Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  Yes, I have attempted conjugal duties—no, it did not go well, although I do hope to entertain her better than the Monsieur did you. Your nightmarish account of that encounter haunts me still; I cannot imagine being unattracted to women—one or two perhaps, but all? Mystifying.

  Are the rumors vrai, my dearest? Does our cousin King Louis bitterly regret marrying you to his brother Philippe? My envoys tell me that le roi danced with you three times at a recent fête at St. Cloud, straining the bonds of decorum. Our aunt Anne cannot have approved of that—is it true that her hold on the young king is slipping? J’espère, for she must be a suffocating burden for poor Louis, as she, like our mam, is always one to speak her mind. And what of Philippe, your very grand Monsieur—we hear of his extraordinary personal expenditures—700 livres for a wig, mon Dieu. Has his erratic behaviour become more predictable? Again, j’espère. Marriages, as I am learning, take time to settle into their rhythm. Bonne chance!

  Know that I am faithfully your,

  Charles

  Note—Can it be true that Louis has already spent five hundred thousand livres on his new palace? An unthinkable sum—although I have heard that his new gardener Le Nôtre is worth every sou. I have just engaged another Portuguese cook, ah the holy state of matrimony.

  September 29—Michaelmas Day (sunny and warm)

  The Octopus has taken to pinching my bottom after he fills my basket. I have become adept at outmanoeuvring him, but I have to be quick. Exhausting. “You could…” Rose says.

  “No, I couldn’t,” I repeat firmly.

  Rose still undresses in the dark, regardless of whether I leave a candle burning or not.

  Monday, November 24, 1662 (freezing!)

  “The world will end a week from tomorrow,” Rose informed me breathlessly, shedding her heavy muffler. It was one of her rare afternoons at home. “I just had it from a woman in the market,” she continued, hanging her icy mittens over the hearth rail. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  “What?” I asked distractedly. I was trying to stir the beef stew and read Mr. Pink’s column in the Gazette at the same time.

  “The end of the world, Ellen,” Rose repeated impatiently, “it is next week.”

  “What?” I asked, alarmed, dropping the spoon. Eventually, I got the full story. A lunatic in Bedlam Hospital has prophesised this calamity, and he would be discredited but this same fanatic also foresaw the king’s blessed Restoration. How like Rose to deliver such news without preamble. Just in case the end is near, Rose and I and possibly Grandfather are going to church this evening.

  Later (home with Grandfather)

  It was a good thing that Grandfather did not come, for the pews were overfull and he would have had nowhere to sit. Rose felt uncomfortable up front and preferred to stand near the door. Crowds make her nervous now that her reputation is growing. I squeezed in next to Mrs. Lake, the cheesemonger’s wife, who had obviously been eating garlic. Lots of garlic.

  Now at home: Grandfather and I are off to bed. We no longer wait up for them. There is no point. They do not return until dawn. What a quiet little household we have become.

  Tuesday, December 2, 1662

  Relief. The lunatic was wrong. Nothing happened.

  December 25—Christmas Day (rainy)

  All of us at home today. Mother baked Christmas pies. The neighbours devoured most of them and then got sticky sugar on all the door latches. I played my guitar—Rose is mystified as to why I do not learn a more fashionable instrument. “A guitar is so provincial,” she complained, sounding like the old Rose. I welcomed her criticism, as she has been so unnaturally quiet lately.

  When We Celebrate My Birthday

  Wednesday, January 7, 1663 (late—so sleepy)

  This evening I attended a rousing musical lecture at Gresham College with Duncan, Grandfather, and Dr. Genner, an old friend of Grandfather’s who looks just how you want a doctor to look: white beard, kindly expression, and walking stick. Rose did not come along as she is rarely at home now that she has started working for Madame Ross at her large and notorious establishment in equally notorious Lewkenor Lane. It is a step up of a kind, I suppose. Mother is angry that Rose no longer works exclusively for her, but cannot complain about the extra money. She has already found a girl to replace her.

  Rose was in the kitchen, hemming the sleeve of her new bluebell blue dress and drinking a bowl of chocolate when we came trilling home—a happy, boisterous quartet. I pulled off my hat and went to stand by the warm fire. Duncan stopped at the door and flushed crimson when he saw Rose. A sad sort of look flashed across Dr. Genner’s face, but he quickly crossed the room and kissed her cheek. “Lovely to see you, my dear. Are you keeping well?”

  “Very well, thank you, Dr. Genner. Did you enjoy the concert?”

  “It was a lecture, not a concert,” corrected Duncan from the doorway, and then he mumbled his thanks for an educational evening and fairly fled out the door.

  “Rose, dear, is there any of that chocolate left to offer our guest?” asked Grandfather, unfazed, “or is that the last of it in your mug?” Rose smiled at the jibe; she has a sweet tooth and always finishes off the chocolate.

  “No, there is plenty in the pot. I thought you might be coming back soon.”

  “I can’t stop, either, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Genner. “Celia will start to fret.” He gently patted Rose’s cheek. “It was good to see you, my dear. You must stop in and see Celia. She misses you.” He left after shaking Grandfather’s hand and promising to thrash him in a game of backgammon on Sunday.

  The three of us were left standing in the kitchen in the wreckage of the lovely night. Grandfather reached up to the high shelf and brought down two more mugs. Rose set down her sewing and poured out the thick chocolate. Once we were all settled at the table, I could no longer hold back, and my giggles erupted. “Forgive me, Rose,” I gasped. “Duncan just looked so uncomfortable and pompous, and then he … he … he panicked.”

  Grandfather chuckled. “I think, my dear, he did not know quite what to say to you.”

  Rose smiled sheepishly. “No. No one seems to know what to say to me these days.”

  Thursday (icy cold!)

  Even though I wore two pairs of woollen hose and stuffed my boots with paper, I still had to stomp my feet to keep my toes from freezing today. The wintry sun did little to warm me, and by two in the afternoon I could stand no more and ducked into the cook-shop for warmth and a beef pasty. What luxury! If Rose can spend money on absurd hair-combs, then I can surely buy a pasty. Regretfully, I did not have any hot cider as I need the money to buy lip salve tomorrow for my wind-whipped face. These days I am permanently pink—most unattractive.

  Early—six a.m.

  Rose came home at dawn this morning and, thinking I was asleep, undressed in daylight. I gasped when I saw her bruised collarbone and forearms.

  Rose turned, swiftly covering herself with her chemise. “It is not as bad as it looks, Ellen,” she said tersely, pouring water from the china pitcher into the basin. “Go back to sleep.”

  In the morning I found the cloth she had used to wash bundled at the back of the wooden washstand. Blood. So it is as bad as it looks.

  January 19 (bitterly cold)

  The news:

  Fourteen people froze to death in the village of Highgate, a five-legged cow was born in Chelsea, and the king asked his new queen to accept Barbara Castlemaine as her First Lady of the Bedchamber. She refused! Bravo!

  January 21

  The news:

  The farmer in Chelsea is charging fourpence a head to see the five-legged cow. “Less than a penny per leg,” Grandfather said. “That is reasonable.” The Dutch have inflated the price of lace to more than seventeen shillings a yard, and Queen Catherine relented! Mother says a wise woman accepts. Rose says the young gallants are calling it the “Bedchamber Crisis.” Are those her customers—young gallants?

  ST. CLOUD, FRANCE

  TO MY BELOVED BROTHER, HIS ROYAL M
AJESTY KING CHARLES II D’ ANGLETERRE

  FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  JEUDI, 19 JANVIER 1663

  Charles,

  Is it true what Louis tells me? Did you really install your mistress into your new wife’s household? It is one thing to seduce one of your queen’s existing ladies—these things are common enough at court—but to ask your wife to accept your present mistress as one of her ladies? Unheard of. Such things are not comme il faut, dearest. These breaks in decorum threaten the delicate balance of conduct in which we live. It is said here that she is grieved beyond measure, and to speak frankly, I think it is with reason.

  I am not preaching fidelity (I well know that such things are not within bounds for kings), but I am urging prudence and discretion. Do not be ruled by Lady Castlemaine’s petty spite. You cannot believe that her vengeful nature will be satisfied with only this. You set a dangerous precedent, my love!

  À bientôt,

  Keep well,

  Minette

  Note—Louis has nearly completed the Orangerie—orange, oleander, pomegranate, and palm trees. He has also begun the Menagerie—the pelican is named Pocket.

  Une autre note—Portuguese cuisine is said to be simple and fresh and good for digestion.

  January 30 (hungry!)

  No oysters to sell. Today the whole country kept a solemn fast in remembrance of the late king’s murder. Funny that now that the king is restored, it is called murder: three years ago the punishment for mourning the late king’s execution was imprisonment. Grandfather, a true Cavalier, fasted despite his frail health. Twice I tried to filch some cheese from the sideboard, and twice Grandfather caught me. Unusually stern, he was not amused.

  SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON

  TO OUR DAUGHTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  JANUARY 30, 1663

  Ma fille,

  Just a brief note, my darling, to tell you that I think of you and all my fatherless children today above all days. I know I need not remind you to keep the fast and have masses said for your dear father’s soul. James has joined me here for a private mass—it must be private, as Charles insists we conceal our religion. I know you pray as I do that God will also turn Charles’s soul to the Catholic religion and stop all this Anglican nonsense. I know your father died in that faith, but there is no reason to follow him—he was in error.

  I pray for your father, who died so bravely here in London fourteen years ago today. I think of how he said good-bye to your brother Henry and your sister Mary (so young!), bidding them to look upon Charles as their sovereign. I think of how he must have felt waking in our bed in St. James’s Palace, our own home, on that cold morning and then climbing out the window of his beautiful Banqueting Hall (he loved that room) to that high platform to face that ghoulish crowd, waiting in the street. How he lay down his noble head upon that common block, forgiving the executioner, who never had the courage to reveal himself. Charles, to this day, cannot discover his identity—coward. Know that your father loved you sincerely, although you do not remember him. Know that he thought of you on that terrible morning: of the loveable baby you were and the gracious, principled woman you would become. We must keep our promise and abide by his last word to Bishop Juxon and “Remember.”

  With fondest love, chérie,

  Maman, Her Majesty Queen Henrietta Maria

  Monday, February 2, 1663—Candlemas (warm and cloudy and my thirteenth birthday)

  Meg, who sells oranges in Covent Garden, Orange Moll, as she is known, stopped to speak to me today. I was wearing a white smocked chemise under my new yellow pointed bodice that laces in the back, a present from Rose. Grandfather said I looked like a field of daisies.

  “Turn, turn, so I can see!” encouraged Meg. I obliged, twirling in my new clothes. “Ah, fresh and sweet and always a favourite with the customers. How do you like selling oysters?”

  “They are smelly and the walk to the market is tedious and Mr. Morton is overly … forward.” I answered candidly. Will I ever learn to be discreet?

  “I’ll bet he is. How would you like to sell oranges instead? I need one more girl for Mr. Killigrew’s new theatre in Bridges Street.” She held out a fat, round orange. “For the birthday girl.”

  “Thank you!” I said, pocketing the sweet fruit. China oranges are such a luxury; I would save it to share with Grandfather.

  “You’d best understand,” she said, catching my chin in her hand, “I sell fruit, not girls. The minute you sell yourself, you work for someone else.” She looked hard at my face, her expression searching and fierce. Then, breaking into a smile, she patted my cheek. “No, I can see it. You don’t have the vanity to go bad. Not like your sister over in Lewkenor Lane. She was always going to go that way.” I must have shown my surprise, for she laughed a kind, enveloping laugh. “Oh yes, sweeting, I’ve been watching you.”

  So it is decided: I will give up the Octopus and become an orange girl.

  Note—If Candlemas day be dry and fair—but it was cloudy, so six more weeks of hard winter.

  2.

  Orange Girl Ellen

  By Most Particular Desire

  THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN

  Audiences Brilliant and Overflowing

  Are Invited to Attend the Revival of

  THE HUMOUROUS LIEUTENANT

  A Tragicomedy by Mr. Beaumont and Mr. fletcher

  This Present Wednesday, May 7, 1663

  It will be repeated tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday next

  PRESENTED BY MR. THOMAS KILLIGREW,

  LEASEE AND ROYAL PATENT HOLDER

  To be Performed by:

  THE KING’S COMPANY (ESTABLISHED 1660)

  With: Mr. John Lacy, Mr. Michael Mohun,

  Mr. Theophilus Bird,

  And: Mr. Nicholas Burt, Mrs. Margaret Hughes,

  and Mrs. Anne Marshall

  PERFORMANCES BEGIN AT 3 O’CLOCK DAILY

  When I Begin to Work

  Friday, May 8, 1663 (day after the opening, and my second day!)

  We stand with our backs to the stage. We line up and face out, and as the audience piles in—we begin. Each girl has her own technique. Alice Winthrop tugs down her bodice until she is nearly bursting out, leans low over the young men in the pit, and, breathing in their ears, asks them if they might care for an orange. Of course they might—unless she has been eating onions. Lily Beale (Mad Lil) used to sell oranges at the Duke’s Theatre (the Opera) and so is known to the regulars and has her patter down perfectly. She targets couples: “Go on, Mr. Weathercombe, buy your lady a lovely China orange! Don’t you be too cheap to treat her to something sweet.” Lil could sell water to a fish.

  Meg, her skirts pinned high on her stocky frame to allow her greater mobility, is everywhere up and down the aisles, selling oranges, delivering messages, chatter, chatter, chatter: hats with the ladies, hunting with the men—and spreading gossip faster than any news sheet. She keeps a close eye on her girls, deciding where we stand and how many we sell, and when she feels like a pitch isn’t working she invents a new one. Laughing at my inexperience, she calls from the aisles: “You don’t have to do much. You’ve got the goods. Little bit sweet, little bit sharp: always honest, and pretty as a peach. Just get out there, and they’ll flock to you!”

  And they did flock to me. I sold my basket before the end of the first act! I also sold some of Alice’s share, as she got waylaid on Jack Parson’s knee in Fop’s Corner through much of the second act—Mrs. Parson had stayed home with a head. I sold twenty-six oranges, ferried three love notes—one was rejected unopened by a thick-necked woman in a sour green dress—and brought a lovely girl in a lavender lawn gown a rose from a man in the gallery with a bushy moustache. Then I got to watch the third act from the footlights. It was marvellous.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, May 10, 1663

  Most Deservedly
Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 73

  Ambrose Pink’s recollections of an evening of theatre

  Darlings,

  On Thursday last, London’s beau-monde witnessed the King’s Company’s first performance in its new and delightful Theatre Royal in Bridges Street (so much better than the fragrantly cramped hard-benched ex–tennis court of old). Sumptuously cushioned boxes with thick curtains (très privé), a hidden musicians gallery—somewhere under the floor-boards—ingenious but a bit muffled, a veritable constellation of wax candles (mon Dieu, the cost!), delicious fruit sellers, and lavish curling gilt galleries gave one the feeling of being entertained inside an enormous and very pleasant golden egg. Dear Tommy Killigrew has outdone himself. Light-footed Lacy in the title role and naughty little Nan Marshall in the role of Celia only added to the entertainment. A triumph.