Exit the Actress (57 page)

“And step carefully here,” he said, leading me over a shallow puddle. Grandfather loves me with a steady discipline that underpins all he does.

I rolled my eyes. Am I to be treated like spun marzipan until May?
Yes,
his look tells me.

When we returned home, I tore open Tom’s note, waiting in the silver dish:

To Mrs. Ellen Gwyn

Newman’s Row, London

My dear Ellen,

Of course! I should welcome your insight into all facets of our theatre. Shall we begin today?
Twelfth Night
is proving a bear, and I would love your assistance. Let me know what time is convenient, and I will come with the set designer and stage
manager if I may. I will send the script over to you directly. My groom is waiting for your reply.

Affectionately your,

Tom

Thank God. Tom sent over several scripts for me to read through. I am rescued. He is coming over later with Mr. Fuller and Mr. Booth. I have also asked Rose to come to discuss set, costumes, and casting for
Twelfth Night
. The familiar rhythm of rehearsal and performance will steady and soothe me. I am at home in the midst of that chaos. I feel the brilliance of activity coming on.

They just left after a heated discussion and a lovely supper of roasted meats and fresh salad. Becka is to play Maria, and Nan is to play Viola. Lizzie will take Olivia, and in a fit of malice, I suggested Hart play Malvolio, complete with yellow hose. I feel appeased, as it is a part he loathes. I am renewed and painted in bright colours once more.

To Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn, Newman’s Row, London

From Lord John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, in Paris

December 10, 1669

Ellen,

Accede to his wishes until after the baby and then return. It would be somewhat disastrous if you were to insist on the stage and then have a mishap. Undoing the king’s child is not like undoing a private citizen, to put it crudely. Be sure to come back, Ellen. You are all my firelight, my dear, and I would be in darkness without you.

Paris is dull, and I am dull with it. I miss myself dreadfully, how selfish. Tell Rose I shall bring her back lovely French fabric, and I won a pair of very pretty shoes of Babs Chatillon the other day—they shall go to Teddy. Savile has asked for the most outrageously expensive snuff, and I shall lie and tell him I could not find it anywhere. Etheredge is being pompous and has requested books. You will get the prize, my darling—as ever, my whole heart.

Johnny Rochester

It happened. It was bound to. Hart could not go on skulking about the theatre indefinitely, and I? I needed to know why. This afternoon:

After dropping off a pile of costumes in the dress-maker’s room (it was particularly galling to hand over my costumes, and the roles they accompanied, to the Marshall sisters) I heard Hart humming in his private tiring room. He only hums when he is alone. Without hesitating, I pushed open the slim wooden door to find him halfway through his afternoon shave.

“Ellen!” He quickly wiped the comically foamy shaving cream from his chin with a worn blue cloth.

Having impulsively rushed into this confrontation, I found I was unsure of what I wanted to say. No. I balled my fists in renewed purpose. “Why?” I demanded in a low wolfish growl. Was that really my voice? “Why tell her?” I knew he would understand me. I braced myself for his inevitable rage and useless explanations and then, hating myself for it, I suddenly began to weep, the tears coursing down my face like a soft spring rain.

“Ellen,” he said quietly, “I should not have told her. Castlemaine is not a woman to understand such a thing, and I regret it. Forgive me.”

Caught off guard, I reached out for a nearby chair to steady myself. Instantly, he was at my side, gently helping me to sit down, pressing a clean handkerchief into my wet palm. “I hadn’t thought you would be sorry,” I said, bewildered and stating the obvious.

“Yes.” He laughed, still holding my hand. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Why, Hart?” I asked earnestly. I was determined to know. “Something so private, so personal? Why tell her my secret?” And then I heard it:
my
secret, not
our
secret. My daughter, to be named Rose. His daughter, Elizabeth, for his mother. Our daughter. When had she become mine?

“Because I cannot forget her,” he said, looking away, his voice catching, tearing. “As I cannot forget you.”

Without a word I kissed his hand, still closed around mine, and rose to go. He roughly stood and returned to the washstand. He did not turn as the door closed. I know we will never speak of it again. It is all I can do for him.

Sitting in on
Twelfth Night
rehearsals. Hart passed me in the wings without a word.

We celebrated our Christmas tonight as Charles had to spend yesterday divided between Christmas festivities with his children (Chiffinch says he bought each of his daughters a compass and his sons new saddles) and the official court Christmas feast with his queen. Tonight is just for us. Mrs. Lark made her buttery yellow cakes with sugared lemon icing, while Mr. Lark and Grandfather decorated the banisters with lengths of evergreen. Rose and I hung a ball of mistletoe in my bedroom doorway—we can no longer close the door, but no matter. After supper and hot mulled wine we curled up on the sofa by the fire and opened our presents. Charles handed me a slim gilt-edged printed card wrapped in a golden ribbon:

I turned to Charles. “Sponsored?”

“Yes, costumes, sets, and a lovely party afterwards at Chatelin’s.”

“Charles!”

“I could not think of any gift that would please you more. It will be a lovely good-bye, my dear.”

“Good-bye for now,” I added.

Charles told me this evening that the queen is planning to attend my performance. He was clearly surprised and pleased by this news. I am delighted but not surprised. She is a woman with a rare capacity to forgive, and I am honoured.

“You must know him, Ellen,” Teddy said from behind his news sheet. I could hear him chewing his toasted gingerbread.

“Or her,” Peg said, buttering her toast.

She is in town for my farewell performance—farewell … until after the baby performance—I keep stipulating. No one believes me, and everyone is sure I will fall so in love with my baby that I will give up all thoughts of the theatre. “Look how you are with your goose,” Teddy keeps saying, as if that explains everything.

“Sounds like a man’s writing to me,” Teddy said, not bothering to offer any proof whatsoever.

“But…,” Peg interrupted.

“Peg, how many women do you know named ‘Ambrose,’” Tom asked witheringly, not looking up from his sketches. He is finding it impossible to fit all of the distinguished guests attending this gala into appropriately distinguished boxes.

“It is not her
real
name, naturally,” Peg said, dropping crumbs on her silk dress. “The language is too … I don’t know …
floral
to be a
real
man.”

“Men can be
floral,
” Teddy insisted. “I can be a veritable bouquet. In any case, it was a lovely thing for
him
to write—whoever
he
may be,” Teddy said sincerely. We looked at him in surprise. He is usually vitriolic about Pink’s column. I wonder…

“But he called you ‘Ned.’ You hate being called ‘Ned,’” Peg said.

“Well, obviously I hated that part.” Teddy grimaced. “Ellen? Is the king your valentine?” he asked, changing the subject.

“
Now
he is. I had a false start. I woke up and saw Francis, the king’s groom, first. I got straight back into bed and tried again,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Rupert always leaves a blindfold beside the bed, and then I have to go stumbling around the castle looking for him. It’s an
old
castle, and the floors are
not
level. I never make it through unscathed,” Peg said, showing us her scraped elbow.

“But then he gives you something delicious to make up, I see,” purred Teddy, eyeing Peg’s new ruby bracelet.

“Oh dear,” said Tom in a small voice. “Cecilia usually reminds me … oh dear.”

“You forgot?” Teddy asked, astonished. “I do not even
like
my wife, but I still send something,” Teddy scolded, pouring more coffee.

“What did the king give you, Ellen?” Peg asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my miniature gold timepiece (a New Year’s gift from Charles). Oh dear, I was going to be late. “I’m off to meet him at Newman’s Row now.” I slung on my coat. At six months, I was starting to feel unwieldy. I said quick good-byes and then hurried out the door for home.

The king, Buckingham, Buckhurst, Sedley, Rose, Grandfather, the Larks, and most of the household staff were waiting on the front steps when I arrived. “Has something happened?” I called, surprised to see them standing in the frosty air. A small crowd of onlookers had also gathered at the end of my street. My house has become something of a destination, and often people lurk there in the hope of catching a glimpse of the king. Today, their hopes were rewarded and then some; half the court seemed to be standing on my front stoop.

“Nothing has happened; we are just impatient. You are four minutes late,” the meticulously punctual monarch reprimanded, snapping shut his timepiece. “If you had come in this”—he clapped his hands, grinning broadly—“you would have been on time.” Cook and Johnston came tearing around the corner carrying a beautiful japanned sedan chair between them. “Good St. Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” The king beamed, and everyone gathered on the steps began to cheer.

“Wait, wait!” Teddy panted from down the street.

I turned, surprised to see the little bunch I had just left at breakfast had followed me home. “Teddy—”

“You left so quickly,” Tom said, reaching us and doubling over with exhaustion. “We hadn’t paid the bill or put on our coats or anything. We had to run to catch up.”