Exit the Actress (36 page)

“How can you trust them—men?”

“He is good to me and is my friend, and I do trust him. Surely you trust John?”

“It is he who must trust me,” she said severely, surprising me. “He gives over his wages, and
I
make the financial decisions. As you know,” she continued briskly, “I have managed my finances since I was quite young.”

“Oh, Rose.”

Note
—Tom raised my wage to the promised fifty shillings per week!

All the talk was of Dryden’s new poem.

“It really is
smashing,
Dryden,” said Teddy, bandying about his new
mot du jour
.

“‘
Annus Mirabilis
—Year of Wonders’ … well, it certainly was that, what with the plague and fire and all,” said Buckhurst, leaning his neat blond head back and closing his eyes. He was a bit hung over and prone to stating the obvious.

“I thought it was exciting. You found just the right note,” I encouraged. Dryden looked at me, clearly pleased. I know how much sincere praise means to him—well, any praise, I suppose.

“And now Tom has taken you on for three plays a year—
smashing,
” exclaimed Teddy.

“Yes,” said Dryden, covered in daffodil-yellow ruffles and lapping up the compliments like a milk-fed cat. “I am leaving for the country almost immediately to finish my latest,
Evening Love.
” He looked at me fondly and quickly added, “I intend for Nelly to star, naturally.”

“His success will go well for you, Nell,” Buckhurst said with sincerity.

Yes, I thought. It
is
good for me.
Everything
is good for me. Why, then, am I not more
happy
?

June 15, 1668

Whitehall

Nelly,

Please come and see me at once—today. The court is moving, and I am departing London on Thursday. Come directly to my rooms at Whitehall near the Holbein Gate. You will be expected. Wait for me there.

George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham

After receiving Buckingham’s brief note, I went directly to Whitehall, taking the time only to change into my new pale green visiting gown (perfect with sky-grey slippers and a slim grey hat). I had never been to his rooms and had some difficulty finding them in that rambling labyrinth of a palace. I finally found them, surprisingly tucked behind the new tennis court, but they were as luxurious as I would expect for the king’s closest childhood companion. I was quickly ushered into an inner chamber and told to wait. And
wait
. And
wait
.

Eventually, Buckingham returned, clearly fresh off the tennis court. Without preamble, he addressed me. “So he sent for you, did he?” Then beckoned for his man, Geoffrey, to come and help him out of his tennis ensemble.

Startled, I tried to gather my thoughts. “I … uh … yes.” Geoffrey brought a laver and basin of soapy water and, pulling off Buckingham’s soiled shirt, began to sponge him off. My status as an actress exempts me
from the common decencies accorded other women—it has its advantages and, at that moment, disadvantages. I rolled my eyes as a soap bubble landed on my hat.

Buckingham, unperturbed, continued, “And you bungled it—is that fair to say?” Geoffrey produced a clean shirt, and I waited for Buckingham’s head to pop through before I replied.

“Yes, I bungled it,” I repeated flatly. “I was nervous and tongue-tied and dull. And then when I did speak, I said exactly the wrong thing. It was awful.”

Buckingham was concentrating on dressing and did not seem particularly moved by my disaster. I sat on the chaise longue of striped silk—blue and silver, very pretty—and waited for my old friend to finish.

Buckingham closed his eyes as Geoffrey sprayed a great cloud of scent—
Eau de Cassis?
Too much, I thought as I began to cough. Thus perfumed and dressed in a fresh shirt, long cornflower-blue waistcoat, white hose, and matching blue ruffled breeches with satin pink bows, Buckingham turned to face me. “Yes, I heard about that. You asked about the wife. A mistake. He
was
disappointed with you. But it is not irredeemable, I think.” He paused for a moment to look over the heavily curled wigs Geoffrey had laid out before him. “Which one? The honey or the copper?”

“The blond,” I said, still struggling for breath through the fog of scent. “The copper would look utterly ridiculous on a man of your colouring.” The blond one looked absurd as well, given that George is naturally dark, but I did not say as much. I think he goes to great lengths to distinguish himself from the famously dark-locked king. Buckingham made a face at my disparaging remark but, nevertheless, reached for the blond wig.

“And so—what do you plan to do about it?” he asked, securing the wig on his head. He has quite a large head, and the voluminously long curly wig only served to accentuate it, but I did not say so.

“
Do
about it?” I asked, confused. I understood the situation to be at a dead end.

“Yes,
do
about it,” he replied with a touch of impatience. “You want to wind up in his bed, don’t you? It is certainly a rung up from Buckhurst—who, I gather, was disappointing.” I coloured. Was there
anything
he did not know?

“I may have spent most of that summer drunk on the music room floor, Nelly, but I am not entirely without deductive faculties. Anyway, you are better off. You never really liked Bucky all that much, did you?”

“I do like the
king
very much,” I ventured, in an effort to turn the conversation.

“Like him? What’s that got to do with it? He’s the king. You don’t have to like him.” George turned back to his reflection in the long glass.

Side-stepping his last remark with what grace I could muster, I returned to his original question. “There is nothing to
do
about it. He did not care for me. I was home by one a.m., and know for a fact that he spent the night in Castlemaine’s bed.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Buckingham, sitting on the bed. He had moved on to footwear and was perusing the selection laid out before him.

“She
told
me,” I said, painfully reliving that awful moment at the theatre.

“
She
told you?” He looked up from his shoes. “Castlemaine? And you believed her, didn’t you, my gullible goat?”

“Of course—why shouldn’t I?” I said, cringing at my schoolgirlish question.

“He has not shared her bed in months—just ask your gallant Mr. Hart.”

I flushed. Even now, Hart’s affair with Castlemaine was difficult for me to fathom.

Seeing my reaction, Buckingham chuckled aloud. “Nell, you must learn not to exhibit
everything
upon your pretty face.”

“Why would she say that if it were untrue?” I countered, sounding naïve, even to my own ears.

“Well”—he reached for a shiny pair of powder-blue court shoes with low heels—“it chases you away, which is—to be fair—not difficult to do, and reminds you of her position as
maîtresse en titre,
which you seem only too eager to recognise. No, I think the pink laced court shoes—don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, removing the pink pair. “Too much going on. Keep to the blue.
Restraint
—you should try it. Why shouldn’t I recognise her as such? That is what she is, what she has always been.”

“Yes, but things are changing now for my darling wicked cousin. Her bright, whorish light is going out. The end of an era,” he intoned in a mock
funereal voice. “Basically, the king is losing interest; she is getting older, and her graspyness is showing through—bound to happen eventually. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. She has always had enormous nerve. She is demanding a new title now. Anyway, the game is afoot.”

I thought Buckingham looked entirely too pleased at the thought of his cousin’s fall from favour. “Game?” I asked, handing him his jacket of embroidered silver-blue velvet with deep-gold-buttoned cuffs.

“Game,” he said, pulling on his hat. “And I choose you.”

“Me?”

“You are perfect,” he continued. “Froth and fun and smarts and heart—the perfect antidote to Castlemaine’s domineering reign. And,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall my protests, “you will not always be dull. Just
think
about it. It is all I require.” With that astonishingly frank remark and one last glance in the mirror, he left the room.

I am thinking.

And thinking. And thinking.

June 16, 1668

Whitehall

Nelly,

I received your note and will be waiting for you in my rooms at eleven this evening. Give your name as the Widow Elizabeth Hibbert. Avoid being recognised.

Buckingham

Wearing a dark wine
moiré
gown, leather mask, and matching dark veil (hot!), I set out by coach for Whitehall. I was quickly admitted with my false name and shown once again to Buckingham’s rooms—only this time I was led up a back staircase I had not previously noticed. He was
waiting for me in his small salon. “Well, have you decided?” he asked abruptly.

“Why am I disguised?” I asked, throwing off the itchy veil and removing the leather mask.

“Well, it wouldn’t do for you to be seen in my rooms, and
then
to become the king’s mistress. It would look as if I put you up to it.”

“You
are
putting me up to it,” I said, already fed up with intriguing.

“Yes, but it can’t
look
that way. It is all in how a thing looks,” Buckingham explained pedantically. “Anyway,
have
you decided?”

“I must know
exactly
what it is that you intend.” I had prepared my speech thoroughly and sounded more confident than I felt.

“What I intend is to have you installed as the king’s mistress, supplanting my darling, devious cousin, and if that doesn’t take, I’d quite fancy having a go myself,” he said easily, dropping into a chair by the fireplace.

I shot him what I hoped was a withering look and ignored his last remark. Sitting in the chair opposite and carefully removing my skin-tight gloves, I asked, “Castlemaine is your
cousin
. Why would you seek her replacement?”

“Well, having her where she is hasn’t done me any good of late. And she is frankly impossible at this point. Her influence over him is monstrous; even the country is noticing now. And she has been disinclined to advance me in any way over the last few years, and in fact has been doing just the opposite—so? She must go, one way or the other. It is time, and I want to keep my hand in. The question is, do
you
want to replace her?”

“Only if he truly wants me,” I answered candidly. As much as I truly want him, I thought to myself.

“He wants anyone who is in front of him,” Buckingham replied, carelessly kicking off his high-heeled shoes.

No. That is not so. I thought of the black intelligent eyes and the careful mask of informality. This king knows
exactly
what he wants.

It is decided—although it all feels much like a chess game we have all endeavoured to play and not like a real decision at all. I am the pawn
Buckingham has decided to move across the board in order to trap the unprotected king. But what a chance, what a king. I have no hope of winning, but I am helpless against such an opportunity—not to capture a king, but to spend time near the
man.

I will travel to Hampton Court on Friday. I wish Peg was going to be there, but she has been dividing her time between Rupert’s London town-house in Spring Gardens and Windsor Castle, where Rupert has been made governor and constable. They are currently renovating both establishments, and it is all Peg talks about.