Authors: Priya Parmar
Exit the Actress (28 page)
Tuesday, December 18, 1666—Theatre Royal (snow!)
Back in the harness. We are doing
The English Monsieur
again—and are receiving a wonderful response. London is so ready to laugh after all she has been through this twelvemonth. Parties every night and dancing to dawn, followed by a light cooked breakfast in the morning.
“You cannot keep up this pace, Ellen,” Johnny Rochester told me this morning, yawning. We had not yet been to bed. “Eventually, you will have to go home.”
I want to dance and dance and never go back to Maiden Lane, I thought ungratefully.
Note
—Castlemaine spoke to me at Lady Jemimah’s this evening—strangely, I keep finding myself on the most extraordinary guest lists. “You brighten a room,” Teddy says. “Having you there pulls an evening together.” Odd, as I feel as though I stand out terribly in such company. Anyway, Castlemaine was determined to ensnare me in yet another of her inane conversations about toilette. I find her rapid shifts in tone and volume baffling—shrill and sing-songy when she speaks to women, and then throaty and husky when she speaks to men. I suppose she thinks the throatiness is alluring, but it just sounds like she needs to take a cough mixture. Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, I looked to Teddy for rescue, but he was too busy admiring her shoes. Teddy loathes men’s shoes, not that his delicate, beribboned high-heeled confections look much like men’s shoes.
For lack of imagination, I found myself answering truthfully and
pointing out that,
yes,
she wears too much lip paint and,
yes,
it does age her. She looked startled, not expecting that response, but if she does not want the answer, then she should learn not to ask the question. At least it ended the gruesome interview.
Wednesday, December 19—Theatre Royal (still The English Monsieur)
I am furious!
We were in the middle of the reconciliation scene when Hart (playing Wellbred) left the script entirely. I am quite accustomed to small adjustments everywhere, but when the time came for Hart to ask me to be his wife, he skipped the line completely. Thinking it an honest omission, I covered and proposed to him (most untraditionally—but then these are untraditional characters), and he
declined
! Dumbfounded, I responded tartly, “Well, that suits me, because as you well know I make a most suitable mistress.” The audience roared, roundly enjoying the inside joke, but Hart flushed angry red and was most discomfited by my bold reply. How dare he! I will not be shamed by him!
Note
—Tom was in the house and thought the script change was brilliant. Now we must perform it like this every night. Torture! I told him if that were the case he must raise my salary by twenty shillings, and he agreed!
W
HITEHALL,
L
ONDON
T
O OUR SISTER, THE
M
ADAME OF
F
RANCE
F
ROM
H
IS
M
AJESTY
K
ING
C
HARLES II
D
ECEMBER
23, 1666
Happy Christmas, my dear sister,
Spending the Christmas season at Whitehall,
again.
I had hoped to be at Windsor or Greenwich (the new palace is coming along splendidly!), but it was not to be. I am
overseeing the rebuilding, and alas, that means I must be near the rebuilding, and what
noisy
rebuilding it is. With all the talk of who might have started the fire—the Dutch, the Catholics, the Quakers—I have finally unmasked the culprit: the stonemasons. It must be! For they are profiting from this disaster like none other.
I have finally come to understand the impossibility of implementing the modern city of my dreams. My Londoners are hell-bent on re-creating the cramped, overcrowded city of the past. It would require too much organisation, and certainly too much compensation to build the wide-avenued stone city I desire. Instead of neat, pleasantly laid-out squares, with communal gardens for all to enjoy, they want to fence in their hard-won little patch of earth. I do understand it. Time was when I, too, wanted only a small patch of earth all my own. Do you often think of those lean, desperate years? They seem so very far away now. The only benefit was seeing you often, my dear. Kiss your children for me.
I am ever your,
Charles
December 25—Christmas (frost)
Hart and I live like strangers. His anger grows apace with my success. I hardly recognise us—he is so tightly strung, and at this point I am uncaring of his discomfort. It is cruel, but I do feel as though I have tried every remedy to jolly him into mirth without success, so now I do my best to ignore it, which is a coarse solution and naturally only makes it worse. Tonight, we are going to the Duke’s House to see
Macbeth
(bad luck to say, turn around three times and spit), our own house being closed for Christmas. I ordered a new lilac
moiré
suit and a grey velvet coat especially, perfect with my new silver lace slippers. As I paid for it myself, Hart could not complain about the expense. Rose patterned the gown and Madame Leonine designed the coat, and I was pleased with all the results. Rose’s skill is growing, and I am often directing ladies to her for similar designs. I am pleased, as dressmaking is a skill that improves with age, while her other profession…
It
(I’m not saying it again) is a ferociously menacing play and hardly in the spirit of Christmas joy, but I held my tongue as I did not want Hart to change his mind and decide we should stay here. We almost never go out
together anymore, and he refuses to entertain at home. I should be happy for us to spend time alone, but instead I find it wearing and miserable. In company Hart is attentive and solicitous of my well-being. As soon as we are alone, I am invisible and he is foul-tempered. Betsey has made up the white bedroom for me.
December 29—Midnight
“Ellen, are you awake?” Ruby poked her head out from under the covers at the sound of Hart’s voice. He considers it ruinous to allow a dog to sleep in the bed, but I love her small sturdy warmth. I opened my eyes just enough to see him standing in the doorway holding a candle aloft, peering into my new room. It is smaller and quite cheery and looks over the garden. “I only thought if you are awake”—he continued awkwardly—“perhaps you two would like to come back to our room. Ellen,
are
you awake?”
I did not stir nor respond. I dread returning to his bedroom, with his heavy masculine furniture and oppressive presence. Ruby settled back down beside me, and eventually Hart closed the door. I listened to his retreating footsteps. How can I refuse him? But then, how can I consent? Comfortable or no, I must leave this house. If the baby had lived … but she didn’t.
S
T.
G
ERMAIN,
F
RANCE
T
O
K
ING
C
HARLES II
F
ROM
L
E
R
OI
L
OUIS XIV
The common loss we have had over the death of your sister’s son, our nephew, the Duc de Valois, touches us both so closely that the only difference in our mutual grief is that mine began a few days sooner than yours.
Louis
O
XFORD,
E
NGLAND
J
ANUARY
1, 1667
My Minette,
Oh, my dear. I have just this minute had word—your son. I cannot bear to think of the pain this must cause your heart. I had to write to you, to tell you that I am thinking of you. There is nothing to say but that I will be praying for his soul and for yours.
Charles
January 15, 1667—Drury Lane
I have done it. Hart and I can no longer live under the same roof. I am returned to Drury Lane. The house feels small and shabby, but here I am, beholden to no one. I miss Betsey, Hugh, Cook, and the ease of Maiden Lane, but I could not endure the constant suspicion and jealousy. In the last weeks, Hart had taken to interrogating Hugh as to my whereabouts and searching my dressing room for imagined love notes—I have had to carry this journal with me always—insufferable. Hart sends sad letters now, begging for my return, but I can never go back. I could not breathe in that pretty prison, and in my heart I know that his suspicions were grounded in fact. I do want truer love than what we shared. All my protestations (ever more fervent) were dishonest. I care deeply for his happiness, but I care for him as my friend and guardian, not as a lover. I grew up in his bed and can thank him for all my present success and security, but I cannot offer him my heart in return. I wish that I could, but I have tried and I have failed.
We have told no one of our separation and painfully maintain our relationship in public. “The public is not
prepared
for our dissolution,” Hart says plaintively, asking for more time. “Please come back to me.”
I do not care two figs for the public’s concern over my private life, but these matters of appearance affect him deeply. It is the least I can do for him. Ruby misses Hart terribly and is confused in our new home.
Note
—Johnny is trying to win his abducted heiress again. Let us hope he does not wind up in the Tower. I hope someone ends up finding a true love.
January 29, 1667
London
To Mistress Elizabeth Malet,
She yields, she yields—pale Envy said “Amen!”
The first of women to the last of men.
Marry me.
Ever yours,
John Rochester
February 2, 1667—Theatre Royal (my seventeenth birthday)
Whispers:
Everyone knows now, but no one speaks openly of our separation. Hart threw me a magnificent birthday party tonight. There was music and dancing and heaps of beautifully wrapped presents.
“I cannot accept them,” I told him sadly.
“You must,” he told me firmly.
“I won’t.” Ruby and I went home to Drury Lane.
February 7, 1667—Drury Lane (early)
This morning, early, before rehearsals, Teddy hurtled in with a copy of the
Gazette
tucked under his arm. He was wearing his new ladybird-red waistcoat, and it suits him well, although his normally coiffed hair was disordered and his delicate cheeks splotched with colour.
“You
must,
” he puffed … He had been running, and he is not accustomed to running. “You
must
… read this,” he panted, thrusting the news sheet at me.
I scanned the page. “What?”
“Here! Here!” He jabbed the paper. “Look, it is
Becka
!” And there was a brief but astonishing article: “Mrs. Rebecca Marshall, having been attacked with a turd outside the Theatre Royal last night, is suing for ‘protection and justice for the future.’ “
“Becka…?” Disbelieving, for Becka was generally quite popular, I quickly scanned down the page. “In the
face
?” Good God.
“And the
hair
!” Teddy gasped. “It is
fantastic
! It is
genius
!” gasped Teddy, who has never liked the Marshall sisters.
Later—Theatre Royal
Teddy has not stopped giggling all day. I have caught cold and cannot stop sneezing.
Note
—Two Dutch ships sunk, and one of ours fired. Absurd waste! After all we have lost recently, why do we risk more? As a country we should be united, peaceful, and constructive—not unheeding of our mistakes and bent on a course that has never suited us.