Exit The Actress_ A Novel Part 27

"I must say," Teddy spoke from the bed, without opening his eyes, "that was very well done, old girl."

"Yes," said Chiffinch quietly. "Very well done."

When My Friend Is in Trouble

February 17, 1669-Whitehall (morning) Good G.o.d, when will these boys stop punching each other? Last night at the king's private dinner for the Dutch amba.s.sador (excellent manners, very white teeth), Johnny began to tease Tom Killigrew, who usually begs off and does not come to these things, as his wilder days are long over, but the king had asked for him personally. I think he thought Tom's presence would ease my nerves-it did. It was an informal dinner, but I am unaccustomed to dining with foreign dignitaries.

The king himself helped me dress, choosing a square-necked, deep raspberry satin dress (I wasn't sure with my red hair, but he insisted) and slender black slippers. Once I was dressed, coiffed-a la negligence-and scented, the king returned and presented me with a beautiful necklace of enormous, evenly matched pearls. I threw my arms around his neck, and Monsieur Bertrand, my hairdresser, cried out in alarm as his delicate work was crushed. Charles was delighted with my reaction and proceeded to spend twenty minutes explaining the mechanics of the newly fashioned spring clasp. We were very nearly late for supper.

In any event, the dinner went smoothly, and we were all enjoying some music-the beautiful and famous Arabella Hunt played the lute and sang in her haunting soprano, and James York played some lovely compositions of his own, I had no idea he was so musical-and fine claret afterwards, when Johnny, drunk and looking for trouble, began to antagonise Tom: asking him why it is that the King's playhouse is so much less imaginative than the Duke's? Was he short of good writers? Obviously, he must be if he employs Dryden, he reasoned in a menacing voice. Does he lack the money to pay good writers-and, if so, would he care for a loan? Does he want for good actors who can enact good plays? And on and on and on on. Tom sat thunderstruck. Johnny is his friend, and while he is always teasing about the writing, Dryden's writing mostly, and the re-used sets and the patched costumes, it is unlike him to be outright cruel. Tom flushed furious pink and began to counter the a.s.sault when the king and the duke (the respective patrons of the two theatres) broke in, good-naturedly calling for an end to the unpleasantness. Just then, while the king was still speaking, Johnny leaned over and boxed Tom's ears. Without another word, Charles stood and, gripping him by the elbow, marched him from the room. They did not return.

Later-King's Apartments, Whitehall "You forgave him? Already?" I asked Charles, bewildered. Dot and her new litter (six pups!) settled down beside me. "You do not require him to publicly apologise to the amba.s.sador, or to your brother, or just to Tom, at least?" Or me? I thought but did not say.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Charles take off his periwig and slippers and hand them to Buckingham, who was acting as Groom of the Bedchamber-he really is lazy, not bothering to turn down the bed and leaving the door to the King's Closet ajar, meanwhile drinking most of the wine-but Charles invites such familiarity and chooses not to curb him. Buckingham was weaving about the room, royal slippers in one hand and a wine-gla.s.s in the other.

"In the wardrobe," I directed curtly. "Dot will chew them up by morning otherwise."

"Of course he forgave him," Buckingham answered for the king, putting the slippers away. "What is he to do? Punish him for a silly prank? That would make Charles look ridiculous. It was harmless, Nell," Buckingham said easily. "Johnny had a bit to drink and was just roughhousing. Tom knows that."

He banged the wardrobe shut, startling the sleeping spaniels. Privately, I thought Tom knew nothing of the sort and was shocked and hurt by Johnny's behaviour.

"Roughhousing in front of the Dutch amba.s.sador, the king, and the Duke of York?"

"Why not?" Buckingham shrugged. With that, he swept an elegant bow and swaggered out, without waiting to be dismissed.

"You can't think that? Surely, he must be shaken out of this and not indulged?" I asked Charles once we were alone. He had been strangely quiet. "Johnny has been drunk before, but this was different. He was so angry, and his behaviour, well, it was just not acceptable."

"Yes," Charles said soberly as he climbed into bed. "Yes, he is angry. And I forgave him."

"Angry with whom whom?"

"Everyone: you, me, James, Dryden, the queen ... everyone who is content in their life, as he can find so little contentment in his own. Ellen, he is ... ill."

I had heard vague rumours of Johnny's illness. The French pox. "I thought it wasn't confirmed by a physician," I said weakly.

"I have sent for Dr. Denis from Paris-he will make a final diagnosis-but it is not hopeful, sweetheart. And Johnny knows it."

I turned into his chest and closed my eyes to the deranged, disfiguring horror of his words.

"But I know Johnny will remember himself," Charles said softly. "He will regret his behaviour in the morning and apologise, without my asking. He loves me too much not to."

I hope so, I thought. I very much hope so.

February 18 (early) No apology-instead, disaster. This morning Johnny, still drunk, dismantled Charles's great sundial. Without reason or explanation, he left it in gleaming golden chunks on the lawn. Charles is furious.

Dr. Denis arrives tomorrow. I cannot find it in myself to be angry with Johnny.

February 22 Diagnosis: as predicted. Prognosis: terrible. Dr. Denis prescribed a course of mercury baths and returned to France.

February 27, 1669-Bagnigge House (snow) I was sitting in my tiny drawing room reading a new comedy for the spring season when I heard a single carriage thunder into the drive. I looked up, hoping it was a furniture wagon bringing the new feather mattresses. The bedsteads have arrived but no mattresses yet-uncomfortable.

"I've decided," the king said, stamping his boots to shake off the snow. "I'm sending him away. This morning was the last straw."

Johnny. I knew from his tone that it must be Johnny, and from the taut lines of Charles's face that it must be serious. I rang the silver bell for Mrs. Lark to bring the coffee and cakes. As Mr. Lark was spending so much time here, I had decided to hire Mrs. Lark to do the cooking and washing and to take care of the animals, the growing number of animals-Grandfather has come to join me and brought his bad-tempered goat Jezebel; sadly, Jeffrey pa.s.sed soon after Great-Aunt Margaret. The Larks have happily moved into the small apartment above the stables and are quickly whipping this house into shape. Grandfather and Mr. Lark have finished repairing the moulding in the huge rectangular dining room and have moved onto refitting the draughty bedroom windows. Grandfather loves a project. Mrs. Lark has scrubbed down the entire house, top to bottom, unearthing very pretty woodwork buried beneath years of dust and dirt. And this is just my tiny country home. G.o.d knows how many people I will need to hire when I move to the new London house that I finally accepted from Charles.

"Away?" I asked, turning back to Charles, who was settling himself onto the rug, spreading cushions by the fire. Even though I now have furniture, very fine furniture that Charles helped me to order (and pay for), he seems to prefer the floor. Molly immediately came waddling over and, shaking out her feathers, settled down beside him, pushing her long beak into his coat pockets. Ruby and Scandalous were busy cavorting with his pack of spaniels under the dining table and did not notice the treats for the taking.

"Away where?"

"France, soon. I'll pack him off with letters for my sister. Let him try this kind of nonsense in Louis's court. I won't have him here." Molly found the crackers meant for her in his left pocket and began to crunch them with gusto.

"What happened this morning?" I asked, fearing the answer.

Mrs. Lark brought in the coffee tray. She always keeps a pot brewing in case the king unexpectedly visits, which he does-often.

"He was baiting the Duke of Richmond, Frances's husband, who is not bright but harmless, and it was resolving into a duel. Frances was hysterical and came to fetch me. I broke it up, calmed the dullard duke, and sent Johnny away. He will leave in a few weeks, once the correspondence is arranged. At least he can do something useful. Until then, he is to stay at Adderbury." Charles leaned his head back onto a cushion, his mouth set in a resolute line.

"Will you see him before he goes?"

"No. Not unless he is sober. And I do not think he has been sober for some time."

March 12, 1669-Newmarket Johnny sailed this morning, and as promised, Charles did not see him. I sent him a brief note, wishing him a good journey and a peaceful stay. I did not wish him joy. It would have felt false.

Later Cards tonight with Savile and Charles. Savile told a story I had never heard. When Johnny was in the navy, his ship came under heavy enemy fire. Standing on the deck in great danger, Johnny and two other sailors made a solemn pact. If any of the three were shot and killed, the dead man must appear to the other two and rea.s.sure them of the sweetness of G.o.d's grace in heaven. Both of the other sailors were killed that day, but neither returned to Johnny.

April 13, 1669 Johnny's wife, Elizabeth, gave birth to a daughter, Anne, at Adderbury yesterday. She is to be called Nan for short. He missed it. Rose and I sent a basket of new baby linens, a wooden rattle, and a soft woollen blanket. Charles sent a gold-and-pearl pendant and his love.

Exit the Actress

When My Greatest Rival Is Removed

May 1669-Theatre Royal "It is awful, admit it. His worst yet," Teddy said, banging the script down on the stage. Papers went flying; it was cheaply bound and came apart easily.

"It isn't my favourite, but at least he's turned out something, something," I said, starting to pick up pages.

"Tyrannick Love, or the Royal Martyr-what sort of t.i.tle is that? Dryden ought to know better," Teddy continued, roughly taking off his soft rehearsal shoes and banging them down on the stage, too. It had taken nearly two months for his collarbone to completely heal but he was now back to performing, and was irritated that Dryden had not written him a part. "And Nell keeling over at the end-who wants to see that?"

"What?" I asked, alarmed.

"Honestly, Ellen!" Hart scowled at me. "The man writes the play for you, and you didn't even bother to read it, did you?" Without waiting for my response, Hart stomped off to his tiring room.

He was right. I had not finished reading the script and had no idea how the play ended. I have been behind lately, spending all my time with the king. He is currently occupied with his secret negotiations with the French. Ostensibly, it is an alliance to end the Dutch war-still dragging on, who can believe it? His sister, the Madame, is acting as intermediary as this is a treaty of some delicacy-they are also, I was appalled to discover, considering a future secret contract that will bind Charles to enter the Catholic faith in exchange for Louis's considerable financial aid-a contract that does not specify when when he must convert to Catholicism but gets the king out his current horrifying debt without resorting to Parliament. Dear G.o.d, let no one find out. he must convert to Catholicism but gets the king out his current horrifying debt without resorting to Parliament. Dear G.o.d, let no one find out.

"If it solves my money problems, pays my navy, builds my hospitals, and helps me to better safeguard my people ... won't G.o.d understand?" Charles reasoned.

"G.o.d will, but your will, but your people people won't," I replied quietly. won't," I replied quietly.

In any case, with all this going on, I had not had time to concentrate on Dryden's new script. "I have to die, again again? Onstage? We're back to that?" I wailed.

"Not just die, my dear," Nick said groggily. He had been awoken from his nap by the banging and was now helping me to reorder the script. "You stab yourself, right at the end-a heroic death, very tragic, very Juliet. A real Dryden special-you'll love it."

"Stop!" I said, swatting him with loose papers. "I can't do it. Not again. I can't do it properly. Everyone knows that. I look ridiculous. It is why I never never play Juliet." play Juliet."

"True," Nick said bluntly.

"Oh, and to do it in front of-"

"Oh yes, what will your royal lover think to see you die pathetically, undone by a blemish on your shining virtue? Good G.o.d," Nick said, beginning to giggle.

"Undone by bad writing, more likely," Teddy grumbled. "But the name, the name name is priceless," he said, brightening. "Valeria-you sound like an ancient Roman pox." is priceless," he said, brightening. "Valeria-you sound like an ancient Roman pox."

"Brilliant," I said, snapping the pages together.

Sat.u.r.day, June 1, 1669-King's Closet (rainy) I was peacefully revising the list of plays for the shortened summer season when I heard his boots clacking furiously down the parquet floor, accompanied by the lighter tapping of his gang of spaniels.

"That woman! I will not have it!" Charles thundered, noisily throwing open the doors to his dressing room himself, without waiting for his gentleman usher. He is incapable of opening a door gently. He roughly pulled off his wig and hurled it in the general direction of the sofa. I smiled encouragingly at Francis, his frazzled usher, who, after a nod from me, quickly left, pulling the double doors closed behind him.

"Will not have what?" I asked, retrieving his wig; it had fallen quite close to the fire, and it wouldn't have been the first royal wig to go that way. Awful smell.

"She expects me to acknowledge this baby! This child who could not possibly be mine! Even Lucy did not try that, when Mary so clearly wasn't mine. And Lucy genuinely needed needed the money." the money."

"Castlemaine?" I asked cautiously.

I cannot get used to calling her Cleveland, and she is not worth the effort, so I have given up trying. Whatever her name is, she is a touchy subject. Castlemaine recently gave birth to a daughter here in Whitehall-a child she expects the king to recognise as his own. We deliberately decamped to Newmarket for the event, and the queen and some friends went to Tunbridge Wells to take the waters. No one calls it a fertility treatment anymore; it seems to be understood that it is hopeless.

Lucy and Castlemaine's situations were not terribly similar. Lucy Walter, Monmouth's unfortunate mother, was, unlike Castlemaine, living in a separate city and had not seen the king in a year when she gave birth to Mary and so had no grounds to claim patrimony, but I did not point this out. Nor did I mention the six-hundred-pound allowance he still gives Mary each year, whether she is his daughter or not.

"Of course Castlemaine. Who else? She knows just when to cause a ruckus; with the new French amba.s.sador arriving next week, this will look awful. Her sense of timing is flawless."

"Could it...?"

"No. Definitely not. This baby is most likely that toad Jermyn's, and he won't 'fess up. Swine."

I looked quickly at Chiffinch, who had just slipped in the private door. He has a way of appearing when the king has need of him.

"Did you...?"

"Confront him? Of course not. I am not about to go trawling for this child's father. Henry Jermyn can look after his own b.a.s.t.a.r.d or not as he chooses. Of course it could be Hart's child, or Wycherly's, or that circus performer's, or even my own grandchild! That woman."

He sat down heavily on a pink embroidered chair, gathering his spaniel Dot into his lap.

"Your grand-" I began, but when I saw Chiffinch, behind the king's chair, vigorously shake his head, I stopped.

"Let her speak, William," the king said, without looking up. "We have no secrets between us."

An overstatement at best, but I let it lie.

"Monmouth?" I breathed in disbelief. "She wouldn't. Jemmy wouldn't. It is unthinkable."

"Oh, they would and do, often often it seems, and I honestly do not care," he said, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips to his temples. "Barbara Castlemaine is a grasping, greedy wh.o.r.e, and Jemmy has not the sense to see it, nor the character or the respect for me to refrain." it seems, and I honestly do not care," he said, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips to his temples. "Barbara Castlemaine is a grasping, greedy wh.o.r.e, and Jemmy has not the sense to see it, nor the character or the respect for me to refrain."

"But are you sure?" I saw Chiffinch shaking his head, warning me to stop, but I persisted. "Perhaps it is just rumour."

"Not a rumour, Ellen: a certainty." He paused, opening his eyes. "We crossed paths."

I bridled at that. I had a.s.sumed he no longer visited Castlemaine's rooms, but then I had never asked, and was not so frequently at Whitehall to see for myself. Charles more often visited my small house to escape the suffocating court and was now giving me a new house in town so I could be nearer. I smoothed the skirt of my gown-coffee-coloured silk. It had a mud stain on the hem. I must have Mrs. Lark look at it, I thought randomly.

"While I was visiting the children, children, Nell," he stressed, guessing my thoughts. Nell," he stressed, guessing my thoughts.

He rose from his chair and crossed to me. I saw Chiffinch leave, soundlessly closing the door to the secret stairwell behind him. I did not respond.

"Be reasonable," he coaxed. "Their nurseries are in her apartments, too, if you recall. You cannot expect me not to visit them," he continued, tilting my face up to his. "You must not worry so. What you have, you will always have. I have, of late, been with no other women but you. Nor do I have any plans to."

"I am always reasonable," I countered spikily.

He kissed me gently, and I softened in his arms. It is impossible to stay angry with this man. His labyrinthine selfish logic is too endearing and too genuine. The evening moved on, the incident was forgotten, and we went on to discuss this and that: his daughter Charlotte's apt.i.tude for compa.s.s reading, King Louis's affair with la Valliere, the construction of the hospital, Buckingham's scandalous menage, anything and everything but her her.

What I have. What is that exactly? The precious property that I have claimed in his heart will always be mine, but the rest is reserved for whatever comes next? Yes, I suppose so. What is that exactly? The precious property that I have claimed in his heart will always be mine, but the rest is reserved for whatever comes next? Yes, I suppose so.

"The heart is an ever-expanding organ," I could hear Grandfather saying. "Do not underestimate it."

I must believe it.

June 3, 1669-Whitehall Good G.o.d! Castlemaine has threatened to dash that baby's skull on the stone floor if Charles does not recognise her. Dreadful woman. Charles is in a state and believes she might actually do it.

Note-Awful reviews for Tyrannick Love Tyrannick Love. The news sheets hated it; the audience hated it; Dryden hated it; I hated it. All wrong.

Later A note arrived from Johnny in Paris asking Charles to stand G.o.dfather to Nan. Peace at last.

June 4-Theatre Royal "I am sorry, my dear," Dryden said, the ostrich plumes on his enormous hat quivering as he spoke. "I should have known it would not suit you, but I wanted to write something more serious, serious, more more lasting. lasting. But in my self-service, I have done you a disservice," he said forlornly. But in my self-service, I have done you a disservice," he said forlornly.

"It is lovely play, an important important play," I said, taking his arm, knowing that was what he needed to hear. "It will be remembered long after my appalling performance is forgotten." play," I said, taking his arm, knowing that was what he needed to hear. "It will be remembered long after my appalling performance is forgotten."

"But what to do now?" he asked, wiping his eyes with his heavily embroidered handkerchief. Did every inch of this man require ornamentation? It was a typical Dryden ensemble: long velvet jacket in a garish yellow, frilly laced cuffs, gold breeches, pink shoes with huge pink satin bows, and a terrible yellow velvet hat with pink ribbons and ostrich feathers: disaster disaster.

"Now," I said firmly, tucking his awful hankie back into his awful coat, "you will write me a superb epilogue so that I may rise up as myself and apologise in person to my audience."