The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  IV

  CHANGES

  In which I begin to learn to shift for myself

  March came upon England that year with a fit of freezing rains, and all the pamphlets talking of the unending Ice Age that was upon us, and what message it brought from God, for the young and old were dying in droves. This was the first winter of my life that I knew what it was to be cold – not the bright-cheeked kind of cold for romping about the countryside and coming in to sit by a warm hearth, but the kind of unrelenting cold that ran into your bones and stayed there, and left you feeling weary, desperate, sick.

  With Tara’s help, I had begun to ration my outgoings while I waited for the reply from my mother, for I had laid before her my now very desperate case, and asked that she save me from starvation, or worse, by sending me a pound or two. Through this bitter weather, Tara stayed, sleeping heaped up with blankets on her creaking truckle bed, going out for firewood in the morning, though it left her boots and skirts wet and her sweet face chalk-white with cold. Our credit all run out with the taverns, we were down to simple meals that could be made on the fire, and so our daily bread was potage, made with the vegetables Tara got at market. We had fallen into a sort of ritual with this potage – she bringing home the vegetables in her basket, and peeling and chopping them and throwing them into the pot, which hung over the fire with the glutinous remains of potage from the previous day, and the day before that, and me stirring it, and seeing when it was ready, while she went about the other work of the house.

  ‘I do not think much to this turnip,’ I said, peering into the pot as I stirred it, on our seventh day of potage. ‘I had a taste just now and ’tis famous bitter. If only we had some butter, or some mutton to flavour it.’

  Tara, looking up from her trimming of the candles, coughed politely. ‘I’ll add some pepper, mistress and the rest of that tansy-flower, and that may disguise the taste. Mayhap there’ll be tripe tomorrow, for that is cheap and has the goodness of meat, if not the taste. My mother boils it up with potatoes and barley, and ’tis a godly belly-warming stew withal.’

  ‘Oh yes, we may try that. I’ll find the tansy – here it is. I remember its spiky leaves from my girlhood. It is good for the digestion and aching bones.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ She brushed her hands on her woollen skirts. ‘’Tis a shame that Master Sherewin does not come back, for he must surely have the coin for mutton.’

  ‘Well, as I told you, he is very ill, Tara, and is laid up in the countryside in a boiling fever and so is not even well enough to send coin,’ I said, quickly. ‘But I pray he may be speedily recovered and return to me.’

  Tara said nothing to this.

  ‘All the herbs in the world will not help us, for we must have meat, Tara – we cannot work without it – I mean you cannot, for you will not let me help you, though I am ten days behind on your wages.’

  ‘’Tis not for a lady,’ she said.

  I was down to my last pound when I knew for certain that my mother would not help me. I broke the news to Tara that I could not afford her any more, and was heartsick-sorry, but would send on the remainder of her wages, as soon as I had word from my husband. She took this with a simple nod, as if she had been expecting it all along, and bundled up her few belongings, and the bright shilling that I had pressed into the palm of her hand.

  ‘Good luck to ye, mistress,’ she said as she stepped out of the door, and I saw in the twist of her little face that she pitied me, and what I had come down to.

  Then I was alone.

  When I woke next morning the room was so strangely and deathly silent, and ice-cold, though it was broad morning and I remembered that I had sent Tara away and there was no one to light the fire. I breathed in and out, watching my breath mist before me. Food-lack clawed at my gurgling belly. My dream of the night before came to me then as I swung my feet into my slippers, that I was a child again, and at my lesson books, and my father pointing out the words in a bright book that was open before me, which were in a strange language that I did not know.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ the dream-me had said, gazing up into the dream-him’s light blue eyes, the self-same colour as my own. ‘I see now what I must do.’

  Wrapped up in the bedclothes, I sat at the table and made a list.

  HOW TO GET SOME COIN

  1. Go back to Tyringham & fall on his neck – NEVER NEVER NEVER not if I be a beggar in the streets and starving to DEATH.

  2. Hire a carriage & go to my mother & throw myself upon her mercy, though she has not replied to my letters & I think would turn me away.

  3. Go to Grisella & beg her mercy, though she has not written me neither, and perhaps she shuns me too, for the great shame that I have brought upon myself. I do not blame her for it.

  4. Sell my wedding ring. For ’tis solid gold, and the only thing I have not sacrificed, for I would have people believe that I was a married woman, or a widow. I shall keep it a while yet...

  5. Go to Court and jostle with the hordes in the presence chamber. I may catch sight of Lady Vyne then, & she might help me get a place there (perhaps the returned letters were a mistake?). If there is a place more accepting of cuckolding than the Court, I cannot think of it. Though, ’tis true that I have not heard of a woman who has put off her husband & kept her head held high – now I think on it, ’tis always the other way around. (The more I dwell on this matter, the more I think I should have done away with Tyringham by means of a secret poison, or push down the stairs, for a widow in my position would be respectable & could marry again. But I did not think of that, when Samuel’s mouth was on me. I was in a dream then, & could not awake.)

  6. I could get myself up looking as pretty as could be, & primp myself such as I have not done in weeks, & go out onto the street – or better & safer, a tavern, & fall into conversation with some gentleman, who may want to pay me to... go with him, & love him as a wife. Could it be much worse than what I have endured with my wedded husband? I think it cannot be worse... but mayhap I would be thrown out of a tavern... but I could go to the playhouse! For I have seen painted women there roaming about & plying their trade, & there is safety in numbers – might I not go there and see what they are about & how I might go about the thing...

  ADDENDUM: I am being foolish, for there is something I have not tried that has been staring me in the face all along!

  V

  TRIALS

  In which I attempt to improve my condition

  I got up and dressed myself in the finest things I had. Five silk dresses had gone to a clothes merchant who stroked the fine fabric and winked at me and said he would give me a pound a piece, and me lucky to have such a price, and I took it though I knew they must have cost above twenty pound just six months before. My silver brush and mirror had gone to a man on the same street. To a jeweller at Hatton Garden, near the Sign of the Mitre: three pairs of earrings, a pearl necklace, the cross-shaped pendant set with rubies that I always wore on a ribbon around my neck, and the garnet ring my husband had given me for our engagement (which I saw handled by the man’s rough fingers without so much as a sigh).

  My favourite emerald-coloured dress I still had, and my soft leather boots, and my mother’s hair combs, and my pearl-drop earrings. All of these I put on, and put up my hair as best I could, teasing it into my usual topknot at the crown of my head; my side hair clustered in clouds of ringlets at my temples. For luck I pasted three black patches on my cheek (and one on my chin to cover my birthmark), the constellation of stars that had become my habit, at Samuel’s encouragement. With a dab of the last of my orange-flower water at my neck, and a pinch of my cheeks, I tied on my vizard, put up the cloak of my hood, and went out, the vision of a fashionable woman.

  The snow had not fallen for many weeks now, but the air was cold as it could be, and I made fists of my gloved hands, watching my breath mist before me. The streets were still covered over with slush, now turned grey and brown, and as I stepped slowly towards the city walls, I saw ladies slipping
on their pattens, and two apprentices, clearly the worse for drink, clutching each other, and bellowing all the while, and finally slipping over and falling pell mell into the gutter with cries of ‘Zounds!’ and raucous laughter. I was glad to have my vizard, for the air bit at my face, and I bent my body downwards, and trudged slowly towards the city.

  Inside the walls the going was easier, for the ice had been melted by many feet, and hooves of horses and cattle on their way to market, and I was soon on Drury Lane, with a tingling skin, and a splashed skirt. It was strange to be on the street where I had so often been with Samuel, and so close to Henry House, and I felt for my vizard, suddenly afeard that someone might see me here. The playhouse did not look open, and I balked suddenly, at the boldness of my plan. I wondered too if those inside might see through my finery to what I really was: a frightened girl without a friend in the world. But again the picture of my father came into my mind, and I stopped up my courage and pushed open the door.

  ACT III, SCENE II

  A playhouse. Interior. Day. The light is dim, for only one of the two chandeliers is lit, making the painted wooden walls and posts look strange, and giving a dull orange glow to the faces of the two actresses on stage. Behind them, an old woman who pushes a besom around with a brush-brush-brush. In the pit stands a short, rosy-cheeked gentleman, with a very fine red suit, and white periwig. A young woman, with a wan look about her face, watches anxiously from the doorway.

  PARRYKIN: Come on then, lovey, we’ll just hear your speech again, and then we can rehearse the chase scene, which is bound to be bad, seeing as Mrs Sop’s called in sick again, and so one of you shall have to share her parts between you.

  MRS THRUCKLE: There’s a surprise. Since her dalliance with Lord R began, and she now with coin enough to drink, she’s been so very unwell. Though it is strange that she has been seen at Newmarket and at the Duke’s and seemed at both times to be in her cups.

  MRS CAREBY: I’ll warrant a barrel of brandy-wine is her manager now.

  They give each other meaning ful glances.

  PARRYKIN: Quick as you like, my dears, for ’tis past one of the clock already, and I’d dearly like to open on time just once this week, if I may.

  MRS CAREBY: Oh hush, Parrykin, for ’tis your prating that stops us from starting when we might, and not the slowness of my speechifying!

  MRS THRUCKLE: ’Tis true I have never heard an actress speak more slowly than you do, Letty, but Gad, ’tis a wonder you get a word out at all, the way you make eyes at the gallants. But perhaps that is a part of your playing... I am sure you would not wish to come across quite so lewd as you do.

  MRS CAREBY: You are so very kind to mention the great popularity I have with the audience, Sukey – faith, my name on the playbill has filled out this house for the last eight days straight! Though ’tis a wonder you have noticed what I am about at all, you being so inclined to distract everyone from the pleasures of your acting with all your extravagant gestures.

  She strikes a series of mock tragic poses.

  MRS THRUCKLE: It is far too good of you to compliment me thus, Letty! For ’tis true I like to use my body to the fullest when I act, but Lor’, would it not be strange if I did not use the thing that so many have told me is my prettiest asset – and the only reason they come to the playhouse at all?

  MRS CAREBY: If it was Lord Knopdale who told you this, I must confess it now – he wears an eye-glass.

  MRS THRUCKLE: It was Lord Marlham, my dear, who I think you will remember, for he turned you down three times at Christmas.

  PARRYKIN: Ladies, ladies, let us not waste time with extravagant compliments, for we have a play to rehearse, and it will not do itself.

  MRS CAREBY: Forgive me, Parry, but you must know that I am as keen to rehearse as you are. I want to make sure I have the character exactly right, and must take a while to prepare myself. ’Tis a trick I learnt from Mrs Cox when I was ’prentice to her at the King’s. You would not know of such things, Sukey, having come to us without any formal schooling... at least, not in acting.

  MRS THRUCKLE: I have learnt how to spot a surly wench, at any rate.

  Enter MRS SHEREWIN, a comely young widow.

  MRS SHEREWIN: Forgive me, I – I did not mean to interrupt you, but the door was open...

  PARRYKIN: Your timing is excellent. [Taking in the richness of her costume] How do you do... madame. I am Parrykin – the manager here. I beg to ask if you can wait – for I’m in the middle of a rehearsal, and, as usual, ’tis proving tricky.

  MRS SHEREWIN: I am Lady – I mean – Mrs Sh… I mean, Mrs Bear – Mrs Bearwood, a genteel widow who has fallen on hard times and must earn my living.

  MRS THRUCKLE: Why, ’tis just like the script!

  PARRYKIN: I’m sorry to hear that, mistress.

  MRS CAREBY: [Aside] If she’s a widow then I’m a vestal virgin.

  MRS SHEREWIN: I shall not waste your time with pleasantries, sir. I am a passionate lover of the theatre; I can read and I can write, and I have been declaiming speeches since I was eight years old. I am acquainted with your theatre, for I have been coming here, as your patron, for these six months with... with my friends, who are nobles of the Court. I – I would have you audition me. I want to be an actress, Mr Parrykin.

  PARRYKIN: I see. The Court, indeed? Will you take off your vizard, madame, for I cannot know you by a mask.

  MRS SHEREWIN: Why yes, if you wish it.

  She removes it. PARRYKIN appraises her.

  MRS THRUCKLE: She’s quite pretty, I suppose, with those light eyes. An innocence in the face... she cannot be much above eighteen.

  MRS CAREBY: Young, with a good bosom... Of decent, though not tall stature...

  MRS THRUCKLE: But that fair type of hair is a long way from fashion.

  MRS CAREBY: You would know, having dyed yours these ten years.

  PARRYKIN: I beg your pardon: I do not remember you, madame. Who are your friends, pray?

  MRS SHEREWIN: I – I do not like to use their names so lightly.

  PARRYKIN: I see. Well, you have caught me at an inconvenient time, Mrs Bearwood, as you can see. Come again, some time next week, or the one after, and mayhap I will see you then.

  He turns back towards the stage.

  PARRYKIN: Now then, where were we?

  MRS SHEREWIN: Pray, sir, but what is the play?

  PARRYKIN: The play?

  MRS CAREBY: The Forc'd Marriage, and it’s dreadful.

  MRS THRUCKLE: The way you act it.

  MRS CAREBY: I blame the director.

  PARRYKIN: They always do.

  MRS SHEREWIN: Mr Parrykin! I know that play off by heart and could speak it for you here as we stand without need for a paper, nor prompter neither.

  PARRYKIN: I am sorry, Mrs Bearwood—

  MRS CAREBY: Have you not thought of Sop’s absence, Parrykin? If this... widow can say the parts, mayhap Sukey and I will not have to kill ourselves rushing about and changing costumes. We haven’t even learnt her lines yet, neither.

  PARRYKIN: But I told you to do that this morning.

  MRS THRUCKLE: I did not receive the message.

  MRS CAREBY: She was otherwise engaged.

  PARRYKIN: So then, I am to understand, ladies, that you do not know Mrs Sop’s parts, for the play that we are about to put on in two – nay, an hour’s time?

  MRS THRUCKLE: For once, Parry, you have got it.

  PARRYKIN: I do not know... she looks a bit scrawny. And her arms are not white as they might be... can she act?

  MRS CAREBY: Since when was that relevant?

  MRS THRUCKLE: I don’t know if it ever was, to you.

  MRS SHEREWIN: I beg you, Mr Parrykin. Do let me try it. I will not let you down – and if I do, why, you need not pay me.

  PARRYKIN: Not pay you!

  MRS THRUCKLE: [Aside] Now she has got him, I’ll warrant.

  PARRYKIN: Oh, yes, yes, then, you may do it, if it will stop these two harpies and their screeching. And if you muff it,
you’ll not get your shilling, and that’s a promise.

  MRS THRUCKLE: Darling Parry.

  MRS CAREBY: You sweet little man.

  PARRYKIN: I’m five foot eight!

  SCENE II

  The same playhouse; the undressing room. MRS BUNT Y, a dressing woman, is bustling about a rack of costumes. MRS SHEREWIN, now in a wig and with a painted face, stands gazing at herself in a full-length mirror.

  MRS BUNTY: Ye will have to go in your own bodice tonight, for Mrs Sop’s a plumper thing than ye and her things would hang off ye, however tight I lace ’em. Though even your own skirts are loose on ye, see. When did ye last have a meal, wench? And do not lie, for I see hunger writ in your face.

  MRS SHEREWIN: Uh... yesterday... a little soup. ’Twas fine when I scraped the mould off.

  MRS BUNTY: Twenty years in the playhouse and I will never understand actresses, not if I live to be a hundred years old. Now then, miss. I’ve bread and cheese I will share with you, if only to keep you upright and stop you shaming the whole company by fainting on the stage directly you walk on it.

  She assembles a meal. URSULA sits down and eats it hungrily. Enter MRS THRUCKLE.

  MRS THRUCKLE: Oh, it’s you. Bunty, my second-best bodice has burst again – can you fix it?

  MRS BUNTY: No wonder, if you stuff it as much as you do – and don’t give me that face, for I’ve seen you pad yourself fit to bursting with my very own eyes, and your dumplin’ shop jacked up so high you can rest your chin upon it.