Exit the Actress (14 page)

Morning service at St. Martin in the Fields with Grandfather and then home. Music sounds so beautiful ringing through that lovely old building. Rose is too anxious after her recent
trouble
to risk church. She is justified—everyone knows what happened. Madame Ross kept her on, but appearances mean everything to Rose. A thieving whore is worse than an ordinary whore. Mother spoke truly when she pointed out that she could hardly be more thoroughly pardoned than by the king himself, yet the whole event greatly pains Rose. This morning I saw Jane Smedley, who commented on Rose’s recent
royal favour,
as she phrased it with a smirk. I do wish Mother wouldn’t tell people. Rose won’t speak of it to anyone—including me.

I have told no one of my conversation with the king. The conversation I hear over and over as I fall asleep.

“Rose,” I began awkwardly as she dried her hair with a bath sheet. “Madam Ross said something strange that night.”

“Mmm?” Rose shook out her heavy hair and, sitting on her bed, began to pull her white comb through the tendrils in long strokes.

“She said I had refused to speak to her
before?
Rose?
Rose?”

Rose didn’t seem to hear me.

Lacy brought me a tightly wound winter posy, and Hart brought me a new green silk hair ribbon.

“Ah! Our protégée! Just to stretch your theatre wings, mind you,” Lacy cautioned cheerily, holding the ribbon up to my skin. “Perfect for your complexion, my dear.”

“No reason to be nervous; save that for your
real
debut!” Hart said, gently tugging on my long curls.

“One for luck!” said Nick, firmly smacking my bottom.

“You’ll wrinkle me before I ever get out there,” I grumbled, smoothing my new skirts.

All this fuss just for me to stand at the back in the ballroom scene and deliver one line—it seemed excessive, but left me fizzing with excitement.

The flickering candles blur the faces of the audience. A wink from Teddy, who squeezes my hand behind my back. I swish my hips and say clearly, “My lady, there is a gentleman to see you without!”

And it is over.

“Brava!”
said Teddy.

“Well done!” said Nick.

“Magnifique!”
said Lacy.

“My clever mouse,” said Hart, dropping a quick kiss on my nose.

January 8, 1664

Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
Hart,

Yes, I saw the performance as well. I left soon after Ellen’s scene. I agree that she deserves a proper debut. I will advise you as to my thoughts on her career at a later date. At present I am content for her to remain under your guidance, but really, Hart, she is quite young and, I find, quite singular. I do expect you to behave with some discretion and great care.

Yours, etc.…

Tom

Last night Hart took me to see
Henry VIII
at the Opera. (The play that
everyone
has been talking about.) All the talk is true, Betterton
was
ferociously regal as the king, and the procession with all the faces pressed against the windows and on the balconies
was
magnificent. During the interval a startlingly attractive man introduced to me as Johnny joined us in our box (I found out later from Teddy that this is the
infamous
Lord Johnny Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester). What I noticed most was his absolute equanimity of countenance. Whether dealing out his obviously scathing wit or delivering the most splendid compliment, his features remain uninvolved, as if he really cannot be bothered to muster expression.

“Watch out, he has made lechery his profession,” Teddy said seriously. “Well, lechery and drink, I suppose.” I could tell from his tone that he both liked and admired him.

I found Johnny serious and cynical by turns. His biting humour unsettles Hart but amuses me. He reminds me of a bored, restless dog who may bite, just for the fun of it.

Afterwards, we piled into carriages and went on to supper at Chatelin’s in Covent Garden with the actors of that house. Hart was much engaged with the serious Sir Will Davenant (who wears an inky black kerchief to cover the hole where his nose should be—gruesome). I try my best not to stare but find it difficult. Everyone was talking about the rising price of lace, tea (the curious new courtly drink), Davenant’s new
Tempest
(written in collaboration with Dryden), and war with Holland.

“The
Dutch
? Aren’t they our ally?” I quickly whispered to Hart, and was silenced by a small downturn of his mouth. Wasn’t Princess Mary of Orange the king’s sister? Now that she is dead they are our enemy? How disloyal, I thought silently. I was too afraid of looking ill informed to question further, and the conversation just moved on around me.

“Their pride is insufferable!” Hart proclaimed with feeling, banging his wine-glass down on the table.

Seeing my evident confusion, Johnny Rochester leaned in to explain. “They are perceived to be a threat to us,” he whispered under his breath,
rolling his eyes to let me know that he considered them nothing of the sort.

“A threat to us how? By prospering away in Holland, planting tulips and…”

“Making cheese? Yes. Really by being smart and rich and unencumbered by self-doubt,” Johnny said quietly, taking a long swallow of a smelly something I could not identify. “They do not need a war to assert their place in Europe.”

“Do we?”

“If the king would throw out his mousy, pandering, pompous, self-serving Council, then no, we wouldn’t. But he is too afraid of going the way of his father to refuse them this absurd war. Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Gwyn, but I really must…” He pushed his chair back from the table and deftly slipped off into the crowd.

“Jane,” said Henry Harris, the tall, lightly built actor from the Duke’s (permanently condemned to second leads but quite good, I understand), as Johnny left. “He has just seen Jane, who has been … away.”

“Jane? Jane Russell, the tavern maid?”

“Ha! Tavern maid—very genteel. Yes, Jane Russell, although bar-keeping is not her primary profession, but I would never expect someone so deliciously protected as you to know that.”

I looked at him in dumb wonder, my mouth hanging open like a broken door.
Protected?
Is that how I appear now that I enter the room on Hart’s arm? I was not about to apprise him of my intimate understanding of that profession and so laughed at his obvious and not particularly clever remark.

I was sleepy and a bit tipsy (Johnny Rochester had given me rum) and thoroughly ready to take off my pretty but pinching shoes. Hart walked me home and, at the end of our lane, kissed me sweetly. I allowed him to do so, and it was not, in truth,
unpleasant.

Hart told me tonight that Jane Russell has been taking the mercury cure for the French pox—a whore’s curse. Mercury baths are said to be hideously
painful and are often not successful. I worry for Rose! I shared my fears with Hart tonight, and he listened carefully and questioned me thoughtfully. It made me like him very much.

Getting somewhat used to kissing and have taken to stuffing a handkerchief up my sleeve to discreetly wipe my mouth when he is through. I have found that there is no point in wearing the berry lip paint that Peg gave me, as it just winds up all over both of us—messy. I cannot in truth say that I
like
the kissing, but I do enjoy the affection and protectiveness that come over him afterwards. What do
I
feel? Not great
passion,
certainly, but not dispassion, either—curious.

I heard Rose come in just as it was getting light. Instead of readying for bed, she came and sat in the window-seat.

“Rose?”

“She asked me. Madame Ross. She kept asking me…” Her voice trailed off. This is how she has been lately, faraway and incomplete.

“Asking you
what
?” I prompted.

“About you. She wanted you. Sisters are very popular, you see.”

Oh. Oh, I did see. “And you said?”

“No. I just said no.”

Hart has offered to give the commissions for the new costumes to Rose! She must sew two sets of green livery and one blue satin gown for Ophelia. Her designs are breathtaking, and her stitching is exquisite; he will not be disappointed.

Hart directed his coachman, Hugh, to take us to the river. We walked through the infamous riverside pleasure gardens at Foxhall, where illicit lovers are known to make use of the many private nooks and concealing hedges. Everywhere we looked were couples walking hand-clasped, or embracing under the wintry trees. I looked away, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Hart seemed unperturbed and loudly called out to acquaintances. He did
not,
however, get so close as to require an introduction, I noticed. He slipped my mittened hand in the crook of his arm as we ambled through the criss-crossed covered pathways, where you can find glasshouses; festive hawker’s stalls selling roasted nuts, cider, pastries, meats, and fruit; and pretty views of the river at each turning. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt in his company. We laughed easily (his: a great rolling baritone; mine: I fear, a sort of wild goat noise) and gossiped about the company: Becka’s efforts to ensnare an unenthusiastic young viscount; Michael’s troublesome gout, worse this winter; Lizzie Knep’s complicated ménage with her invalid, gambling husband, her ever visiting cousins, and her philandering lover; Sam Pepys, who is
always
in the tiring rooms. “He wears his
spectacles
so he can get a better look!” I laughed. We spoke of everything except us—and the company is currently rife with gossip about
us.

Under a leafless mulberry tree, we sat on a turfed bench sharing a mug of steaming chocolate with snow cream. Abruptly jumping up and entering a glass-house, Hart returned with a white winter rose for me. I tucked it into the boned bodice of my new cloud-grey gown.

Without discussion, Hugh drove us to Hart’s enormous house in Maiden Lane. Once there, Hart looked at me apprehensively. “Only if it would please you, Ellen.”

“Would it please
you
very much, Hart?” I asked, teasingly.

“Very much,” he said gravely.

At that I burst into fits of giggles. “Oh Hart, you are so very good, aren’t you?”

“Only to you, my mouse,” he said, laughing, and with a light heart he bore me up to his bedroom.

Not terrible, but much more
vigorous
than I had imagined. He was tender and attentive. He declared himself “my truest heart.” He asked me to call him Charles, but I find it impossible and have settled on just “Hart.” With his proud broad chest he does resemble a hart, although much less rustic.

Sweetly, he cleaned me up afterwards with warm soapy water and carefully tucked me into the carriage with plenty of cushions and coverlets, instructing Hugh to go
slowly,
anxiously clutching my hand.