Exit the Actress (45 page)

“John does not approve, but it is lovely to spend the day with the children, helping them learn their lines, to stage fight, to make up, to dance—all of it.”

Hart kindly arranged this place for Rose, and she is clearly enjoying it. His affection for my family has never wavered.

“John has agreed that I stay on, until, of course, we have some children of our own,” Rose chattered on.

This steady life of house and husband and the prospect of children clearly suits her. I squeezed her hand in sisterly affection.

“I am happy you are settled,” I said firmly, thinking of my own far-less-ordered life.

“You will be, too,” she said gently. “I am sure everything feels strange now, but it will settle, Ellen,” she said confidently, guessing my fears.

We arrived at the solid squat building and made our way into the dimness. It was curiously comforting to kneel there, in the small stone church, to hear the familiar words and just feel the ordinariness of it all. I peeked at the people around me: bakers, clerks, grocers, and their wives and children—nobody of particular note. Nobody of interest, of merit, of
quality,
I could hear Castlemaine saying in my head. How untrue, I thought. These people have great merit. They are what are good and real and grounded
about this country. They certainly lead better lives than the loose, rambunctious court.

“Ellen!”
Rose hissed beside me.

Dutifully, I lowered my head and, closing my eyes, enjoyed the ordinariness.

Note
—Since our return to London I still have not seen
her.
The queen. At the end of the service, when we were asked to pray for the safety of the royal family, I squeezed my eyes shut and said a fervent prayer for the queen: that she might bear healthy children, that she might find happiness. I am too selfish a woman to pray that her husband might truly be faithful to her. Above all, I prayed that she might forgive me. Perhaps no one has told her? Perhaps she does not yet know of my betrayal. If only it could remain so.

This afternoon the clouds broke briefly, and Charles and I seized the moment to go walking in the Privy Gardens. The great chestnut trees were bathed in weak November sunshine, and the damp air had the fresh feeling of renewal after days of rain. Crunching along the gravel pathways, we came upon Arlington and Buckingham seated on a secluded bench tucked into a corner of the high box hedge. I felt Charles tense beside me, his body tightening like a drawn bow.

“Plotting?” Charles said easily, his expression belying none of his unease. Arlington and Buckingham’s obsession with earl of Clarendon’s unlikely return to power irritates Charles—the poor old man has been dishonoured, dismissed, and driven out of the country: What more can Buckingham want?

“Discussing,” Buckingham said casually, half rising to offer a sloppy courtly bow. “We were just saying—”

“No, no,” Charles said, uncharacteristically interrupting him. “It is not a day to discuss, but a day to enjoy. Good afternoon to you both.” He moved off, leaving Buckingham staring after him agape.

“My dear,” I began, once we were out of earshot. “Why did you…?”

“I had no wish to hear it,” he said gruffly, quickening his pace. I was trotting to keep up. “I do not need to hear again how my brother is not
sufficiently vitriolic about his father-in-law for their liking. They are nothing short of ghoulish over that old man, and his daughter Anne, however much she eats, is married to my brother and it is enough.”

I giggled. It was true. Anne, a plain plumpish sort of woman, never stops eating. We spoke no more about it and continued wandering in the chilly autumn afternoon.

For Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, Theatre Royal, London

My dearest Ellen,

Well, the rumours have filtered to us in deepest Oxfordshire. If it is true, and given your undoubted power to charm and your appealing loveliness, I have no doubt that it is, then I hope it brings you joy. It has not been a conventional life for you, my dearest, but then that is too muted for your capacity for living. He is, I believe, despite his terrible reputation, a thoughtful ruler, and I am sure a thoughtful man. I can only hope that he understands what he has found in you.

With fondest love,
Grandfather

Note—
Your great-aunt has bid me to remind you to cross your ankles when you are seated, remember not to swing your arms when you walk, do not bite your fingernails, and to please change your underclothes at least twice a week. I have no doubt that further instructions shall follow.

Delicate darling, my foot. Damn Ambrose Pink. Now she
must
know—not that she reads the gossip pages, but someone in her viper’s nest of ladies will make sure to tell her. It would be folly to think otherwise. I can never hope for her favour or goodwill, I can only hope that she knew my regard to be true, even if my friendship proved false. A friend does not do what I have done. I can feel the long fingers of shame curling around my heart.

“I need the wig-maker for John and stay-maker for me, and to pick up supplies for the Nursery Theatre (ribbons, paper, and rouge), and if I cannot find Venice lace here, I’d best go over to Madame Leonine’s,” Rose said, listing her errands as we walked up the Strand.

We were off to the Exchange, to do some shopping on a crisp November morning. The light had shifted to the slanted, amber light of autumn, and the air smelled faintly of snow—of a dozen other less savoury things as well, but also of snow. The shopkeepers were sweeping out their doorways with thickly bound brooms, and the hawkers, out far earlier than the shopkeepers, were already doing brisk business in the morning sun. The cheesemonger was bringing up an armful of waxy wrapped cheeses from his cold storage below, and the flower seller was winding together bushy bundles of creamy pink roses. Rose, still disdainful of her eponymous flower, did not slow her pace, but I dawdled and daydreamed at the pretty gardened window.

“Where do you need … Ellen? Ellen?” Rose called impatiently as I hurried to catch up.

“I also need to stop at Madame Leonine’s,” I said, “and the apothecary, and I would love to pop into the hat shop, but only if there is time.” I had rehearsal at one.

“Madame Sophie?” she asked, making a face.

Her hats were exquisite but expensive, and her clientele was very exclusive and not the sort of place where Rose, without me, would otherwise be
welcome. I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “It will be fine,” I told her confidently.

Rose just tossed her head as if she was untroubled by the opinion of others—a blatant untruth, but no matter. I needed a new hat, something with a veil. Going out has become more complicated lately, as more and more I am recognised on the street. A more concealing hat would help. Perversely, I had hoped for a few more months of anonymity, but it is not to be. Everywhere I go, people look and point as if I am an animal in a menagerie. Charles was right—it is difficult. Even now, two young and elegant men, out for a morning walk, were obviously following us several paces behind.

“You must adjust,” Rose whispered beside me. “You are the most famous actress in London and the king’s mistress—it is natural that they be curious about you. Anyway, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

But I could tell that even she was taken aback by the degree of their interest.

In the apothecary’s shop an overly made-up woman with frightful red hair approached me. “Nelly,” she addressed me informally—everyone seems to do this, to behave as if they know me. “What do you use on your skin? I have red hair as you do, but I am afflicted by freckles. Your skin is just lovely.”

I warmed to this sincere clown-faced woman immediately.

“She uses our Adams Cowslip Wash,” interjected Mr. Adams, the apothecary, proudly. “She has done for years.”

“It’s true,” I said cheerfully. “I am sure it is the sole reason for my lack of freckles.”

Rose rolled her eyes beside me. Even as a child I never suffered from freckles like others of my colouring. But it helps Mr. Adams, and it is a lovely wash, to be fair—much better than the sticky buttermilk or the smelly puppy dog water usually prescribed.

“I’ll take six bottles,” the woman decided, turning to Mr. Adams.

“I’m afraid I only have four in stock, but we do have the velvety soft Adams Honey Almond Meal Face Cream that Mrs. Gwyn also favours.”

The woman looked to me to confirm it, and I nodded.

“I’ll take four pots.”

Mr. Adams busied himself wrapping up her purchases while Rose and I patiently waited.

“And your scent?” the woman asked, pointedly sniffing me. I involuntarily stepped back.

“Lemon verbena,” Rose answered for me (not true—I use vanilla water with a hint of apple).

I started to protest, but Rose made a face as if to say, They do not need to know
everything
. Mr. Adams popped another vial in her bag.

“He had better not charge you after that little performance,” Rose hissed in my ear.

“He won’t,” I said easily. “He hasn’t done for years.”

“Well, good luck in
all
your endeavours, Ellen,” the woman said, meaningfully waggling her eyebrows. “My husband and I do so like to see you upon the stage. When are you next—?”

“We are readying Dryden’s new play now,” I reassured her. “Do not worry, I’ll never leave the theatre!”

“Good thing, too,” the woman said pompously. “After all, we are the ones who brought you where you are today.”