Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Becka said coquettishly, leaning forward to afford him the best view and handing him the bottle. There was lip paint on the rim, and I wished she had wiped the spittle off first.

  I sat strangely dumb, watching the rich lace of his cuffs as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He took a long swallow and returned the bottle to Becka, his lived-in face relaxed in easy comfort. This is the king, the king, I kept telling myself, and yet he has a way of putting one at ease. As in our first meeting, a curious feeling of giddy warmth came over me. Why, he is just a man, I discovered, surprised. How funny and how right.

  “Mistress Gwyn, you are staring. Is something wrong?” he directed at me.

  I opened my mouth as if to speak, but only a flock of giggles came out. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” I gasped, horrified. “I must be nervous.”

  “She has had a bit of wine, Your Majesty,” Becka interrupted, shooting me a warning look.

  “You were not so nervous the last time we met,” the king teased. “If I remember rightly, you reprimanded me for not taking your sister’s trouble more seriously. How does she, by the by?”

  Becka’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You have met before?” she asked in an accusatory tone.

  “You remembered?” I breathed in surprise, ignoring Becka’s question. “You were so kind that night. We were in such trouble and you just … solved it. I wanted so to thank you—you were so generous and helpful and graceful and good—but I was not sure how to thank you or find you.” Oh dear, I was running on and on, but I could not seem to stop. “And then I just assumed too much time had passed and you would have forgotten all about it, but it meant so much to us, Rose and my family and me—it is just the four of us, Rose and myself and my mother and Grandfather—and we are all so grateful … so I am happy for the opportunity to thank you now, so … thank you.” Breathless, I finished. Will I ever learn to curb my tongue? And this to the king. I felt Becka staring at me, shocked by my wordy, informal faux pas. “My sister is well, thank you,” I added awkwardly, finally answering his question.

  “Ha!” The king laughed, amused at my discomfiture. “Ellen, isn’t it? You see, I would never forget one who scolded me so charmingly.”

  “Yes, Ellen, but…”

  “But?” coaxed the black-eyed king.

  “But they are calling me Nell out there.”

  “And so you will be Nell out there. Here,” he said, leaning over to touch my forehead lightly with his long tapered fingers, “you will stay Ellen.”

  “But they—”

  “They, they, they … they will not know Ellen.” His expression suddenly shifted, and something dropped away. There was a fierceness about him, an anger even. “She will be secret, she will be safe. She must be. A person must have a secret if he is to be constantly on the stage.” And then, like the passing of a summer storm, he was back to being the king but not the king. Once again, he resumed his easy, flexible, royal self. As if the darkly fervent man had never been. With that, he thanked us for the wine and, gracefully rising, bade us good night.

  “Good thing, too,” Becka hissed. “Look, Castlemaine is watching.” Sure enough, we looked over, and the famous lady, swathed in cherry-red ruffles, was unabashedly staring at us; that is, until her royal lover returned to her side, and then she did not give us another glance the whole evening.

  “On the stage,” I mused later.

  “What?” asked Becka, arranging her skirts in the carriage, leaving little room for me.

  “On the stage.” I wonder if he meant him or me.

  “What a silly thing to think about,” chided Becka.

  And we were silent the rest of the way home.

  Note—Beth told me that Lady Castlemaine is ill again in the mornings. Poor Queen Catherine. Perhaps it will be a girl, and then she might not feel as bad.

  April 5, 1665—Maiden Lane (raining)

  Today is proclaimed, at the king’s command, a fast day in support of the Dutch war. We have been terribly good and kept to it most solemnly. Rose was here going over dress designs. Her ideas are bold but expensive. “Simplicity is always expensive,” Hart said approvingly, looking over her shoulder at the drawings, asking how much each would cost.

  Note—All the talk in the theatre has been of our encounter with the king, although if Becka is to be believed, he did not speak to me at all. Teddy is in anguish (his word) that he missed it. Hart has just popped his head in to tell me that our performance at Whitehall has been cancelled. Could that be because…? How silly I am, and how self-important.

  Sunday, April 16, 1665

  We heard in church this morning that we engaged with the Dutch. We captured three of their ships and lost none of our own. Happy with our success but still not sure why we are doing this.

  When I Become a Comedienne

  Monday, April 17—Maiden Lane

  Went with Teddy to see The Ghosts at the Duke’s. It was simply done, but the acting was excellent. “Gravitas,” Teddy proclaimed. “Betterton always manages to exude gravitas. I think I am too thin for gravitas,” he complained, looking in the mirror.

  “Yes, but you look far better in yellow,” I consoled him. Betterton’s costume had been a ghastly banana hue.

  Afterwards a quiet supper at the Bear with Hart, Lacy, and Teddy. There is talk of my being cast in a comedy—at last! I have become tiresome with my constant pestering.

  Thursday, May 15—Theatre Royal (rainy)

  Not a comedy but a dull, dull tragedy. Love’s Mistress, by Tom Heywood. I do not shine in such parts. Dryden is writing again; he has been sporting his floppy black cap, his favoured headgear when visited by “the Muses.” I fear it is another heroic tragedy. The Muses seem keen on heroic tragedy lately. Johnny Rochester is merciless in his persecution of Dryden’s pompous heroic style. Johnny does a wonderfully overblown hero’s death—a Dryden death, he calls it—lots of writhing in agony on the floor while spouting selfless sentiment in perfect diction.

  May 17—Will’s Coffee-house

  The endless discussion:

  “But she is funny, Hart!” pressed Dryden, dressed today entirely in lavender frills (minus the black hat: no Muses today). He has joined my cause and is fighting for me to play comedies. “Surely you must see that humour suits her light touch?”

  “It is true, Hart. No one wants to see this bright little poppet die onstage. They want to see her laugh,” Lacy added, pinning his colours to the mast.

  “I will not have her laughed at,” Hart responded adamantly, disappearing behind his news sheet.

  “Not laughed at, dearest,” I said softly, taking his big hand in mine. “I wish to make others laugh. It is so very sad for me to play sad roles all the time. I would much rather be merry.”

  “Humph,” grumbled Hart non-committally, tugging at his great periwig—new and too mousy for his rosy colouring and ill fitting to boot. “If you want her to play comedies, then you had better write comedies,” Hart said pointedly to Dryden.

  “Yes, yes,” Dryden said airily, waving his frilly hand as if it were nothing to create such things, entirely forgetting the tortuous creating process. “L’enfer, darling, l’enfer,” he always calls it.

  “We will talk to Tom and Robert,” Hart finally conceded.

  “There, you see,” whispered Dryden in a conspiratorial tone, reaching for more toast. “Tom and Robert will agree. It is as good as done.”

  Undated

  Tom and Robert did agree. I am to laugh and laugh!

  “Ugh.” Dryden held his head, realising what he has brought upon himself.

  “Comedy is the worst; sad endings are far easier. There is always so much to say when one is dying.”

  I hid my smile behind my hand.

  May 20, 1665—Maiden Lane

  Hart has agreed, on the condition that he play opposite me. I worry, as he is not known for comedy. His touch is certainly not light. I know I should not, but I resent his intrusion. Can I not stand alone as an actr
ess, unclaimed and unsupervised?

  Note—Two plague deaths reported in St. Giles in the Fields, just north of Covent Garden.

  May 29, 1665—Will’s Coffee-house (hot!)

  “Johnny Rochester has become a kidnapper!” Teddy announced over breakfast, waving his news sheet about excitedly. He read out: “ ‘This known bon viveur, Wit, rakehell, and royal intimate, has abducted Mistress Elizabeth Malet, the great heiress of the North, who is only sixteen years old!’ Mmm, what good taste he has—she is scrumptious: swan neck, musical laugh, lovely hats.”

  “Teddy, much as you love them, you can no longer wear women’s hats,” I said briskly.

  “Who is she? I didn’t know he liked anyone,” Peg said, trying to read over Teddy’s shoulder.

  “She is lovely,” I filled her in quietly. “Beautiful and sensible and entirely too good for him. He has always fancied her—since she was absurdly young—but there was never any chance of a match. Her grandfather would not hear of it. When the king spoke to him about Johnny, he apparently swore that he would not unhand such a sweet lady to one who would so surely make her unhappy.”

  “Well, now her family will certainly raise a fuss,” Teddy said, scanning the news sheets for any mention of our wild compatriot. Relocating the article, he paraphrased, “She had just dined with la belle Stuart, who still refuses the king”—Teddy grimaced—“and then was leaving for home with her grandfather, Lord Haley, when she was snatched from under his very nose, stuffed into a coach and six, and whisked away.”

  “How romantic,” swooned Peg.

  “Hardly,” I snorted. “I would think she was terrified. How could Johnny resort to that?”

  “Well, it does have a certain highwayman glamour, but these days Johnny plays entirely too rough for my taste,” Teddy said, not looking up from his paper.

  Peg shot me a look. We had always wondered about Teddy and Johnny Rochester—Johnny who openly admits to sleeping with men, out of sheer boredom, he swears. What rot.

  “Has she been recovered?” I asked, turning back to our subject. “And more importantly, where is he?”

  “Ooh, listen to this: ‘Rochester, for whom the king has often spoken to the lady but without success, has been placed in the Tower, and the lady has disappeared!’“

  “The Tower.” I shuddered.

  “Oh, not to worry,” Teddy said without looking up. “Johnny loves the Tower. It is the only place he gets enough peace and quiet to write.”

  “Is that that dreadful Ambrose Pink?” Peg asked, snatching the paper from Teddy. “He writes the most horrible drivel.”

  “Accurate though,” Teddy said, pouring more coffee. “And quick—he always has it before anyone else. But he has been known to call me ‘Ned,’ and I really can’t bear that. Sounds like my name said through a stuffed nose. Remember when he linked me to Buckingham? We only spent one evening together. How he got hold of it, I’ll never know.”

  Peg shot me another look. That, we didn’t know.

  “I thought for ages it was Harry Killigrew, Tom’s son, but his writing is just not that good,” Teddy said mildly. “I hate bad writing.”

  “It would make sense though—the court, the theatre—but the Duke’s as well. How would Harry manage that?” Peg puzzled, fanning herself with her news sheet.

  “Harry has plenty of friends at the Duke’s, but he has been in Paris lately…” I shrugged. “Could be. But then it could be anyone. Why pick on Harry?”

  Peg sighed, “I hate secrets.”

  Note—nine plague deaths in the city itself this week, and eight in the nearby countryside. I touch wood to ward off sickness. Rose and I are making up extra batches of plague water.

  Lady’s Household Companion

  A Complete Guide to an Englishwoman’s Home

  Plague Water

  Fill a large pot with white wine.

  Put into the pot: a pound of rue, rosemary, sorrel, sage, celandine, mugwort, red brambles, pimpernel, wild snapdragons, agrimony, balm, and angelica.

  Let it stand four days.

  June 1—Maiden Lane (hot!)

  Great reports of plague in the city. Now everyone is worried. Rehearsals are cancelled. Frightened, we are staying home.

  5.

  Annus Mirabilis

  When We Flee

  June 5, 1665—Maiden Lane

  The theatres shut down today. The Lord Chamberlain has closed all public entertainments, including the Southwark and Bartholomew fairs as well as both playhouses, until the plague abates. As men in the Lord Chamberlain’s livery went round the theatre posting notices, the company gathered on the street in small clutches to discuss what to do. Tom passed around packets of tobacco—everyone is chewing tobacco against the pestilence. Dreadful taste—I must buy extra tooth tonic.

  “I’m for the country,” Lacy declared with assurance. “If we are called to entertain the court, then you know where to find me.”

  “But I have no relations in the country!” squealed Kitty in alarm. “Where am I to go?” Teddy and I exchanged glances.

  “I shall stay in London,” Lizzie announced. Lizzie’s long-time benefactor, Sam Pepys, administrator in the Royal Navy (and a notorious philanderer), is also staying in London, I gather.

  “Any members of the company who are without acquaintance out of town should feel free to come to me,” offered Tom Killigrew with gentle reassurance. “My wife, Cecilia, and I would be glad to accommodate you.” Privately, I thought Cecilia might not be glad of the whole company descending upon them en masse but chose not to say so. On the other hand, Harry would very much enjoy a bevy of actresses coming to stay. “In any case, I am sure it shan’t be for long. We must make good use of the time,” Tom went on in a convivial tone that was not quite convincing. “I for one shall order some renovations to be done on the theatre. What do you think, Lacy, Nick? Don’t you agree it is time to fix that awful muffling in the musicians’ gallery?” The men peeled off to discuss the much-needed refurbishments, and Kitty, the Marshall sisters, and Lizzie moved away to discuss their various options. Teddy and I stood alone on the street.

  “You will go to your wife, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I think I shall have to.” Teddy frowned. “I must remember to pack my peach India chintz, as she is always after me to borrow it,” he said, chagrined. “Although I must put my foot down at my pink wrapper.”

  I giggled. Teddy and his wife’s constant tousling over dresses was a steady source of amusement to the company. He claimed that lovely feminine clothes were often wasted on the unlovely feminine sex.

  “And you’ll go with Hart?” he asked, confirming the obvious.

  “Yes, and I suppose my family shall have to come, too.”

  Teddy made a face, with good cause. He has suffered two brief but memorable encounters with my inebriated mother and endured a lengthy lecture from Grandfather on the evils of cross-dressing.

  “I shall miss you,” he said, planting a kiss in my hair. “Please, please, take care. Take very, very good care.” I reached up and hugged him. We stood like that for a long time.

  June 16—Maiden Lane

  The numbers are growing. Hart forbids me to leave the house now. He himself goes about with a long beaked mask packed with protective herbs. “He looks a bit like an avenging stork in that thing,” Rose said, giggling this afternoon. I wish she would not make light of it, for in truth, I am very afraid. Afraid but not alone. Grandfather, Mother, and Rose have come to live here until transport can be arranged to take them to Great-Aunt Margaret in Oxford—the wheel of our coach is finally beyond mending, and Hart is negotiating to buy another. Prices are extraordinary as suddenly everyone has need of an extra coach.

  Despite the crisis, my family will not stop bickering over who gets the best guest room, the best linen, the best cake, and on and on. Mother sent back her bath-water twice last night, complaining that it was not hot enough. I finally intervened, insisting that she bathe in what she is given. She must bathe—th
e smell of spirits is overpowering. I have locked all liquor in the sea chest in the pantry. She is now not speaking to me. Cook rolled her eyes: As if it matters? her look said.

  Bill of Mortality

  for the City of London

  For the week ending on June 27, 1665:

  Apoplexy___________2

  Childbirth____________4

  Consumption_________2

  Convulsions__________1

  Gout_______________1

  Plague___________267

  Unknown__________2

  July 2, 1665—Maiden Lane

  The king, queen, Prince Rupert, and the Duke and Duchess of York, together with all of their households, have decamped to the clean country air of Hampton Court to escape the plague. London is fast emptying. There are already red crosses in Drury Lane. Hart wants us to go to Hill House, as Surrey is still untouched. Everything feels as if it is coming apart. Ruby does not understand why we no longer go outside.

  Note—The plague numbers rose to above five hundred this week—we are leaving in the morning, if we can. The congestion has been so great that it has taken some more than a day just to escape London. Already six houses on this street are empty.

  July 3, 1665—London (late—we leave at dawn)