marvelous, dear. I’ll have a fresh cup of tea waiting for you after your curtain calls.”
I moved back down the hall toward the wings, careful not to let my spreading skirts brush against the dusty flats. I stepped over a coil of rope, moved around fake marble columns the crew hadn’t yet stored away. It was dim and shadowy back here, but I knew my way by heart. The Lambert was like a second home to me, every nook and cranny as familiar as the back of my hand, and I had grown so accustomed to the smell of dust and mildew, hemp, stale greasepaint and powder that I no longer even noticed it. I smiled at a stagehand and moved on into the wings, standing in the shadows and watching the activity onstage, fighting the panic as I always did.
Three years it had been since I made my debut in The Goldsmith’s Wife. Six plays I had done. I was a seasoned actress now. I was a professional. I still felt sheer terror every time I started to go onstage. My throat tightened. My mouth went dry. I felt a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was going to forget all my lines. I was going to trip and fall flat on my face. Everyone was going to laugh at me. I was going to make a bloody fool of myself. I took several deep breaths. You’re going to be perfectly all right, I assured myself. You’re going to be fine. You always feel this way. You’ll go on and you won’t trip over your skirts and you won’t forget your lines and you will control this trembling. Why the hell do I do it? Why the hell did I let him talk me into it in the first place? I hate acting. There’s nothing glamorous or exciting about it. It’s hellishly hard work. It tears your nerves to shreds. I’m going to throw up. I can’t go on. I can’t possibly. I’m ill. There’s no way I’m going to go out there and humiliate myself in front of hundreds of people.
Charles II and the Duke of Buckingham were having a heated confrontation in the King’s private drawing room, all done in ivory and gold and pearl gray, pale violet upholstery covering chairs and sofa. The blasted spaniels were curled up on a pile of sky blue cushions near the King’s chair. They looked jumpy and on edge. I closed my eyes for a moment, valiantly struggling for control. Buckingham confessed that he had indeed been part of the conspiracy to discredit Nellie, to oust her from Whitehall, and he admitted that Castlemaine was behind it, afraid she would be supplanted. Charles sighed and shook his head and said it was about time for the beautiful Barbara to make a long visit to her country estates. Buckingham left. Charles turned to the spaniels and informed them that these meddlesome women were going to drive him mad with their jealous spats. Nellie was different, though, he told them. Nellie didn’t give a damn whether he was a king or a pauper. She was the only woman who had ever loved him for himself, and he’d be damned if he’d let those gorgeous bitches drive her away … Oh God, he was going to hear the knock and turn around … I took another deep breath and swallowed and Angel Howard vanished.
I touched my hair. I brushed my skirt. I became bright, saucy Nellie, all vivacity and sass, still the mischievous scamp of Covent Garden despite the silver and violet gown, despite the jewels. The knock sounded. Charles II turned, arching one brow. I sallied onstage, not waiting to be announced, an engaging, capricious minx who was shockingly irreverent and refused to treat her handsome Charlie like the monarch he was. There were several oh’s and ah’s at my magnificent gown, then a round of noisy applause. I ignored it, just as I ignored the heat of the footlights and that vast darkness out there filled with staring eyes. I was Nell Gwynn, raffish orange girl and actress now become the King’s favorite, and I greeted my King impishly and confessed that yes, I had put laxative in Moll Davis’s chocolates in order to take her place and yes, I had smuggled the handsome lackey into Castlemaine’s bedchamber and forged a note requesting Charles to come see her at once on urgent business.
“But I didn’t know she was going to jump into bed with him, Sire,” I added, ever so winsome. “I thought surely she’d send him away. Bet she was taken aback when you came sauntering into her bedchamber.”
“Taken aback and on her back,” he said solemnly, and then he grinned. “Ah, you’re a sly minx, Nellie, a veritable imp.”
“’Tis my nature, Sire.”
The scene was going remarkably well. The spaniels were behaving themselves, and Charles Hart’s casual, laconic delivery was perfectly suited for the role of Charles II. He certainly looked the part in the silver-embroidered blue brocade and long brown wig. He smiled indulgently as I made more confessions of pranks pulled on the beautiful but vicious Castlemaine. “But Sire,” I said, “’twas done for love. Were I to lose my handsome Charlie, ’twould break my heart.” He was touched by that, so touched he had to turn away—Megan really wasn’t at all fair, Hart was quite good and had the makings of a superb leading man. He moved over to his chair and sat down, and I began my big scene wherein I grew serious, pledged eternal devotion and shed real tears.
I had scarcely started when one of the spaniels got up from its cushion and wandered over to the chair. It sniffed about a moment and then blithely hoisted its hind leg and pissed all over the silk-clad ankle of Charles II. That noble personage turned a ghastly white and looked as though he might faint. The audience howled with boisterous laughter, which caused all four mutts to start barking and scampering about the stage in panic. I thought I might faint myself. I didn’t. Murder in my heart, I watched the adorable creatures bounding about and tossed my curls, smiling another winsome smile.
“You will surround yourself with spaniels, Sire,” I improvised. “Do allow me to remove them.”
Charles II nodded regally, almost losing his heavy wig, and as the audience continued to howl. Charming Nellie in her gorgeous gown raced about the stage after the beasts, catching them, cuddling them, cooing and carrying the little horrors into the wings, thrusting them into the arms of their panic stricken trainer and an ashen Andy Dobson. I stepped back onstage and there was thunderous applause and rousing cheers and I desperately tried to remember where we’d been before the pup pissed. The Merry Monarch was gazing glumly at his soggy white silk stocking, still pale, and I smiled once more, vowing that James Lambert would not live to see the morning sun come up.
“’Twill quickly dry, Sire,” I said. “A patch of piss never hurt anyone.”
“’Tis bloody discomfiting, Nellie. Methinks I’ll just take off my shoe and stocking. Will’st thou help me?”
“Sire, I am indeed your humble servant, your own charming Nellie, but there is no need. As I said, ’twill quickly dry. Sit there in your chair like a good King and contemplate the beauty of your Nellie and let her continue. Where were we, Sire?”
“Haven’t a clue,” he said.
The audience hooted. King Charles sat there in his sumptuous attire, totally at a loss, and somehow, I know not how, I managed to improvise until, finally, I picked up the threads and got back into the scene. I told him that I cared not if he sat on a throne or if he dwelled in a hut, he was my handsome Charlie and I loved him as I had never loved before or would again. Tears glistening prettily on my lashes, I made a low curtsy and sank to my knees in front of my royal paramour. Deeply moved, trying in vain to conceal his own emotions, he rose and took my hand. “Arise, my charming Nellie,” he commanded, and the curtain slowly fell amidst a furor of deafening applause.
“Jesus, Angel!” Hart whispered. “I’m sor
ry!”
“It wasn’t your fault, Charles. I told that son of a bitch we shouldn’t use those bloody animals, but would he listen to me!”
“I thought I was going to pass out when that creature lifted its leg.”
“You almost did. He’s going to pay for this.”
“You were magnificent, Angel. The way you handled yourself—I was ready to rush offstage and out of the theater and join the Horse Guards again. They kept laughing and you never once stepped out of character.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I said. “I’m going to kill him.”
The curtain began to rise. I smiled at Hart. He smiled at me and led me to the footlights and bowed to me. I bowed to him. We bowed to the wildly applauding audience. Charles backed away, leaving me alone, and I smiled and bowed and blew kisses and turned and held out my hands, summoning the rest of the company. They joined me, one by one, each modestly acknowledging their share of applause. Mrs. Perry simpered, milking it, diamonds flashing. Megan received several loud cheers. We all joined hands and bowed in unison and the curtain came back down. The others scurried into the wings and the curtain rose again to discover me all alone in the center of the stage. The audience was standing, cheering, stamping feet, and I bowed, humbly accepting the boisterous tribute from my public. When they settled down somewhat, I made a charming speech, thanking them for their reception, and then James Lambert strode out with a gigantic bouquet of pink roses. I recognized them. They were the ones Gainsborough had sent. The cheap son of a bitch had removed them from my dressing room.
He smiled. He looked very elegant in his black breeches and frock coat and white satin vest, frothy white lace at throat and wrists. He handed me the roses. I accepted them with a radiant smile. He bowed to me, ever so gallant, and then he made a charming speech in which he declared that his modest little drama would be an abject failure without his magnificent leading lady, who had brought it so brilliantly to life. I lowered my eyes demurely as he rambled on about my talents and his gratitude and when, at last, the curtain fell for the final time I gave him a look that should have turned him to stone. He grinned sheepishly. Temper, Angel, I reminded myself. Keep your temper. Control. Dignity. Don’t let the sod see how furious you are.
“Mad at me?” he inquired.
“I don’t wish to speak to you just now, James.”
“You are angry. I can tell. You never call me ‘James’ unless you’re upset about something.”
I started toward the wings. He trotted along beside me. I pretended to ignore him.
“I was wrong about the spaniels,” he said chattily.
I didn’t reply. I thrust the bouquet of roses into the arms of a startled stagehand. Several people were waiting in the wings to congratulate me. Seeing my expression, they decided to a man that it might be wise to wait until later. I swept past them with my chin held high, my silver skirt swaying, and Mr. James Lambert was foolish enough to persist, infuriatingly affable, trying his best to humor me.
“They did add an authentic touch,” he said.
I said nothing. I moved around the fake columns. He followed me, courting disaster. Now that the play was over, lamps had been lighted backstage, and the area looked even more shabby and disreputable. He caught up with me and took my arm, forcing me to stop. I turned and gave him another dangerous look. He wasn’t at all intimidated. His green-brown eyes full of masculine appreciation, he treated me to one of those seductive smiles that had made many a woman grow weak in the knees and had, on occasion, had a similar effect on me. Not tonight however. Tonight I was completely immune to his potent male allure and rakish good looks.
“I’m sorry, love,” he crooned. “I should have listened to you. I usually do—you have to admit that. We have a perfect partnership. I meant every word I said out there. My modest little drama would be an abject failure had you not brought it so brilliantly to life.”
“Please let go of my arm, Mr. Lambert.”
“You handled yourself magnificently, love. Professional all the way. I’ve always said that, while you might not be the best actress I’ve ever worked with, you’re hands down the most professional, a terrific little trouper through thick and thin. You really proved your mettle tonight, didn’t let it throw you at all, stayed right in character the whole time. I was in back, watching, I was proud of you, Angel.”
Not the best? I was absolutely livid now.
“It won’t happen again,” he assured me. “The spaniels are out as of right now.”
“Not the best?” I said in a lethal voice.
“Uh—” He realized his mistake and was momentarily at a loss. “That was a slip, love, an unfortunate choice of words. I didn’t—uh—I didn’t mean it to sound the way it must have sounded. You’re upset. You’re always this way after an opening. Go change and we’ll join our friends at Bedford’s and you’ll unwind and feel much better.”
He actually patted my arm. I casually lifted my skirts and kicked his shin as hard as I could. He let out a yelp and staggered back, hobbling. I moved on to my dressing room, feeling better already. I had learned quite early that the only way to deal with his bullying and bossiness was to fight back, and I fought back with a vengeance. We had had any number of rousing fights during these past three years. The fights were undeniably stimulating. The making up afterwards was invariably divine.
Dottie helped me out of the silver and violet gown and carefully hung it up as I slipped into a silk wrapper and removed my stage makeup. I washed my face and dried it and applied a touch of mauve shadow to my lids, a bit of pink rouge to my lips. I could feel the tension evaporating, anger disappearing, yet when Mr. Lambert opened the door and stuck his head in to ask if I was ready I hurled a pot of face cream at him. It smashed noisily against the wall, barely missing his skull, and he made a hasty retreat. Dottie shook her head. She considered both of us spoiled, unprincipled children and found our fights shockingly unprofessional. She scolded me roundly as she helped me into my crimson tulle petticoat with its multiple layers of skirt floating like soft red petals.
“You could have killed him if you’d hit him with that pot.”
“I have perfect aim,” I informed her. “I wasn’t trying to hit him.”
“A perfectly good pot of face cream—ruined. And someone is going to have to clean up that mess. Not me, I can assure you. Really, my dear, I’ve come to expect such shenanigans from Lamb but I should think you’d have a bit more dignity and self-control.”
“Dignity and self-control don’t work with your friend Lambert. If I didn’t hold my own he’d trample me under his feet. He knows just how far he can go and daren’t go any further. I have to keep him in line.”
“There are gentler means,” she pointed out.
“Not with Jamie. Besides, both of us enjoy a good scrap. It relieves tension, and God knows there’s enough of that in this crazy profession. Sometimes I wish I’d never taken it up.”
“You love it,” she retorted. “You were born for the stage. It’s made you a very famous woman—a wealthy one as well.”
“I never wanted to be famous, and as for wealth—most of my profits go into the next production. My money is backing this play, as well as his. I own a huge chunk of it.”
“Oh?”
“He conned me into it. He invariably does. If this play failed both of us would be in dire straits. Help me with the gown, Dottie. Everyone will be waiting for us at Bedford’s.”
The gown was a gorgeous crimson brocade with large puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, a low-cut bodice, tight waist and very full skirt that spread over the underskirts in gleaming folds. The sumptuous cloth was embroidered all over with delicate flowers of a deeper crimson silk. Dottie had created the gown for me. In addition to costumes, she did a complete wardrobe for me each season for which I happily paid a small fortune. Angel of Covent Garden must have a bold, dramatic wardrobe, and who better than Dottie to create it for me? I fluffed up the sleeves and adjusted the heart-shaped necklin
e as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“How do I look?” I inquired.
“Stunning,” she admitted. “Not too many women could carry off a gown that bold. You do it with great flair.” She sighed and shook her head again. “What became of that sweet, demure young woman who used to work for me?”
“She grew up,” I said. “Jamie claims he’s created a monster. Have I become a monster, Dottie?”
“I don’t think I’d better answer that, dear.”
Bedford Coffee House on King Street, just across from The Market, was celebrated for its oysters and vastly popular with theatrical folk. Jamie had taken it over for the evening for a private party for cast, crew, friends and journalists, the latter never averse to a free meal and a plentiful supply of drink and frequently influenced by same. Although it was only a short walk from the theater, my usually thrifty partner had hired a carriage so that we could arrive in style. He and Dottie chatted pleasantly during the ride, and he gave my hand a squeeze as he helped me out of the carriage.
“You look smashing, love,” he told me.
“Thank you,” I said coolly.
“Wish we didn’t have to attend this bloody party,” he added. “I’d rather go home and fight some more.”
“Oh?”
“Then we could make up,” he murmured.
“They’re waiting for us, Jamie.”
There was a rousing burst of applause as we entered the coffeehouse. We were immediately surrounded and separated, and I found myself being ever so vivacious and charming to a pack of gents from Fleet Street who bombarded me with questions and-compliments. Yes, I had been petrified when the pup pissed. No, it had not been planned to liven up the act, the act was lively enough, and the play was Lambert’s best, didn’t they agree? Yes, it was a delight to play Nell Gwynn, I found her utterly enchanting, and didn’t Charles Hart make a wonderful Charles II? He was a dream to work with and was going to be tremendously successful. No, I was not going to go over to Drury Lane. I admired Mr. Garrick tremendously, but I was devoted to Mr. Lambert. Yes, Mr. Gainsborough was here tonight, but only as a friend. He always attended my opening nights. I had no plans to sit for him again any time soon. An Angel in Scarlet? It was privately owned, I understood, and I had no idea where it was currently hanging.
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