Exit the Actress (48 page)

Missed three rehearsals in a row, as I was literally ordered by the king to stay in bed. How delicious. I am sure I will never be cast again. We’ve stayed up the past three nights until three or four, either roistering with the Wits or simply curled up, the two of us, on the royal sofa with the royal spaniels, whispering until dawn. Yet each morning Charles rises at six for his customary constitutional: a five-mile walk and a one-hour swim. His poor councillors scramble to keep up with him, reading their reports aloud to him as they trot along, and then must shout their counsel from the side of the lake each time he comes up for air. He ends with feeding the ducks in St. James’s Park, by which time his advisors are quite winded and need to sit down.

Note
—Charles asked me tonight what sort of hospital I would like. “A hospital for unwed mothers? A surgical hospital? A leper hospital?”

“Ex-servicemen,” I answered promptly, surprising him. For my father.

It began all right: Charles and I went to the Theatre Royal, where we saw
Catiline’s Conspiracy
—thank goodness I was not cast in that. Doom and gloom for three hours, Ben Jonson or no. Hart was good as Catiline but a bit stiffin his right leg. I wonder, has he injured himself? He never will
admit a weakness. And Nick was convincing as Cicero, but it is a part I know he loathes. After the performance we went backstage to congratulate the cast. There was a moment of terrifying awkwardness when my former lover (Charles) bowed to my new lover (King Charles), and then Johnny Rochester and Buckhurst (also Charles) turned up and began to giggle at the tableaux.

“Remind me never to introduce you to a man named Charles,” the king whispered playfully in my ear, slipping a protective arm around my waist as we left.

In the carriage I broached the subject: “Buckingham stopped by the theatre the other day,” I opened.

“Mmm,” the king responded mildly, fastening and unfastening the catches on the curtained windows. He must always take everything apart to see how it
works.

“He told me what has happened—about your brother and the navy.” I sensed danger but decided to press ahead. “Maybe you should—”

“He told you what?” he asked in a tight voice. “That he and Arlington have banded against me? That they are trying to discredit my own brother, my
heir,
for not better financing the navy—with what money, I ask you?” He pulled the tassel off the curtain fabric in his agitation. “That when he talks of being off with his women, he is, in fact, secretly meeting almost daily with the republican parliamentary leaders Wildman and Owen? Men who supported
Cromwell
! That he is filling my son Monmouth’s head with ideas of legitimacy and kingship? Impossible ideas that will only lead to his ruin. That Buckingham, my oldest and dearest friend, whose father was my father’s oldest and dearest friend, is bullying my brother—the heir to the throne—and single-handedly trying to strangle my government? What? What is it that Buckingham told you?”

I sat back, shocked at this outburst. “No, he said—”

“Buckingham
always
has an axe to grind—he only grinds for himself alone—so careful, my dear, when you throw your lot in with him,” he said brutally.

“I’ve thrown in my lot with you!” I protested, catching at his sleeve in my panic.

He turned away and did not respond. When we arrived at the palace he alighted alone, without waiting for a footman, slamming the coach door closed behind him.

Kissing my hand formally, he wished me good night. “See the lady back to her lodgings,” he told the coachman, and rapped on the roof before I could argue.

And then I understood. Our time was a refuge.
I
was a refuge. With that benign question I had become one of the many who wanted to manipulate him—to profit from him. Alone in the coach, I wept into my expensively gloved hands.

Later in my little room under the eaves, I realised: he knew and understood everything. He had all along. He was
always
ahead of them. He
wants
his courtiers and advisors to underestimate him—it is how he controls them. If it is not too late, I must never follow suit.

December 18

Drury Lane

To be delivered by hand to Whitehall Palace, care of Jerome, the page My darling,

I trespassed where I had no right. Please forgive me.

Your Ellen

I am not cast, but I hang about the theatre anyway. It is
my
refuge, my family. Teddy, my anxious shadow, tries to cheer me out of my unhappiness. His remedy is food. All day he has brought little cakes and sweetmeats to tempt me. I am too agitated to eat. Tom sees my malaise and does not ask questions but instead engages me in small meaningless tasks and decisions.

“Best not to brood!” he says with determined gaiety. Together, we plan the Christmas festivities and decorate the theatre for the holiday season. Despite myself, I wound up giggling watching Nick, Michael, and Tom argue—in their booming, classically trained voices—how best to hang the ball of mistletoe.

“To the left!” Tom shouted to Nick, who was precariously balanced on a rickety ladder.

“My left?” Nick called down as the ladder wobbled dangerously.

“No! My left! My left!” Michael yelled as he hobbled in a circle at the base of the ladder, gesticulating wildly. His gout is worse this Christmas.

“Your left keeps moving!” Nick grumbled, struggling to hammer the nail into place and eventually dropping the prickly green ball on Tom below.

“I’ll do it!” Tom said, fed up. “I know where my own left is.”

“You won’t once you get up there,” Nick said, cheerfully coming down the ladder.

Jerome arrived at the stage door of the theatre after the performance, wearing his livery (as he is careful to do whenever he sees me).

“He is not prepared to respond, Mrs. Ellen. He misses you terribly but is not ready,” he said sorrowfully.

“Did he send you or—”

“No, I just thought I should come. For you … so you would know … Please don’t tell him.”

“No, no, of course. I promise,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Is he angry?” I ventured.

“Tired, I think. He has these decisions to make, and the Duke of Buckingham is about all the time, nagging and nagging and never letting him be. The king has pushed everyone away and only wants to spend time with the queen now. And, of course, correspond with his sister.”

“
The
queen? Our queen?”

“She does not ask anything of him, and he needs that right now. They assemble his clocks together and have designed a great sundial.”

“Yes, that fits.” I laughed. He always liked to engage his mind in mechanical puzzles when troubled. Clocks were a favourite. “Thank you, Jerome.” I gave him a shilling for his trouble. “You are all right to get back?”

“Oh yes, the boat is waiting for me. Do you want me to deliver any message?”

“Only that I am thinking of him and wishing him a happy Christmas-time. He and the queen both.”

I watched Jerome until he was out of sight and was surprised to feel a heavy hand on my arm. Without a word, Hart folded me into his broad chest.

“It is not you,” he murmured, gently stroking my hair. “He is a complicated king, and beyond that he is a complicated man.”

“But I feel like the ground is always moving about beneath me,” I said tearfully, stepping back to look up into his worried face.

“That is because it is moving. You inspire a man to be more than he is, Ellen. To reach and grow and thrive. A man cannot do that by standing still. I understand that now. Your love will not root in quiet ground.” With that astonishing remark, he dropped his arms from my waist and strode away.

Becka mentioned today (to Nan but deliberately in my hearing) that she had heard that the king just bought a coach and four for Lady Castlemaine—an early Christmas gift. The horses (dappled greys) are to be stabled at Whitehall, and the coach (japanned black lacquer with lots of gold trim—gaudy) brought round to her special entrance when she has use of it. I held my tongue and did not tell her that the king had the special entrance constructed because the people so hate to see Barbara. I tell myself that the coach is most likely for the benefit of the children, of whom Charles is very fond. Outwardly, I just smiled politely. It would not do to gossip, no matter how much the ground moves.

December 23, 1668

For Mrs. Ellen Gwyn

No. 9 Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane, London

Dearest Ellen and Rose,

Your great-aunt is failing. I apologise for my bluntness, but there is little time—it is her heart, and she will be taken from us soon. If you could spare the time, my dears, could you (and Nora, of course) come to Oxford? It would make Margaret so happy, and for myself, I have missed you both and would like nothing better than to see you. We understand, of course, if your busy lives do not permit such a journey.

All my love,

Grandfather

She did not go quietly, but rather like a general leaving the field of battle, issuing orders to the end: Rose should be pregnant; John should be promoted; I should be married
and
pregnant
and
promoted; Grandfather should stop eating green vegetables (terrible for the constitution) and give up reading after dark; Mother should perk up and give up the drink (obviously); and Jezebel should
not
be allowed to climb on the roof. I am sitting with Ruby (who is now permitted inside the house) in the tiny attic bedroom watching the snowfall, feeling somewhat dazed.

I have returned as I am cast this week in Shirley’s
The Sisters.
I will play the amusing Pulcheria opposite Hart’s Prince Farnese. It is all wrong for me right now, and I must force an awkward gaiety I do not like. And then it is back to Dryden’s
The Maiden Queen,
always a sure hit. It is good to be in the theatre and oddly comforting to play opposite Hart. He is frequently impatient with my lack of focus, and we certainly never mention his bizarre liaison with my lover’s mistress, but his proximity is bolstering somehow.

Luckily, the crowded routine of rehearsal, memorisation, and performance does not leave much time for brooding. Ruby and Scandalous are sleeping in their basket, happy to be back in familiar surroundings. I left John, Rose, and Grandfather in Oxford to sort things out—the farm, the books, and the animals. Grandfather will stay on for a bit deciding what to do with Farm Cottage before joining us in town.

Note
—Grandfather wants to bring Jezebel to town. No one in Oxford will buy her. No word from the king, but Becka reports that he has kept a merry court this Christmas. Also that he has given Castlemaine another gang of titles. She is now the Duchess of Cleveland, Countess of Southampton, and Baroness Nunsuch. Nunsuch is said to be the most beautiful house in England; no doubt she will ruin it. She cares only for status, nothing for beauty.

“It was hilarious, my darlings; you should have seen it, so unflattering,” said Teddy, settling Scandalous on his lap.

Scandalous is far more discerning (well, bad-tempered) than Ruby and will only acknowledge certain people. Teddy is his undoubted favourite.

“Hilarious that such ridiculous women take up so much of the king’s time? Clarendon was right. He really is under the petticoat influence,” Aphra said, pouring the coffee.

We had gathered at Aphra’s for an evening of cards and chat and were just waiting for Tom to make up the fourth. Teddy was regaling us with this afternoon’s theatre antics. The mature (she must be at least fifty) actress Catherine Corey had stunned London audiences by ruthlessly imitating Lady Hervey, the queen’s favourite lady-in-waiting. Lady Hervey, an easy target, has an unfortunate and unmistakeable lisp.

“And you really think Castlemaine put her up to it?” I asked Teddy.

“Well, old Catherine Corey is hardly likely to imitate the great Lady Hervey without encouragement. She hasn’t the imagination,” he said carelessly.

“Just because Lady Hervey carries influence with the queen?” Aphra asked.

“Everything to do with the queen infuriates Castlemaine,” Teddy said mildly, “especially with the way Lady Hervey has been throwing her weight around lately: boasting that she has Secretary of State Arlington in her pocket, and telling all and sundry that to make way she had her own husband posted as ambassador to Turkey. Castlemaine, sorry, Cleveland—still doesn’t sound right—wouldn’t like that: Arlington is
her
stooge.”