Exit the Actress (12 page)

Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Bridges Street

Hart,

I am now convinced that the tutelage of Mistress Ellen Gwyn is moving in an inappropriate direction as per her abilities. We may have misjudged her talents. It is an error that begs a remedy. Please come and see me early on the morrow. Six o’clock? Best to come before your lesson and rehearsal.

All best wishes,

Tom

Rehearsal:

Loitering and laughing on the stage, we waited to start. Teddy, in a fine mettle so early in the morning, pulled me up to dance a jig, to limber up. Theo, in his armchair in the wing, tucked under his coach blanket (he has been feeling poorly this autumn), lowered his news sheet to watch us affectionately. His wife, Anne, who had stopped in to leave some mended costumes and re-curl his periwig (he is forever unravelling), dropped a kiss on his forehead. Nick had fallen asleep, his long legs hanging off the stage.

By and by, Hart arrived with Mr. Killigrew. “Everyone, please!” Hart called out. “I would like to work with Ellen and Teddy just at present.
Would the rest of the company please clear the stage?” Seeing Theo struggle to rise, he said, “No, no, Theo, if it pleases you, stay as you are.”

Mr. Killigrew, who had taken a seat in the first row of the pit, was silently watching.

“Ellen,” Hart called me over softly, “you and Teddy are to sing the duet from the new Dryden: the one you have been rehearsing. Mr. Killigrew would like to mark your progress.” Then, under his breath, he said, “Have faith, my girl, this will all come right for you.” With a quick pinch of my cheek, he left me to the stage and took a seat beside Killigrew.

“Ready, Ellen,” whispered Teddy beside me, “like we’ve practiced,
grace.
You can do this. Relax. I am right here.”

“When you are ready, please,” called Hart officiously.

Teddy began, his clear tenor voice holding the slippery notes easily, exuding an effortless charm.

My cue. Breathe in.
Now.

I began. My voice thin, my reedy arms held before me in a poor imitation of grace. Even to me, they looked childish and silly.

“Thank you,” called Mr. Killigrew, after only a few bars, “that is enough.” Climbing the stairs to the stage, he waved Teddy away without a glance. “
Ellen?
Is it?” he asked in a gentle voice. I nodded, too ashamed to speak. “Ellen, I want you to sing. Just
sing
.”

I stepped to the centre of the stage and began. Trying hard to hold my pose—arms, toes, tummy, bottom—grace.
Useless.
I faltered and stopped. My cheeks flamed anew.

“Ellen, where did you learn to sing?”

“At home, with my sister and my mother. My grandfather sings as well, as did my father, although I never knew him,” I mumbled, not meeting his gaze.

“Is this how you sing at home? Standing, like this?”

“No. At home it is just us. Just me. At home we just … we just … play, and … sing,” I said miserably, unable to meet his gaze.

“Like that first day on the stage?”

“Yes.”

“Like yesterday afternoon?”

I took a quick breath in, mortified. “I … the stage was empty, sir. I didn’t
know anyone was here. I certainly didn’t know
you
were here. I never would have … I just wanted to, to … Oh, sir, I am sorry,” I finished, finally meeting his eyes. To my surprise, there was only a look of kind encouragement upon his face.

“Would you sing for me now?” he asked softly.

“Yes, sir,” I said, smoothing my cap, straightening my back, setting my shoulders, lengthening my neck.

“No, Ellen,” he corrected me, shaking the stiffness from my hands. “Close your eyes. Breathe. That’s it. Steady. I want you to sing as is natural to you. Sing like you did yesterday.”

My eyes squeezed tight shut, my heart curled into a ball, I sang as myself. Breathing evenly, I moved into the music. The familiar rhythm and joy thrummed through me. The lyrics tripped off my tongue with clean precision. I opened my eyes, and Mr. Killigrew was smiling down at me. Joining in, he took up Teddy’s part in the duet, the corner of his song lifting with delight. Breathless and pleased, we came to the end.

“Yes,” said Mr. Killigrew, looking at me gently. “This is you. As you will always be. You are meant only for ease and laughter.”

“Yes,” I said rashly. “I fear I am unsuited to elegance.”

“Ha!” He chuckled. “You are a candid little thing. I like that. I predict that you will create your own elegance and that you will be followed by joy. I wish you well, Ellen.”

As he moved away towards the wings, I gathered my courage and called out, “Mr. Killigrew! Am I still to become one of your company? Or would you prefer someone more … more dignified?”

“Ha!” He laughed again. “Plucky as well! Good! Yes, you will remain in my company, and I will inform Hart of the change in your regime.”

“My regime?” I looked at him quizzically.

“Yes, Ellen,” he said, his eyes alive with mirth. “I fear you may change everyone’s regime.” With that, he beckoned to Hart and retired upstairs to his private office.

Theo, forgotten in his wing chair, chuckled softly. “Well, my girl, you have done it. Everything will change now.”

At home this evening with Grandfather. He loves to hear the theatre stories from the day. Today, during
Alchemist,
Teddy dropped an entire scene, stranding Peg onstage. Nick, playing Face, had to cover for him. Hart was furious!

Rose says the king has taken it very much to heart and is beside himself with worry. Rose also says His Majesty has not yet missed supper once with Lady Castlemaine during the queen’s illness. Wretched man. I pray nightly for Her Majesty.

Note
—The queen is so ill as to be shaved and have pigeons tied to her feet. I have been reading Culpeper’s
English Physician:
that is what they try when there is no hope. The pigeons are to keep her soul from flying away.

The account of the queen’s treatment in the
Gazette
this morning: bloodletting, anemone, leeches, crushed fox lung, lungwort, spider web, swallow nest, pennyroyal, cottonweed, bedstraw, foxglove, the ground skull of a hanged man? These remedies
cure
illness?

Note
—Spent two days’ wages on a thick woolly blanket for Grandfather and new mittens for Mother. It is already winter.