Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  “Arden! You’ve done it!” Brian cried at the news. “Kitty’ll never be here for all the shows! One night or another, Lord Wilberforce is going to make her late, and then―you’re a star!”

  “Well, in that case, I’d better make sure I know Cordelia cold,” laughed Arden, the excitement hitting her. Oh, if only Brian proves correct in his assumptions!

  “I have something extra for you to memorize,” Brian said.

  “What do you mean?

  “You know I’ve gone over the whole bloody play with Davenant, converting it into heroic couplets, right?” Arden nodded. “I wanted to change Act IV, scene iii. Where Kent hears from the gentleman about Cordelia’s reaction to her sisters’ treatment of their father. I think it would be much more dramatic to have Kent and gentleman on one side of the stage, and a dumb show of Cordelia reading the messages on the other half. Davanant said no, but I’ll take it up with him again. I want to give you range to display your talents, and I’ve already plotted her every action out. I’ll give it to you when we get back home.”

  “Brian, what a dear you are,” Arden said, hugging him.

  *****

  In the days left to Arden in her room at Davenant’s house, a few other significant events occurred. The first was her meeting with Brian’s cousin Bonnie, a girl she found almost as intelligent as her relative. Bonnie also seemed pleasantly resigned to her station, and even happy to come into Arden’s service. Though she would not live with Arden until she moved into the new apartments―which were not on the fashionable Strand, but on a nice street nearby―Arden had her come over one day and perform her duties. She found Bonnie’s hairdressing skills to be quite remarkable, and her ability to help Arden into her corsets and gowns satisfied as much as anyone else’s lady’s maid possibly could.

  Arden’s initial acquaintance with Lord Robert’s solicitor proved not nearly so pleasant. The man, Mr. Peter Shire, possessed light blond hair and almost-clear blue eyes. His complexion, fair and flawless, combined with his generally pale coloring to give him an amazingly bland appearance. He granted Arden’s decorating requests quickly enough, but his manner and tone towards her scarcely covered an obvious dislike, perhaps even disdain for her. Arden felt like a common gutter whore under his narrow, steady gaze, and she quickly concluded whatever business she might have with him on any given occasion.

  The day before Arden left Davenant’s was a Sunday, and she attended morning services at the local parish church. Now that the King had returned, the Church of England once again adorned itself in its traditional, elegant trappings. The chapel Arden chose to visit had new silk altar cloths, and the priest’s vestments were of fine silk and velvet as well. The candle-holders and communion service shone golden and silver, respectively. She had seen nothing so rich and beautiful since childhood―the Puritanization of the Church of England had previously rendered everything plain and merely usable. She suspected God cared little enough about church decoration, but the restrictiveness the Puritans had applied extended much further than removing all art from their places of worship. The freedoms represented by what Treadwell called “idolatries” made Arden happier sitting in church than she had been in a long time.

  Arden returned to the Davenants' as contented as a kept woman coming from a chapel could expect. She found no one around, but she thought little of it. Though she had seen no one from the household at the parish church, they might be at other churches. Or, because of the sordidness of their profess-ion, maybe they thought sleeping late brought them as close to the kingdom of Heaven as they were ever likely to get. Davenant and his wife, of course, were Papists, but many such still attended Anglican services to cover the illegality of their true beliefs.

  Shrugging at her solitude, Arden found a book of Cowley’s poetry on one of the parlor shelves, and settled down to read. After a short time, Arden thought she heard the faint sounds of someone singing, the tone plaintive and mournful. She could not, however, make out the words. She put Cowley down upon a small table and arose, determined to follow the voice to its source. As she got closer, she could tell it was a man, and that the language was not English; even closer and she could distinguish it as Latin. After a few minutes Arden found herself at the firmly closed door to Madame Davenant’s suite. Now she could hear that when the strong, mellow tenor voice paused, a murmuring chorus replied. Aided by rudimentary studies in Latin, she eventually realized she eavesdropped on a Catholic mass.

  Arden stayed, because the voices sounded sweet to her. She listened to the homily when the chant ended, and found it very similar to many Anglican sermons she had heard. Except, of course, for the encouragement to hold to “the true faith” in spite of all its earthly disadvantages. When she judged the mass over, Arden turned to leave the area. The door opened suddenly, though, and she whirled again to face Brian.

  He greeted her without concern. “Did you hear what went on?” he asked Arden.

  “Yes,” she told him. “But don’t worry—”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” said Brian. “I trust you, Anglican or no. It’s probably time you found out about the faith of your friends, especially since it’s Lord Robert’s as well. You realize, except for Jilly in the room down the hall from you, you’re the only true member of the Church of England in this house?”

  A short, sharp laugh escaped Arden. She had known about the Davenants, and thought abstractedly that some of the boarders there probably held Roman Catholic beliefs as well. But Brian? And Lord Robert! That especially shocked her. Not only was she a kept woman, but kept by a Papist. Does this make me a Papist whore? She chuckled again, imagining what Treadwell must think. She noticed that Brian still eyed her expectantly, however, so she explained the joke to him.

  He smiled. “Besides,” he continued, “You’ve never seemed harsh and judgmental, and your laughter right now proves it. Would you care to meet the shepherd of our secret flock?”

  “If he’d care to meet me,” Arden said, nodding her assent. Brian led her into Madame’s suite, where the recent celebrants of the illegal mass quietly chatted, the priest among them. Some of her fellow boarders, and even Sir William himself, seemed startled―nay, almost frightened―to see her there. Brian, however, put their fears quickly to rest. “Don’t be silly,” he said to the entire room. “It’s Arden. Arden wouldn’t do anything to hurt us!”

  Arden smiled her goodwill to all, and curtseyed nicely when Brian presented her to Father Fernaut. The outlaw wore a simple black gown with a white collar, and the gleam of religious zeal shone in his blue eyes and lighted his intense face, far more strongly than might be expected in a man of middle age. Arden wanted to laugh again, thinking how much Treadwell shared in common with his most hated enemies. But kindness also illuminated Father Fernaut’s gaze and aspect, and his French-accented voice sounded cordial as he told Arden he was pleased to meet her. He seemed to know her, to know who she was. Arden wondered if the Pope’s representatives really did attend the theater. Treadwell swore it so, and that those increasingly closer to Papal authority kept increasingly greater numbers of mistresses―or worse, young

  boys. Arden didn’t quite understand why they would want boys, or why it was worse; the whole theory just proved her stepfather inherently warped.

  After she had taken her leave of Father Fernaut, she overheard Sir William tell the priest that “she’s the one Lord Robert has set up with,” and she realized why the clergyman knew her. She had probably been mentioned in Courtenay’s confession the previous week. And perhaps there had been others as well.

  As if he had heard her thoughts, Brian pulled her into a corner. “I confessed my part in Lord Robert’s keeping you. I feared going to him for you might be construed by God as pimping,” he explained. By the innocence in his eyes, Arden knew he did not realize his line of logic called her “whore.” “But I told him the whole story,” Brian continued, “about Treadwell and everything, and he was quite sympathetic. I only got a few ‘Hail Marys.” Arden soothed her emba
rrass-ment at Fernaut knowing the worst shadows of her past with the thought his vows would at least prevent him from sharing them with anyone else. And he looks so kind.

  When the priest had clearly left the premises, on his way to another secret gathering of Catholics for next week’s mass, Brian offered to show Arden where he had been hiding. For three days and nights, while not actively performing such duties as baptisms, marriages, and confessions for the servants and residents of the Davenant home, Fernaut had stayed in a small room walled off from the rest of the cellar, reached by a secret trap door in the floor of Mrs. Davenant’s parlor. “A priest-hole!” Arden cried delightedly, when Brian helped her lower herself into it. “They really do exist!”

  “Of course they do,” said Brian. “We have to hide them somewhere.”

  “I thought Treadwell had just made them up,” Arden laughed. But the laugh sounded weak, because the cramped quarters made her nervous. Though the small underground room contained a single cot and a chamber pot, nothing else could fit but the rope ladder she had descended. She looked up at Brian, and motioned him back from the trap door. Though he gave ground, he also helped her up the last bit, and closed the door after her.

  “No doubt he’s made enough else up,” Brian commented.

  Arden related to him several of Treadwell’s most lurid tales about Papists. Brian sat in silence for a moment after-wards, brows knit close together. “Well, the stuff about cutting babies open on altars to worship the Dark Prince is utter bosh,” he said finally. “But the other things I can’t completely deny. Although I am sure it happens no more frequently with us than with anybody else. After all, we know firsthand of at least one filthy pervert among the Puritans.”

  *****

  As Brian predicted, the last afternoon performance of Lear found Kitty Brinks nowhere in attendance. Brian had also redoubled his efforts to get Sir William to agree to the dumb show. He had succeeded in obtaining what Davenant termed “a trial,” set for the last performance. Mistress Brinks said nothing to Davenant, but talked volubly to Brian at rehearsal.

  “I can’t do that! Act without any words! I know people do dumb shows all the time, but I was never any good at 'em. I can’t show anger and hurt and sadness without screaming ‘em out, you know. Why, I can’t even have my ‘little death’ in silence, no matter who might be listenin.’ That’s why me mum threw me out. Had a man in to see me at night and the whole house heard me come. That’s bloody well how I got here, because I couldn’t be quiet though my food and shelter depended on it!”

  Brian couldn’t help coloring nicely as Kitty discussed the volume of her climax, but Arden noted that he maintained enough composure to shoot her a smile, hoping he had influenced Kitty’s decision not to show up for the last Lear.

  Preparing to take the stage as Cordelia, Arden found herself reflecting upon Lord Robert’s arguments of seduction. He had claimed that making love with him would give her more insight into the parts she played. Perhaps he might still be right, but not necessarily in this instance. True, in the course of the play Cordelia weds, and is most certainly, therefore, a maiden no longer. But Arden could not see that this aspect of the character’s life was particularly important to the drama. No, for this night Arden would not think of Robert, except for the ever-present wish that he be in the audience, watching her. Instead she held her father in memory: Her grief at his death, her helpless ignorance of whether he would truly understand her actions since leaving home.

  She held not much hope of actually touching the more aristocratic members of her audience. The world of Charles’ court―though the King himself genuinely loved the theater―attended plays predominantly to see and be seen, to socialize and gossip rather than to be inspired. If they spared a glance occasionally for the stage and its players, the spectacle of the scenery and costumes impressed them far more than any talent shining from the stage. That, and the physical attractiveness of the players themselves. They thought well enough of Arden in this respect, and their esteem had grown with the knowledge that Robert Courtenay now kept her as mistress.

  The more humble playgoers, however, were another matter. The merchants and artisans―those that were slowly coming to the belief that attending a drama would not condemn them to the netherworld for all eternity―were spellbound by Arden. The poorer ones that could yet afford admittance―she possessed them, too. Depending upon their placement in the audience, they sat or stood rapt during Brian’s dumb show. Later, Arden―eyes shut―heard genuine weeping from them as she limply allowed herself to be dragged onstage as Cordelia’s corpse. And thunderous applause met her after the play, when she came out to curtsey.

  Arden’s acclaim circled back to the aristocrats. Predis-posed to her as Courtenay's favorite, and not wanting to admit they hadn’t really paid attention to the drama itself, they began echoing―albeit in more fashionable terms―the praise heaped upon the actress by lesser patrons. Thus it was as a rising star of the London stage that Arden set up housekeeping in the new apartments Courtenay had given her.

  Chapter Eleven

  After Cordelia, Davenant awarded Arden third female lead in the next play. Since the company alternated the tragic with the comic, this time she portrayed a fresh, innocent maid who did not suffer a pathetic death on stage. So good were her character’s fortunes that she even managed, through a series of complete accidents, to avoid the loss of her virtue to a foppishly incompetent rake. Oddly enough, the role challenged Arden. She had far more intelligence than the girl she played, and the rake who supposedly endangered her behaved far too absurdly to remind her of Robert. Nor did he evoke the terrors of Treadwell, because the actor playing the rake looked far too young and treated her too pleasantly. Still, Arden batted her eyes charmingly, and managed to bring her own ever further developing wit to the part. Of course, she made of the poor maid a caricature, but so many parts con-sisted solely of caricature to begin with that she pleased her audiences mightily.

  Perhaps too mightily, as it turned out. Though all of London knew Courtenay kept Arden, all of London also knew Courtenay had set sail on a mission for the King. When the first man―an aristocrat of higher rank than Lord Robert― came to call on her in her new apartments, his effrontery shocked Arden.

  “I can give you a much higher style, and more spending money besides,” said the Earl. He did not concern himself at all over the stern but slight presence of Bonnie standing behind Arden in the small parlor. God only knows what liberties the Earl might attempt if Bonnie didn’t exist, Arden thought. Had her arrangement with Lord Robert soiled her to the point that she must put up with any lustful aristocrat whose fancy she struck?

  “N-no, thank you,” she stammered aloud. She bumped into Bonnie in her eagerness to back away from him. Arden retained enough presence of mind to hope she had not given any deep offense while getting her refusal across.

  Enough similar propositions followed that Arden quickly grew used to the procedure. The outward form of refusal had become easy to her; the inward dismissal of her myriad suitors had always been so. None of them had anything like Lord Robert's effect upon her, and faster than the King could buy a new spaniel, Arden’s heart and body damned their propositions to her head. But to the various gallants who attempted her remained one consolation. Arden was discreet, and so was Bonnie. None of the men had their amorous failures advertised to London society.

  The Duke of Buckingham showing up at her door, however, gave Arden quite a turn, in spite of her efforts to pretend otherwise. The anger that began building the moment she saw his face precluded worrying about Bonnie’s absence for more than a second. Her fury mounted steadily as he finished: “The only way you could gain more prestige would be to snare an actual Stuart.”

  “Do you not know me, Your Grace?” Arden asked tersely, her voice a low, threatening hiss. At least he had not brought that sycophant Tommy with him.

  “Of course I know you, chit! You are Arden West, the newest sensation of the London stage, and―until
now―Lord Robert Courtenay’s private honey pot.”

  “And who was I before that?” Arden could see the bewilderment in his cold eyes―he clearly did not understand her hostility.

  “Does it matter?” he replied.

  “It matters to me,” Arden returned, flatly.

  “Very well then―but my willingness to play along for your favor wears thin, no matter how juicy a peach you may be. Who were you before?” He had the bored air he might have assumed at one of Tommy’s tiresome riddles.

  “Well, I never was a Puritan,” Arden began, “but you thought me one.”

  Haughty puzzlement claimed his face. Then slow realization followed suit. “Robert made a mistress out of YOU? Well, you do look much better now, I’ll give him that,” Buckingham admitted.

  Arden just glared at him.

  “Don’t tell me you’re touchy enough to blame me for that!” the Duke exclaimed. He looked at her with genuine disbelief. Arden just glared harder.

  “You’ve got some cheek,” Buckingham continued, moving from disbelief to menace as fast as Arden had ever seen any person do. “I could perhaps bring myself to forgive it, given the proper inducements.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness,” Arden told him. “And you can’t have mine. Don’t come here again.” She slammed the door. She tried not to hear what he said afterwards, but she couldn’t help it. “Robert’s penchant for fraternizing with the pathetic will be his downfall one of these days.”

  Arden wondered for a moment whether Buckingham might pressure Courtenay to drop her when he returned from his royal mission. But no. The man who had comforted her so tenderly, who had seemed to gain so much joy from arousing her to such passionate excess―surely he could not be swayed by the opinions of a cad like Buckingham. For that matter, Arden still could not fathom their being friends at all. Perhaps this would mark the end of their association―Buckingham and Courtenay’s association, of course. Fraternizing with the pathetic, indeed!