Exit the Actress (40 page)

“Please tell His Majesty that I have no reply.”

Jerome knocked lightly on my door—in royal livery (it made him look even younger). He handed me another note.

I am back. What happened:

“How did he seem when he gave you this?” I asked the waiting Jerome.

“Seem, madam?”

“Did he seem distressed at all?”

“Yes, madam. He will not allow his gentlemen to ready him for bed. He is waiting upon you.” Jerome shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable in his role as go between. I quickly made a decision.

“I will be ready presently.” I threw a shawl (peach, warm and pretty in candlelight) around my lawn nightgown and followed him into the street, careless of what people would think. When Jerome turned right at the gates, I turned to him. “Are we not going to the Great Court?” Our meeting place.

“He awaits you in his rooms, madam,” he said, holding his flambeau aloft, lighting the way.

His rooms.

Heart and courage, Ellen.

I stood in the shadows as Jerome knocked upon the great door. The Royal Apartments. His rooms—his bedchamber. The door swung inward. True, the bed was hung with richest velvet, and the carpet was thick and soft. Still just a room, I told myself. Nothing to fear. But a
king’s
room. A deep breath. I stepped forward.

He stood just inside, as if he had been waiting. “Ellen.” He opened his arms, folding me into his protective embrace.

And then there were no more words.

Later, lying together in the great bed, I asked him my question. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“Ellen—”

“I know I am only an orange girl, an actress. Even Moll is better born—base born, it’s true, but at least her father is—”

He quieted me with a kiss.

“And still she is reviled—”

“Hush now. I am not ashamed of you.” He tilted my face up to his. “With your pure spirit, how could I ever be? It does not matter who your father was. You have a nobility all your own. Unpolluted, untainted, and marvellously whole. I am so happy when I am with you.”

“Then why—”

“To be my love is a public role. It will change
you
forever. It will change everything for
you
. You will be exposed to scrutiny, criticism, intrigue, malice, and unhappiness. Men wanting power will court you. Women wanting to reach me will despise you. You will be plagued with insincerity, unable to trust anyone’s motives. My wife considers you her friend, and she will distance herself from you. People will watch you, guessing, is she in favour, out of favour? Your life will no longer belong only to you. How could I have done that? To you, who are so free.”

“And now?” I asked, holding my breath.

“And now you
are
my love. It is for you to choose.”

Relieved, I nestled my head back onto his chest and slept soundly. Jerome arrived to take me back to my room at six—early, before the court rose.

“Hurry back before the gossips awake. I do not want to share you yet, if I can prevent it. Is that all right?” he asked tenderly. I nodded happily and reached up to kiss him. How had that seemed so impossible, unbridgeable, only a few hours ago? He neatly tucked my shawl around my shoulders and sweetly kissed me good-bye. I tiptoed away in my nightgown and slippers.

In the grey-pink light the whole world had changed. I felt flooded with
fragile magic. Entering my room, I was surprised to find that everything was just as I had left it. The poppy-red gown I had worn to the picnic was still carelessly heaped on a chair, my velvet slippers still shunted beneath. A cup of cold chocolate was left on the windowsill, and a plate of toast lay on the desk. It felt like the room of a different girl.

This is happiness, I thought, watching the town come to sleepy life, through the sash window. I must remember this feeling.

I keep vigil over our secret. If his name is mentioned, I quickly leave the room, terrified my powerful reaction might show upon my face. Now that it is
our
secret, I want only to guard it. They carelessly bandy his name about, sending delicious ripples of feeling through me. How can others not see it? I am so lightly tethered to this earth; my joy is so great.

She did not notice any change in me, I tell myself. I was just the same.

Tonight:

As we were sitting down to a game of basset after dessert, the queen unexpectedly rejoined the court. She had retired early with a headache but, after taking a tonic from her physician, decided to return to the gaming room. Changed into an ocean-blue satin gown with a simple but elegant neckline of seed pearls, she looked lovely in the candlelight. She pleasantly moved around the room, lightly resting her hand on her husband’s shoulder, standing behind his chair as he played his cards. They seemed easy in each other’s company, enjoying the familiar, genuine affection of a well-matched couple.

I quickly dropped her my deepest curtsey as she approached my chair, and she raised me up with a small sincere smile. “I see you have been lucky tonight,” she laughed musically, gesturing to my pile of winnings.

“So far.” I grimaced. “I will likely lose it all by the end.”

“Ah, more likely you will lend it to your friends, and
they
will lose it,” she said kindly, her ripe accent rolling through her words like a tide.

“True.” I laughed. I did have a tendency to lend away all my money rather than lose it myself.

“Be sure to save something for yourself, sweet Ellen,” she said, gently patting my cheek and moving off to rejoin her husband.

Now alone, I wonder how I can do this to such a very, very good woman?

Back in the theatre. I cannot concentrate on my scripts. I cannot stop daydreaming. I float through my rehearsals—dancing rehearsals, singing rehearsals, script rehearsals—

“Ellen!” shouts Lacy. “Catch up!” They had moved on to one of the French dances—I was still moving through my exercise figures.

The season is all for me. I will star. I will shine. But I am not here. I am away. I am with him. Waiting. Waiting for it to be dark. Waiting for the carriage to come—softly, quietly pulling up at the far end of Bridges Street. Waiting for Jerome to meet me at the gate. Waiting for Mr. Chiffinch (the infamous, procuring Mr. Chiffinch—who is quite sweet, really, despite his infamy) to lead me up the small staircase through the doors to the King’s Suite. And then he is there, and I come alive.

Note
—Alive in both joy and shame. There can be no excuse for what I am doing. My only atonement is to remember that.

A strange day:

We performed the new Dryden,
Ladies à la Mode,
this afternoon to a half-empty house. It was terrible. Dryden had in truth done little but translate the play from the French, and the language felt patchy at best (his new post of Poet Laureate—he took over when Will Davenant died—has made him neglectful of his playhouse duties). We were ill rehearsed, for which I must take my share of blame as I have not been working as I should. After the show, Tom strode onto the stage and delivered a scalding reproof, which was deserved but thoroughly unpleasant. The play shall be pulled and replaced with Rob Howard’s
The Duke of Lerma
. Good—he is in need of a boost since his Sir Positive-At-All fiasco. I shall play Maria, a part I quite well remember and hardly need to study again—thankfully—because I have finally been invited to a late supper with Charles (it has been over a week since our last meeting), and I did not want our plans to be interrupted by an emergency rehearsal. Lacy took us through the great dance only once and then released us (to be back at eight in the morning—but no matter, freedom today!).

Spoke to Peg for a few minutes after rehearsal. She is angry at the high-handed behaviour of Buckingham (no surprise there) towards Rupert. Something to do with horses; I am afraid I wasn’t really listening.

At the stage door Jerome was waiting (not in livery) with a note:

Teddy, seeing my crestfallen face, gently steered me out the door into the street. “Ellen,” he said, trying to gain my attention. My attention, still fixed upon Jerome—Jerome, who had not waited for my reply. He must have had instructions to return directly.

“Ellen,” Teddy said again, this time taking me firmly by the shoulders. “I
know.
I have known throughout that you were entirely successful in Buckingham’s royal bedroom adventure. You have been snuffled out, my sweet fox.” (Teddy loves animal metaphors.) “I know, too, that you wish to keep it secret, and to that end”—he looked at me squarely—“you
must
change your habits.” I looked up into his face, ashamed at my duplicity.

“Oh, Teddy,” I whispered. “How did you know?”

“Ellen, you really are the most diabolical liar.
Everyone
will soon know. It shows upon your pretty face when anyone mentions the king. What a silly girl you are, my sweet.”

I bristled under his criticism, however kindly meant. “Yes, I am his mistress. What of it? I am happy!”