Exit the Actress (49 page)

“Pocket.” Aphra snorted. “Don’t you mean bed?”

Just then Tom was shown in, flustered and pink from the cold.

“I’m sorry to be late, it has been bedlam, literally.” Tom pulled off his mittens and set them on the hearth rail. “I have been listening to Lady Hervey rant for the last half hour and have been threatened with everything from bankruptcy to the clink, and I’m drenched.”

I giggled. Lady Hervey has a tendency to spit as she speaks.

“That woman is awful,” Tom said, unwinding his muffler and gratefully accepting a cup of chocolate.

“She can’t have Corey…” I began uncertainly. Catherine Corey is irritating, but she is gullible rather than malicious, and I would hate to see her fired or, worse, put in gaol.

“No, she can’t. And she won’t. She knows as well as I do who put old Corey up to it. Silly woman—what a way to boost a fading career.”

“Which one? Corey or Castlemaine?”

“Well, both, actually.”

Chiffinch arrived at the theatre this morning. I have never seen him away from the court.

“Patience,” he advised gruffly. “He will come round. He cannot face you until he is resolved in his own head about … well, about … his governmental worries.”

I was amazed he revealed that much. Dear Chiffinch is fanatical is his loyalty to the king and famous for his discretion.

“Yes, I understand.”

“You made him feel as though he was letting down the country with his indecision,” he summarised briefly. “He thinks the world of your opinion, and cannot bear for you to see him in such a tangle. Now that you have spoken it out loud, it can no longer be ignored, and he cannot bear to see you until he acts.”

“But I think the world of him. Surely he knows that?” I asked, alarmed. “I would gladly help him with any tangle, not judge him for it.” I care nothing for his political face or pride. I just miss the
man
—terribly.

“You really see
him;
that’s the trouble. The others, they only see what they want him to do, how he can advance them, except the queen, of course. But then, she is quite close to being a saint, isn’t she?” He cleared his throat, disconcerted by his own frankness.

“Yes,” I agreed. “She is. Patience, then.”

“Watch, you’ll see. He’ll come round and pretend nothing was ever
amiss between you. That’s his way. Just go along with it. He can’t bear confrontation, and no tears. He cannot manage tears.”

I giggled. “How on earth has he managed with Barbara Castlemaine?”

“More and more he is managing without, I am quite pleased to say,” Chiffinch said with satisfaction, giving me a wink. “But he does care greatly for the children. They are the real reason he keeps heaping titles on that woman. Now, this will all be cleared up soon, but Mrs. Chiffinch misses you and wonders if we could sneak you in for a quiet supper in the backstairs with us. Roast lamb and fresh salad—your favourites, I believe. The king is off to the Duke’s and then to see Mrs. Davis tonight,” he said candidly.

Appreciating his honesty, and missing Mrs. Chiffinch as well, I agreed.

“He has a chosen a beautiful site, by the way,” he said, pulling on his hat.

“A site?”

“For the Royal Hospital Chelsea, a hospital for ex-servicemen.” Oh, Charles.

Lovely dinner. I loitered in the courtyard watching the moon throw velvet shadows on the ramshackle palace. Hoped and hoped but didn’t see him.

Note
—Not managing
that
well without. Castlemaine was just granted a lifetime pension of forty-seven hundred pounds a year from the Post Office revenues. And he no longer even shares her bed! Good God, what a sum.

Old Catherine Corey is in the clink! Lady Hervey got the Lord Chamberlain, her cousin, to lock her up. What an absurdly silly woman to allow herself to be used thus. Castlemaine is cruel to use such a pawn to provoke the queen’s favourite. Not that I care for Lady Hervey; I cannot bear her insincere, simpering manner when she is with the queen. But she is the queen’s chief lady, and that should mark her out for special respect. Corey is just a
fool. It is Castlemaine who has shown herself to be a stooping, conniving harpy—but I suppose I knew that. How can Charles not stop this nonsense!

“She’s out,” said Teddy, sitting down heavily on the stage. “But that silly woman is going to do it again, all at Castlemaine’s goading.”

We were rehearsing Lacy’s new dance steps before the performance this afternoon. Lacy is hoping to lighten up the leaden feeling of
Horace
with dancing between the acts. Doesn’t quite go together, if you ask me.

“
Again?
How can Catherine Corey do it again?”

Teddy just shrugged his slim shoulders. “She is a relentless old goat.” Teddy loves animal metaphors.

“That woman is an idiot,” I muttered, closing my eyes to rest between run-throughs.

“Once more, everyone! Ellen, Teddy, up you get! Hart, would you please switch partners with Nick? Thank you,” Lacy called out, thumping his marker on the stage. “Remember it is a
four
-count rhythm! Not three and a half, Lizzie. Begin! And one, two…”

Note
—She did it. Castlemaine really is a witch, and Catherine Corey a fool for being taken in. The house was in an uproar. Tom and Hart are pleased; ticket sales are booming. Against everyone’s hopes, the king did not come to witness this debacle. Why would he? I am not surprised. Not surprised, but disappointed all the same. I am fractured by fear. What if he never returns to me?

Breakfast this morning with Rose and Mother. Mother was oddly silent throughout the meal. Rose cleared away the dishes and brought out her new sketches to show me. We were looking over her designs for a new winter coat.

“If I nip the waist in just here,” she pointed, “and then flare it out like a bell—”

“They say it is because you asked it of him,” Mother said suddenly. Rose and I looked at each other in confusion. It was half-past eight in the morning —had she begun drinking already?

“Is it true? The new hospital for the wounded soldiers. Did he do that for you?” She looked at me through clear, lucid eyes.

“Yes,” I said with fierce pride. “Yes, he did that for me.”

“Good,” my mother said, and smiled a rare, youthful smile.

I’ve done it! I’ve found a house!

The adventure:

Tom and Teddy arrived at Drury Lane early yesterday morning (before eight) and demanded that I get dressed and join them. A country outing, they said. A cure for melancholy, they said.

“In January?” I asked, dubious.

“It will invigorate us,” Teddy declared with conviction. Invigorate
me,
he meant. He had accused me yesterday of behaving like a soggy duck. “Wet hen,” I corrected him.

“But soggy duck is so much more appropriate. You have not acquired the wisdom to be a hen.”

“Ugh!” Despite Chiffinch’s encouragement, the ongoing silence has left me restless and edgy.

“It is freezing,” I grumbled, feeling frumpy.

“Don’t worry, we have blankets and warming bricks in the coach,” Tom whispered under his breath. He himself was bundled up into a strange woolly, oblong shape.

Reluctantly, I obliged. Dressed in a simple wool gown, thick cape, and my old boots—well, if one is going to the country—with Ruby and Scandalous in tow, we set out.

After stopping at the Cardinal’s Cap to pick up a hamper of apples, bread, hard cheese, cold chicken, and small beer, we made our way up White Cross Street and left the city behind for the wintry fields beyond.

Tom’s coach, a snug compact vehicle, manoeuvred easily over the rougher roads. We munched our breakfast and chatted of this and that: the upcoming season, the appalling state of the stock costumes, and whether or not the king will donate new ones (he donated a splendid pair of split rhine-graves for me to dance in, but I do not want to wear them until he is in the audience—they fly up and show my legs beautifully), Tom’s improvements to the musicians gallery (much better, they no longer sound as if they are at the bottom of a well), the terrible traffic around Covent Garden, and Moll’s new baby, Mary Tudor.

“Yes, last week on Suffolk Street. A hard birth, apparently.”

“I hadn’t heard,” I said, staring down at my hands. “Has he…”

“Acknowledged her? Yes, I suppose so, although the child’s surname is to be Tudor rather than Fitzroy or even Stuart. Strange,” Tom mused.

“He visited Moll during her sitting up,” Teddy clarified. “And has already arranged for an annuity for her and the baby. That is enough acknowledgment right there. Brought tons of flowers—pink tulips—which apparently caused her to sneeze violently for several minutes. Looked at the baby but did not pick her up. Kissed Moll on the cheek,
not
the lips,” he said pointedly to me. “Stayed exactly ten minutes, and then left for a walk through St. James’s Park, apparently intending to feed the ducks.” Teddy slumped against the seat, exhausted by his laundry list of royal doings.

“You seem very, ah, well informed,” said Tom, regarding him with surprise.

“Speak to the dress-makers; they are always well informed.” Now
I
looked at him surprised. Poor Teddy—since being forced into male roles, he has had less use for his beloved dress-makers.

Answering my unspoken question, he said defensively, “They still make my nightgowns. Better needle work than a shirt-maker, and cheaper, too.”

Tom whooped with laughter, but I held my tongue and looked at my quirky friend fondly.

“Anyway, Winifred Gosnell stood in for Moll in
Tempest
. It was terrible; her voice is too squeaky.”

“But then she is
so
much lighter on her feet than Moll,” Tom said mischievously. “Moll is
not
light on her feet.”

“Where are we headed?” I asked, trying to force thoughts of Moll and her new baby from my head.

“Wherever the day takes us,” Teddy sang out, enthusiastically bouncing Scandalous on his knee. Poor Scandalous. He did not look as if he was enjoying it.

“I think we just passed the village of King’s Cross.” Tom had put on his spectacles and was peering out the window. “And this is the village of Bagnigge Wells. God, what a name.” He was struggling to make out the faded signpost. “Oh, I remember, I think there was talk of a spa here—good water apparently, but now that Epsom and Tunbridge have become so popular, I don’t know.”

It was a pretty town, on the banks of the Fleet River, with a small, neat square and evenly cobbled streets (rare).

“Shall we stop?” I knew Tom’s joints suffer after too long in a coach, and I was sure Ruby could use a trip to the great outdoors. “What did you say the name was?”

“Bagnigge Wells. It’s a bit pokey.”

“Terrible name,” Teddy muttered, lifting Ruby down from the coach. We set off to find refreshment and a warm fire.

Later, comfortably seated in a clean if sparsely furnished inn on the north side of Wells Square, and revived by bowls of warm chocolate with foamy cream and a dish of buttery French macaroons, they arrived at their subject.

“We love you, Ellen,” Tom opened, squeezing my hands, “and we cannot bear to see you suffer so…”

“Publicly?” Teddy offered, reaching for another macaroon (his third).

“Consistently,” Tom finished. “This affair with …
him.
What can it lead to? Other than material goods, which you do not seem to garner like his previous ladies, although I can’t think why not,” Tom puzzled, anxiously folding and refolding his serviette.

“I do not ask for them, and when he hints, I do not jump for them.” It was impossible to explain, I thought, blowing out my cheeks in exasperation. “I do not want to grab and grasp and squirrel away all I can. It is what everyone expects of me, being—”

“From your particular background,” Tom cut in smoothly.

“And you mean to confound them?” Teddy asked. “Ellen, what
exactly
have you turned down?”

“Everything! A house, a coach, a sedan chair, jewels, horses, hats, sculpture, painting, palace rooms, shoes, servants—” The looks on their faces made me stop. “I do allow him to buy me dresses,
lots
of dresses, and I am
seriously
considering shoes,” I offered lamely.

“But
why
?” Tom exploded. He was forever worrying about my lack of a husband, lack of a coach, lack of a
house
. Lack of, lack of, lack of.

“It suits me. I do not want what he can give me. I want
him
.”

“But a
house
…” Tom shook his head.

“And hats! My God, the hats,” Teddy mourned. Teddy loves hats.

“And that is why it must end.” Tom looked me squarely in the eye. “You will never have him, not all of him.”