Exit the Actress (30 page)

Slipping in after the first act, we took seats in the middle gallery, close enough to see but not to
be
seen. Teddy was grumpy as he prefers either the pit or a good box—money spent on anything else is nonsense. She entered, lonely and forlorn, and sang her sad little song. It is affecting and she sings well enough, but with such sticky sweetness that I found her irritating. Her breeched dancing was pleasant, but she is quite plump and did not convey a sense of delicacy. I think it takes rather a lot to heave her considerable bulk off the ground. Goodness, how mean I am. Teddy enjoyed the dressing up much more than the play. I think he was disappointed that no one recognised us.

The last performance! Done for the season! To celebrate, Teddy, Lacy, Nick, Peg, and I went to Chatelin’s for a lovely roast supper. We were met by Rochester, Etheredge, Buckhurst, and Sedley—Buckingham could not join us, Johnny explained, as he was only recently out of hiding and currently enjoying a short stay in the Tower. They say that on his way to the Tower, he stopped for luncheon at the Sun Tavern in Bishopsgate and dined with Buckhurst and Lord Carbery.

“Yes, he stopped for lunch, but no, I was not with him,” Buckhurst corrected. “Carbery might have been—I’ve no idea.”

“Damned persistent story, that,” added Sedley, helping himself to more of the stewed pheasant and smacking his lips in anticipation. “I’ve heard it several places.”

“Seems silly of him to stop at a mean pub on his way to the Tower,” Rochester observed, “‘specially when he has Louis, his own French cook, lodged with him.”

“Mmm,” said Peg, “Louis has wonderful hands—very light pastry.”

“He took a
staff
?” I asked, incredulously. “To prison?”

“Naturally,” said Rochester. “Can’t manage there without a staff. Every time I go, I have to pack up the whole bloody house. Pots, pans, pets, coverlets, servants … It’s a bloody nightmare.”

The “merry mob,” Lacy calls them. Buckhurst watched me all evening, not bothering to conceal his interest. He has a tendency to keep remarkably quiet and then say the most shocking things. I admit, I find him
fascinating, but frightening, too, like looking over the edge of a high precipice. These rowdy boys have taken a house together in the country and have tried to recruit me to join their party.

“Come away to Epsom! Let us leave foul London behind!” crowed Rochester, waving about his dripping cup and sending wine all over his new blond wig (he switched over this week from dark—doesn’t quite work). Peg quickly moved her skirts out of the way, but her pink silk slippers got splashed. Teddy’s forehead crumpled in mild distaste; he dislikes messy eaters.

“The fresh country air, the spa, the music, the parties, the dancing!” Sedley sang, his eyes closed, his head lolling about—he was already quite drunk.

“Not to mention the bathing!” Etheredge chimed in. “The bathing is wonderful.” Etheredge is a notorious fanatic for cleanliness and is always catching cold on account of his wet, clean hair.

“Let’s be drunk for the summer!” Rochester said, shaking the droplets of wine from his curls. As if he would be sober in London?

“Yes! Let us away tonight!” crowed Sedley, pouring another glass of wine (his fourth).

“I will give you one hundred pounds a year to be my mistress,” said Buckhurst evenly, never taking his eyes from my face, his expression never changing, folding his hands calmly in his lap. Did anyone else hear that? I turned to look, but no, they were all chatting away as usual.

One hundred pounds? A fortune.
Could he be serious?

July 5, 1667

My dearest Mrs. Gwyn,

Please have your things packed and ready by eleven a.m. tomorrow, at the very latest. My coachman Harris will be prompt and convey you to me with all speed.

It is fate. I have decided. You are to be mine.

Buckhurst

How do I respond to such a letter? I find myself packing my trunk. But I know nothing of this man! Ruby is puzzled and looks at me expectantly from her travelling basket. Are we going away? her puggy eyes ask.

July 16, 1667

Maiden Lane, London

Ellen,

I am at a loss to see how you could possibly justify your actions. To leave London in the company of such men is beneath you, Ellen. They are wits to be sure, but they are not men of strong character. Beyond issues of decorum, how could you depart this city and not inform me? Do you not know how deeply I care for your well-being? I am astounded at your effrontery and wounded by your wont of care.

Hart

July 18, 1667

Maiden Lane, London

Dearest Ellen,

I am lost without you. Please return to me.

Your,

Hart

July 19, 1667

Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London

Dear Ellen,

I know you have heard the rumours of Hart and Lady Castlemaine and can only imagine that they sowed the seeds of your departure. I must tell you, as your friend, that yes, they are true, but Hart would welcome you back without hesitation if that were what you chose, although I fear it is not your desire.

For myself, I miss your merry presence and harbour a hope that you will return to us for the coming season. The audience loves you, as does the company, as do I. Teddy is quite forlorn. Please advise me of your intentions as the autumn season has been built around you. I am coming to Epsom and will take this opportunity to call upon you. I hope you are well, my dear. Cecilia sends her best. You are in our thoughts.

Yours, etc.…

Tom

P.S.:
Please forgive my brevity and my forthrightness. I look upon you as my daughter and take a profound interest in your happiness and welfare.

I look around me and cannot quite believe what I have done. I am writing this in a room strewn with wine bottles, dirty clothes, coffee cups, overturned books, and slumbering men. No one managed to make it up to their bedrooms last night, and everyone seemed to have slept where they fell. Ruby picks her way among the debris, unimpressed with my choice of habitat. She has a point. What have I done?

We live in a rented house next to the King’s Head, and Buckhurst, Sedley, Rochester and I stay up all the night dicing, talking, and (they) drinking. I have not the head for such strong spirits. It is merry company but strange. Buckhurst treats me as a sister. He is playful and affectionate but only seldom comes to my bed. I do not feel I am getting to know him at all. We do not draw closer, despite my efforts—efforts that humiliate me in their desperation.

I felt so worldly when I flounced out of Hart’s bed and now realise I know nothing of the world and have misjudged my place in it. I had assumed Buckhurst would offer the same singular devotion and protection I received from Hart—how naïve! I had hoped he would open my heart and I would feel that sense of belonging, of which I know myself to be capable, but there is only empty formality and, occasionally, lewdness. What have I done?

July 21, 1667

Farm Cottage, Oxford

Dearest Ellen,

I heard the most extraordinary rumour today at the college. Is it possible that you have abandoned the stage for Epsom and a man named Buckworth? As you know, I trust you to make your wisest decisions in every moment, my dearest, but this change does seem rash. What of this man? Is he the love you have been seeking? I can only pray that he is.

Margaret still fares well and, although she would never admit it, is impressed by your exalted orbit. She cares for you truly, as of course do I. I miss you, my sweet elfin child.

All the love,

Grandfather

Note—
I enclose a copy of Milton’s controversial
Paradise Lost.
It is frightening and awesome in its scope. Keep up your reading!

Tom came to visit today. We went to the New Inn—to get away from the mad house in which I live. He swears that he is here purely for his wife to take the waters, but I know he is also here to see for himself that I am well. I am touched by his concern and amused by his pretext.

“But these
Wits,
” he said. “I know their ways.” Indeed, his son is counted among them, as he himself was years ago. “They will drop you when they have tired of you, and then where will you be?” he asked, settling into a winged chair by the fire.

Where am I now? I thought but did not say. “Will I always be welcome at the King’s?” I asked hopefully, smiling my most charming smile and pouring him more chocolate.

“London audiences are fickle, my dear. They may forget you. If you mean to return, do not tarry.”

July 31, 1667

Milk Street, London

My dearest dear,

You have made Epsom ever so chic. I have heard stories all over town of your madcap antics. Could they be true? Did Sedley truly swear loudly and continuously at Durdan House and then run about
au naturel
as God intended, shocking Lady Robartes? Did you dance upon the table at the King’s Head in your breeches and, when told to stop by a prudish innkeeper, invite everyone in the alehouse next door to your lodgings to continue the dancing? Did you really ask Bucky Buck for payment up front? Five hundred pounds, they say! (Preposterous—you have always been loath to ask for money.) Does little Catherine Sedley wear your clothes and carouse with you all late into the night?
Goodness, my dear—to have run away with the most dangerously charming men in England. How clever you are.