Exit the Actress (4 page)

“Very well,” he agreed. “To love: first person, present tense.”

“J’aime,”
I answered confidently. “Did you hear about the mess at Hampton Court yesterday? Everyone was talking about it today. People run over, carts gone missing—chaos.”

“You love: familiar, past tense,” he prompted, refusing to be diverted by gossip.

“Tu aimas
…. She must be very brave, to sail to a new country, knowing no one, and then to marry an utter stranger?” I said thoughtfully.

“Third person singular, future tense. Queen Catherine? I am sure she is very happy. After all, he is the king.” Grandfather shrugged, as if a sovereign is guaranteed love and devotion.

“Elle aimera
. That doesn’t mean she will
love
him,” I said. “I wouldn’t do it. I will not marry where there is no love—not even a king.”

Grandfather gave me a worried look. My romantic notions concern him, I know. Most girls hope to marry a man with a stable income rather than a man to love. Ever patient, he forbore to criticise and we moved on to the verb “to play.”

I am shaking with shock and rage. There has been a tremendous row. I should insist and argue and rant, but I find I am too stunned even to weep.

After oysters I stopped at home. Finding no one about—Grandfather had gone to the Sun Tavern in Wych Street to play backgammon; Rose, I believed, was still not finished with her basket; and Mother was already at the tavern—I went to visit Duncan at his father’s shop in Bow Street. I had not seen him in weeks, as he no longer calls on Rose; she is so often occupied in the evenings now. He demanded all the news of the family (meaning Rose) and politely enquired after my appetite: my
enormous
appetite. And so we went along to the cook shop on the Strand for fish pies, green cucumbers, and apple cream fritters, my favourite.

“I am glad to see you eating,” Duncan said with custard cream running down his chin. “You are far to thin for your age.”

I grimaced. My thinness was a frequent topic of discussion in our house—regardless of how much I eat. Rose, tall, with a long, curvy figure, has no patience for my small height or thin frame, and Mother is always quick to point out that men enjoy
“flesh,
and not
bones,
Ellen.”

After a whole pie,
and
five fritters,
plus
a fruit tart—even the baker was impressed—Duncan walked me home to Drury Lane. I was walking slower than usual as my new stays—Rose insisted I begin wearing them and I have yet to adjust to the discomfort, not pain so much as
pressure
—were even tighter with a full stomach and were making it difficult to breathe. In our street, Duncan stopped short when we came upon two people embracing.
The man had his hand inside the woman’s bodice, and her head was tucked inside his arm. I hurried towards our door,
mortified
that we live in such a street, but Duncan had stopped a few paces behind me. He was
looking
at them. Then, quite abruptly, he turned on his heel and left without speaking. Just then the couple disentangled.
Pink ribbons. Rose!
It was Rose! With a drunk and dirty man’s hand down her chemise.

“Ellen!” She rushed towards me, wild-eyed. “How could you?” She shrieked. “How could you bring him here?” The dirty man grinned and staggered off, tugging at his breeches.

“How could
I
?” I fired back. “What were
you
doing—with
him
? What if Mother or Grandfather saw you?” I glanced up to make sure the house shutters were closed. A stripe of candlelight under the door—Grandfather was home. I struggled to open our door (it sticks), and clattered the handle.

“You really have no idea of anything, do you?” she screeched. “You think Mother did not
know
I was here. You think she did not
ask
me to be here?”

“Mother
knows
about this?” I asked, shocked. Then, all at once, the fury left her in one great puff, and she sagged against the door-frame.

“Ellen,” she sobbed. “You have ruined everything. He will never, never forgive me.” She turned, picked up her skirts, and ran out through the alley.

Grandfather, who had heard everything, was sitting by the fire with Jeffrey curled at his feet. Mother is still not home.

Mother did come home—late. I tried to speak to her about what happened, but she had had too much to drink and waved me away. Grandfather, in his linen nightcap, came and gently helped her to bed. Then we waited. Grandfather asked no questions, although he must have heard everything through our thin walls, but just kept quiet company throughout my agitated vigil.

Eventually, we heard Rose. I leapt up at the sound of the latch.

“Sit, Ellen,” Grandfather said, and, stooping, kissed us each good night.

Once we were alone, Rose pulled at her fraying sleeve and began awkwardly, “Mother has a group of girls.”

“For what?” I asked blankly.

“For men … to buy. To go to the alley. Or to the rooms above the tavern. To
be
with.” She looked at me steadily, folding and refolding her hands in her lap. “Mother asked me to be one of the girls. You
must
understand, Ellen,” she continued, catching my hand, “this is the only way. It is so difficult for her; she lost Father, her home, all her fine things. She was a captain’s wife and now … we must do something to get it back.”

“Oh, Rose, no!” I struggled to make sense of her words. “No, Rose, this will never…” This will
never,
ever bring that back.
This
will only bring us lower, I thought, but I did not say so. How could I explain what she ought to know already? Instead, I asked bluntly, “Does everyone know? Jane? Grandfather?”

“Yes. Grandfather knows.”

That
explains his bizarre lack of outrage, I thought.

“He was shocked, but then it is paying for the added expense of his board, so he can hardly object,” Rose continued. “Aunt Margaret could not afford to keep him in Oxford, since he left Christ Church. But it is not all bad,” she said brightly. “Haven’t you noticed that we have meat every week?
And
the chocolate?
And
the extra tallow? By next month I will be able to afford an entirely new ensemble, shoes, hats, petticoats, gloves, everything, and then I shall attract customers of
quality
and really be able to earn some money. Well, perhaps not a hat
and
gloves, but certainly one or the other. It will be a step up, Ellen, I promise.”

“A step up to where?” I cut in sharply. “Where does all this go? Regardless of your hats and petticoats, you will
be,
as you so gently put it, with quality people, and then what? You will
be
nothing to them.”

“Not nothing,” Rose challenged. “Perhaps not as high as a kept mistress, but better than an oyster girl. Anyway, who knows whom I might meet and what might happen? With good clothes, smelling of
real
perfume—not just strong soap? Mother says if we do this, all will be well again.”

“Mother
does it, too?” I interrupted, appalled.

“At first. But it works better if it is younger women. Mother is, after all, thirty-nine.” Rose suddenly sounded like a woman grown worldly and not like my sister at all.

“Who are the other girls?” I asked, faintly.

“Maggie, Susannah, and Lucy mostly. A few others, but they are the
regulars. Susannah has already saved enough to buy
French
underclothes. They are true white. I’m
perfectly
jealous,” Rose said dreamily.

French underclothes?
You give up your whole life for French underclothes? That is a bad bargain no matter how white they are, I thought, looking angrily at my frivolous sister.

“How did this happen? When did this happen?”

“Oh, some time ago. Mother wanted to wait until we were grown up before we started. Lucy just turned thirteen, but she looks so much older, because her
you know
have filled in.” Rose gestured vaguely to her chest. “I was worried because mine were taking
so
long. But it is all right now.” Rose has been recently blessed with a high full bosom. She looked down at my as-yet flat chest. “Don’t fret, Ellen; mine took
ages.
You still may turn out all right.”

“How could Mother ask them?” I shook my head as if to clear it of this nightmare. I know many girls do it, but not
us
. We are better than that, aren’t we? Our father was a captain. Grandfather is in the
church.
We don’t do
this.
And yet Mother … “How much does she take?” I asked, suddenly furious. “Her fee? After all, she is the madam.” I spat out the harsh brothel word.

“I suppose she is,” Rose said thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t thought of it quite like that before, “but it is not like she has, you know, an
establishment.
Her fee? I don’t know. I still haven’t gone upstairs, so I haven’t
been
with anyone yet. But I am sure I will soon. Everyone else has,” Rose said vaguely. “Mother just has set the price so high to
be
with me because I am her best girl and I cost a
fortune
.” She giggled. There was pride in her voice. “You would, too, if you did it—even more because you are younger. I’m sure they would overlook your flat bosom because you are so young. Some men even like that—you might find one of them? Eventually, of course, we were going to ask—”

“No,” I cut her off brusquely, unwilling to hear more. “Don’t ask.”

I am still wakeful, wrapped in the counterpane and sitting in the window, my thoughts wound too tightly to sleep. Outside the sky was brightening in long
pink streaks, but the early light had not yet touched our windows and our room still lay in deep shadow. I pulled the coverlet closer and let my thoughts swing along the well-worn track of shock and understanding. Rose wanted to become a seamstress, I thought irrelevantly. Her designs are so lovely and her hand is so neat … and now. What does a young whore grow up to become? Rose did not seem to share my turmoil and was lightly snoring.

“Rose,” I whispered into the dark. She stirred but did not wake. I had to ask.
“Rose,”
I whispered again, “Duncan didn’t know?”

She turned over to face me but did not open her eyes, “No. I hoped he wouldn’t find out.”

That explained her aloofness, her high-handed refusal to see him of late.

Then, when I was sure she was asleep, softly, I heard her: “I did so want him to love me.”

Oh, Rose.