Exit the Actress (19 page)

The country is plushly green and heavy with quiet, and the blue air feels crisp and pure—it is difficult to adjust to such peace.

Hart began teaching me to ride yesterday. He gave me long, soft riding boots and a black velvet riding suit. I looked quite smart until I actually sat
on
the horse. My horse is called Danny, and she is gentle and patient with my ineptitude—to a point, and then she turns and, despite my instructions, heads for home. “Use your legs! Heels down!” Hart calls out to my retreating back, but it is hopeless.

Hart, a natural horseman, showed off doing high
caprioles
in the air. His horse Sampson, an enormous grey, looked nonplussed at all this effort, only to hop up and then go nowhere. I feel far from the bustle and spark of London, and I must own that I miss the vitality of the city. Hart is happy here. His great bear’s body makes more sense out of doors, as if his natural expansiveness is confined by the smallness of the city. The sun bronzes his pink cheeks, and his damp sullenness gives way to an easier affection. Regardless of his happiness, he looks at me all the time with an expression of wanting. Wanting me to take to the quiet. Wanting me to be content.
Wanting
me only to
want
him. I am anxious for more company but do my best not to let it show.

But then in company, he is only interested in the news of the Dutch war,
so at least I am spared that. I am heartily sick of the Dutch war. I seem to be alone in my lack of patriotism, but
heigh-ho
.

I solved the mystery!

This morning Ruby woke me earlier than usual, anxiously licking my face and whining to be let out. I obliged, throwing on a warm dressing gown and slippers. When I opened our bedroom door, I found Hugh, the coachman, sitting on the landing tying a familiar twine around some bushy white hydrangeas. “It’s you!” I said happily. “I’m so glad!”

“Shh, Mrs. Ellen,” he said hastily. “I wouldn’t want Mr. Hart to hear.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t mind. In fact, we must tell him at once. Your posies have been making me so happy,” I bubbled, smelling the flowers.

“Oh no! I wish you wouldn’t. He might not understand. I know he is a jealous … as he should be … as any man—”

“But Hugh,” I said with sincerity, “they have brightened my day and cheered my world at a time when I’ve needed it.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” He began to shift his weight from foot to foot in his discomfort. “When I pulled you out of that carriage, you just seemed so small and so alone, and I knew, we all knew, right then that you’d lose the babe—”

My face must have registered my shock, for he quickly changed tack.

“I don’t mean to bring it up … I just thought you could use some cheering … Mrs. Ellen, are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Hugh, I’m fine. It’s just that no one has spoken of it. Not really, not directly. The baby, I mean. This is the first time”—I took a deep, steadying breath—“the first time I mentioned …
her
.”

“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. “A little girl, was it? Cook thought as much, said you were carrying high. Did you give her a name?”

I shook my head.

“No, you wouldn’t have been able to, would you, being unconscious and all. Well, I’m sure Mr. Hart gave her one for you. Can’t have an unnamed baby baptised, and we saw the priest come…”

I regarded him with wonder. “A
priest
?” I repeated like a parakeet. “A priest was
here
?” I straightened, recovering myself. “Thank you, Hugh.”

“Best to get it out in the open, I say,” Hugh said, clearing his throat nervously but looking me straight in the eye with absolute complicity.

“Yes. Well again, thank you, Hugh,” I repeated formally. “Thank you for saving me and for the flowers and for, for remembering—” I stopped, unable to go on.

“It isn’t just me. Cook, she picks ’em mostly, but I sometimes do, if I’m out and about and see something pretty. I always wrap ’em, though,” he said with a touch of pride. “Keep my string ’ere in my pocket. I’m glad they helped. Would you like me to take Ruby for you? She looks like she’s itchin’ to go, and it’s cold out there.”

“Yes, thank you again, Hugh.” I grimaced at my repetition and handed over the wiggling Ruby. I opened my bedroom door and heard him move down the stairs. “You are quite right, you know,” I said, turning back to him. “Flowers always do help.”

“Yes, they do,” he said, and continued on his way.

A house party! Dryden and his wife, Lady Elizabeth (Beth) Howard—she is a tall bony sort of woman with a surprisingly wry wit and is the eldest daughter of the Earl of Berkshire and sister to the four playwriting Howard boys: Robert, Edward, James, and Henry—arrived in this morning and will return to London with us tomorrow. After attending church in the village we enjoyed a lively afternoon of dancing and music—Cook was shocked—dancing on Easter Sunday. Beth played exquisitely and taught me the latest French
gigue,
much more complicated, with a very quick
capriole
in the first pass. For such a tall woman, her timing is excellent. After supper Dryden and Hart were much taken up with plans for a new heroic tragedy. I keep telling them that I long to play a character who possesses a
gaieté du coeur
—and does not
die
at the end. I feel so terribly awkward, dying onstage, and each time I worry that my gown will fly up and I’ll just have to lie there with unseemly bits of underclothing hanging out. A corpse can hardly adjust her skirts.

Note
—I have made so bold as to ban all talk of the war and insist on frivolous light conversation. Hart looked askance at me but complied. He was shocked I would make such a firm request.

What a trip! It never ceased raining, one of the horses threw a shoe, the baggage cart got stuck in the mud, and Hart got a cold. I cheered our party by doing imitations while we waited at the inn (the blacksmith took forever). Dryden and Beth were falling about laughing but Hart was out of sorts and disinclined to be amused. Now perversely he refuses to talk about the war—what a bore.

Note
—Pink peonies with a note: For our Mrs. Ellen, Love from H & C.

“Hart.” I nudged him. “Hart, are you awake?”

“Mmm.”

“Hart, may I ask you something about the accident?”

“What is it, my dear?” he asked tenderly, instantly roused.

“The … baby. Hugh said a priest was here—did you have her baptised?” I held my breath. I did not put much faith in religion, but I did not want my baby to wander forever as a lost soul.

“Of course I did, my dear, while she was still—just before, just before—” He broke off, unable to go on.

“Before I lost her?” I finished for him.

“Yes,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Before we lost her.”

“Her name?” All baptised babies are named—it was a comfort, a recognition. I gently took his hand.

“Elizabeth, for my mother.”

“Elizabeth?”
I tried the unfamiliar name on my tongue. I looked at him, puzzled. Hart knew well if it was a girl, I had wanted to call her Rose, for my sister.

“But … why?”

“You were unconscious, and I had to make a decision. I felt it was the right thing. In any case, it did not matter terribly to you—did it?”

“No. Not terribly,” I lied.

The unshed tears burned my eyes, and I turned away from him and went to sleep.

An extraordinary evening:

Went to the Duke’s House to see Roger Boyle in Lord Orrerey’s
Mustapha
. Betterton dazzled as Solyman, and Mary played Roxelana (Hester Davenport’s famous role). Henry Harris played Mustapha, and while I would love to be able to tell him that he was wonderful, I avoided him for Hart’s sake. Teddy was meant to join me, but at the last minute he had to fill in for Nick, who has caught Hart’s cold and could not make it. Becka came along in his place—not my favourite. Outside the theatre, we were recognised by an audience member who offered us a bottle of canary wine in return for a kiss. I allowed Becka to do the honours, as it was surely her kiss he was after, but I drank my share of the wine. We got rowdy and giggly (she is much improved by drink) and made somewhat of a spectacle of ourselves before the show even began, but no one seemed to mind.

It was only once we were quite tipsy that we realised that the king and Castlemaine had slipped into their box. Ignoring the play, we watched them, fascinated, but then we suddenly lost sight of the king. Castlemaine apparently did, too, as she craned her neck about to see where he might have got to. Wondrously, he turned up in
our
box! The audience all turned to gape, and even Mrs. Betterton on the stage took note. Becka instantly tugged her already low-cut bodice lower.

“Ladies, it would seem that you have some available wine. Perhaps you would care to share?” he asked, casually dropping into a gilt chair beside Becka, folding his long legs neatly under the seat. I was struck by a
surprising sense of familiarity: his great height, the drape of his soft amethyst coat cut in the latest French style, and his large-featured grace—all so right, like a bolt sliding into place. I shook my head in an attempt to rejoin my scattered thoughts. Did we get up and curtsey? Had the moment passed?

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Becka said coquettishly, leaning forward to afford him the best view and handing him the bottle. There was lip paint on the rim, and I wished she had wiped the spittle off first.

I sat strangely dumb, watching the rich lace of his cuffs as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He took a long swallow and returned the bottle to Becka, his lived-in face relaxed in easy comfort. This is the
king,
the
king,
I kept telling myself, and yet he has a way of putting one at ease. As in our first meeting, a curious feeling of giddy warmth came over me. Why, he is just a
man,
I discovered, surprised.
How funny and how right.

“Mistress Gwyn, you are staring. Is something wrong?” he directed at me.

I opened my mouth as if to speak, but only a flock of giggles came out. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” I gasped, horrified. “I must be nervous.”

“She has had a bit of wine, Your Majesty,” Becka interrupted, shooting me a warning look.

“You were not so nervous the last time we met,” the king teased. “If I remember rightly, you reprimanded me for not taking your sister’s trouble more seriously. How does she, by the by?”

Becka’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You have met before?” she asked in an accusatory tone.

“You remembered?” I breathed in surprise, ignoring Becka’s question. “You were so kind that night. We were in such trouble and you just … solved it. I wanted so to thank you—you were so generous and helpful and graceful and good—but I was not sure how to thank you or find you.” Oh dear, I was running on and on, but I could not seem to stop. “And then I just assumed too much time had passed and you would have forgotten all about it, but it meant so much to us, Rose and my family and me—it is just the four of us, Rose and myself and my mother and Grandfather—and we are all so grateful … so I am happy for the opportunity to thank you now, so …
thank you
.” Breathless, I finished. Will I ever learn to curb my tongue? And this to the
king
. I felt Becka staring at me, shocked by my
wordy, informal
faux pas
. “My sister is well, thank you,” I added awkwardly, finally answering his question.