Exit the Actress (32 page)

Once I have won back the audience, I will be able to command a higher wage, but at the moment, with Hart (a major shareholder) against me, I remain poorly paid. If I become a crowd favourite, then Hart’s enmity will count for nothing. If I could only play comic roles, I know I could earn their love. If, if, if: there is a great deal of “if” in my life at the moment.

Rose’s absence worries me. I try to imagine her eloping with a wealthy lover—being whisked away in a coach and four—but I know how unlikely that is for one so thoroughly tainted. So where is she?

Buckhurst has been officially banned from the theatre. The doormen, stagehands, and hawkers have all been given instructions to pitch him out should he appear. And he definitely has been appearing. He has been making a nuisance of himself (yesterday he recited love poetry loudly outside the theatre) as the audience leave—insisting to all and sundry that he
must
see me. Everyone certainly saw him: an elegant, golden youth crowned in silver-blond curls, dressed in flamboyant pastels, shrieking sonnets in the
street. He was definitely conspicuous … pity. So far he hasn’t disrupted a performance, but I have no doubt he soon will. Grandfather, up from Oxford for a few days, came to the second show yesterday and was disconcerted to see this young man, restrained by two doormen, drunkenly yelling for me to come out. I feel a bit like a princess in a fairy-tale, with her knight climbing the tower walls.

“But if the knight gets inside, he will
dump
the princess,” reminds Teddy. “Keep away from him—that’ll fix his wagon.” Teddy’s talk is rife with endearing old-lady expressions.

How silly this all is. And how sad.

Rose arrived home!

“Where have you been?” I yelped, leaping out of bed when I saw her. Fumbling in the dark, I struggled to light the lamp.

“Where? Where do you think? Madame Ross’s,” she said, careful to turn away from me as she spoke—Rose flushes when she lies. She began undressing for bed as though it was entirely normal that we two were returned to the bedroom of our childhood.

“Rose!”

“Not yet, Ellen,” she said with steely conviction. “I will not speak of it yet.” She slipped her nightgown over her head.

“But…!”

“No.”

“Good night, girls,” Grandfather said, poking his head round the door. “I do hope, on your first night home together, you have not decided to quarrel?”

I had the decency to look shamefaced. Rose just looked exhausted.

“I thought not.” He twinkled. “Good night.”

Impasse.

Note
—Good news! Rose will officially apprentice with Madame Leonine!

Notes, presents, trinkets. Will he ever stop? Johnny says no. As long as I run, he will chase.
This
is what Bucky likes.
This
is what he lives for. I am confused—how can anyone enjoy
this
? I am miserable.

“Because you have a real heart,” Rochester said, in a quiet moment of gentleness, giving me a lopsided smile. “It is rare in our glittering world, and we don’t know quite what to do with it.”

“Everyone has a real heart,” I shot back. “They just employ a false one.”

“You think too well of people, my unicorn. It is why I love you so.”

Note
—I had a costume fitting today with Rose for the upcoming Howard play. Now that Hart no longer pays for my clothes, I must economise where I can. It was a difficult two hours. Rose not only refuses to say where she has been, but she refuses to tell me where she goes now! She is often inexplicably out in the evenings and refuses to talk about it—frustrating! At least she seems happy. Whether it is her renewed interest in sewing or her mysterious absences, I do not know, but I am grateful for her happiness. Grateful and making an effort to be gracious. Until she establishes herself as a seamstress, I am left funding this bizarre household. I have decided: no more chocolate and meat only twice a week—depressing but necessary.

September 3, 1667

Whitehall

Dearest Ellen,

Please may I see you? Do not torture me this way.

Buckhurst

I cannot bear to torture anyone. Against all advice, I have agreed to meet him—briefly.

Only a few minutes as I am onstage in an hour and have not yet made up, nor curled my wig.

What happened:

I met him at the Swan Inn—a seedy place and no one knows me there—and
nothing
happened. I was not moved by his pleas or his declarations of love. In fact, I was not moved by him at all and felt I was in the presence of a stranger. Did this man ever share my bed? How
strange
men and women can be.

“But we are
fated,
” he insisted loudly (drunk, I suspect), bringing me back to the conversation with a jolt.

“Why then, it would be so,” I reasoned quietly. “But here we are, and it is not so. How then can it be fate?”

I offered him my friendship.

He is considering.

Friendship, it is. I am at peace.

“You will forever haunt my soul,” he declared plaintively.

“But I am not dead yet,” I responded. I am weary of this overblown talk.

I finally feel as if
this
part has won me back the London audience (and with them comes the pay increase I have hoped for! Forty shillings a week, to be raised to fifty by the summer—meat and chocolate every day!). James Howard (another playwriting Howard boy) has written me a
brilliant
role. Mirida was made for me—quite literally, in fact. Rose’s costume was a success (Madame Leonine helped her with the difficult neckline), and Lizzie Knep has already ordered two similar dresses. I have advised Rose to charge top prices—her work is of fine quality—and it is only fair. I was surprised when she mentioned that Hart had offered the same advice. I did not realise they still spoke. How kind of him.

At last, Hart and I can be easier in each other’s company, onstage at least. I feel as though the Londoners cheer for us unreservedly now. I have missed their love more than I care to admit.

To be fair, Hart has softened offstage as well. He brought lovely Christmas gifts to the little house in Drury Lane: a delicately inlaid music box and a heavy crystal bottle of
Eau du Cassis;
as well as presents for Rose and Mother: French soap for Rose and Venice lace for Mother. Luckily, I had a gift for him as well—a new silver engraved hairbrush. He even brought a Christmas ribbon for Ruby, who gets terribly over-excited when she sees him and needs a nap to generally collect herself afterwards. It was a nostalgic family evening, and I missed him when he left, although I did not want him to stay.

Note
—I am still widely thought to be a wanton—ironic, since I have slept alone for this half year.

I have woken up to a new year. Ruby looks at me expectantly. Will this year be different?

Incredible news!

Rose is to be married! Mr. John Cassels, a member of the Duke of Monmouth’s sprawling household, has asked Rose to be his
wife
! I am pleased for her, as I know to be respectably married has always been her truest wish.

“That is where you were?” I confronted her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I pulled my counterpane closer around me

“Have you ever wanted something so much that you were afraid to put even the smallest weight upon it in case it should crumble?”

I looked at my sister; she was shot through with happiness.

“No, Rose,” I said, feeling literal and earthbound, “I have never wanted anything that much.”

Cards and coffee with Teddy and Rose; we are not on until three p.m.—Flora
again.

“How did you meet him?” Teddy asked, playing a card.

Rose made a face.

“
Oh.
I see. Nothing wrong with trying out the goods before you buy them,” Teddy quipped easily. I smiled. Teddy always knows just what to say to Rose.

It was a small but lovely ceremony. Rose, looking radiant, wore a simple blue gown with a pink satin sash and carried a small posy of white winter roses. John wore a new blue waistcoat and looked quite smart. I keep thinking he is taller than he is. Mother wore her best gown of deep clover green trimmed with paler green ribbons
and
remained sober throughout the service—miraculous! Unexpectedly, Hart turned up and stood at the back of the church. I was touched. Next to him was a tall man with a heavy wig and his hat pulled low—Duncan! Good God. He left just before John kissed his bride.