“Neither, Mistress West. I simply don’t believe in ‘bothering’ without love. Though I take a lot of ribbing for it around here.”
The serious look in his eyes made her change the subject. “If you’re not an actor, what do you do here, if you don’t think me too forward for asking?” They had reached the backstage common room, and Malley threaded her unnoticed through gaily costumed, chattering men and women. He stopped her at a small corner table piled with several leather-bound folios, a quill, and a bottle of ink. He pulled a chair from another table and set it opposite the one already there. Gesturing at the table’s contents, he said cheerfully: “Why, I help Sir William Davenant murder Shakespeare. Here, sit down. I’ll go get the chocolate.”
Arden obliged, and wondered what he could possibly mean. All her good manners barely succeeded in keeping her from rifling through one folio of strange, spidery hand-writing. She could see, without turning her head at too awkward an angle, that some of the other folios were editions of Shakespeare’s plays.
Shortly Malley returned with two steaming cups. As he placed one before her, Arden repeated, “You murder Shakespeare?”
“Yes,” he said, before blowing gently on the surface of his chocolate. Arden decided she liked his unconcern about manners, and did likewise. “You can’t perform Shakespeare in the original, you know,” Malley continued.
“You can’t be worried about what the Puritans think,” Arden declared, forgetting herself in a strange place conversing with someone she barely knew, in clothes that made her appear one of them. “They can’t abide plays to begin with, so why concern yourself if the Bard is a little bawdy upon occasion?”
“You’ve never been in London before, have you, Mistress West?” Arden shook her head as she braved a sip from her cup. The blowing had worked sufficiently. “The Bard’s not bawdy enough to suit our audiences, yet not stylish enough to suit their taste for high poetry,” Malley continued. “I spice it up, make the language smoother, and put it all in dactylic hexameter and heroic couplets―in short, I rob it of most of its original genius.
“You know, I’d heard that, but I didn’t believe it. How dare you do such a thing, Mr. Malley?” She asked without the least hostility to her new friend, but rather with wonder. Wonder as if at the courage of someone who’d taken the Lord's name in vain in her stepfather's presence. Her true father, however, had taught Arden reverence for the Bard.
“Gets me a living, and it’s far more pleasant than slaving as a shop clerk,” Malley replied. “But I’m working on my own play, too, Mistress West. And when it’s done, Willy’ll no longer spin in his grave on my account.”
“Good for you!” Arden finished her last gulp of chocolate and decided she felt much better―quite recovered from her encounter with that bold gentleman. Courtenay. First name Robert? she wondered, before she could stop herself from remembering the warmth of his mouth upon her own. “Well, if I am to be an actress, I suppose I should start loosening my morals now,” Arden began again. “Don’t worry,” she added quickly, seeing Malley’s eyes widen. “I only meant to encourage you in the informality of using my Christian name, Mr. Malley. Please call me Arden.”
“My pleasure, Mis―um―Arden,” he replied. “Though, if you’ll pardon my saying so, it doesn’t sound like a very Christian name at all. There’s no one named Arden in the Bible. But it is lovely. And please call me Brian,” he added.
“Brian, I’m surprised you don’t recognize my name. Perhaps you’ve murdered him too well―it’s the Bard’s, you know. My father named me for the forest in As You Like It.”
“And the one in France?”
“I suppose, but he mostly had Shakespeare in mind.”
Brian smiled, and nodded politely. He seemed at a loss for what to say next, so Arden took the initiative.
“Brian, thank you so much for the chocolate, and for helping me calm myself with your friendliness. I’m much better, and I think I should see Lord Davenant now. Could you please take me to him?” She rose from the table and looked around the room.
“Well,” said Brian, rising with her, “he usually looks at new people before rehearsal, and we’re at the mid-rehearsal break now…. But let’s see. I think we should find you something a little more flattering to wear before you meet him. Millie, come here, please!” He gestured to a small, thin girl with light red hair and freckles, who moved quickly to their table. “Millie, why don’t you see if you can find something in the wardrobe for Mistress West? She wants to audition for Sir William. Arden, this is Millie. She helps the actresses dress for plays.”
“But Sir William’s already looked at people today,” Millie protested.
“Mistress West is my friend. I’ll ask him as a special favor to me.” Arden wondered privately just how much influence a hack Shakespeare-murderer had with the company owner, but Brian’s willingness to help made her smile.
“But he’ll recognize the costume, Brian, and only our girls are supposed to wear them! He might discharge me!”
“I am almost sure Mistress West will be one of our girls. Everything's all right, Millie, and if it isn’t, you can tell him I put you up to it. Now, take her to a quiet corner, and try to get her done by the end of the break. Make sure she looks good.”
Arden took no offense at what Brian implied―she knew he didn’t mean her, but the dreadful, dowdy, Puritan garb. She couldn’t wait to exchange it for a fine gown, even for the duration of an audition.
The transformation Arden saw in the large, framed wall mirror bordered on the remarkable. The costume Millie had chosen for her, a bright yellow silk, made her green eyes bigger and brighter. Like emeralds, he said. She thought the squared neckline extremely low. It exposed much more of her breasts than made her comfortable―almost all but the nipples. Better than looking like a Puritan! she told herself. Her black stockings had been replaced by white, and her plain black boots replaced by dainty slippers with heels, covered over in the same yellow silk as her gown. At Brian’s urging, Millie had secured some of the Company’s paste jewelry for her. A strand of glass diamonds hung round her neck, while a few more dangled from her ears. Even though she’d brought some stunning pieces she’d inherited with her to London, she had preferred not to show any wealth in strange surroundings. At any rate, Arden had not been so well attired since her father had been alive―and then she had been a mere child, unaccustomed to the fashions of a young lady. Treadwell would not recognize me, but Papa would. He must have known I’d look like this one day. Her father, who had selected plays for her to read ever since she had learned her letters, would have also understood her becoming an actress. Never mind that it was a brand new calling, and certainly rarely contemplated by a woman of her family background.
Arden smiled when Brian led her to Davenant, even though they caught the Company’s owner in the midst of saying, “She’d better be a good one. I’ve already looked at a horde of chits today at the regular time.”
A little disappointed when Brian did not offer his employer a vigorous reply, Arden nevertheless stood straight and tall before Davenant. She tried not to stare at his false silver nose―the flesh beneath, rumor whispered, ruined by syphilis. She readied herself to launch into Juliet’s final scene when Davenant asked her for a sample of her talents. Instead, he cheerfully commanded: “Show me your legs!”
Memories of Buckingham lifting her skirts chilled her, but Courtenay's words came back to Arden and oddly calmed her―Actresses merely serve as ornaments. Well, if she had to make her beginning that way, so be it. She could convince Davenant and the others of her talent once hired. Cheeks flushing, she obeyed his request. Fortunately, she knew she had nothing to be ashamed of. The clingy white silk stockings only enhanced the natural shapeliness of her long legs.
Davenant gave Arden a quick nod of approval. “Dance,” he told her.
“But there’s no music!” Arden protested. Not to mention she’d not had any dancing lessons since Treadwell had married her mother. “May
I have one of the musicians come over with his instrument?” She gestured to a group of men in the corner whose tuning and practicing did not amount yet to melody but only added to the general din.
“Anyone can dance to music,” replied Davenant. “We separate the girls from the women by seeing who can dance without. Go on, dance.”
For a moment, Arden stood nonplussed. She had no partner. Should she borrow Brian for what she remembered of a stately pavanne? Then she recalled the time her father had returned from aiding the Duke of Ormonde in Ireland. How he had quickly taught her an Irish dance, while his valet, Jack Clark, had played the fiddle. Oh, but Jack could play, too! Loud and furious and full of spirit. Still holding up her skirts, Arden concentrated on the memory of Jack’s music and the steps her father had shown her. She began to dance, prancing and whirling despite the heeled slippers. When the old strains died in her head, Arden gracefully halted, breathing with her effort. The din continued in the background, but Brian, Millie, Davenant, and a tall, dark-eyed man in a powdered wig who had come to stand beside them stayed utterly silent. Then Brian began to clap and whistle, and Davenant, beaming at the other man, asked him: “Well, Betterton, what do you think of her?”
Betterton! Arden had just danced before Thomas Betterton, the premier actor of the London stage! Thank the dear Lord I did not know it ahead of time! she thought. “She’ll do as a dancer,” agreed the actor.
“Right,” said Davenant, “but what can she do with a piece? Do you have anything prepared that you’d like to recite for us?” he asked Arden.
“Juliet’s death,” she announced.
“Oh, that again,” sighed Davenant.
Arden paused to feel the scene, pushing her awareness of the importance of her audience―and Davenant’s lack of enthusiasm―from her mind. She began to see Friar Laurence before her, began feeling Romeo's agonizing loss in her heart. She waved the priest away with a graceful hand and wailed, “Go, get thee hence, for I will not away!” Arden lowered her gaze purposefully to the floor, seeing the pale corpse of a handsome young man stretched beneath her. In the intensity of her mood, she did not recognize the finely chiseled features of the stranger who had rescued her outside the theater.
“What’s here?” Arden asked softly. “A cup, closed in my true love’s hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.” She bent to take the imagined vessel from the imagined dead hand, turning it upside down before her face.
“O churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after?” Arden exclaimed, casting down the cup. She began bending again to the fallen man, kneeling beside the body as she quickly affirmed: “I will kiss thy lips; haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make me die with a restorative.” She tenderly touched her lips to her vision. “Thy lips are warm,” she said sorrowfully. Then she snapped her head around, looking behind her.
“Yea, noise?” Arden queried. She returned her gaze to the body, searching for something. She found her answer. “O happy dagger!” Arden cried, grabbing the weapon strapped to her beloved’s still form. “This is thy sheath,” she hissed, plunging it above her bosom. “There rust, and let me die,” she breathed, letting her eyes fall shut and collapsing, completely limp on the floor.
“Bravo!” shouted Brian, helping Arden up.
“Oh, yes!” agreed Millie. “You’re ever so good, Miss! I could almost see the cup, the dagger, and the poor, dead lover!”
Arden flushed with the praise. She had given one of her best performances, better than the rehearsals alone in her room after Treadwell had gone out and couldn’t possibly hear.
“What do you think?” Davenant asked Betterton again.
“Has to work on her projection. No idea what she’d do with the rhymed couplets, but there’s a certain amount of raw talent. She’ll do for a bit player,” concluded Betterton.
“Hmmm,” considered Davenant. He crossed to Arden, and took a length of her dark hair in his hand. “Particularly if you dye this blond. It’s the style now, you know.”
Arden flushed again, but not with pleasure this time. A certain raw talent! Bit player! Dye my hair blond! But she pushed her pride aside. Far more important she be part of the Duke’s Company. In time she could show them. In time she might be playing opposite Betterton himself. She had almost started to nod her acceptance at Davenant when she heard his voice again.
“Absolutely not, Davenant! You will not have her mar that mahogany beauty merely to make her look like every other false blond on your stage. Give her a part with her real hair―Rayburn’s wench is starting to show too much for decency in the servant’s role, so let this one play it. I’ll be there watching this afternoon, and if you have her blond, Davenant, I’ll give all my patronage to Killigrew and the King’s men.”
As he spoke, Courtenay strode up to stand with Davenant and Betterton. With a start, Arden realized she had projected his face―albeit a bit less mature―onto her Romeo. Except, of course, this man’s face appeared very much alive. His dark eyes again looked at her with frank appreciation. He smiled broadly as well, showing off a set of fine white teeth.
“Very well,” agreed Davenant. “Lord Robert is not to be questioned in matters of theatrical taste. You may have the part, Mistress ... what did you say her name was, Brian?”
“Arden West,” Arden announced, before Brian could say it for her. She’d done it! She would walk the stage that after-noon!
“All right,” said Davenant. “Brian, give her the lines― you can remember three lines on this notice, can’t you?” Arden nodded enthusiastically. “And give her the cue lines. I’ll go tell May she can rest ‘til the child is born.”
Davenant stalked off, and Brian led Arden backstage, beginning to explain her brief part. She stopped him. “What about that poor girl! I’ve taken her role! I feel horrible―what will she do, Brian?”
“Oh, don’t worry about her. She doesn’t need to act to live―lucky for her, I might add,” said Brian. “If I may say so, you’ll be a definite improvement, small though the part is.”
Arden smiled, and listened as Brian described her role. She had to tell the lead actress that “Lord Nonsuch is here to ... see the new bedchamber.” Then later, when the lady’s husband returned home and inquired as to his wife’s whereabouts, she would say, “She took to her bed, m’lord.” As the cuckold moved to find his wife, she must place herself in front of him and plead, “Don’t go in there, m’lord! From the moans, I think she has nearly died!” Then she would run off stage in a dither. Quite bawdy. Treadwell would be appalled. Arden smiled even wider. A pity he would not be here to see her.
“Well, now that you know what you’re about, I’ll take you back to Millie. You can’t play a servant in that,” said Brian. He paused, eyebrows knitted together even more closely.
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to offend you, Arden.”
“What?”
“Well, May is a lot shorter than you, and her maid’s costume won’t fit,” began Brian. “But what you had on before would work, with May’s cap and apron.”
Poor Brian. He didn’t want to hurt her by suggesting her plain, Puritan garb made her look like a servant. But Arden had accepted that truth long ago, after her exclamations on the subject to her stepfather had proved entirely futile. “Good idea,” she said simply.
As Brian led her back to Millie and her own clothes, Arden thought about the other man who helped her get this part. Not only had he saved her virtue, and possibly her life, but he had advanced her career and saved her the trouble of dyeing her hair or getting a blond wig. She supposed she ought to thank him. She paused, and while Brian waited for her, she looked over her shoulder. Davenant and Betterton, she could see, had busied themselves elsewhere, but Robert Courtenay had already vanished.
*****
Courtenay had seen the girl glow when she told Davenant her name, seen the light of triumph come into her emerald eyes. And he had noticed how proudly she stood, straight and tall, and ho
w some of the waves of mahogany beauty were caught by her shoulders before cascading down her back. Millie must not have had time to put it up. For the performance, the dressing wench would stuff most of that wondrous hair under a maid’s cap. Courtenay had also noticed Arden West hadn’t even bothered to thank him for getting her the part. No matter, he thought, as he strode towards his box. She will thank me properly later.
Chapter Three
Arden’s debut passed satisfactorily. Not only did she think she'd performed brightly, but the audience gifted her with gales of laughter. She would never forget it! The glow from the chandeliers diffused a golden light over her while pure peals of mirth floated to her from the pit and the boxes. And the friendly applause washing over her when she took her bow at the end―could anything else bring such ecstasy? On stage, she had forgotten all else in concentration on her character―and on being loud enough to be heard, taking Betterton’s words on projection to heart. Waiting off stage, however, Arden thought again of Robert Courtenay. Because of the lighting, she could not tell if he'd sat in one of the boxes where the patrons of quality viewed the play. He had said he would be there, so Arden could only assume he'd seen her, that somewhere in that sea of hearty laughs had floated one belonging to him.
Brian congratulated Arden on her performance as she rid herself of apron and cap and collected her few belongings from Millie. “They loved you! You’ll be a lead actress in no time at all,” he predicted. “And after tomorrow afternoon’s show, we’ll do a second one at the Cockpit for the King.”
“You’re not serious!” Arden exclaimed. Yet even as she spoke, she remembered hearing that both London theater companies often performed at the Whitehall Theater known as the Cockpit for King Charles II and his court. Davenant’s company, called the Duke’s Company, had the King’s brother, James, Duke of York, as its official patron. The other company, managed by Thomas Killigrew, had Charles himself as its patron and therefore held the name of King’s Company.
Arden's Act Page 2
