Authors: Priya Parmar
Exit the Actress (18 page)
Tuesday, February 28—home at last
Exhausted!
I had forgotten how much life there is out there. Talk, talk, talk. Everyone talking about: the Dutch, the king and Castlemaine, the increasing price of lace and sugar and meat. Rehearsal this morning: singing with Hart, deportment and dancing with Lacy. Teddy partnered me, and we acquitted ourselves well, considering we have not practiced in months. Lacy thoughtfully asked us for a French
branle,
with a tempered choreography without
caprioles
or
jetés
. Becka and Michael lumbered through a
courante
without half our panache, consulting Playford’s
Dancing Master
constantly as they went. It takes Becka forever to learn the steps.
“More kick!” Lacy kept shouting at them.
What does that
mean
? They never seemed to figure it out, and Lacy threw up his hands in exasperation.
Then we all headed off to Will’s before the afternoon performance. I was hesitant, but Teddy was insistent. “Now that I have pulled the mole from her hole, I am going to get the most out of her,” he said, firmly steering me in the direction of the coffee-house. He tactfully avoided the corner of Drury and St. Martin’s lanes, where my carriage overturned.
At least I am not cast for another week. I still get so tired. Ruby slept peacefully in her travel basket throughout the ruckus. She is a pug—pale brown with a velvety black snout, quite the most fashionable dog. I feel very
au courant
.
Note
—A comet. Everyone is also talking about ill omens. Teddy (who believes all this guffle passionately) says that a coffin appeared in the sky above Vienna last week, causing much fear among the people, and in Warsaw, a hen laid an egg marked with a flaming cross, a rod, and a drawn bow. Seems a lot for one egg.
W
HITEHALL
P
CALACE,
L
ONDON
T
O OUR BELOVED
S
ISTER,
P
RINCESSE
H
ENRIETTE
-A
NNE,
D
UCHESSE D’
O
RLÉANS, THE
M
ADAME OF
F
RANCE
F
ROM
H
IS
M
AJESTY
K
ING
C
HARLES II
M
ARCH
1, 1665
My dear sister,
I fear I have at last exhausted my good queen’s patience, and Monmouth has at last exhausted mine. All this conjecture as to his legitimacy has put dangerous ideas into his head (spurred on by Buckingham, no doubt), naturally upset the queen, and ruffled our brother James (this amuses rather than bothers me). The rumpus began when Monmouth ordered a coat of arms
without
the baton sinister. Such a public claim of legitimacy embarrasses me as well as him and must be dealt with. Rumours are one thing, public acknowledgement is quite another. I will send him to you for a visit in the spring if I may? If only to get him out of here.
While James’s animosity towards my son is no secret, the queen has gone out of her way to befriend him. Such a snub and pointed reference to her infertility is uncalled for. That she can produce an heir is a fiction we all must uphold. Must go as we are supping on the river tonight. And, speaking of aquatics—have you received my gift?
I will always be your,
Charles
Saturday—Theatre Royal
Rehearsal, dinner, rest: capriole, jeté, pas de bourée, sing, dance, laugh.
Slowly, slowly, I come back to life.
Note
—Blushing cream roses today in the same rough twine.
LONDON GAZETTE
Sunday, February 26, 1665
Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet
The Social Notebook
Volume 167
Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour
Darlings,
It is all topsy turvy at the palace, my pets. The ladies of court have run quite mad. This week, Mrs. Sarah Jennings, of the Duchess of York’s household, got herself all dressed up as an orange wench and began pitching her wares throughout the corridors of Whitehall. It is now the epitome of fashion to dress as if one is off to market day—the boots, the bonnet and the
très décolleté
bodice—well, if one is to attract a customer…
And if that were not enough news for one week,
la famille
Castlemaine is airing their royally dirty laundry in public again. Lord Roger Castlemaine is returning from France, apparently intending to make amends with his famous wife. Ignoring her impending nuptial visit, Lady Castlemaine has been heard to proclaim this week that her royal daughter, the lovely little Lady
Charlotte Fitzroy, at two years old, will be the first of the king’s daughters to marry—and it will be a wedding fit for a princess.
Quelle effronterie!
Who will give her away, do you suppose?
Dommage,
my darlings—families can be so difficult, don’t you think?
À bientôt,
dearests,
Ever your eyes and ears,
Ambrose Pink, Esq.
Sunday—Will’s Coffee-house (light snow)
“Ohh! You have to listen to this!” squealed Teddy over coffee this morning.
“They say she actually sold some of the oranges! What will be next? Castlemaine peddling fish?”
“I’ll bet she couldn’t outsell our Ellen,” Lacy said fondly.
“I’ll bet Mrs. Jennings could afford to give them a better price,” I countered, cutting a slice of apple cake for Hart.
“Yes, but I’ll bet she gave ’em less for their money,” giggled Becka. It was a crude joke, and I looked at Hart with unease. Thankfully, he had not been paying her any attention. He does not like our relationship to be discussed publicly.
Hart grunted from behind his news sheet. “Lacy, do you think our navy is up to this?”
He disapproves of my gossiping, refuses to listen to the tattle, and only wants to discuss the impending war with the Dutch.
“We’ll have to be, if it comes to it,” responded Lacy with equanimity—he is given to politics and gossip in equal measure.
The conversation moved on to state matters, and I was able to concentrate upon feeding Ruby wedges of buttered toast.
Note
—Hart told me after supper this evening that it was officially read out in the Exchange—we are at war with Holland. What does this mean?
Tuesday, March 7, 1665
Sad news:
The
London,
one of our great ships, sank today. Twenty-four men and women were saved, but three hundred drowned in the lost ship.
Three hundred.
All the bells toll out a sad, steady beat. May God have mercy upon their souls.
Tuesday, March 14, 1665—Maiden Lane
It is today. All the staff of Maiden Lane wished me luck as I left for the theatre. Strange, after so much fuss and to do, I feel quite calm. I am sure the butterflies will come once the make-up is on and the house fills up. My costume, finished by the seamstress at three o’clock this morning (Hart spent a fortune), is perfect: green and gold, with just a touch of Aztec mystery. Rose suggested the design, and her creations always have a certain dramatic flair.
Hart just poked his head into the tiring room to check on me. He has been anxious about me since the accident. Peg has just arrived to help with my toilette. I can hear her in the hall outside…
As I was waiting in the wings for my entrance, I caught Hart looking at me sadly, as if I were a great treasure he was giving away. I put my arms about his neck and kissed him more than usual.
March 15, 1665—Will’s Coffee-house
“A triumph!” Teddy squealed theatrically, pulling me out of my chair and twirling me about.
“Yes, I must say you did look well in that green,” Lacy said, watching us
pirouette
about the room.
“Ooh! Mind Ruby!” Nick warned.
My patient puppy darted out of the path of our wild
courante.
Teddy loves the French dances. My green hat came off and rolled under a chair. Hart picked up Ruby and held her on his lap, watching us spin round and round, but did not join us. Another performance this evening—Mother, Rose, and Grandfather are coming. It all happens so
fast
.
Later
The audience goes mad for us, and I am awed by their affection. It is not a thought-out organised thing to perform a play but a wild irregular roar, impossible to tame. My blood thrums and my heart bumps noisily in my own ears, but I am happy. In the midst of the terror and chaos, I am vibrant with happiness.
March 17—Theatre Royal
Listen: Can you hear them?
They call me
Nell.
They gave me a new name.
They call for
me
to come and take an extra bow when the curtain comes down.
They send me flowers and trinkets and letters and cards.
They write as if they know me.
They want to know where I buy my shoes, my gowns, my creams, my soaps.
They like my small feet and forgive my red hair.
They wait outside the theatre.
They call me
Nell
.
But I am Ellen, I think.
Monday, March 23—Maiden Lane
Hart no longer likes to dine out after the show:
“We are never alone,” he complains.
“We can always be alone,” I answer, pulling on my coat.
March 24, 1665
Farm Cottage, Oxford
Dear Ellen,
While I thank you for your courteous invitation, I find myself unable to attend such a performance in such an establishment. It is also far too cold to visit London at this time of year, and I am sure that Nora does not keep the house heated properly. I wish you well in this unusual and, if I may point out, unsuitable endeavour of yours, but I do hope that reason will prevail and you will give it up and make a proper match. I assume that Rose has also followed this path? Your grandfather is in great remiss and does not inform me of her doings.
Take care of your grandfather. His cough is often troublesome in early spring. Make sure he wears the thick red muffler I knitted for him myself—it is much warmer than that threadbare blue one he insists on wearing.
Great-Aunt Margaret
Note—
I assume you know how to make a paste against consumption, should his cough worsen? Your mother will know, and if she doesn’t she ought to.
Thursday, March 26, 1665—Maiden Lane
We are going away! Tomorrow evening, after the performance, Hart and I will depart for his country home and stay away for four whole days. As tomorrow is Good Friday and Saturday is Lady Day (end of Lent, thank goodness—I have been breaking rules with abandon) and Sunday is Easter, Hart decided to take me to his newly purchased country house as a treat. Tom Killigrew is furious, as the last performance of
Emperor
is on Lady Day, but Kitty (she will have to let out my costume) will fill in for me, and Nick will fill in for Hart. I must admit, I am sad to be missing it and have grown self-important enough to think the audience might miss me just the tiniest bit.