Exit the Actress (23 page)

The news:

Dr. Hodges, who bravely has stayed in London ministering to the sick, has introduced a new Virginian snake-root cure and is having some success! Hart has ordered some of the good doctor’s anise-and-angelica-root lozenges from town, also said to be effective against plague.

I saw him. The king. He was standing at the edge of the duck pond, throwing crumbs: half for the ducks and half for the dogs. I did not notice him at first (he was wearing a great black curly wig), but then that swimmy, giddy feeling came over me when I recognised the long line of his back and the supple tilt of his head. Failing the courage to approach him, I stood in the shade and watched.

Teddy is called to the king and has arrived full of news. He tells of a drunken bagpiper who, mistaken for a dead plague victim, was placed on the burial cart. When he awoke and began to play his pipes, everyone began to scream, taking him for the devil himself! Teddy says that grass grows on Whitehall, there is so little traffic in the streets. I, on the other hand, have no news, as I spend all of my time with my family or cooped up in this house—safe but crushingly dull.

* * *

“I am far too low-born and unimportant to be presented at court,” I told Teddy when he stopped by for lunch—luncheon at the court is too rowdy for his taste. The court seems all the more debauched in contrast to the sick and fearful citizenry.

“But you are a great actress now!” he argued, wiping the honey water from his lips. “Anyway, what else is there to do here?”

Not a lot.

Hart, on the other hand, has
not
encouraged me to join the court. I try not to be resentful but find myself complaining to Teddy. Why should he want to keep me here?

“Well away from the eyes of the king and his cronies,” says Teddy.

“Piffle,” I say. The king is too wrapped up in Castlemaine, who is nearing her time, and
la belle Stuart
to take any notice of me,
great actress
or not.

Teddy will brook no refusal and is taking me with him to court tomorrow!

A glorious day!

After Hart departed this morning, Teddy arrived with his box of paints and his magical trunk of shoes—shoes in all styles and sizes, of which he is a passionate collector. “Shoes are everything, Ellen,” he gravely instructs. “They ground and centre your ensemble. Now, we shall begin with the silver lace mules, although they might be a bit big. Perhaps the embroidered black? I bought them off Peg after her
divine
Desdemona two years ago. Pity Desdemona spends so much of that play in her nightie,” he clucked, unpacking his goodies.

We settled on an apple-green gown with a wide pink sash, slim black
slippers (“to cut the sweetness,” he says), and velvet ribbons woven through my curls instead of a hat. Teddy could not find a hat that suited.

“Ribbons give you a fresh look, in any case,” he said thoughtfully. “Everyone will be wearing hats, and you will stand out.” He stood back to appraise his work. “Perfect!” he declared, twirling me about, sending my dress out in swirls of frothy green.

“Make-up?” I asked, breathless, sitting down at my vanity table.

“No,” he said, studying my reflection in the glass. “You look perfect as you are, with all that pinkness whipped into your cheeks.”

They have such fun: games and entertainments and amusement all the day. The king (elegant in a soft grey surcoat) is relaxed and encourages an informal court. He also seems to wink at the lewd behaviour rampaging around him. He laughs at the bawdy jokes but, I noticed, does not make them himself and encourages outrageous flirting but does not join in. His manners are beautiful and his easy demeanour appears effortless, but I suspect is too consistent to be natural; I do not think anything is natural in this world. Castlemaine appeared tonight with a midnight-blue patch on her cheek depicting a galloping coach and four. Is there any part of her vast person she does not wish to decorate?

Blind man’s bluff is
la belle Stuart’s
favourite game and thus their most frequent entertainment. When it is announced, she claps her hands, widens her eyes in childish wonder, and exhales a soft breath of contentment. The men stand enraptured, the king among them. It is silly game, and as far as I can tell only a pretext for courtiers to grab one another in places they shouldn’t—still, it is the favourite’s favourite, and so they all pretend to be enchanted.

I kept to the edge of the lawn under a leafy horse-chestnut tree. All went well until Hart discovered me in the crowd, and his eyes bulged in anger.

“Ellen! How could you! When I told you … And yet you still…” He was unable to finish his thoughts in his fury.

I tried to speak soothingly to quiet him, but it was useless. He would not stop. Instead, he rounded on Teddy.

“And you! You pansy! You brought her here! You knew I did not want it, and still you insisted. Just so you could play at dress-up!”

Teddy just shrugged. “She was bored. Why should you have all the fun?” Hart’s face flushed with fresh rage, and he let out a steady stream of invectives. I was getting nervous. Hart was entirely capable of a public scene—he would never tolerate someone else creating one but was easily able to excuse his own. Teddy just wrinkled his nose at him as if he had smelled something distasteful but did not stoop to argue with him. Hart’s voice grew loud, louder than he intended, and others were noticing, but he persisted, deaf to my warnings. Hearing the ruckus, the king ambled over, startling Hart.

“Ellen!” he said warmly, as I dropped him a pretty curtsey. “Hart, how can you keep such a treasure at home?” he went on, raising me up. Hart looked uncomfortable but forced a horribly mechanical laugh.

The king extended his arm and whirled me away for lawn games. I felt surprisingly comfortable and made the king laugh with my imitation of Henry Bennet’s laboured, breathy voice that he uses when he visits the tiring rooms. Henry Bennet gets very excited in the tiring rooms. “A jewel!” the king declared, and I am commanded to return tomorrow. I shot Hart a triumphant look, but there was no pleasure in my victory as he only looked like a wounded bear.

He became a sulky bear the moment we arrived home. He ordered his supper to be brought to his closet and has refused to come out. In truth, I did not really mind. Teddy joined me for a cold chicken supper in the kitchen instead.
A jewel. A jewel.

Tonight:

Billiards with Elizabeth and Teddy. I won two games but got red chalk on my new ivory gown. Rose will be furious. I secretly watch the well-born ladies of the court: how they sit and speak and move and eat. Teddy caught me watching.

“I will never acquire such grace,” I confided, missing my shot.

“Do you really want to?” he asked, sinking two. “You are unpredictable. You sparkle and others take notice. It is a different kind of grace. It is all your own.”

It is certainly my own, whatever it is, but is it grace? Do other women worry incessantly over making mistakes, as I do? I am sure not. The washed-out, dainty women of the court flap and flutter and follow a set of unseen rules: who takes precedence over whom, when to sit, when to stand, how low to curtsey—endless. I try to keep to the background, but my noisy laugh has already drawn much attention, and although men and women alike profess to love it, I cannot help but feel like a wild girl who has stumbled into an unfamiliar land.

A wild girl, perhaps, but one who is having a wonderful time! Life has become a whirlwind of theatricals, games, suppers, treasure hunts, and parties. I am boisterous and no longer mindful of my rougher ways. I can make others laugh, and it sets me apart from the great sheep herd of squeaky, moonfaced, giggling women.

Castlemaine, too, stands out—speaking her mind loudly and loosely, uncaring of decorum. The queen is distinguished by her gracious demeanour. Although it is said that she passionately loves her husband and despises Castlemaine, her placid expression and regal bearing never betray her. She is at the heart of this court and yet keeps much to herself.

Hart vacillates between extraordinary pride in my popularity and a fierce possessiveness that results in petulance—very trying.

I still cannot get used to the sight of the king, and my soul dissolves into a million bumble-bees at his approach. I sometimes wonder if he can hear me buzzing.

I am called to dance!

This company seems to exist without sleep! We stay up until three, and then some rise again with the king at six for his customary exercise—walking and swimming and tennis—and then he spends hours in his laboratory, preparing experiments for his beloved Royal Society. I do not have such stamina and, after a late night, sleep through most of the morning. People are kind—kinder than I would expect to one such as me. Only yesterday, the Duke of Buckingham came to find
me.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “We are about to begin the dancing, and you
must
allow me to partner you for the
sarabande
. It is
imperative
.”

This is how they speak—
dramatically
. I have become known for my light dancing and my small feet, and courtiers often make such requests of me. Tonight, Buckingham asked again, and off we went. Hart, who was partnering Beth Howard, looked unhappy when he saw us take our places at the top of the figure, as did Buckingham’s dumpy little duchess, Mary Fairfax. I caught Hart’s eye and smiled at him down the line of dancers, but he turned his head away.

I never see Rose, as she is not part of these exalted circles, but I understand from Harry Killigrew, recently back from Paris, that she enjoys
friendships
with several young men of the court. Friendships conducted well away from this glittering golden world. Friendships that keep her away from home for days at a time.

Note
—Reports from London indicate the plague is in retreat. God be thanked. Finally, there is mercy for our city. Rose sewed a pale blue ribbon on my ivory gown to cover the chalk marks. An improvment, I think.

Rose flirts with the young men and, what with the new ensembles Hart has bought for her (hats, slippers, and cloth: three shades of taffeta and one of
moiré
for new gowns), has risen somewhat above her station and more or less left her profession for the moment. Nevertheless, her reputation still clings to her. As I fear it will always cling. Hart is being an angel and endures my wayward family with grace. It is all for love of me. I am finding affection again, and surprised by how much it pleases me.

Note
—Castlemaine actually tried to lead off the dancing tonight instead of the queen! The queen just gently nodded to the musicians, signalling them to stop playing! Happy to oblige her, they stopped at once, and Castlemaine was left to dance without music. The queen did not stay to gloat but led the court off to the gaming tables. I admire her enormous pluck.

Castlemaine gave birth to a son today, at her lodgings in Merton College. The whole court circles around her in her joy, and she revels gaudily in the attention. If only she wouldn’t gloat so. The childless queen must be so lonely tonight.