Exit the Actress (43 page)

October 4, 1668, Windsor Castle

To: Mrs. Gwyn, Theatre Royal, London

My dear,

He is the smallest, the pluckiest, and definitely the ugliest of the bunch, but he has enormous heart, as do you, my dear. I think he should belong to you. Rupert sends his love as well and requests you play a musical role next. He says it has been far too long since we heard your sweet voice at the King’s. I agree.

Thinking of you,

Peg

Definitely not a singing role.
Heigh-ho.
A surprise today! I was in my tiring room, gritting my teeth over a meaty script, when the wicker basket arrived. I scooped the mottled brown fluff ball out from his pink blanket. Bleary-eyed from travelling, the tiny puppy fell asleep in my hand, nuzzling his squashed black face into my palm. Ruby came over, wary of this intruder, and I brought him down to her level so she could see. Luckily, she licked the top of his fuzzy head and began sucking on his ear, and he happily gave himself up to her ministrations. It seems she has acquired a brother. Johnny popped his head round the door and came in to see the puppy.

“What
is
he?” Johnny asked, picking up the animal.

“No idea. Peg doesn’t say, and I can’t quite tell. Somewhere between a spaniel and a pug: so much for pure-bred fashion.”

“Fashion is for those without imagination. To be unique and be recognised as being utterly yourself, that is the trick. Peg is right: he really is hideous. Does he always lick his lips like that?” Johnny asked, peering at him.

I shrugged. I’d only known him five minutes longer than Johnny.

“But I suspect he has personality. You have the most scandalous expression I have ever seen on an animal,” he said, addressing the puppy. “Oh yes, I see he does lick his lips like that. You will grow up to be quite a reprobate, my scandalous pup—a favourite with the ladies … and the gentlemen,” he predicted in a sibylline voice. He received a prompt lick in return.

I raised my eyebrow at his racy suggestion. “What makes you think he is
that
sort of dog?” I asked with mock hauteur.

“Ah, that sort of dog … you see, all the best dogs are,” he said with a lopsided grin.

The name has stuck, and half the theatre is already calling him Scandalous. I hope he does not live up to the name.

A note arrived from Whitehall. I am resolved. Teddy has ordered a coach for me. I am bringing both dogs and am not even stopping to change.

There were tears. There was frustration. He was tenacious and stubborn but weakened when he saw my true distress.

“But it is to
protect
you,” he kept repeating, sitting on the edge of the bed in his lawn nightshirt, clearly dismayed by my weeping.

“But if I do not
want
such protection?” I countered, feeling small among the pillows—and dogs: there were at least ten on the great bed.

“But I want it,” ruled the king.

“Then
I
will go.” My only card to play.

“Don’t go.”

We went on like this late into the night and then fell asleep in a warm,
tangled heap. But I held my ground. With a weary sigh, he declared himself outflanked.

“You realise that it is not … ah … a wholly unique title? Being my mistress?” he asked gently.

“From what I gather, it is not even a particularly rare one.” I giggled boldly.

He whooped with laughter and had the decency to look sheepish. “Such tender pragmatism you have, my darling,” he said, pulling me close. “If it is what you truly want,” he said, stroking my hair. “I could not bear to disappoint you, Ellen.”

I nestled deeper into his embrace. “There are other things I truly want as well.” I smiled, looking up at him archly.

“Ah, full of mischief, are you, my wild girl?”

At dawn we rose, and he wrapped me in his warmest dressing gown. Together we crept out into the damp autumn morning. The weak sun had turned the palace a grey-pink, and the shadowy grass was wet beneath our feet.

“Come see my realm,” he whispered, taking my hand in his.

It is decided: I will be public. I will keep my independent life of the theatre. I will be treasured. I will never be abandoned. I will act as if this is all my choice instead of a compulsive love beyond my control.

Tonight:

We sat in the royal box, he and I. I held my breath as Hart, playing Daphnis, strode onto the stage and swept the king a neat courtly bow. He caught my eye as he rose up and gave me a ghostly smile. A blessing. The audience gaped and craned their necks to watch us. I am sure that Becka upon the stage was disgruntled with the lack of attention paid her. Charles raised my hand to his lips, kissing the inside of my palm—a lover’s kiss: a shockingly private gesture. Rochester and Teddy sat with us. Rochester was
unusually quiet and left before the curtain fell. Home now, and everything seems different.

October 12, 1668

London

To Mrs. Ellen Gwyn, Theatre Royal, Bridges Street, Covent Garden

My darling,

My goodness! I just heard from Mrs. Watling (you remember, the ferocious orange wig?), who was at the King’s last night—and what a night. If she is to be believed, he did not look at the stage once (Becka must have been hideously put out), but only at your pretty face. How wicked of you not to tell me. I must write something befitting your new and elevated status. I am so happy for you,
ma petite chère.

With love,
Dryden

“Of course Hart knew,” Peg said easily, shaking out her dripping umbrella.

“What do you mean ‘of course’? I didn’t tell him,” I said, moving my pile of scripts so that she could sit down.

“I mean, did you really think the king’s messenger could show up here three or four times a week and Hart
wouldn’t
know?”

Everything is different, indeed. Tonight, Johnny, Aphra, Teddy, and I attended
The Queen of Aragon
at the Duke’s, and it was intolerable. I had expected stares, but I had not expected pointing and guffawing and loud laughing. “Well done, Nelly!” one particularly vocal member of the pit cheered.

“Does he mean—?” I turned to Rochester.

“No idea,” he said, looking perplexed. Even he was startled by the crowd’s reaction to me.

Finally, Teddy came back to our box, gasping and giggling with the truth. “It seems”—he struggled for breath—“it seems that you have been labelled a
poisoner
!”

“What!” Johnny and I cried in unison.

“Teddy, really,” cautioned Aphra, looking around to make sure no one had heard him. “Lower your voice. You cannot say such things.”

“
They
are saying it,” he said, gesturing wildly towards the pit. “
They
are saying that you invited Moll Davis over for tea and fed her sweetmeats laced with jalap weed, provided by”—he swung around to point at Aphra—“
you!
Apparently you brought it back from Surinam,” he added helpfully. He was doubled over, with tears of laughter coursing down his pretty face. “She could not leave the privy for … for … for three days, and thereby missed her assignation with the king.”

“They think I would do that?” I asked, too astonished to laugh.

“It does have a measure of wit attached to it,” Johnny said, softly chuckling. “I wish we
had
thought of it.”

“They are calling it
‘l’affaire du jalap,
’ “ Teddy exploded.

“Priceless,” Johnny whispered, looking genuinely amused for the first time in months.

What
a few days. Honestly, these boys
seem
so harmless, but lately I wonder. I am writing this tucked into a window-seat, wrapped in a coverlet, with the castle finally asleep.

What happened:
Thursday

We arrived in Little Saxham, close by Bury St. Edmunds, early on Thursday afternoon. Just to get away from London and the fomenting gossip it breeds (
l’affaire du jalap
was the last straw for me) for a few days and to enjoy the crisp, clear autumn air of the country. A small intimate party of close friends: Sedley, Johnny Rochester, Buckhurst, Buckingham (the Countess of Shrewsbury couldn’t come—thank goodness; I find her grating), Peg and Rupert, Charles and me. Jemmy Monmouth and his wife (whom he dislikes) were to join us, but her hip is still bothering her after her fall last month. We planned a long afternoon walk over the hills, and tomorrow a visit to the ancient Cathedral of Bury St. Edmunds.

After our walk we returned to our rooms to dress and then enjoyed a huge repast of fresh country bread, roast chicken, stewed carp, pike with quince cream, artichoke pie—a new vegetable from Italy—mallow salad, hard cheese, sack posset, cider, and canary wine. Followed by nursery treats like baked apricots, apple cake, and orange pudding with cream. Sack and cider make my head swim, so I kept to watered wine. After supper, Sedley, Buckingham, and Buckhurst announced that they wanted to experience the
nocturnal delights of Bury St. Edmunds. It did not take much encouragement for Rupert and Charles to agree to join them. Johnny curiously chose to stay behind to “entertain the ladies,” he said in a martyrish voice.

We three were sitting up by the fire chatting, drinking chocolate, and playing noisy round robin games of backgammon when Charles, Buckingham, and Rupert returned, gay but very drunk.

“Ah, the portrait of domestic bliss!” Rupert crowed, falling to all fours (heavily—he is not as agile as he once was) and burrowing his head into Peg’s lap.

“No, no! I’m winning! Johnny’s beat me three times. We can’t stop now, when I’m winning!” It was true—Johnny never loses at backgammon.

“Hmm.” Charles, likewise, buried his face in my neck. “Is it bedtime yet?” he growled.

“Seems to be Buckingham’s bedtime,” Rochester observed. Buckingham was already snoring in an armchair by the fire, his frilly court shoes kicked to one side. “Where are the others?”

“Naked,” came Rupert’s muffled reply from Peg’s skirts.

“Oh, naturally,” said Rochester, as if this had been the answer he was expecting, continuing to methodically pick up the backgammon pieces, black, white, black, white.

“Naked?”
I asked, attempting to prop up Charles’s head. It resiliently returned to nestle into my neck. “Did you just say
naked
?”

“Mm-hm.” Rupert was falling asleep. “They thought the high street was just the place to be naked.”

Peg rolled her eyes at this absurd response.

“
We
could think of better places to be naked, and so came home,” Charles mumbled, his hands beginning to roam.

“But you
left
them? Drunk and naked in the high street?
Alone?
” I asked, concerned, struggling to still the king’s relentless hands.

“Should we have left them a trail of bread-crumbs to find their way home?” asked the sleepy king. “How thoughtless of us. Bed,” Charles mumbled insistently, pointing vaguely towards the ceiling.

Oh well, as they brew, let them bake—off to bed.

I awoke early, to the distant sound of raised voices and banging upon the front door. I looked at the clock (Charles’s favourite blue enamel travel clock that he keeps with him always), and it was not yet six. Charles was still soundly asleep beside me, his bed-clothes thrown off as usual. There was a light tap on our bedroom door, and I opened it to the solid bulk of Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper, waiting without in an agitated state.