Exit the Actress (39 page)

We meet each night now, in the Great Court, in the moonlight. The weather has become terribly important to me. I pray for clear skies and fret when rain clouds threaten. I wait for him on the stone bench under the pear tree—our pear tree. We walk and talk and are often silent. I live for this time. I am Ellen and not Ellen. He makes me more. He is the king and not the king all at once. I am fascinated by the
man
. I feel helpless, enchanted by a spell I did not cast.

He does not kiss me. I tell no one.

“Well?” Buckingham questioned me this morning, pulling back the bed curtains to allow the sunlight in. The king had arranged a set of rooms for me here in the keeper’s lodge, set far away from the rest of the court (although I gave out that they were arranged by Peg). I was surprised Buckingham had found me. “Ten gowns, eight hats, twelve pairs of slippers, and lots of precious time later—what have you accomplished?”

I quickly glanced over at the new striped apricot gown the king had given me, carelessly slung over a chair.

“What time is it?” I asked sleepily, sitting up. I had not returned until after five in the morning.

“Late, nearly luncheon. What are you doing sleeping? You went to bed
early last night.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Unless you were not sleeping? Not alone? I will not pay for—”

“I was alone,” I cut him off. “I just did not sleep well,” I lied.

“He is swimming this morning. Do you swim? No, thought not. Well, get out there and cheer then. He is racing Mulgrave this morning—wiry little thing, swims like a fish, irritating.” He roughly handed me my wrapper. “Get up!”

He stomped out, leaving me to dress, but then banged back through the door. “Nell,” he said loudly, wagging a finger at me, “if you fail with him, then you’re for me, you know. I’ve
paid
for it.”

I cringed. “I am not for sale,” I told him pertly.

He turned to go, fed up with this conversation. “Ha! All women are for sale,” he said crassly, banging the door shut behind him.

Why didn’t I just tell him? We
did
make a plan. I have a different plan now. I
am
succeeding. I do not want to be a bought woman, and when I am with the king I am not, no matter who paid for my shoes.

The court has returned to Oxford for the end of the summer. The king—Charles,
my Charlemagne
—regards this city as his second home; he was delighted to discover it is the city of my birth. I am pleased, too, for it begins to feel like my home as well. With rooms of my own in this ancient snug inn, away from damp Farm Cottage and the empty echoing house in Longwall Street, I am beholden to none. No one understands my refusal to stay with the court, but I know I would be lessened there. And I cannot bring myself to lodge beneath the same roof as the woman I am so egregiously betraying—well, not betraying yet, but certainly hoping to. It would be a step too far.

After the court goes to sleep, we walk through the hushed city. Each night we visit a different college, sneaking about the quadrangles like runaways. He matches his long strides (he is so tall!) to my small ones without any appearance of effort. He is passionate about architecture and explains the different features of each building: pointing out the mediaeval elements
of Merton, the Italianate renaissance details of University. Each college is like a jewel box that we open together. My mind is hungry for all he knows. Each night we walk a little farther.

He tells me of his life: his twelve-year exile and his hopeless cause. Wandering through Europe, a pauper king with no country or crown. He understands the humiliation of charity. He knows what it is to beg, to want, to need, to fear—it is something we share. I look at his plush velvet coat and his deep cuffs frothing with lace—such luxury; it is hard to believe he was not always like this. And then I look at his face—the fleeting, hunted looks that flash across like an interval in a play—and I can believe this man has been through anything. His mind is agile, and his laughter has a freeness I would not expect after hearing his stories.

He tells me of his small, warlike mother. The notorious Queen Henrietta Maria who drove this country away from the House of Stuart with her Catholicism and her inflexibility—her constant determination to rule her husband and her children, and her ruthless inability to forgive.

He tells me of his brother Henry’s terrible Protestant consumptive end, and his mother’s cruel refusal to see him unless he converted to the true faith. The stalemate lasted until death. Yet, he says, she is not a woman without feeling. He describes his parents’ marriage as passionate and devoted. He understands, I thought. That is the root of his magnetism. He sees people clearly and accepts their failings. It is a great strength.

He does not tell me of his father. He does not speak of that January day that must haunt him still, when they led his father out one of the great windows of his own dining room—the beautiful banqueting hall where his son still sits—and cut off his head. I know the stories. I was raised on them. How, at the final hour, they moved the place of execution. How he waited patiently, listening to them hammering together his own scaffold. How he wore two shirts against the bitter cold, lest the people mistook his shivering for fear. How he handed his ring to his confessor, Bishop Juxon, in his last moments, and bid him tell his children to “remember.” How the crowds watched. How he was fearless unto death—calm and resigned. Of these things, we do not speak.

He tells me of his beloved youngest sister: Henriette-Anne—Minette, the Madame of France, married to the loathsome Phillipe, Duc d’Orléans,
the Monsieur. She holds his whole heart. His happiest memories always include her.

He tells me of his children: his first-born, James, Duke of Monmouth, born of his love affair with the wild beauty Lucy Walter, now nine years dead. His children by Barbara Castlemaine: Anne, Charles, Henry, Charlotte (his secret favourite), and George.

He tells me of his wife: his tender regard for her childlike ways, his acceptance of her devotion to him, his acceptance of her religion, his sincere desire to see her happy.

He tells me of his troublesome mistress. He cannot bear to see a woman distressed, and Castlemaine exploits this to her best advantage. With tantrums and rage—with excess. I have promised him that I will always speak the truth to him, and when he asks I am openly critical of her domineering habits. He listens to me, but what can my opinion matter to him? Yet he continues to seek it.

I tell him of my small life. He is full of questions. My family: Grandfather, Mother, Great-Aunt Margaret, and Rose. My home: cramped and poor but full of music and spirit. I am honest. He has known poverty. I tell him of Mother, of the nights of putting her to bed. He already knows Rose’s secret. He understands frailty and necessity and does not make me feel ashamed. I have become proud to have been raised in such love. We whisper our stories late into the night, and then suddenly I am returned to my bed—where I dream and dream of him.

Note
—He has not kissed me.

And so I wait.

Buckingham knows. He bribed the king’s footman for the information and is furious at me for the added expense. “You could have just told me!” he thundered, looking gloomy. “Twelve and two! Footmen are the
most
expensive!” I had been summoned to his rooms like a child to answer for my offences.

“I couldn’t—there is nothing as yet to tell,” I said with absolute conviction. “And if anyone hears of it, I promise you whatever there is will come to nothing!”

“That makes no sense.” Buckingham giggled. “There is nothing, but this nothing will get destroyed if anyone knows something?”

“Yes!” I said, delighted he understood.

“Darling,” Teddy began hesitantly, “I do not mean to be rude, but you look dreadful.”

Rochester opened one eye to look at me, watchful of my response.

“Is it because
he
has returned to the court?”

“He?” I puzzled.

We were lying on the grassy bank of the Isis, enjoying a quiet afternoon picnic under the high elms. I spread out a faded blanket, and we laid out our little feast: bread, cheese, apples, and wine.

“He. Your he. Well, your old he.” Teddy sighed in laboured exasperation. “Hart.”

“Hart? Oh no,” I said airily, closing my eyes against the sun. Hart had returned several days ago and was athletically engaged once more in his relationship with the wicked Castlemaine. “Why would that disturb me?” I asked dreamily. These days nothing could disturb me.

Teddy eyed me warily. “Ellen, what on earth…”

“I have not been sleeping,” I hedged.

“Not sleeping?” Teddy asked archly. “Because at night you have been … what? And, more importantly, with
who
?”

“With
whom
.” Rochester corrected, leaning back onto the tree trunk. Being out of doors always makes him sleepy.

“Not what you think.” I would trust Teddy with any secret, but it was
as if to speak of it would break an enchantment. Would I turn back into a pumpkin, as in the fairy story? The bells chime at midnight and the magic ends. I did not want to risk it. I turned my attention to feeding Ruby crusted bread.

“I am sure it will pass,” I said lightly. “Not to worry, old mother hen.” Teddy makes a habit of worrying over those he loves. It is one of his best qualities. I felt disloyal and selfish in my deception. Teddy gave me a rueful look, as if I had disappointed him.

Note
—Rochester has postponed his visit to his wife
again,
poor woman. He speaks of her with great tenderness. “She is all that is selfless and good,” he said reverently last night. When I asked why he does not make more effort to see her, he went strangely quiet. Selfishly, I am relieved, as I do not know what I would do without him.

I am a fool! I have been ensorcelled, bewitched, wrapped up in a fairy love that only
I
feel. The king—
my Charlemagne,
gave his
other
mistress, Moll Davis (who arrived in Oxford today quite visibly pregnant) a diamond ring worth six hundred pounds. A
fortune
.

“It has no bearing upon his feelings for you!” Buckingham rants.

I do not believe him. I see my rank in the pecking order and am wary. Moll does not overtake Castlemaine, and is scorned for her position as an actress, but she is acknowledged. Where am I? Nelly: an amusing, sprightly, courteous stranger in public. And then I am Ellen, secreted away in the moonlight. I promised myself long ago: just one man. Not like Rose. But if he cannot love just one woman? I ought to know better.

He is waiting for me. I will not appear. I feel shamed by his secrecy, yet I have not asked him for acknowledgement. I feel betrayed, yet he has
promised me nothing. I feel lied to, although he has never lied. Oh, my unruly heart. Was
this
the ungovernable feeling I wished for? This wild tide of emotion?

A page (out of royal livery) arrives with a note:

“You are Jerome?” I asked the page.

“Yes, madam.” He could not have been older than thirteen.

“Why do you not wear the king’s colours?”

“His Majesty ordered that I remove it,” he said, clearly flummoxed by my question. So as not to be recognised, I thought. More secrets.