Plague (6 page)

It was never certain with the king what topics were open for jest. Yet tonight it appeared that even his wife, Henrietta Maria, who never accompanied him to the playhouse, leaving that field to the vizards, was within bounds. For Charles laughed loudly, his courtiers swiftly joining in. “Ah, Johnnie,” the monarch said, “the newest and already the most cutting of my wits. My queen placed in a sentence with players and … Beware, sir. I see the Tower in your future.” He waved a finger. “Yet Young Rochester seeks to parry with his wit so that his own knife’s actions are not discernible.” Charles pressed his hand into his forehead. “Nay, sure we have cracked the wind of this poor metaphor. Let me then be as blunt as Sedley’s blade.” Over the laughter he continued, “ ’Tis Lord Rochester who’s already had the peeling of those oranges. Aye, and has licked out all the luscious flesh too. For he has been occupying Mrs. Absolute these several months!” Sarah was watching John Wilmot as laughter and jeering came. At least he blushed, murmured a protest: “Sir, that news was for your ears alone.” But a smile grew as he received the slaps and congratulations of the crowd—none of which boded well for her poor friend. The sooner Sarah informed the earl of Lucy’s new state the better. Corruption only awaited the young man in this circle.

A pop interrupted the laughter. Many in the group, the king included, had been soldiers, and several ducked. “Never fear, Sire,” declared a newcomer, an older gentleman than most around the
monarch, and twice the girth of any there, “for ’tis not bullets that I bring but Champagne.”

“Clarendon,” cried Charles. “You missed the play!”

“I did.” Clarendon strode close. “Business of state kept me away from it and you. Hang it, sir, by appointing me your lord chancellor, you have robbed me of all my leisure.” He sighed. “Still, I trust I will make amends with this.”

He signalled, more pops sounded and servants moved forward to pour what had become in recent years London’s most fashionable drink. Sarah wrinkled her nose; she couldn’t abide the bubbles. But the courtiers were delighted, and eagerly held up their bumpers to be filled.

When toasts had been made, ladies pledged and the Dutch damned—war had been declared a little over a month earlier—Charles asked, “And does the business that has kept you from us, Edward, demand my immediate attention?”

“Good my lord, enjoy your night. We will speak anon.”

There was something strained behind the casual words. Charles frowned. “Is it the Hollanders? There has been no battle?”

“Nay, Your Majesty, it is only … only some slight increase in the week’s bills of mortality. Let us consider it tomorrow and continue tonight with—”

“Increase?” the king interrupted, raising his hand. “And the cause of this increase?”

Not only the king’s party fell silent. It seemed to Sarah that the words “bills of mortality” had drawn the attention of many. Like all who paused to listen, Sarah leaned a little closer to hear the answer to the king’s question.

Clarendon was now aware his audience had grown. He swallowed. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we should ret—”

“It’s the plague,” interrupted Sedley, his words wine-slurred. “By God, it’s growing, ain’t it?”

A murmur arose, which Clarendon topped forcefully. “I said a
slight
increase and I meant it, sir. Also, the increase is where it has always been, in the outlying parishes, St. Giles and the like. A few more dying in such areas will not affect things much. It might even help. Remember the old verse ‘St. Giles breed, better hang than seed.’ ” When no one laughed, he coughed and continued, “There are no deaths reported in the two Cities’ bills, London nor Westminster. Not one.”

There was a general breathing out at that, the relief clear. But not for Sarah. St. Giles! It was her old parish, her former neighbours, cousins even, being so readily dismissed. But she also knew, as all there knew, that deaths were reported for a variety of causes with plague the least acknowledged and most disguised—for the consequences of owning it were far too grave.

“Well,” the king said, raising his voice so it carried, “though even the death of one of my subjects, wherever they live, saddens me, I am happy that the outbreak is contained. Our enemies will not be heartened and our friends will not fear visiting our ports. We will watch but not concern ourselves overly much.” He lifted his empty tankard. “What concerns me more is the lack where once there was plenty. Champagne, sirrahs! Fill me up! And fiddlers, strike me up a less mournful tune, damn ye!”

A loud stamping reel started up and his cry echoed; mugs were drained, then raised again. Champagne was yet rare enough for Clarendon’s—who as chief minister was able always to secure the best of all imports—to be the last of it. It was swiftly finished, and more sent for. Meantime, sack and ale flowed.

The group around the king fractured. Charles, despite his
bluster, had taken Clarendon upstage for a private, and intense, conversation. Sedley had produced some dice and gallants clamoured around him to have turns at Hazard. As Rochester was slightly on the fringe of the group, Sarah saw her chance to draw him aside. She took a step.

The soft voice came from near her shoulder; the touch, fingers at her elbow, was light. And in an instant, she recognized both touch and voice. Not because she had ever heard him, nor felt him, before. Yet she knew this for certain: the man who gripped her and spoke was the same whose stare had so unnerved her upon the stage. The man slowly turning her towards him now.

He said, “A word, Mrs. Chalker, if you will.”

As he spoke, before she turned, he looked down at his fingers. They felt warm—no, hot. Yet he’d been rubbing them all night in his box because they’d felt so cold.

Touching her had done that. Her
skin
warmed him instantly, even though he felt it through her costume. The dress that had appeared sumptuous from his box here showed itself frayed, cheap. This close, he could see that her hair was auburn, though some attempt had been made to lighten it. It was why he hated the theatre, its falseness, its front. Like the whole of society. He wanted to tear all that away, get to the essence. Beginning with the woman turning to him now, her elbow burning his fingertips.

“Sir,” she said, finally facing him, and he could barely restrain a gasp. He had never been this near to her. Yet despite the cosmetics that all women applied—and actresses did to excess—she was no more painted than any other. True, the ceruse was starting to
crack, the cochineal on her cheek losing its fire, and she was missing at least one beauty spot, pinkness now in the gap. But all that was mere appearance, for beneath the crayoning her eyes … oh, her eyes! They were of a blue he’d never seen, speckled with brown flecks as if thrushes flew across a cloudless summer sky. Yet far, far more shocking than their colour was what he saw within them. Oh, the light they held! A mirror for his, shining for him as his shone for her.

The relief made his knees weak. He’d feared. Because even if he’d loved her utterly and completely from the moment he’d first seen her walk out upon the stage three weeks before, how could she come close to loving him the same way, when she did not know him? Now he realized he’d been foolish to doubt, even for a moment. She
had
known him, even in that same blinding instant and then, in the weeks since, had acknowledged him in every discreet way she could—in how she did
not
play for him in his box so near to the stage, in the way her eyes deliberately did
not
seek him out. Because—and here was the pure beauty of it—she’d been saving herself for this moment. This one, right now, when she could turn to him and, ever so discreetly, remove her elbow from his grasp. Speak, with all the matter of their love in it, one simple word.

“Sir,” she’d said. Her gaze moved over him, while his discovered a pulse in her neck that seemed to him almost a living thing, pushing against flesh walls, trying to break free.

He looked into her eyes again. He’d been silent too long. It was the problem of rarely being in company. Some things had to be spoken aloud, after all.

“Madam.” He repeated his short half bow. “My name is Sir Roland, Lord Garnthorpe. Pledged to you.”

He observed her closely. Sometimes his name affected people. However, she did not react, just said, “I am grateful for your approbation, my lord. It is always good to be admired for one’s craft.”

No! He wanted to yell at her, “You do not need to play for me.” Yet she was probably simply being careful. Discretion was required in such a public setting. In private, though …

He took a breath. “Are you a Jewess, madam?”

It startled her, he could see. He was unused to the courtesies of conversation. He had been too blunt and had suddenly changed subjects, ever his faults. “It is only that the first time I saw you perform, lady, ’twas as a daughter of Zion.”

“Oh, do you speak of the usurer’s daughter?”

“I do. In Shakespeare’s play.
A Merchant in Venice
, was it not?”

“Indeed I was her. But in play only. I am not Jewish.”

She had embodied the role so utterly, her movements, her voice. Truly it would have been beyond wonderful if she had been a member of God’s tribe. Like all the Saved, he revered the Jews and their holy books. But it did not matter. Nothing did now. Nothing except her and him.

He was surprised to discover he’d closed his eyes; opened them to apologize—and found that she was no longer looking at him. He followed her gaze, saw it settled on a young man gaudily dressed, laughing in a group of similarly clad fops and fools.

What was in her eyes now? Was it lust? Did she desire this youth? This damned debaucher who would visit whores, sicken with their diseases, then visit her and pox her too, killing her with his fouled desire?

“Madam,” he barked. “Madam,” he said again, more quietly when she’d turned to him again. “You are distracted.”

“Momentarily, sir. I need to speak most urgently with the Earl of Rochester and I thought him about to leave.”

So the dog had a name. He would remember it. “Let me caution you, Mrs. Chalker. Have nothing to do with such a sinner. He will seek only to corrupt you, to infect you.”

“Sir, you misunderstand.”

He did not wish to hear her excuses. He’d always known she was an actress. To raise her from her fallen state would require a little education. And she must be saved; he saw that even more clearly now. Saved from men like his own father, who’d brought his sin, his foulness, back to the marital bed. To his mother. A man like this Rochester.

He need not linger. There was but one thing left to do. He pulled a little velvet bag from his cloak pocket. “I have a small tribute for you. It would gratify me if you would accept it.”

She took the bag somewhat hesitantly, squeezed out its contents. Drew in a sharp breath.

A large sapphire rested in her palm, exquisitely cut facets glimmering in the candlelight. She shook her head in wonder, and he smiled. He did not mind that she was so easily impressed. It would take time to remove the actress from the woman. He would spend that time.

She returned the jewel to the pouch. “No,” she said, thrusting it back, “I cannot accept it.”

This was not possible. She must have misunderstood. “Madam,” he said, grabbing her wrist, “I insist.”

She cried out in pain, jerked her hand from his grip. “No! I am a married woman, Lord Garnthorpe. I cannot be bought.”

He was aware now of others looking. One of the king’s party had turned. He whitened, feeling the chill surge from his stomach into
his chest. He hated this public scrutiny. The cold reached his head. Another whiteness there. Blue white, but not like her eyes. Like a corpse stripped on a battlefield, left out on a winter’s night.

Did someone murmur his name?

He looked at her hand holding out the pouch, looked up into her eyes—and saw the pleading there. Not here, they said. Not now. Later and alone. “No words, madam. I understand completely. Later. Alone.”

“Sir,” she began.

But he’d taken the gem, turned about, descended to the pit and marched through the playhouse doors onto Portugal Street. A few paces further and he was on Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There he lost himself swiftly in the crowds.

It took him longer to lose his smile.

At first she could not breathe, as if the hand she’d felt earlier upon the stage on the back of her neck now squeezed the front of it. Then someone took her elbow again.

“Heh oops, and steady there,” came a familiar voice. “Was your lover’s offer so high that it causes you to faint? This is what comes of obeying your commandment to let you flirt with gallants, to the advancement of your career.”

Her husband’s tone was teasing, light enough to lift the weight that pressed her. “Oh, John,” she murmured, and was the next instant in his arms.

“What’s this?” He held her tight for a moment, then drew back to study her face. “It is not like my Sar to be so discomfited. Nor in such a public setting.” They both glanced around. The king was still upstage in private conversation with Lord Clarendon, the gallants yet at their dice. Even so, she squeezed the arms that
held her, stepped away. “What’s amiss, love? Did your admirer affront you?”

“It was him.”

John stiffened. “The one you’ve felt?”

“Aye. He made himself known to me.”

“Did he?”

“Ah!” she cried out. John had taken her hand, the same one the lord had gripped. She pulled it from his fingers and rubbed at the wrist, a livid red mark upon it.

“Did he do that?” On her nod, he flushed. “By Christ, I’ll … where is he now?”

She grabbed his arm as he made to go. “Nay, John, do not.”

“Leave me! He must be corrected.”

“For this? John, you spent a month in Clink last year for ‘correcting’ those two wherrymen.”

“And would again when they presume to ‘know’ my wife.”

“This is different. He is a nobleman.”

John ceased pulling away. “He told you his name?”

“Aye. It was …” She had to close her eyes to remember it. For a moment, all she could see were his eyes, the frigid steel of them, like an unsheathed blade. “Garnthorpe.”