by Priya Parmar
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.”
When I Pity the Ailing Queen
To: Mr. Thomas Killigrew
From: Mr. Charles Hart
Concerning Mistress Ellen Gwyn’s Progress as an Actress
Weekly Report
Dear Tom,
I am mightily pleased with this week’s progress; it showing both our actors and actresses to best advantage. Ellen’s easiness onstage is blossoming into an engaging style of action, and her voice, enriched with confidence, is finding a rare timbre and pitch. If she is cast in younger, ingénue roles, this new and exciting style will work very well for us as a company. I also believe that it will give us an advantage over Davenant’s much vaunted novelty. I think very well on the choices we have made together.
All good wishes,
Hart
Postscript: Lacy would like me to add, and I quite agree, that her dancing remains exemplary. She danced in her breeches yesterday and has quite the prettiest legs and feet I have yet seen upon a stage.
LONDON GAZETTE
Sunday, October 18, 1663
Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet
The Social Notebook
Volume 96
Ambrose Pink’s lamentable observations du jour
Darlings,
Sad news from Whitehall. Our gentle new queen is gravely ill. Her fever has not broken in five days, and if it does not abate, her physicians say there is little hope. She faces her travail with piety and grace, and according to Lord Henry Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans, His Grace the King is much moved by her suffering and is at her bedside daily despite the danger to his own health. In her fevered wanderings, according to another reliable court insider, she is said to have told the king tales of their imagined three living children and confided that she would willingly leave all the world behind but for him. This news has much afflicted His Majesty. I heartily urge you all to pray for our queen.
À bientôt, dearests,
A greatly saddened, Ambrose Pink, Esq.
October 22, 1663—Drury Lane (raining)
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!
SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON
TO OUR DAUGHTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, AT ST. CLOUD
FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
22 octobre 1663
Chérie,
It is so very sad and still here. In the first days of the queen’s illness there was much bustling about, physicians and apothecaries and even botanists—Charles insisted. Now, there are only priests and prayers. She is beyond any of us now. Have you seen Charles’s apothecary, Le Fevre? I know Charles despatched him to consult Louis’s physicians with all speed.
The few times she has awoken she has asked only for Charles. Her devotion to him is sincere and touching. She will die a good Catholic; we may rejoice in that. Far worse things can happen.
I kiss you, my sweet,
Queen Henrietta Maria
Note—Just because your husband and his brother the king are engaged in all this building is no reason for you to risk your health. Your lungs have never been strong, and the dust must be considerable. Do not spend time in places you shouldn’t; you will only have yourself to blame.
October 23—Drury Lane (theatres closed in honour of the queen)
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.
SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON
TO OUR SON, KING CHARLES II OF ENGLAND
FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
october 24, 1663
Charles,
I am not unaware of how and where you spend your time. Your queen is the Portuguese Infanta, and this sort of liberal peasant behaviour reflects badly upon us in the eyes of Europe. Show more character and discipline yourself, Charles.
Maman
Note—There will be plenty of time to resume what must be a very compelling liaison with Lady Castlemaine next week.
Tuesday—Drury Lane (raining)
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.
October 27, 1663—Official Notations for Privy Council Meeting on This Day to Be Entered into the Log-book
Notations taken by Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
This day’s business was cancelled as His Royal Majesty i
s much distressed by the queen’s health. We pray for Her Royal Majesty, Queen Catherine. May God have mercy upon her soul.
Nothing further to report.
Secretary of State Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington
November 1—Drury Lane
The queen will recover! Apparently her physician, Sir Francis Prujean, saved her with his miracle cordial. “Bet it is just wintergreen, feverfew, and betony, mixed with something sweet—and now he will make a fortune,” Teddy said, reading the account in the Gazette.
Teddy was right. Already Dr. Prujean’s magical cordial is sold everywhere at half a crown. It smells like wintergreen.
November 15—Theatre Royal (a grey day)
Today, being the queen’s birthday, Peg says the guns from the Tower will all go off. She also says wigs will become the fashion, what with the king and his greying curls and the queen and her shorn hair. I hope not, as I look terrible in wigs.
December 21, 1663
Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane
Dearest sister,
I am so sorry to hear that you will not be joining us for our Christmas festivities. I understand your concern over Ellen’s association with the theatre but must beg to disagree with you. Margaret, dear, you must know that she could not reduce our station further. We must rejoice in the life that she has found. Rose no longer resides with us here, and we rarely see Nora, so Ellen is my daily comfort. I wish you health and joy this Christmastide.
Your loving brother,
Edward
SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON
TO OUR DAUGHTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE
FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
DECEMBER 23, 1663
Joyeux Noelle, ma fille!
The queen’s recovery is miraculous, yet I cannot but worry that we may now have a queen who is too delicate to fulfil her duty. She just looks so very small and pale and, at the moment, bald. It is simply not becoming in a lady. I do hope that she confounds my fears and bears healthy children, for if she does not, sweet as she is, what use is she? We certainly know the problem does not lie with Charles—at least he has shown himself capable of this much.
I was greatly relieved when I was able to give your father the heirs he required—and so many heirs at that! Best to have several, I feel. A queen without children is like a beautiful dish that tastes terrible—pretty but pointless.
All love,
Maman
Queen Henrietta Maria
When Rose Is in Trouble
December 26, 1663—Theatre Royal (rain and hail!)
Rose is in gaol! I heard it from Meg tonight. I was delivering trinkets from Lord Sedley (an orange for Kitty, a lemon for Becka, and a posy for Lizzie—naughty man) when Meg found me backstage. Breathless, she suggested I sit on a nearby bench, and then she delivered the news directly: Rose is accused of stealing from her customer at Madame Ross’s and has been taken away by the bailiffs. Bailiffs! Impossible—Rose wouldn’t—there is a great deal she would do, but not this. We do not know where she is held. I must go to Lewkenor Lane right away. It is sleeting, and Moll has insisted I take a hackney—on Mr. Killigrew’s account, she reassured me. Bobby, the theatre’s errand boy, has run to Covent Garden to fetch one. If only he would hurry!
How can Rose work for such a filthy-tempered person? Madame Ross was awful. A young, very young girl in a low-cut white taffeta gown opened the door and showed me to a small parlour. Her curls were stiff with pomade, and her bodice was clearly stuffed. From another room I could hear men’s voices and the high-tinkling crystal sounds of women and wine-glasses. Despite the situation, I was fascinated. The rooms were dimly lit, and the walls were hung with evocative paintings—this I had expected. The furniture was covered in crimson damask—this, too, was no surprise. But everywhere women wandered about in underclothes, French underclothes! The most elaborate underclothes I have ever seen—trimmed with pale ribbons and lace and made from expensive French silk. Some wore a tight bodice and full petticoat but no gown or chemise, and others wore French drawers! I’ve heard of women wearing drawers but had never seen it. These fanciful creatures looked at my street clothes with something akin to contempt.
Just then, the girthsome Madam Ross, fully dressed in heavy black brocade, barrelled into the room. “Out, out!” She shooed the girls like pigeons. “You’re Rose’s sister? The orange girl?”
I nodded.
“Nothing to talk about. Either she pays back the money or goes with the bailiffs. Get out.”
I must have looked startled for she leaned close to me and laughed a horrid, grinding laugh. “Now you come and see me, do you? You were too good to speak to me before, and you think I will help you now? Get out.”
I was confused. “Before?”
“Ha! Ask your sister.” She snorted.
“But—”
“Open you ears, girl! Get out!” she shrieked.
“But my sister—”
“Yes, your sister. He says one thing, and she says another. He’s a bit of a rascal, and she is Nora’s daughter—lay even odds, but he’s the customer, so…? I need my money.” She shrugged, as if this sentence was conclusive.
“But Rose…?”
But she had already barrelled out again.
The girl with the stuffed bodice returned to show me out. Walking swiftly down the long hallway, she hissed out of the side of her painted mouth, “She didn’t do it. He drank too much and couldn’t pay his bill and tried to pin it on her. Eight guineas.”
“Eight?” Rose could never raise such a sum. “Where…”
“No idea where they took her. They wouldn’t say.”
“Thank you,” I said as the door shut firmly behind me.
I am pacing in the wings: ten steps from the curtain to the door. Ten steps there and ten steps back. I am waiting for the performance to end so I can speak to Hart. He will know what is to be done. His loamy voice drifts from the stage and winds around and around me like a net: catching and calming.
Later—eight o’clock
As soon as he took his final curtain call, I came forward, my words tumbling out in a heap.
“Ellen, Ellen, slow down, let me understand, your sister Rose is where?”
“Oh, Hart, I don’t know where! I have asked at Lewkenor Lane, and no one knows. She has been accused of stealing money—a lot of money—by a man at Madame Ross’s, where she … works.” Defiant, I kept my eyes upon him.
“I see, and her. … client has accused her of theft? And the bailiffs have removed her. Is that right?” asked Hart unflinchingly.
“Yes,” I breathed, eased by his forthrightness. “But it isn’t true. She wouldn’t do that,” I quickly added.
“No, of course she wouldn’t. All right, Tom is out of London until Twelfth Night. I can approach the king, or even Lacy could—” Hart considered aloud.
“No, Harry Killigrew! It should be Harry!” I interrupted impulsively. “Harry goes to Madame Ross’s, and they are … friends,” I finished awkwardly.
“Harry,” Hart said, turning over the thought. “Yes, Harry, he is now a Groom of the Bedchamber, is he not? Close to the king. And he is fond of your sister, you say, and the boy has a good heart.” Grabbing quill and ink, he bent over the props table and scratched out a brief note. He shoved it into my hand. “Go, Ellen. Here is the address,” he said. Fishing into his pockets, he pulled out some coins. “And here is fare for a hackney. Fetch Harry here. I will write the letter for him to take to the king. Go!” Snatching the coins, I hurried out the stage door.
Even later—ten o’clock (back at the theatre)
“No! No! Hart, we must accede that she is a prostitute. The king likes prostitutes. It is no dishonour,” Harry argued.
“But it will imply guilt. A prostitute is more likely to steal than an ordinary girl,” Hart countered.
“Please, it is getting late. Rose is in gaol. We must get this to the king tonight,” I urged them.
> “Ellen, if we are honest in this letter, your sister will be branded a whore to the king. Can you live with that?” Hart asked bluntly.
“Oh.” I shrugged. “My sister is a whore. What does it matter how it looks? May as well tell the truth.”
“All right, Harry, sign it. Let us all to Whitehall,” Hart conceded.
“Together?” I asked disbelievingly.
“Of course together, you mouse,” Hart chided affectionately. “You don’t think I’d leave you now, do you?”
Later, two a.m. (Whitehall Palace—The Matted Gallery)
My head is heavy on Hart’s shoulder. Harry has been gone for hours. How long have we been sitting on this bench? If I just close my eyes for a few minutes—
Four o’clock in the morning—The Matted Gallery
“Hart, what have we here, sleeping Ariadne?” an amused voice asked.
“Your Majesty,” Hart stuttered, leaping to his feet and executing a perfect bow. Sleepy and bewildered, I remained on my bench, squinting up at the exceedingly tall figure in front of me. He was slimly built but had a coiled restiveness about him, like a spring waiting to stretch. A mixed crowd of grim-faced councillors, foppishly dressed young men, and women in carnival-coloured gowns stood about him, and a great puddle of spaniels nosed about his feet. He was the fixed centre of the mêlée—the substance anchoring the chaos. Nothing about him was quite right: his face was too long, his eyes too deeply set, his lids too heavy, his moustache too lank and his mouth too wide, yet he fit together perfectly. And he was the king: a king waiting to speak to me.