by Priya Parmar
He does not tell me of his father. He does not speak of that January day that must haunt him still, when they led his father out one of the great windows of his own dining room—the beautiful banqueting hall where his son still sits—and cut off his head. I know the stories. I was raised on them. How, at the final hour, they moved the place of execution. How he waited patiently, listening to them hammering together his own scaffold. How he wore two shirts against the bitter cold, lest the people mistook his shivering for fear. How he handed his ring to his confessor, Bishop Juxon, in his last moments, and bid him tell his children to “remember.” How the crowds watched. How he was fearless unto death—calm and resigned. Of these things, we do not speak.
He tells me of his beloved youngest sister: Henriette-Anne—Minette, the Madame of France, married to the loathsome Phillipe, Duc d’Orléans, the Monsieur. She holds his whole heart. His happiest memories always include her.
He tells me of his children: his first-born, James, Duke of Monmouth, born of his love affair with the wild beauty Lucy Walter, now nine years dead. His children by Barbara Castlemaine: Anne, Charles, Henry, Charlotte (his secret favourite), and George.
He tells me of his wife: his tender regard for her childlike ways, his acceptance of her devotion to him, his acceptance of her religion, his sincere desire to see her happy.
He tells me of his troublesome mistress. He cannot bear to see a woman distressed, and Castlemaine exploits this to her best advantage. With tantrums and rage—with excess. I have promised him that I will always speak the truth to him, and when he asks I am openly critical of her domineering habits. He listens to me, but what can my opinion matter to him? Yet he continues to seek it.
I tell him of my small life. He is full of questions. My family: Grandfather, Mother, Great-Aunt Margaret, and Rose. My home: cramped and poor but full of music and spirit. I am honest. He has known poverty. I tell him of Mother, of the nights of putting her to bed. He already knows Rose’s secret. He understands frailty and necessity and does not make me feel ashamed. I have become proud to have been raised in such love. We whisper our stories late into the night, and then suddenly I am returned to my bed—where I dream and dream of him.
Note—He has not kissed me.
And so I wait.
Undated
Buckingham knows. He bribed the king’s footman for the information and is furious at me for the added expense. “You could have just told me!” he thundered, looking gloomy. “Twelve and two! Footmen are the most expensive!” I had been summoned to his rooms like a child to answer for my offences.
“I couldn’t—there is nothing as yet to tell,” I said with absolute conviction. “And if anyone hears of it, I promise you whatever there is will come to nothing!”
“That makes no sense.” Buckingham giggled. “There is nothing, but this nothing will get destroyed if anyone knows something?”
“Yes!” I said, delighted he understood.
When I Take a Stand
August 22—Oxford, the Bear Inn, Bear Lane (beautiful, clear blue day)
“Darling,” Teddy began hesitantly, “I do not mean to be rude, but you look dreadful.”
Rochester opened one eye to look at me, watchful of my response.
“Is it because he has returned to the court?”
“He?” I puzzled.
We were lying on the grassy bank of the Isis, enjoying a quiet afternoon picnic under the high elms. I spread out a faded blanket, and we laid out our little feast: bread, cheese, apples, and wine.
“He. Your he. Well, your old he.” Teddy sighed in laboured exasperation. “Hart.”
“Hart? Oh no,” I said airily, closing my eyes against the sun. Hart had returned several days ago and was athletically engaged once more in his relationship with the wicked Castlemaine. “Why would that disturb me?” I asked dreamily. These days nothing could disturb me.
Teddy eyed me warily. “Ellen, what on earth…”
“I have not been sleeping,” I hedged.
“Not sleeping?” Teddy asked archly. “Because at night you have been … what? And, more importantly, with who?”
“With whom.” Rochester corrected, leaning back onto the tree trunk. Being out of doors always makes him sleepy.
“Not what you think.” I would trust Teddy with any secret, but it was as if to speak of it would break an enchantment. Would I turn back into a pumpkin, as in the fairy story? The bells chime at midnight and the magic ends. I did not want to risk it. I turned my attention to feeding Ruby crusted bread.
“I am sure it will pass,” I said lightly. “Not to worry, old mother hen.” Teddy makes a habit of worrying over those he loves. It is one of his best qualities. I felt disloyal and selfish in my deception. Teddy gave me a rueful look, as if I had disappointed him.
Note—Rochester has postponed his visit to his wife again, poor woman. He speaks of her with great tenderness. “She is all that is selfless and good,” he said reverently last night. When I asked why he does not make more effort to see her, he went strangely quiet. Selfishly, I am relieved, as I do not know what I would do without him.
Later, ten p.m.
I am a fool! I have been ensorcelled, bewitched, wrapped up in a fairy love that only I feel. The king—my Charlemagne, gave his other mistress, Moll Davis (who arrived in Oxford today quite visibly pregnant) a diamond ring worth six hundred pounds. A fortune.
“It has no bearing upon his feelings for you!” Buckingham rants.
I do not believe him. I see my rank in the pecking order and am wary. Moll does not overtake Castlemaine, and is scorned for her position as an actress, but she is acknowledged. Where am I? Nelly: an amusing, sprightly, courteous stranger in public. And then I am Ellen, secreted away in the moonlight. I promised myself long ago: just one man. Not like Rose. But if he cannot love just one woman? I ought to know better.
Two a.m.
He is waiting for me. I will not appear. I feel shamed by his secrecy, yet I have not asked him for acknowledgement. I feel betrayed, yet he has promised me nothing. I feel lied to, although he has never lied. Oh, my unruly heart. Was this the ungovernable feeling I wished for? This wild tide of emotion?
Even later
A page (out of royal livery) arrives with a note:
Ellen,
Will you not meet me? How have I offended?
Send Jerome back with your reply.
C
“You are Jerome?” I asked the page.
“Yes, madam.” He could not have been older than thirteen.
“Why do you not wear the king’s colours?”
“His Majesty ordered that I remove it,” he said, clearly flummoxed by my question. So as not to be recognised, I thought. More secrets.
“Please tell His Majesty that I have no reply.”
Later still—four a.m.
Jerome knocked lightly on my door—in royal livery (it made him look even younger). He handed me another note.
Ellen,
It is not as you think. Please come with Jerome now.
I must speak to you.
C
Early—seven a.m.
I am back. What happened:
“How did he seem when he gave you this?” I asked the waiting Jerome.
“Seem, madam?”
“Did he seem distressed at all?”
“Yes, madam. He will not allow his gentlemen to ready him for bed. He is waiting upon you.” Jerome shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable in his role as go between. I quickly made a decision.
“I will be ready presently.” I threw a shawl (peach, warm and pretty in candlelight) around my lawn nightgown and followed him into the street, careless of what people would think. When Jerome turned right at the gates, I turned to him. “Are we not going to the Great Court?” Our meeting place.
“He awaits you in his rooms, madam,” he said, holding his flambeau aloft, lighting the way.
His rooms.
Heart and courage, Ellen.
I stood in the shadows as Jerome knocked upon the great door. The Royal Apartments. His rooms—his bedchamber. The door swung inward. True, the bed was hung with richest velvet, and the carpet was thick and soft. Still just a room, I told myself. Nothing to fear. But a king’s room. A deep breath. I stepped forward.
He stood just inside, as if he had been waiting. “Ellen.” He opened his arms, folding me into his protective embrace.
And then there were no more words.
Later, lying together in the great bed, I asked him my question. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“Ellen—”
“I know I am only an orange girl, an actress. Even Moll is better born—base born, it’s true, but at least her father is—”
He quieted me with a kiss.
“And still she is reviled—”
“Hush now. I am not ashamed of you.” He tilted my face up to his. “With your pure spirit, how could I ever be? It does not matter who your father was. You have a nobility all your own. Unpolluted, untainted, and marvellously whole. I am so happy when I am with you.”
“Then why—”
“To be my love is a public role. It will change you forever. It will change everything for you. You will be exposed to scrutiny, criticism, intrigue, malice, and unhappiness. Men wanting power will court you. Women wanting to reach me will despise you. You will be plagued with insincerity, unable to trust anyone’s motives. My wife considers you her friend, and she will distance herself from you. People will watch you, guessing, is she in favour, out of favour? Your life will no longer belong only to you. How could I have done that? To you, who are so free.”
“And now?” I asked, holding my breath.
“And now you are my love. It is for you to choose.”
Relieved, I nestled my head back onto his chest and slept soundly. Jerome arrived to take me back to my room at six—early, before the court rose.
“Hurry back before the gossips awake. I do not want to share you yet, if I can prevent it. Is that all right?” he asked tenderly. I nodded happily and reached up to kiss him. How had that seemed so impossible, unbridgeable, only a few hours ago? He neatly tucked my shawl around my shoulders and sweetly kissed me good-bye. I tiptoed away in my nightgown and slippers.
In the grey-pink light the whole world had changed. I felt flooded with fragile magic. Entering my room, I was surprised to find that everything was just as I had left it. The poppy-red gown I had worn to the picnic was still carelessly heaped on a chair, my velvet slippers still shunted beneath. A cup of cold chocolate was left on the windowsill, and a plate of toast lay on the desk. It felt like the room of a different girl.
This is happiness, I thought, watching the town come to sleepy life, through the sash window. I must remember this feeling.
August 23, 1668—Oxford—the Bear Inn, Bear Lane
I keep vigil over our secret. If his name is mentioned, I quickly leave the room, terrified my powerful reaction might show upon my face. Now that it is our secret, I want only to guard it. They carelessly bandy his name about, sending delicious ripples of feeling through me. How can others not see it? I am so lightly tethered to this earth; my joy is so great.
Later—the Bear Inn
She did not notice any change in me, I tell myself. I was just the same.
Tonight:
As we were sitting down to a game of basset after dessert, the queen unexpectedly rejoined the court. She had retired early with a headache but, after taking a tonic from her physician, decided to return to the gaming room. Changed into an ocean-blue satin gown with a simple but elegant neckline of seed pearls, she looked lovely in the candlelight. She pleasantly moved around the room, lightly resting her hand on her husband’s shoulder, standing behind his chair as he played his cards. They seemed easy in each other’s company, enjoying the familiar, genuine affection of a well-matched couple.
I quickly dropped her my deepest curtsey as she approached my chair, and she raised me up with a small sincere smile. “I see you have been lucky tonight,” she laughed musically, gesturing to my pile of winnings.
“So far.” I grimaced. “I will likely lose it all by the end.”
“Ah, more likely you will lend it to your friends, and they will lose it,” she said kindly, her ripe accent rolling through her words like a tide.
“True.” I laughed. I did have a tendency to lend away all my money rather than lose it myself.
“Be sure to save something for yourself, sweet Ellen,” she said, gently patting my cheek and moving off to rejoin her husband.
Now alone, I wonder how I can do this to such a very, very good woman?
September—London
Back in the theatre. I cannot concentrate on my scripts. I cannot stop daydreaming. I float through my rehearsals—dancing rehearsals, singing rehearsals, script rehearsals—
“Ellen!” shouts Lacy. “Catch up!” They had moved on to one of the French dances—I was still moving through my exercise figures.
The season is all for me. I will star. I will shine. But I am not here. I am away. I am with him. Waiting. Waiting for it to be dark. Waiting for the carriage to come—softly, quietly pulling up at the far end of Bridges Street. Waiting for Jerome to meet me at the gate. Waiting for Mr. Chiffinch (the infamous, procuring Mr. Chiffinch—who is quite sweet, really, despite his infamy) to lead me up the small staircase through the doors to the King’s Suite. And then he is there, and I come alive.
Note—Alive in both joy and shame. There can be no excuse for what I am doing. My only atonement is to remember that.
When My Heart Is Divided
LONDON GAZETTE
Sunday, September 13, 1668
Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet
The Social Notebook
Volume 324
Ambrose Pink’s social observations du jour
Darlings,
What daring! What pluck! It seems (from a very reliable source) that during their recent royal hunting excursion to Bagshot, the Duke of Buckingham attempted to place himself above Prince Rupert of the Rhine (Prince Rupert of royal blood, mind you). While stopping at an inn, on their way back to London, the duke discovered his own horses to be stored in a less-desirable location than Prince Rupert’s. Without hesitation or consultation, the bold duke turned out the prince’s horses and installed his own. Who knew such high drama could happen in a stable, my pets?
When dashing Prince Rupert complained to the king, His Majesty overruled in favour of the dastardly duke. It seems that Buckingham rules all. Be warned, my petals.
À bientôt,
Ever your eyes and ears,
Ambrose Pink, Esq.
September 16, 1668—Theatre Royal
A strange day:
We performed the new Dryden, Ladies à la Mode, this afternoon to a half-empty house. It was terrible. Dryden had in truth done little but translate the play from the French, and the language felt patchy at best (his new post of Poet Laureate—he took over when Will Davenant died—has made him neglectful of his playhouse duties). We were ill rehearsed, for which I must take my share of blame as I have not been working as I should. After the show, Tom strode onto the stage and delivered a scalding reproof, which was deserved but thoroughly unpleasant. The play shall be pulled and replaced with Rob Howard’s The Duke of Lerma. Good—he is in need of a boost since his Sir Positive-At-All fiasco. I shall play Maria, a part I quite well remember and hardly need to study again—thankfully—because I have finally been invited to a late supper with Charles (it has been over a week since our last meeting), and I did not want our plans to be interrupted by an emergency rehearsal. Lacy took us through the great dance only once and then released us (to be back at eight in the morning—but no matter, freedom today!).
Spoke to Peg for a few minutes after rehearsal. She is angry at the high-handed behaviour of Buckingham (no surprise there) towards Rupert. Something to do with horses; I am afraid I wasn’t really listening.
> At the stage door Jerome was waiting (not in livery) with a note:
My little love,
I am not yet returned to town and must see to a friend who is unwell. My thoughts are ever with you.
C.
Teddy, seeing my crestfallen face, gently steered me out the door into the street. “Ellen,” he said, trying to gain my attention. My attention, still fixed upon Jerome—Jerome, who had not waited for my reply. He must have had instructions to return directly.
“Ellen,” Teddy said again, this time taking me firmly by the shoulders. “I know. I have known throughout that you were entirely successful in Buckingham’s royal bedroom adventure. You have been snuffled out, my sweet fox.” (Teddy loves animal metaphors.) “I know, too, that you wish to keep it secret, and to that end”—he looked at me squarely—“you must change your habits.” I looked up into his face, ashamed at my duplicity.
“Oh, Teddy,” I whispered. “How did you know?”