Exit the Actress (53 page)

“He’s not coming back,” Charles announced as he strode into my little bedroom under the eaves.

“Careful!”

“Owww!”
Charles hit his head, as he always does, on the low doorway. He is just so tall. I loved to see him in the pearly grey light. It is almost like waking up together, I tell myself—almost.

The mattresses
finally
arrived, and Charles had Mrs. Chiffinch sew me some delicious snowy bedclothes. My tiny house is slowly coming together—naturally, as next week I shall have to move.

“Who is not coming back?” I asked sleepily, sitting up in bed. It was early, not yet light. Charles must have already completed his requisite five miles of walking in the dark. It is what he does when he cannot sleep.

I had fallen asleep over my latest script. Tom says I am improvising too much and must be more diligent—improvising instead of acting, not good.

“Johnny, of course.” Charles sat on the small coffer at the end of the bed and began to remove his muddy boots.

When he is here, he prefers to dismiss his retinue and dress himself—he is much quicker than one would expect for a prince, but then he was for a long time a stone-broke prince in exile.

“Why?” I asked, now fully awake and moving the pile of pages over to the bedside table.

I had been looking forward to Johnny’s return, as I know he had. Johnny still has not seen little Nan, who is now two months old, although I know he has written rhymes and songs for her mother to sing to her—her mother, who must have heard of his numerous infidelities in France.
All
the rumours cannot be true. There are not enough hours in the day.

“He has been brawling again, drunk, and making a public nuisance of himself—this time at the Opera,” Charles said in an exasperated voice. “Naturally he selects the most highly trafficked location in Paris as the stage for his spectacle. All of the French court frequents the Opera. I am sure my illustrious cousin Louis has heard all about Johnny’s behaviour. Apparently, he has not sobered up yet. I cannot take him back now. I would look foolish.”

“Drunk since he left
London
?”

“I think drunk since he left the
navy,
and that was three years ago.” Charles rolled his eyes. “In any case, Dr. Denis would like to keep him
in Paris a bit longer for some additional treatments. But all will be well, and we need talk no more about that,” Charles said, glossing over any unpleasantness as usual. He cannot bear for me or any other woman to be distressed.

Yawning, Charles haphazardly slung his clothes and wig over the damask chair, put his blue enamel travel clock on the marble-topped nightstand, and climbed into bed next to me, nuzzling his face into my neck.

“Have you decided what to do about Castlemaine?” I asked. It is a subject that has lately been preoccupying me—her power to manipulate the king. I try not to let it rankle, but I am not terribly successful.

“Shh, we are not going to allow her into our bed,” he said, resuming his nuzzling.

I gave up and snuggled deeper into the thick covers and soon forgot all about her.

Note
—The audience numbers have greatly improved for
Tyrannick Love,
but they are coming for the prologue, leaving to dine during the play itself, and then returning for the epilogue.
Heigh-ho.
I am not built for serious theatre.

An unexpected note arrived this afternoon. A letter from Duncan! He asks after the family (Mother and Grandfather, in particular, but no mention of Rose) and begs a favour of me. Could I recommend him to the Coldstream Guards? His letter is a sweet blend of over-formality and childhood familiarity. He always wanted to join the military. I will see what I can do.

“My dear, have you heard?” Teddy hissed, as I rushed into rehearsal, late as usual.

“Mrs. Gwyn, that will be five shillings for tardiness,” Mr. Booth called out officiously.

“Honestly, Nell, you are going to rack up enough late fees to buy that man a house,” Nick whispered.

“Shh, both of you, or I will be fined for talking as well.”

“But
have
you heard?” Teddy persisted. “No, I can see by your face that you haven’t.”

“Heard what?” Nick asked.

“He’s asked her to clear out. Of the palace: furniture, dogs, children—well, I suppose the children could stay if they wanted to, but they probably won’t—”

“
What
are you talking about?” I hissed as we took our places for Lacy’s dancing class.

Hart was glaring at us from across the stage. He hates chatter during rehearsal. We took up our places. Teddy, standing opposite, shook out his long limbs, turned out his pretty feet, and, lifting his chin, assumed his elegant opening stance. Honestly, sometimes his grace makes me feel like a squat little hen.

“
Glad dance:
four count rhythm,
jeté
on the first pass,
capriole
on the second,” Lacy called out, banging his counting stick on the floor. “Partners: Lizzie and Nick, Ellen and Teddy, Hart and Kitty, Rob and Nan, Becka and Will. On four, please! One [
bang
], two [
bang
], three [
bang
], and [
bang
]
now.”

“Quick, tell us!” Nick said, edging Lizzie closer so he could hear.

“Castlemaine, Cleveland, Nunsuch, whatever! Barbara! He is insisting she move out! One and two and—”

“When?” Nick and I asked in unison as we began moving through the figures.

“Today, tomorrow, as soon as possible.” Teddy said, completing a perfect
capriole.

“Long neck, Nell!” Lacy called out. “You are not a tortoise!”

“Why?” Lizzie asked during the third pass.

Teddy caught my eye. I shot him a warning look in return. Lizzie is incapable of keeping any information to herself and would tell anything and everything to her nosey gossipy lover, Sam, within the hour. In strict confidence I had shared Charles’s paternity trouble with Teddy. Teddy kept his own counsel and blandly shrugged at Lizzie.

“Shoulders down, Edward!” called out Lacy, “three and [
bang
].”

It’s true. I had to see for myself. I needed some black gloves at the New Exchange and told Lark to meet me by York House—the traffic is less congested there. I walked south, having every intention of stopping at the Exchange, but found myself in front of Whitehall instead. In front of Castlemaine’s special entrance there stood all manner of carts and wagons being loaded with household goods. A steady stream of royal staff carried beds, toys, rugs, tables, mirrors, and even a silver bath-tub to the overfull vehicles. A small crowd had turned out to watch. I pulled my hat low and stood carefully at the back so as not to be recognised.

“It’s that Davis woman, the actress. He is finally throwing her out,” a thickly built woman in a feathered hat commented.

“She doesn’t live in the palace, never did. No. It’s Buckingham’s awful woman, the Countess of Sherborne,” said a baker, still smelling of pastry.

“
Shrewsbury,
not Sherborne, and she doesn’t live in the palace, either,” his wife corrected. She, too, was covered in flour.

“Well, it’s not Nelly,” the feathered hat said loudly. “She’d never be so presumptuous as to take a room at the palace, and quite right, too.

“No, she belongs out here with us,” the baker’s wife agreed. There were murmurs of approval. I pulled my hat lower and took a half step back under the shade of a horse-chestnut tree.

“Bet it’s Cleveland,” offered an old woman who was holding an equally old black pug.

“Nah, we’d never be that lucky,” the baker countered. “She’ll hang on to the end, that woman. An institution, that’s what she is.”

“An institution of prostitution?” snickered a young errand boy in patched breeches. The feathered hat shot him a disapproving look. “That is an ugly word, young man.”

“Did you hear that she actually invited that circus man—what did he do, something with fire? Acrobatics? Anyway, she asked him to dine at the palace. What kind of court is that? The old king would never have borne it,” clucked the baker’s wife with authority. “My sister-in-law’s nephew works in the kitchens and swears it’s true.”

“The old king had no mistresses. He was a family man,” pointed out the black-pug woman. “That’s the trouble. This king has lost his family, and he now thinks that he can just do as he likes. No foundation. No principles. Tearing around Europe from the age of twelve. What sort of upbringing is that? Bastards everywhere.”

“
That
is another ugly word,” said the feathered hat primly.

The boy in patched breeches snickered again.

I could not listen to more and quietly stepped away from this opinionated little bunch. Remarkable that they feel so able to judge him, judge us, all of us. I must never move into the palace, I resolved, and moved on to meet Lark.

Note
—I asked Jemmy Monmouth, as he is in charge of the Coldstream Guards, and he readily agreed to take on Duncan. I am happy to be able to do something to help my old friend. He is now thirty-one and has never married—how sad.

We’ve done it: the Larks, the chickens, the dogs, the ducks, Jezebel, Grandfather, Molly, and me—quite a brood when you see us all together; good thing we have an enormous back garden opening onto the open fields. We left our furnishings behind on the king’s instruction. Bagnigge Wells is to be used as our country home. Charles has promised that we will visit often. I feel terribly decadent having two houses but also bereft. Bagnigge Wells is
mine
. I found it, bought it, furnished it, and love it. A house I receive as a gift, however beautiful, will never feel as inviolably safe to me. The little house is still there, I remind myself. I can always go back.

When we arrived in town, exhausted and dirty and expecting a half-renovated empty house, we found that the king had ordered the decoration and supply of my suite of rooms! My private closet is a pale sage green, trimmed in alabaster white, with a delicate painted chaise covered in soft green damask with a beautiful tulipwood desk, and my bedroom is done in pinks and creams. In the gilt-edged wardrobe I found rows of new gowns, crisp white chemises, gauzy petticoats, whalebone corsets (watered silk!), and delicate slippers in all colours—all in my size and to my taste. I sat down on the bed, stunned at the magnitude of his gift.

“Like it?” a voice behind me asked.

I turned to see the king, standing in the doorway, beaming. I could not answer him but ran straight into his open arms.

“So beautiful,” I said into his chest.

“As are you, my love.” He laughed, pulling me into the great pink feather-bed.

“But can you afford it?” I asked him later as we were sitting up devouring the supper Mrs. Lark had brought: a tray of canary wine, cold chicken, fresh salad, and potatoes roasted with rosemary. Charles loves to be generous, but too often it is not within his budget.

He laughed. “Why, how practical you are, my darling. What kind of question is that to put to your king?”

“A very pertinent one,” I persisted.

“True,” he conceded. “My budget is limited, but I can afford to furnish and renovate a small London house—just not London itself. But soon I will not be relying on Parliament for my funding.” He meant the Dover Treaty—not signed and still a long way off.