Exit the Actress (13 page)

The queen will recover! Apparently her physician, Sir Francis Prujean, saved her with his miracle cordial. “Bet it is just wintergreen, feverfew, and betony, mixed with something sweet—and now he will make a fortune,” Teddy said, reading the account in the
Gazette
.

Teddy was right. Already Dr. Prujean’s magical cordial is sold everywhere at half a crown. It smells like wintergreen.

Today, being the queen’s birthday, Peg says the guns from the Tower will all go off. She also says wigs will become the fashion, what with the king and
his greying curls and the queen and her shorn hair. I hope not, as I look terrible in wigs.

December 21, 1663

Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane

Dearest sister,

I am so sorry to hear that you will not be joining us for our Christmas festivities. I understand your concern over Ellen’s association with the theatre but must beg to disagree with you. Margaret, dear, you must know that she could not reduce our station further. We must rejoice in the life that she has found. Rose no longer resides with us here, and we rarely see Nora, so Ellen is my daily comfort. I wish you health and joy this Christmastide.

Your loving brother,

Edward

Rose is in gaol! I heard it from Meg tonight. I was delivering trinkets from Lord Sedley (an orange for Kitty, a lemon for Becka, and a posy for Lizzie—naughty man) when Meg found me backstage. Breathless, she suggested I sit on a nearby bench, and then she delivered the news directly: Rose is accused of stealing from her customer at Madame Ross’s and has been taken away by the bailiffs. Bailiffs! Impossible—Rose wouldn’t—there is a great deal she would do, but not this. We do not know where she is held. I must go to Lewkenor Lane right away. It is sleeting, and Moll has insisted I take a hackney—on Mr. Killigrew’s account, she reassured me. Bobby, the theatre’s errand boy, has run to Covent Garden to fetch one. If only he would hurry!

How can Rose work for such a filthy-tempered person? Madame Ross was awful. A young,
very
young girl in a low-cut white taffeta gown opened the door and showed me to a small parlour. Her curls were stiff with pomade, and her bodice was clearly stuffed. From another room I could hear men’s voices and the high-tinkling crystal sounds of women and wine-glasses. Despite the situation, I was fascinated. The rooms were dimly lit, and the walls were hung with evocative paintings—this I had expected. The furniture was covered in crimson damask—this, too, was no surprise. But everywhere women wandered about in
underclothes,
French underclothes! The most elaborate underclothes I have ever seen—trimmed with pale ribbons and lace and made from expensive French silk. Some wore a tight bodice
and full petticoat but no gown or chemise, and others wore French
drawers
! I’ve heard of women wearing drawers but had never seen it. These fanciful creatures looked at my street clothes with something akin to contempt.

Just then, the girthsome Madam Ross, fully dressed in heavy black brocade, barrelled into the room. “Out, out!” She shooed the girls like pigeons. “You’re Rose’s sister? The orange girl?”

I nodded.

“Nothing to talk about. Either she pays back the money or goes with the bailiffs. Get out.”

I must have looked startled for she leaned close to me and laughed a horrid, grinding laugh. “Now you come and see me, do you? You were too good to speak to me before, and you think I will help you now? Get
out
.”

I was confused. “Before?”

“Ha! Ask your sister.” She snorted.

“But—”

“Open you ears, girl!
Get out!
” she shrieked.

“But my sister—”

“Yes, your sister. He says one thing, and she says another. He’s a bit of a rascal, and she is Nora’s daughter—lay even odds, but he’s the customer, so…? I need my money.” She shrugged, as if this sentence was conclusive.

“But Rose…?”

But she had already barrelled out again.

The girl with the stuffed bodice returned to show me out. Walking swiftly down the long hallway, she hissed out of the side of her painted mouth, “She didn’t do it. He drank too much and couldn’t pay his bill and tried to pin it on her. Eight guineas.”

“Eight?” Rose could never raise such a sum. “Where…”

“No idea where they took her. They wouldn’t say.”

“Thank you,” I said as the door shut firmly behind me.

I am pacing in the wings: ten steps from the curtain to the door. Ten steps there and ten steps back. I am waiting for the performance to end so I can speak to Hart. He will know what is to be done. His loamy voice drifts from the stage and winds around and around me like a net: catching and calming.

As soon as he took his final curtain call, I came forward, my words tumbling out in a heap.

“Ellen,
Ellen,
slow down, let me understand, your sister Rose is
where?”

“Oh, Hart, I don’t
know
where! I have asked at Lewkenor Lane, and no one knows. She has been accused of stealing money—a lot of money—by a man at Madame Ross’s, where she … works.” Defiant, I kept my eyes upon him.

“I see, and her. …
client
has accused her of theft? And the bailiffs have removed her. Is that right?” asked Hart unflinchingly.

“Yes,” I breathed, eased by his forthrightness. “But it isn’t true. She wouldn’t do that,” I quickly added.

“No, of course she wouldn’t. All right, Tom is out of London until Twelfth Night.
I
can approach the king, or even Lacy could—” Hart considered aloud.

“No, Harry Killigrew! It should be Harry!” I interrupted impulsively. “Harry goes to Madame Ross’s, and they are … friends,” I finished awkwardly.

“Harry,” Hart said, turning over the thought. “Yes,
Harry,
he is now a Groom of the Bedchamber, is he not?
Close to the king.
And he is fond of your sister, you say, and the boy has a good heart.” Grabbing quill and ink, he bent over the props table and scratched out a brief note. He shoved it into my hand. “Go, Ellen. Here is the address,” he said. Fishing into his pockets, he pulled out some coins. “And here is fare for a hackney. Fetch Harry here. I will write the letter for him to take to the king.
Go!”
Snatching the coins, I hurried out the stage door.

“No! No! Hart, we
must
accede that she is a prostitute. The king
likes
prostitutes. It is no dishonour,” Harry argued.

“But it will imply guilt. A prostitute is more likely to steal than an ordinary girl,” Hart countered.

“Please, it is getting late. Rose is in gaol. We must get this to the king
tonight,”
I urged them.

“Ellen, if we are honest in this letter, your sister will be branded a whore to the king. Can you live with that?” Hart asked bluntly.

“Oh.” I shrugged. “My sister
is
a whore. What does it matter how it looks? May as well tell the truth.”

“All right, Harry, sign it. Let us all to Whitehall,” Hart conceded.

“Together?” I asked disbelievingly.

“Of course together, you mouse,” Hart chided affectionately. “You don’t think I’d leave you now, do you?”

My head is heavy on Hart’s shoulder. Harry has been gone for hours. How long have we been sitting on this bench? If I just close my eyes for a few minutes—

“Hart, what have we here, sleeping
Ariadne
?” an amused voice asked.

“Your Majesty,” Hart stuttered, leaping to his feet and executing a perfect bow. Sleepy and bewildered, I remained on my bench, squinting up at the exceedingly tall figure in front of me. He was slimly built but had a coiled restiveness about him, like a spring waiting to stretch. A mixed crowd of grim-faced councillors, foppishly dressed young men, and women in carnival-coloured gowns stood about him, and a great puddle of spaniels nosed about his feet. He was the fixed centre of the mêlée—the substance anchoring the chaos. Nothing about him was quite right: his face was too long, his eyes too deeply set, his lids too heavy, his moustache too lank and his mouth too wide, yet he fit together perfectly. And he was the king: a king waiting to speak to me.

“Majesty? Majesty! Are you … are you him?” I asked sleepily, shaking myself awake.

The king threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, I am he, and it is customary to curtsey when you meet me,” he teased.

“I, oh … oh, pardon me,” I said, flummoxed, leaping up to copy Hart’s bow exactly.

The king whooped with laughter. “Is that how ladies curtsey these days?”

Indignant and impatient, I forgot myself. “My sister is in prison this night. I do not worry about a proper curtsey!” I heard Hart’s sharp intake of breath beside me. The ladies stopped nattering, and the fops stood aghast. “I, oh, Your Majesty, forgive me!”

The king’s eyes crinkled merrily as he composed his mobile face into a serious countenance. “No, no, you are quite right. There are prostitutes in prison this night. This is no time to stand upon ceremony. Mistress … Gwyn, is it?”

“Ellen,” I said miserably. “Please, please, don’t hold my rudeness against my sister.” This was a disaster. One of the spaniels promptly sat upon my foot, rooting me to the spot.

“Ellen, do you suppose I am the sort of king who would?” he asked, gently lifting my chin with his long, cool fingers until I looked up into his intelligent face.

“No … no, I do not think you would. Please, help her,” I said softly.

“I have already sent Harry and John Browne to secure her release from Newgate, but now that I have met
you,
I will also send the royal berline to fetch her home. All charges against her will be dropped.” He waved his hand, sending servants flying to follow his commands.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I whispered, and sank into a deep and correct curtsey.

He chuckled, and bent low to whisper into my ear, “I preferred your first attempt. God give you good night, little Ellen.”

“And to you as well, Your Majesty.”

I watched him as he moved down the stone-vaulted gallery. The air felt so quiet once he had gone.