Exit the Actress (29 page)

My cold has gotten worse. Mother consulted Grandfather’s volume of Culpeper’s
English Physician,
now worn with use.

“Wintergreen or willow tree juice, for fever,” she said, turning the pages. “And lungwort for your cough. You could line your boots with tansy leaves, but we haven’t got any. I’m sure Mr. Hart has—”

“No, Mother. I’ll stop at the apothecary tomorrow.”

“But Mr. Hart could—”

“No.”

We opened
Flora’s Vagaries
today. I play the jade Flora. She is strong-willed and fickle and constant only in her own self-interest. Yet she is loveable and full of mischief as well. She is parts of myself, I admit.

The audience have made me their own. They seem to love my rougher
edges and wilder ways. Is that really me? The edges of my self are getting fuzzy. They call out the name they have given me and cheer for me as the curtain comes down. It is an intoxicating thing to feel their love. It keeps me strong. It keeps me safe. No man can take this from me. Hart watches me from the wings. His expression unreadable.

Note
—My cold has improved. Mother suggested blood-letting, but I believe it weakens rather than strengthens me—a lunatic opinion, as far as Mother is concerned.

Johnny Rochester, Henry Savile, a hearty raw-boned sort of man whom Rochester obviously adores, and Lord Sedley came to the tiring rooms after the performance this evening:

I was changing out of my Flora costume and into my new taffy-pink gown with the soft belled sleeves, ruinously expensive but so pretty, when they sauntered through the door, taking no notice of the other players in varying states of undress.

“Your dirty secret is out, my darling,” Rochester teased, sitting down at my slim-legged dressing table. “You are a free woman, and all of London is waiting with bated breath to see
who
you will choose.”

Sedley drew in a huge breath and held it to make his point. I ignored him. In the mirror I saw Kitty surreptitiously tug down her bodice to catch their attention.

“Well, it cannot be you, you randy reprobate,” I threw back at Rochester, hurrying to finish my laces.

“No, alas, I have entered that glorious temple of matrimonial bliss, never to emerge again,” he said in saintly tones, eyes pointed heavenward. Johnny
finally
married Elizabeth Malet, his captive heiress—much to their mutual delight, it is said.

I looked at my friend, and in truth he was glowing beneath his unruffled façade.

“Give him a month and he’ll be on the prowl again,” predicted Sedley, blowing out his cheeks and picking up various cosmetic pots, scattering powder hither and yon.

Ruby, snuggled in her basket on the floor, promptly sneezed.

“Do stop touching things you do not understand.” I took the pot away from him. “I am so pleased for you, Johnny. It is like a fairy-tale,” I said, tying the last of my laces and checking my face in the mirror—my cheeks were flushed pink, not enough powder, but
heigh-ho.

“Ah, fairy stories,” said Savile. “Keep in mind that they are peopled with witches and dragons and trolls and mean big-footed stepsisters and evil queens—”

“And kings for that matter,” added Sedley absently. “Actually, the kings are more often careless, rather than evil, come to think of it,” he went on to no one in particular.

“In short, beware of romance and royalty,” summed up Johnny, pinching my cheek and giving me a meaningful look—why? “We must eat,” he continued lightly. “I am ravenous and I’ve heard reported that I tend to go into a killing rage when vexed by hunger.” The rumours about Johnny are always astounding.

We left by the side door and headed for the Bear Tavern. They serve the best pidgeon pie in London. I choose to believe in fairy-tales, I thought, walking alongside the three greatest cynics of our age. Funny, I’ll bet Johnny does, too.

Shocking gossip:

La belle Stuart
has run away from court and eloped with the Duke of Richmond! He is said to be handsome but somewhat simple (sounds an ideal match for her), has been widowed twice, and has an excellent income. The Earl of Clarendon supposedly helped her to arrange it. When the king confronted her, she challenged him that the duke could offer her the honourable state of matrimony—could he offer her such a thing? How could he deride her choice? The king is said to be in a terrible temper, and Castlemaine openly gloating. I hope it is a true romance. A fairy-tale, indeed!

Dryden has written me a brilliant part. Florimel (not a name I care for, but
heigh-ho
) is a mad, mad girl. She is tricked with sparkle and wit and a carnival heart. It is a huge role, and I am
never
off the stage. Daunting, but I refuse to be daunted. Unfortunately, it is only one of three plays we are putting on in the next fortnight. I have taken to memorizing scripts during meals, while I walk, and in the bath.
Quel
glamour, as Teddy would say. Hart plays Celadon (a name I do quite care for), and together we are sparring lovers who (bless Dryden’s tact) choose
not
to marry but instead remain mistress and gallant. It is getting easier to play opposite Hart, but I do not think I could bear to marry him
again
onstage.

I spend part of the play disguised as a boy and in breeches.
Quel
glamour, indeed. What freedom! What fun! I can dance and dance, loose-legged and free. I become a naughty forest elf in breeches, neither man nor woman, just a small wild spirit. No idea what comes over me.

Note
—Johnny Rochester came to the tiring rooms this evening with Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst. He cut a carelessly elegant figure with his thickly waved blond hair (his own—very handsome); his silver-trimmed, sage-green coat, and the rows and rows of expensive lace at his wrists (expensive but dusty—he is not careful with his cuffs like other men, but then I suppose he can always afford new ones). Unlike most men who come back to the tiring rooms, he did not fixate on the women undressing, nor drown me in empty compliments. Everything he says is sharp and pointy and aimed to provoke—a wicked tongue (forked, no doubt—must remember to check).

“Oh, my dear, astonishing news,” Teddy announced over our usual coffee and toast. “He’s done it.” Teddy’s breath was coming in brief, noisy bursts.

“Done what?” I asked absently. I was trying to read yesterday’s smudged news sheet describing the queen happily frolicking at Tunbridge Wells in boy’s clothes—she seems to also undergo a magical woodland transformation in breeches. How chic. Despite all the rumours, there seems to be no hint of divorce for the royal couple, although it is said he would have thrown over the queen and married Frances Stuart. Well, if he
would
have done it, why
didn’t
he? People are so confident of what they would have done once they no longer have the chance. I think he had a lucky escape, frankly. The queen’s famed gentleness will only refine in time, whereas Frances’s shrill sweetness will rot the teeth. She is such a pedantically predictable woman; his passion is mystifying. I returned from my reverie to see Teddy nervously fidgeting with his breakfast.

“Yes, Teddy?” I prompted. “What has Hart done now?” Hart’s behaviour
had been so erratic of late and his temper increasingly short since I broke with him.

“Hart, your Hart, has been…” He crumbled his toast, unsure how to proceed.

“He is not
my
Hart.” I gritted my teeth against the inevitable pun.

“Your erstwhile Hart? Well, he has been frequenting Castlemaine’s bed, and now the newshounds have it.” Teddy finally got in out all in one breath and then slumped in relief.

“Castlemaine?”

“Yes.”

“
The
Castlemaine?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Do you mind, dearest?” Teddy delicately wiped his fingers on a napkin and took my hand with concern.

“Since when?”

Teddy shrugged as if to say, Does it matter when? Obviously, he has known for some time—therefore, their affair has been going on for some time. When…?

“No, no,” I said automatically, collecting my thoughts. “But she—”

“Yes I know, just out of childbed. Tacky, really. Goodness, she has energy.”

“I am pleased for him,” I heard myself say, offering empty words, as if from a distance. Hart and Castlemaine? My Hart? His Castlemaine? Did I mind?

I am startled, surely. But do I mind? I probe the thought like a bruise, searching for the answering pain. No, I do not believe I do. I feel free.

I feel Hart’s eyes upon me. Do I know? Have I heard? Do I care? The theatre is full of whispers. I am made stronger by his shame.

Humming in the hallways, I keep encountering Hart. Tonight, I laughed aloud for no reason. Everyone turned to look.

June 5, 1667

Farm Cottage, Oxford

Dearest Ellen,

Great-Aunt Margaret is still weak but improving. Her foot stubbornly refuses to heal, but she is quite adept at manoeuvring on her crutch, and of course an absolute master at ordering people about, so I think she can manage without me for a few days. Your vague and infrequent letters have me worried. If they do not improve in volume and content, you shall have to suffer a visit from your old grandfather, who misses his granddaughter terribly.

All my dearest love,

Grandfather

All the talk is of Mistress Mary “Moll” Davis, my rival at the Duke’s House. She sings her pathetic song “My Lodging, It Is on the Cold, Cold Ground” and then, to prove her point, curls into a weary little ball and sleeps on the stage. Somehow, at the end of the play she is revived sufficiently to dance a
gigue
in her breeches,
à la
myself. Everyone is comparing us: she has a superior voice, but I am the better dancer; she is all lush curves, and I am wand thin; she is a buttery blonde, while I am a pert, intelligent redhead; she looks well in yellow, while I … enough!

Note
—Although I would love a visit from Grandfather, I fear now is not the time. He will sense the distance between Hart and myself and only grow more anxious for my happiness. As well, life in Drury Lane is wretched. Mother lives only on the money I provide and no longer goes out, except to buy drink.

It being our night off, Teddy and I sneaked off to watch this famous Mistress Davis. We were careful to go in disguise and had a roaring good time dressing up. Teddy went as a woman, naturally. He got to wear his lovely yellow silk gown—the one he wore as Juliet (he fretted over the tear in the sleeve and blames Becka, naturally).
He
looks lovely in yellow. I chose a starlight blue gown and matching wide-brimmed hat. The dark veil utterly concealed my face. Thus transformed, we hired a hackney and set out in the rain.