Exit the Actress (16 page)

Anne sits beside the bed and murmurs into her husband’s ear. He senses her there and rests easy with her beside him. Eliza keeps busy, bringing victuals, endless cups of coffee, canary wine, and small beer to the many friends crowding into the little sitting room. Michael watches over her anxiously. Everyone returned after the performance. Young Theo plays with baby Elisabeth, who at nearly a year old is beginning to talk.

“Anne,”
Theo said clearly, opening his eyes and looking at his wife.

“Yes.”

“Anne,”
he said again, with a lifetime of tenderness.

“Yes,” she answered, gently smoothing his hair from his brow.

He closed his eyes again, and slept.

At last Anne came out of their bedroom and shut the door behind her. It was the first time she had left that room since Tom and Teddy first laid Theo on their bed. Teddy, white-faced with pain, needed only to look at her to know. Theo died tonight, in the happy yellow house, privately and quietly beside his Anne.

It has been some time since I took up my quill, but in truth the year has flown by. I have become somewhat mistress of this house and have taken to it with an ease that surprises me. I sleep here most nights but return to Drury Lane for Sunday church and supper with Grandfather and Rose—Mother is often out.
Out.
Out and drunk—God knows where. Their household rumbles steadily along, and with the added benefit of my allowance they do well. Hart is calling for me as we are to dine at Tom and Cecilia Killigrew’s home today, although the prospect of eating is nearly unbearable. Mustn’t forget…

… My green hat. Cecilia wanted to try it on and have Madame Sophie make up a similar design. She wears her hair all bundled on top of her head, and so the design must take this encumbrance into account. I find many women want to imitate my clothes and dress of late. It pleases Hart endlessly to have me admired by other women so. Men’s admiration—far more troublesome.

Cook has made sugared wafers to tempt me, but I find all they do is make me ill. I left the tray untouched in my closet and have come to my small sitting room to write. I will encourage Hart to eat them after his bath, as I do not want Cook’s feelings hurt, although perhaps he shouldn’t. His
already fleshy face seems to be getting fleshier lately. And he is wearing his neckcloths higher on his neck to conceal his jowliness, but I have pretended not to notice.

I just had to leap up to shut the door to the cooking smells wafting up the stairs from the kitchens. I find the strong smells of spiced food, meats, ale, goats, or horses make me retch. I have begun wearing a lemon-nutmeg-scented sachet tucked into my bodice. I missed my course again this month but have told no one but Hart and Rose my news, yet this whole household seems to know. Betsey cautions me to go slowly up the stairs, and Hugh is driving less recklessly (and more soberly) of late. Cook has suggested I avoid herrings. Hart is pleased. Rose scolded me for not taking more care. I had no idea there were so many different ways to take care. Whores’ tricks, said Rose flippantly, tossing her head to avoid meeting my eyes.

Coffee-house rumours:

Tom Killigrew is finally going to put on his great epic,
The Wanderer
—a dramatic, true-to-life, two-parter telling the story of the beleaguered brave Cavaliers in exile,
tra la la.
He has been sitting on it for ten years. “Now is the time!” he proclaims with gusto.

Lacy predicts that Hart will play the king, pompously—although he does do royalty well (they say that kings could take lessons from
him
). Nick
says that I would be perfect for the courtesan Paulina. Bright, kept, and full of mischief—but it will not come to pass.

“My
protégée,
” brags Hart in company.

Your
protégée
who will never be permitted to perform, I think.

A courtesan. True enough to life.

At this rate I will never be cast.

I am no longer
enraged
but am worn out by my anger and am strangely empty of feeling. I understand his jealousy—or at least I pretend to—but tonight he went too far!

I have left Maiden Lane for Drury Lane, vowing never to return. Hart arrived back after the theatre tonight (in cups and in temper) and was upset to find me not at home. Tonight, Peg and I went to the Duke’s House to see Davenant’s
The Rivalls.
Betterton was excellent as Philander, and his wife Mary was passable as Heraclia, although she is getting quite stout for that role. Henry Harris, who played Theocles this time around—in September he played Polycines with greater success—treated us to a late supper at the Bear, and we were well received and joined by the jolly members of that house. I know they are meant to be our competitors, but in fact I enjoy their company, and to see a play acted on a different stage makes for such a glorious change. As well the Duke’s are so much more lavish with their staging than we. Their stage machinery is more varied and complex (and less noisy) than ours. It is exciting to watch, for no matter what they enact, we are sure to see a spectacle.

We were seated at the cosy long table by the fire, enjoying canary wine and pots of sweet custard, when Hart barrelled through the door. Brushing aside the greetings of his fellow actors, he jerked me to my feet. “Ellen, I am taking you home now,” he growled for all to hear.

Mortified but composed, I shook off his hands and answered back sweetly, “Why, Hart, we were just enjoying lemon custard, your favourite. Perhaps you would care to sit and join us, instead of exhibiting such rudeness in front of our friends.” That elicited twitters from Henry and John Downes, the company prompter, serving only to further enrage Hart. Tightening his grip on my arm, he marched me from my chair and into the waiting barouche, leaving behind a tavern full of gawking witnesses.
Heigh-ho.
He would not look or speak to me once inside and did not loosen his hold upon my arm, even when we were well away from that company.

“Hart,” I tried to coax, “what is so amiss? It is not so very unusual for me to visit that house.”

“At the invitation of Henry Harris?” he replied with a bite. As if I were to know what that meant.

“Henry has asked us to dine often enough and is a friend of—”

“Don’t be naïve, Ellen.” Hart interrupted. “You know Henry would like nothing better than to steal you away from me.” He looked at me with sorrowful eyes. “
Promise
me that you will never leave me. Promise. Say it now.”

“Oh, Hart,” I said putting my head on his shoulder as we pulled up to the house. “I am here. I wouldn’t leave you for—”

“Proof! You are a
whore
! You cannot even promise me so little when I offer you so much!” he burst out suddenly. “And you
would
leave me for the highest bidder, like the slut you are!”

Humiliated and angry, I jerked my arm away from him and shouted for Hugh to stop the coach. I opened the door with a bang and hopped down before Hugh could help me. “Do
not
follow me,” I hissed over my shoulder. “I do not
want
you!” I said vengefully, uttering his worst fears aloud. Poor, shocked Hugh tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard our exchange and closed the door behind me. As I had alighted on Chancery Lane, it took me an hour to walk home, and my new blue satin mules are ruined.

Whore.
It is not an unfitting word. I am an actress, but not an actress. With child, but not a wife. I live in a grey no man’s land. Is this where whores live?

My anger has melted into fear. I understand his jealousy stems from his great love for me but do not feel I can take back my fierce words. I think of the life rooting inside me and know I have made a mistake.