Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  Fortunately, Arden did not have much time to dwell on whether Lord Robert would choose her affections over Buckingham’s friendship. At roughly the same time Arden sent the Duke from her door, there came another role in a new play. Or, more properly, Arden corrected herself, another role in a hack adaptation of an old play. Brian had assisted Davenant in brushing up Othello, and Arden got the part of Emelia. No, no, not a starring role yet―no Desdemona to be strangled, tragically innocent. But Emelia, as second female lead, made a good, meaty part. She got to find out―on stage―that she had married a deceitful wretch. Then she got to be stabbed by said deceitful wretch, and die. Actually die, not just be brought in as a corpse, like Cordelia. Not bad, not bad at all. Still, nothing really to prove Lord Robert’s point about what the knowledge of a man in bed could do for her acting talent.

  Arden’s first performance as Emelia went well, at least in her own mind. Both Brian and Davenant praised her lavishly. But she hadn’t sensed the audience reaction that she had with Cordelia. She simply didn’t have the most pathetic character in the play this time―the actress playing poor Desdemona drew all of the audience’s pity and held it by magnetism. Surely it must be the role. At Arden’s most charitable, the girl who portrayed Othello’s strangling victim practiced her art no better than she did.

  *****

  The temptation existed on the second night’s show for Arden to overact, just to get people’s attention away from Desdemona. She thought she’d succeed, too, and that she could do it without the spectators realizing she’d had them with cheap theatrics. But Brian would know, Davenant would know, and Robert would have known, had he been there. So Arden resisted the impulse and kept herself under a tight rein. Her second performance differed as little as humanly possible from the first.

  Arden did not try to make her third performance any different, either. But patrons who for social reasons attended on one of the first two afternoons, and then again on the third, noticed a marked tension to her portrayal of Emelia at the last. Especially at the last. In Act Five, Scene Two, as Emelia defiantly cried, “I will not,” to Iago’s demand she return home without another word about his handkerchief follies, Arden’s stomach began to turn decidedly queer. The queerness only increased as she dodged the first swipe of Iago’s dagger. By the time he actually managed to stab her, she gratefully accepted the excuse to lie down. Yet she still had lines to deliver: “Ay, ay: O, lay me by my mistress’ side,” and then the whole long bit where she even had to sing one of the Bard’s ubiquitous “Willow, willow” songs. In dactylic hexameter rather than iambic pentameter, it lasted even longer than as originally written. Though she lay flat upon the stage, Arden’s physical symptoms grew worse and worse. Something tried to rise up along with her lines. Even after she finished speaking, it still fought to rise. Arden herself longed to rise, and flee the stage, but no. She must lie there, completely motionless, while several more players traipsed in and Betterton in blackface lamented his jealousy and brought “a bloody period” to himself. Arden paused to wonder where her “bloody period” was as the curtain fell; when the drapery had fairly settled, she sprang to her feet and raced into the right wing. Brian stood there in his customary place, waiting to greet her. Before she could turn aside to avoid colliding with him, Arden vomited upon his shoes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brian bade her sit down, and brought her a cup of chocolate before excusing himself to attend to his footwear. When he returned to Arden, his “are you all right?” chimed against her “I’ll pay for your shoes.”

  “It’s nothing,” Brian continued. “They weren’t my best pair.”

  “And now they’re definitely not,” muttered Arden. She clutched the warm cup as if it were a rope thrown while she struggled in the Thames. She stared past her friend as if he no longer existed, and whispered, “Sweet Lord, what am I to do? Oh, Robert, I wish you were here!”

  “Arden, don’t fret. Probably just bad luncheon,” said Brian, loud enough to recall her attention. When she finally looked up at him, his hazel eyes returned a knowing and fearful gaze. Though he’d only arrived here a few months before Arden herself, Brian had probably already seen other actresses in her predicament.

  “No, Brian,” she said quietly. “I don’t have my courses.”

  “Are they long late?”

  “No,” Arden conceded. “Just a few days. But one can usually turn a calendar by me.”

  “Pish,” her friend said firmly. “You’ve had quite a lot of upset and excitement in your life lately. To say nothing of either Treadwell or Lord Robert, you’ve risen far in this company at a rapid rate. Surely that alone could put you off a while.”

  Arden found herself smiling. “How do you know so much about the private workings of ladies?” she teased. But Brian might be right. Many momentous things had happened to her in the past few weeks.

  “Surely you ought to have figured that out by now, Arden,” Brian said, blushing.

  “Oh, of course,” chuckled Arden, realizing the source of Brian’s information. As openly as the other girls talked about their private lives backstage, Brian had plenty of time and opportunity to acquire an education about the various idiosyncrasies of the female form. Without even trying to eavesdrop. Finally she said to him: “You’re probably right. It is too early to tell, really. Let’s not say a word more about it for the time being.”

  Arden, however, continued to ponder the question as she lay in bed that night. A few nights ago, after rejecting the Duke of Buckingham, she had lain in bed in the rooms Courtenay had provided for her, and longed for the touch of his hands upon her body until she wept. Now she wept again, but not for the practices of love. She might well have had quite enough of those to last her a good long while. Arden clung to Brian’s logic, but she doubted. She just did not feel right. Though she had not thrown up again, a light nausea continued. And if she was pregnant? How could she get a message to Lord Robert? How would he take the news that she carried his child? Arden hoped he would be happy, though the child be illegitimate. She hoped he would prove one of those high-born men who loved his bastards and supported them well.

  Bastard. Arden sobbed afresh as the word appeared in huge capital letters in her mind. If Courtenay had planted a small babe inside her, it was destined to be a bastard. She thought she should curse Lord Robert, but she could not. She had known, had she not, that this might come of being a man’s mistress? But with the threat of Treadwell’s attentions hanging over her head, the risk hadn’t seemed terribly relevant. So Arden cursed Treadwell instead. If she proved pregnant, she could lay yet another evil at his door.

  The next day was Sunday, with no performance or rehearsal. Arden attended services at St. Giles-in-the-Fields, now her habit. Bonnie accompanied her mistress―she did not share her cousin’s loyalty to the Church of Rome. In the house of God, Arden prayed heartily that she would merely prove over-excited, that her courses would soon make their appearance. She also spared prayers for the King, her mother, the Davenants, the Duke’s Company as a whole, Brian, Bonnie, and―of course, Lord Robert, out at sea.

  When Arden made it through the entire morning without needing recourse to a slop jar, she thought perhaps her prayers had been answered. But in the late afternoon, about the time performance would have ended, Arden parted company with her midday meal once more.

  Bonnie sat beside Arden on the bed, holding the basin for her and tenderly stroking her hair. Her blue eyes held the same knowing frankness as her cousin’s hazel ones the day before. After she had bathed her mistress’ face with a damp cloth, helped her out of her dress, changed her shift for a clean one, and tucked her into bed with some bread and broth, Bonnie suddenly recalled an errand she had forgotten. What it could be, Arden had no idea, since the shops closed on Sun-days. But Arden’s servant had left her alone, at least for a while, with the certainty of her condition.

  Now that Arden was sure, numbness prevented her from crying. She could only ponder her doubly-bad fortune.
If she had to be pregnant, she wondered, why couldn’t she be like other women and be sick in the mornings? Bad enough she would have to quit the stage when she grew large, but to have every performance in the meantime be an ordeal, to boot What luck!

  When Bonnie returned, she told Arden that Brian waited in the parlor. “I hope you don’t mind, mum,” she said, bowing her dirt-blond head. “I thought maybe he could help, or at least another friendly face would do you good.”

  “Thank you, Bonnie.” Arden got out of bed and put on a lilac dressing robe she had recently acquired to match her bedroom, then she and her maid went out to the parlor. At Arden’s entrance, Brian rose from where he had sprawled on her divan.

  “Everything is going to be all right,” he assured her, though Arden thought she had never seen him quite so sad. How sweet, to be so concerned for her! And even though she knew perfectly well everything would not be all right, how kind to try to pretend for her. But just how did Brian propose putting things right? Aloud, Arden asked in one word: “How?”

  “It’s just my opinion,” began Brian, “but Lord Robert has always seemed a decent sort to me. And your blood is good enough. Your father was reasonably important, before he got killed in the War?”

  Arden nodded her agreement.

  “Well,” Brian continued, “perhaps when Lord Robert is informed, he will remedy the situation honorably.”

  “But I’ve been on the stage,” Arden protested. “Besides, he told me. His father’s contracted him to some girl who’s not even grown yet.”

  Brian took a deep breath, and for some reason, he struggled with the words. “It’s still—worth a try. I think Lord Robert—truly cares for you.”

  Arden’s heart soared. She had only her own judgment ―too tinged with her own hope and desire to trust―to tell her how Courtenay really felt. But if Brian thought Lord Robert cared, then it must be so. Maybe, just maybe.... Then her heart plummeted again. “Even if you’re right,” she said, “he is at sea on a mission for the King. He can’t just come back, even if he wanted to.”

  “I’m sure we can find a way to get word to him,” Brian replied. “If he wants to make an honest woman of you, you can be married by proxy.”

  True, Arden reflected. Royal marriages happened that way all the time. Some ambassador from a princess’ country said her vows for her so she would be legally married before undertaking the journey to her new husband’s nation. Surely it could be done for less stately couples as well. Someone could stand in for Lord Robert.

  But she rushed ahead of herself. First they had to find a way to contact the father of her unborn child. Then he had to be willing. The first step in contacting him, Arden realized, would be to talk to the solicitor, Peter Shire. Her heart sank yet further. She explained the cause of her distress to Brian. “The man hates me!” she concluded. “He’ll never help us contact Lord Robert.”

  “If he is a good servant to his client, he will help us,” asserted Brian. “Anyway, we have to try.”

  After he made arrangements to accompany her to Mr. Shire’s office in the morning, Brian left. Arden wondered yet again at his concern for her. True, it would be the best of all possible outcomes if Lord Robert married her. But mistresses had surely borne bastards before. Kings usually arranged marriages for their pregnant amours to avoid scandal―and avoid breaking the law. Bearing a child out of wedlock was illegal, though not a crime often prosecuted among the anonymous poor, to whom it happened most often. Maybe an arranged marriage would be her fate as well, and Courtenay would try to get her to wed someone as bad as Treadwell. Nonsense! Arden thought. Lord Robert does not know anyone as bad as Treadwell. And “Bucky,” who does come close, would certainly never wed me! Before she fell asleep, she felt even more relieved Brian would be helping her seek a better solution.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Arden and Brian waited for Peter Shire to reach his office and begin his day’s work. Arden blanched at Shire’s first glaring look when he recognized her, so Brian seized the moment in her stead. “Mr. Shire,” he announced, “we need to get a message to Lord Robert.”

  “And what, pray tell, Mr. Malley, could be so important as to warrant such a Herculean effort?” Shire had spoken to Brian, but his ice-blue eyes continued boring into Arden. She felt her color return, then move past a mere return to what must be a deep scarlet, Arden would have sworn the steady gaze of Lord Robert’s solicitor dropped swiftly from her face to her belly. Knowing stalling could gain her nothing, Arden recovered her nerve. “I fear I am with child,” she said steadily, meeting Shire’s frigid look.

  Shire did not so much as blink, but said: “So soon, you cannot be sure. That is, if indeed it be Lord Robert’s get?”

  “How dare you speak to Mistress West so? She has always been honest!” Brian exclaimed.

  “Had she always been honest, she would not be pregnant,” returned Shire. “But that, I suppose, is beside the point. Even if you are with child, and even if it be Lord Robert’s, why should we bother him with this knowledge? The instructions he has left are clear enough.” He opened the door to his office, entered, and began rummaging through the drawers of his desk. Arden and Brian followed him.

  “What instructions?” Arden asked.

  “Ah, here,” Shire said to himself. He extracted a small blue purse from one of the drawers and sat down at the desk in a succession of stiff and formal movements. He cleared his throat. Because she stood before his desk, Arden now looked down at Shire, but she felt no more in control of the situation than she ever had. “Lord Robert has given me standing instructions,” Shire continued. “If any wench should show up claiming to be pregnant, I am to give her a pouch with enough money in it to procure a professional miscarriage.”

  “Oh!” His words forced the soft cry from Arden. Though afternoon remained hours away, nausea rose in her throat.

  “But surely, Mistress West is—different,” protested Brian. “She and Lord Robert—have an arrangement. To my knowledge, Lord Robert has never bothered with such formalities before.”

  “He did not change his instructions,” said Shire, pressing the small purse firmly into Arden’s hand. As she reflexively grasped it, the solicitor added mockingly: “Did you really think you were any different from any of the others, arrangement or no?”

  “I know Lord Robert would want to hear of this!” Brian persisted.

  “And I know he would not, and am willing to stake my livelihood upon it,” Shire declared. “I shouldn’t even give her the money,” he added. “For all I know, she’s further along than she claims, and it’s yours.”

  Arden pulled hard on Brian’s arm before he could shake her loose to throw a punch at Shire. “Come on,” she begged him. “I just want to go home.”

  She remained dead silent on the way back to her apartments. She still stayed silent as she sat upon her parlor divan, clutching the purse Shire had thrust at her and staring down at it. Brian excused himself from her presence to pull Bonnie aside and tell her what had transpired at the solicitor’s office. Afterward, both he and his cousin returned to the parlor and sat down, one on either side of Arden.

  “I’m sorry you had to suffer that,” said Brian, finally. “The man is just a complete prick, pardon my language.” A stifled chuckle escaped Bonnie, but her mistress let out a sob.

  “Why does he hate me so?” Arden wept. “He doesn’t even know me!”

  “Perhaps he would hate any woman Lord Robert fancied,” Brian suggested grimly.

  “Why?” Arden asked, her voice still wet with hurt.

  “Don’t mind Brian, he’s just bad,” said Bonnie, smiling. “But you know, ma’am, neither one of us think you need give up hope. There must be another way to get word to Lord Robert.”

  “Maybe I could ask Sir William to get us an audience with the King,” mused Brian.

  “Oh, no!” protested Arden, picturing the doddering old man Charles II would scrape up to legitimize her bastard. “Besides, do you know
how many other people are still in line seeking audience with the King? No, I’m starting to think Shire, hateful though he is, is right,” she finished, looking again at the little purse. Soft blue velvet, the object looked and felt so pretty, belying its purpose.

  “What do you mean, ma’am?” asked Bonnie.

  But Brian had already caught the movement of Arden’s eyes. “No, no, Arden!” he cried, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “You can’t do that!”

  “I know it’s a sin,” Arden said, as tears crept down her face. “But what’s one more?”

  “It’s not the sin, it’s you!” said Brian. “I’ve seen girls die from it! No. Promise me, Arden, you won’t try that.”

  Knowing Brian cared more about her than about right or wrong, than about her unborn child, sent a small gladness creeping into Arden. Hurt and anger kept their grips, however, and Brian just happened to be near. “I will promise no such thing,” she returned, tearing free from his grasp. “Just what am I supposed to do, if I don’t try that?”

  She expected Brian to tell her calmly to accept her lot and bear Lord Robert’s bastard. Arden already knew she would probably end up agreeing to it. Instead, Brian slid from his seat beside her to a kneeling position at her feet. He took both her hands in his, first prying the little purse loose from them. “Marry me, Arden,” he whispered.

  Arden’s silence again lasted long, encompassing the time it took his meaning to truly penetrate her shock. She recovered before Bonnie did, however. The maid continued to sit on the divan with an outlandish look on her face while her mistress said: “Oh, Brian, you are so sweet. You must be the best friend anyone could ever have to offer such a sacrifice! I can’t let you do it, though. Marry a fallen woman and raise another man’s child? That would be awful for you.”