Exit the Actress (41 page)

“Happy, but in a dreadfully precarious position,” Teddy said quietly. “That note, I would wager that it tells you that he is indisposed this evening and cannot meet you. Am I correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, because the Duchess of Richmond, Frances Stuart,
la belle Stuart
herself, is ill. She has the small pox.”

“Oh,” I recoiled at the mention of the dreaded, disfiguring disease.

“It has not altered her appearance and her case was light, it is said, but the king has been ever attentive, even at the risk of his own health.”

“He has
seen
her?” He had told me that he has business in Oxford with the architect Christopher Wren this past week. He had told me that since her elopement they have been estranged.

“He has not left her side since she fell ill, and even now, when she is out of danger, he clings to her.”

Now away and alone, I think on what Teddy has said. I am the invisible mistress, the secret mistress, the whore. It is for my well-being, I can hear Charles argue—my well-being or his convenience? I did not believe he would forgo all others—not really, not forever—but I did think there would be an honesty between us, an accountability of sorts. That is not true. I had hoped that for now, now when we are so happy … Well, I suppose it was only I who was so happy.

The truth: his heart still belongs to another. The clocks have chimed at midnight.

Teddy and I went to Bartholomew’s Fair this afternoon. We are rehearsing
The Silent Woman,
a comedy, in the mornings, but neither of us is cast in
Rollo,
which we have on at the moment. The fair was lively, and the puppets and children and music and sweets were all diverting, but I find myself unable to fully enter my surroundings. I feel as though I am set apart by my thoughts and cannot engage with the world. Teddy understands and is patient with my ongoing strangeness. I am making a decision, I realised. Can I do this? Do I want to do this? It will mean giving my heart to a man who will not protect it. It is a dangerous game to play, for I will love. I will love with all of myself, and I will not gain entrance to all of his heart in return. My stubborn hope still flickers. Perhaps, perhaps.

“You will never be on equal footing,” Teddy says in answer to my unspoken thoughts. “It is only your heart that will break.”

“But, Frances—”

“Frances never capitulated. She just conceded the field. You cannot compete with that.”

I do not want to compete. I want to love and be loved in return. But love requires honesty, and that is not where this path seems to lead.

Still thinking.

A great success. Finally!

We played to a full house—this being the second night of the run and word having got out that this is a worthy comedy. The pit laughed hard.

Lizzie Knep was superb as Epicoene, the title role. My part was smaller but well written, and my breeched dancing much anticipated and well clapped. Even Ruby seemed excited after the show and leapt out of her backstage basket to lick me. I am returned. I am awake to my life. I am still undecided. The court is in Newmarket and then off to Audley End this month. I can think more clearly when I know he is not close by. I will do nothing. The answer will come—now off to supper with Aphra, Teddy, and Johnny.

Note
—A brief message today from the king, congratulating me on my success. Inviting me to the races at Newmarket. I have not replied.

Such a lot of nonsense. I am losing patience with grown men everywhere. Today in the coffee-house:

Dryden; his brother-in-law, Rob Howard; his wife, Beth; Aphra; and I were enjoying a leisurely Sunday repast after church. The discussion fell to Dryden’s
A Defence of an Essay
(his answer to Rob’s
Essay of Poesy
). I have made it a point to read neither, as they both seem quite silly and seem to inevitably lead to shouting and disagreements. The argument became heated, as Aphra tried to gently mediate. I finally caught the gist of the thing and was shocked.

“
Rhyme?
You are arguing like this over
rhyme
?”

“Rhyme in
drama,
my dear. Quite another thing,” Dryden said pompously. “It truly elevates the form.”

“No, it
muddies
it,” countered Rob. “A true dramatist can keep it
pure
.”

I looked at Aphra, who rolled her eyes as if to say,
Men
. She is now trying to get her first play produced and is not remotely concerned about
elevation
or
purity,
only revenue. Just then Johnny Rochester came in, fresh from Newmarket, and, depositing a kiss upon my head, dropped into the nearest armchair. Ruby excitedly began to scale his legs and climbed into his lap.

“John,” began Dryden officiously, “you will be able to arbitrate this matter.”

“I doubt it,” said Johnny, affectionately rubbing Ruby’s soft, crumply ears.

“Well, regardless,” Dryden plodded on, his heavy curls bobbing, “how
do you feel about
rhyme
in drama? Don’t you believe it to be an essential
tool
? An
art,
an
asset
?” Dryden was warming to his theme. I looked towards Aphra with apprehension. Dryden can be tiresome in this mood. And Johnny never brings out the best in him, as Dryden is so eager, so desperate to impress him that he rapidly becomes unbearable.

“I think that it is
second
-rate writers who worry about tools and arts and assets,” Johnny said levelly, not looking up from Ruby. “First-rate writers write
originally
in their own forms and are guided by
God
.” I recognised this reckless, dangerous mood of Johnny’s and was anxious to steer poor Dryden away.

“But my dear Lord Rochester … look at Shakespeare, his use of—”

“That is right.
Look
at Shakespeare. He copied no one.” I prudently held my tongue—in other moods I have heard Johnny refer to Shakespeare as an outright thief, unable to originate a plotline. “Unlike your pale, imitative dribblings. It is pathetic to think that we go to such trouble to enact them—or to watch them, for that matter. How truly bored must we be in our gilded, debauched age.”

Dryden’s round face flushed.

“Johnny,” I said, placing my hand lightly on his arm, desperate to change the subject and knowing that Dryden would be mortally wounded by this lacerating criticism—he fairly worships Johnny. “Have you eaten, my dear? May I order you some seed cake? It is particularly lemony today.”

“Well,” Dryden said pompously, his blond curls bouncing again in righteous indignation, rising and putting on his ridiculous hat (
another
one), “I certainly don’t see God’s hand guiding you.”

“Ah, God.” Johnny said thoughtfully. He looked up at Dryden for the first time. “God and I parted ways long ago.”

How sad. Sometimes I truly feel that Johnny believes that. It is at the root of his wild ways: the unbridled freedom of an already condemned man. How lonely and afraid it must make him.

Note
—I still have not replied.

Ladies’ Day today at the playhouses. All the profits go to us! Teddy made a guest appearance in his sugar-pink frock (didn’t get paid but had great fun) and was cheered mightily. Lady Jemimah Sandwich blew him a kiss, and Lady Fenworth’s powder-puff dog yipped. All the Wits turned out in support. Buckhurst cheered me particularly loudly and tossed a heavy bag of coins at my feet during my curtsey. Johnny brought me yellow roses tied in a black ribbon after the performance.

Note
—I had half hoped, despite my injunction, the king would come. If I wish for something, I should learn to ask for it. But then, I wish to be whole and unharmed, singularly cherished and unhurt—a tricky thing with this man.

Peg stopped into the theatre after rehearsal (I am not on the rest of this week) and whisked me away for some afternoon shopping in Paternoster Row. “But I have lines to learn!” I wailed.
And
a new prologue
and
new steps for Lacy’s dance…

And, and, and.
I keep my thoughts perpetually occupied with
and. And
is my armour against the devouring unhappiness of wanting something I cannot have. Better to break my own heart now than to have it broken for me later, I tell myself again and again.

“Get your hat. We’re leaving.” She would brook no refusal.

Shopping with Peg nowadays is a joyous experience, as she is on Rupert’s seemingly unlimited budget. We strolled arm in arm and talked of this and that: the renovations for their sumptuous apartments at Windsor (they have moved into a suite of rooms in the Round Tower, and Rupert has proposed several ingenious alterations), her favourite spaniel’s new litter
(half-pug and half-spaniel—not what she expected and ugly as can be, but she adores them), plans for her new flower garden at Windsor. Walking past the great Westminster Abbey, I recognised this gnawing at my heart: envy.

In the dress-maker’s shop:

“How does the queen fare?” I asked, talking around my subject.

“Well enough, what with the circus she must contend with. Three ambassadors—Venetian, Spanish, and French—all not speaking to one another, all feeling slighted. Ugh.” She blew out her cheeks in an exasperated sigh, then held up a particularly lovely length of crimson silk. “What do you think?”

“Not for your colouring, Madame Hughes,” clucked Madame Leonine. “Try the deeper blue, in the softer fabric. What do you think, Madame Gwyn?”

I think it would cost me a week’s wages. I think I cannot afford such luxury.