She felt that familiar vacuum in her stomach. She looked out where she had just been seeking … what? The one gaze among so many that had unnerved her with its intensity. She could not find it there, nor rediscover the line she had lost in the faces that swam
in the pit below her or shone like stars in the galleries above. The audience was rapt, set up by the prompter’s whistle and keen to know which player had failed and in what manner this player would redeem themself.
She glanced left—a mistake, for she looked into the royal box where the king himself leaned forward. She had learned over her three years of playing that Charles was perhaps the swiftest appraiser in the house.
A few seconds. A lifetime. Oh hell, she thought, forcing her gaze from the king. Open your jaws and swallow me.
A last, desperate glance at her husband. John Chalker was renowned for his skill at extemporizing. But even he failed her now.
“ ‘Good my lord. You tax me with ingratitude.’ ”
There it was. Her line, sure. Clearly and precisely delivered by Williams, the prompter, from his nest, behind one wing, on which was painted a canalscape of Venice. As the stridently Welsh voice seemed to emerge right from the middle of the Rialto Bridge, some of the audience laughed, some hooted while all waited to see the culprit who would claim the line.
“ ‘Good my lord. You tax me with ingratitude.’ ” Sarah declaimed, and discovered she knew what followed next. “ ‘When you are the one who should be scolded.’ ”
And on she went. There was laughter, a touch of applause, which she acknowledged with a curtsy. In his box, the king leaned back. And that other gaze, the one she’d sought and in the seeking lost her line? She felt it lift from her, like a pressing hand raised from her neck.
Scene done, they swept from the stage. Thomas Betterton, the company’s leading actor, muttered, “Distracted by a beau, Mrs. Chalker?” as he passed her. But John drew her deeper into the
offstage darkness and whispered, “What’s amiss, love? That’s the third time tonight.”
Amiss? Where in the catalogue do I begin? The rumours from their old parish, with the first houses daubed in red warning? The murders of the member of Parliament and his family, brutal even for London, which had set the town on a roar? No. She’d settle for the most recent fear. “He’s back,” she said.
Her husband stiffened. “Did you see him? Can you describe him to me?”
“No. He’s in a box, I think.”
“Royal?”
“No. He …” She hesitated. “He is returned, that’s all I know. His gaze unnerved me.”
Her husband’s two false eyebrows contracted into one. Even in the ill-lit shadows beyond the onstage candles, she could see his face flush dark. “You find ’im out, Sar,” he growled, “and I will ’ave words.”
She took his hands in hers, drew his fingers to her mouth for a kiss. “John, it is my fancy alone. He, whoever he is, has done nothing but stare. I am an actress. I live to be stared at.”
“Yet this is different. I’ve never seen you so thrown off.”
“I know. I—” She broke off. Her husband’s protection was the reason she had been able to rise as an actress in the Duke’s Company without first lying back, the usual route to favour. But his temper sometimes made him punch before he thought. It had cost them before. “He may never approach. This may be nothing.”
“Well, if it becomes something—”
“I will tell you.” She released his hands. “Are you not on?”
“Aye, and soon. I need my coat. Sir Fidget cannot walk out during High Mall without a superfluity of French lace.” He’d returned to
his stage voice, as noble as any earl’s, but now resumed his normal voice—as hers, as most players’ from the streets not far distant from where they played, “I mean it, Sar. If you sense ’im among that crowd of fops and debauchers that will plague us after the play, you point ’im out to me. Never fear—I’ll be most subtle. I’ll dog ’im far from the playhouse before we ’ave our chat.”
“Go on, you great goose,” she said, kissing him, shoving him away.
He went. And she must too. The finale approached in three scenes and required a change of dress. Yet, for a moment she did not stir. Out there in the gloom, someone was still watching for her. She was not as gifted as her mother had been, the most cunning of the Cunning Women in their parish of St. Giles in the Fields. Betsy, on her best day, could probably have peered into the surface of a coffee cup and described the watcher’s clothes. Sarah was used to being admired. Indeed, she craved it—the men’s lust, the women’s envy, a monarch’s smile. But this regard had been different.
Shivering, she went to change her dress.
It was larger than usual, the mob that crowded in after the performance, for the king had stayed. The party had been forced to spread from the smaller area behind the stage onto the platform itself and down into the pit. The musicians, persuaded to take up their instruments again, had the more drunken in the crowd gathered before them, swaying to the notes, sometimes breaking into a jig or a sarabande as the tempo required. The girls who sold oranges were also there, and their busy hands moved under cloaks, provoking, enticing some men away to darker corners or even the back alley, where they could more discreetly conclude the full transaction. Some of the sisters of the stage, if not so brazenly conducting business now, were certainly setting themselves up for trade later.
“Look!” cried Lucy Absolute, directing Sarah’s gaze to the opposite side of the stage. “Sir Charles Sedley is trying again to pass Mrs. Sanderson something. What could it be? Coin?”
“Nay, Lucy. Mary’s never been bought for mere silver.”
“You’re right. ’Tis paper. An assignation, do you think? Or the deed to some property? The king’s been after her for all of a week now and we know Sedley is his pander. If Charles’s image in silver won’t open her knees, some of his land in Buckinghamshire might. Look how Old Rowley watches! His chin is so upon his chest he could catch flies in his mouth.”
Both turned to regard the king—easy to do, since he dwarfed most of his companions. He was different from them in other ways as well. He wore a thin black moustache, unlike the shaven faces about him. His black wig was thick and richly curled, flowing over his shoulders, a neat contrast to the pearl white of his doublet.
“And can you believe he looks so hungrily when two of his mistresses—two!—are here present and circling like masked hawks?”
They swiftly spotted the vizards. Their masks might indeed conceal their faces, but gossip and their sumptuous gowns revealed them. Lady Castlemaine was one. It was said she had borne the king five children already. The other, by her full and shapely figure could be no other than Winifred Wells. She’d had at least one babe by him.
Lucy let out her famously coarse laugh and Sarah joined her. Then both sighed. Two hundred pounds per annum was a lot of money in exchange for a few regal caresses. Besides, bear him a child and a woman would be made for life. Charles was renowned as much for his paternal love as for his roving eye.
“Nay, look, Lucy, she’s thrust the paper back. I tell you, Mary Sanderson will take no comers. She’s only ever had eyes for our leader Thomas.”
“What? Do you think that the title ‘Mrs. Betterton’ will keep the lusty monarch’s hands off her? Thomas may be the prince of players, but in the end he is merely an actor.”
“My John’s an actor.”
“Aye, but your John was also a soldier. Look at the size of his fists. All know he’s killed with ’em. His reputation keeps you safe.”
Sarah looked into the pit. John was there, a circle of friends and admirers before him. He was telling some ribald story, throwing his arms wide. Men laughed. “Maybe he keeps me too safe. Sometimes I think it costs me.”
“How so?”
“Does our trade not require us to offer something on account, even if we do not pay, uh, the full reckoning? Perhaps my roles would improve if I was allowed a little more freedom.”
“Kate Covey’s roles have certainly improved since she let our manager Davenant place his ancient prick inside her. But did you hear her tonight? Like an owl, screeched the entire role, she did. It should have been your part.”
Sarah smiled and studied her young companion. Lucy truly was a delight, the newest member of the company, whom Sarah had taken under her wing as soon as the girl had arrived. There was a freshness to her, the country glow still on her cheeks, a touch of Cornwall still in her voice. It made Sarah as protective as a mother swan. In her years with the Duke’s Company she had seen others arrive with just this brightness, only to have it snuffed out. She was determined not to let it happen to Lucy. Yet she had not entirely succeeded in sheltering her. Lust could oft be deflected, but love was trickier to ward against—as the light suddenly coming into Lucy’s gaze now proved.
“He’s here,” she said, her voice as charged as her eyes.
Sarah turned and saw the bringer of the light, the newcomer making straight for the king’s party. He was younger even than Lucy was, and bounced across the stage with all youth’s energy. No wig for him: his light-brown locks fell in waves down his back. The crowd parted so that the monarch’s new favourite could be the more swiftly admitted to the royal bosom.
“Johnnie!” came the delighted regal cry. “My Lord of Rochester. You missed the play.”
“You would have me listen to another man’s words when I am brimful of my own?”
“Recite, Johnnie,” commanded Charles. “Delight us.”
“My words are too vulgar for the general ear … and thus perfect for Your Majesty. Draw close, all.”
The men formed into a tight ball around the king and young earl. Yet the moment before he was quite sucked in, he glanced to where the actresses stood and winked at Lucy.
Sarah saw her companion’s skin flush. “My dear—” she began.
“Nay, do not counsel me, dear Sarah.” Lucy grabbed her hand. “Just be happy for me.”
“I am happy for you now. It is for your future that I worry.”
“Do not. My John will be as true as yours.”
“But my John and I are married. Besides, we’ve known each other since we were children.” She squeezed the hand that held hers. “You have known my Lord of Rochester a bare three months.”
“Five.” Lucy closed her eyes. “Four really, plus two weeks and two days, since he became enamoured of my role as Celia and presented me with violets picked himself, along with his first ode to me.” She opened her eyes. “You do not know how well he treats me when we are alone.”
“It is when you are alone with him that worries me.” The girl tried to withdraw her hand, but Sarah held on. “I am afraid that as soon as he has his desire of you, he will be done with you. And then—”
“Well, you are wrong,” Lucy interrupted, defiant. “Behold him still here. For me.”
“You do not mean that you …?”
“You see? You do not always know everything, Mrs. Chalker.”
There was something behind the defiance now, something vulnerable. Suddenly Sarah knew for certain what she’d glimpsed and chosen not to fully notice till this moment. And it did not take a cunning woman to see it.
“Child,” she whispered, “how long is it since you bled?”
Lucy eyes flooded. “Four months,” she said, speaking over Sarah’s gasp. “But it does not matter,” she added. “My love will do the right thing by me.”
“Lucy, he is an earl. He cannot marry you.”
“I know that. Even though I am the granddaughter of a Cornish knight.” This last flash of boldness was there, then gone. “But,” she continued, “maybe I could be as … as one of these those vizards are to the king. I would not mind sharing the earl with a wife if he would be but kind to me and our child.”
As the tears flowed, Sarah put an arm around her. “Have you told him?”
“Nay. I did not know if the child would linger. After your loss.” She squeezed Sarah’s arm. “I thought I might tell him tonight.” She looked up. “Will you stay close, Sarah, when I do?”
Sarah swallowed. Two months since she had lost the child she’d carried and still that void when she remembered it. She took a breath, squeezed back. “Do you doubt it?”
The younger woman held her for a moment, then drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “He says he likes my tears. But only a certain kind, I fear.” She rose. “I must go and repair. Will you get word to him that I would see him below?”
“I will attempt it.”
“What would I do without you, Sarah?” Lucy sniffed, then stood, tucking her hands under her busk, pushing the piece of whalebone up until her breasts were prominent. Now that Sarah knew, she could see how they had altered. “Am I repaired enough for a swift exit?”
“You are as lovely as ever, child.”
Lucy was an actress and this was her stage. After picking up the glass she’d lately been sipping from, she swept across with a cry of “Nay! Here’s a brimmer then to her, and all the fleas about her!” She stopped mid stage, threw the contents down and then started, as if only that moment noticing the king’s party. They opened for her, revealing Rochester and His Majesty at their centre. “Sire,” she said, her voice husky. “Forgive me. I did not see you there.” She followed this with a curtsy that took her to the floor and her bosom into the fullest of views. She held the curtsy not a moment too long, and without even a glance at John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, she was gone.
With all eyes upon the exit, Sarah was able to move discreetly closer. She had no idea how she would cut the earl from the pack, but she had promised to try.
“Now, there’s a pair of oranges I would not mind peeling,” declared Sir Charles Sedley.
“You’ll have to sharpen your knife to attempt it, Charlie,” replied the king. “For I heard yours is much, shall we say, dulled of late?”
Groans as well as laughter greeted the king’s comment. Rumour had it that Sedley had recently taken the mercury cure for the pox.
Other voices arose from the group.
“I have a shilling here. ’Twill buy two such Sevilles in Covent Garden.”
“Nay, gentlemen, they say this lady’s not for turning.”
“Tope’s the word, all actresses can be bought, sure!”
“All women indeed. It is merely a matter of price,” said Rochester, stepping forward. “Sometimes it takes but a shilling. Sometimes, with all due respect to Her Majesty, it takes a crown.”