Exit the Actress (5 page)

I watch Rose at her toilette. She has new tortoiseshell hair-combs (expensive!). I won’t ask her where she got them. She frowns into the cracked glass, trying them this way and that. Today she rouged her cheeks with Spanish paper—something I have never seen her do, as her cheeks are pink anyway—blew me a kiss, and left.

Four in the morning and they are not home. Fretful, I crept downstairs; Grandfather in his nightshirt and slippers was dozing in his chair. Jeffrey, beside him, was softly wheezing in his sleep. How can she do this?

Six in the morning. She must have done it.

Up early and off to the market. Mr. Morton (Rose and I call him the Octopus—eight hands, fishy smell) is now doubling my share of oysters to sell. Rose sleeps late in the mornings as she is out so late at night. I do not ask her where she has been. “You could sleep, too, if you—”

“No.”

August 8, 1662

Coal Yard Alley, Drury Lane, London Dear Margaret,

A brief missive to tell you that I am happily settled here and the girls are well. I am pleased to report that both my granddaughters are
beautiful.
Rose (fourteen) is taller than I expected for her age and slim, with a rosy, farm-girl complexion, as befits her name, and a great mane of chestnut waves. Ellen (twelve) is small but bright and carries herself neatly. She has an expressive, heart-shaped little face, and although her hair curls beautifully, it is an unfortunate copper colour—perhaps it will darken later? She is a quick, sensitive child, and her lively antics are the heart of the family.

I wish I could tell you that Thomas’s wife, Nora, is also well, but I fear she is not. She amply provides for her girls and myself, but I fear she has had to lower herself to fearsome depths to do so. I think of you, Margaret, in the snug house by the river and can hear the evening bells chiming out over the colleges. How are the chicks? Are they laying yet?

Your loving brother,

Dr. Edward Gwyn

It was splendid! This morning the king brought his new queen to London from the palace at Hampton Court. All of London turned out for the royal couple. It was like a feast day: a man was playing a bass violl, people were singing and leading rowdy country reels right in the road, the streets were hung with garlands and ribbons, and all the street sellers were shouting to be heard above the fray. On each corner men in royal livery with flowers in their hats liberally poured out wine. The result was drunken but good-natured chaos. Duncan and I adorned ourselves with flowers: a fat peony in my hair and a yellow rose tucked into his smart blue hat. Nowadays, we do not speak of Rose.

The crowd was so great outside Whitehall, drifting up from the riverbank, that the palace guards (also wearing flowers) were having trouble preventing the people from climbing the wall and entering the Privy Garden. Squinting into the bright sun, we saw a small group of onlookers who had climbed the rickety scaffolding and were watching from atop the great Banqueting Hall.

“Yes,” I said with conviction.

“Oh no. Ellen!” Duncan called after me, but I had already begun to climb.

We scrambled up the scaffolding, and people already on top of the Banqueting Hall hoisted us up—it is much higher than it seems, but such an orderly pretty building up close, hard to imagine that this is where they executed the old king. Today, the sun was hot in an empty blue sky, and the river below us was blanketed in colour. I pushed back my cap and shaded
my eyes to get a better view. Looking down, I couldn’t see the water for the crush of boats and barges. Each boat was festooned with bright canopies and trimmed with ribbons and ropes of fresh flowers. One of the men who had pulled me up pointed out the king’s tented barge shimmering in green and gold and behind it the queen’s barge covered by a pink-and-white-striped awning.

I could see the king standing (so tall!) in the prow of his barge—not under the canopy but waving to the crowds lining the banks and bridges—but I could not make out the queen. My informed neighbour, a Mr. Peeps (funny name, I wonder how he spells it?), also pointed out Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine, cutting a fierce and bright (she was covered in glittering stones—not quite right for this time of day, I’d say) silhouette on a lower platform at the edge of the river. She is dark, with a generous figure and the heavy lidded eyes that are so fashionable now but to me just look sleepy. Next to her was a nurse with a starched collar holding a baby—a red-faced, screaming baby.

“Is that the king’s baby?” I shouted to my neighbour, but he could not hear me above the crowd.

The great guns on either side of the river sounded as the royal barges landed at Whitehall Bridge and the king himself handed down his little queen (she is tiny!) and led her towards the palace. I could not see her face as her head was bowed, but it was sweet the way she clung to her new husband. Rose was right—her hair is enormous, sticking out on either side of her head like elephant ears.

“Foreign,” the man behind me grunted.

“Mmm,
dark
and foreign,” my neighbour agreed.

“She dresses English—that’s a start,” a woman behind me in striped taffeta remarked, squinting down at the new queen. “But she looks like a hairy little field mouse, just the same.” Others around her laughed in accord.

People up and down the riverbank must be watching, criticising, and making similar comments right now, I thought with disgust. I felt compelled to rise to this little woman’s defence when the king, passing below the balcony, looked up and, with a flourish,
bowed
to Lady Castlemaine! She did not modestly cast her eyes down, but boldly kept her head up and deliberately took the squalling baby from the nurse and slowly dropped
into a long, deep curtsey—displaying her expansive bosom. The court and crowds were riveted, waiting for a reaction from the royal couple. The king casually watched her rise and nodded in easy acknowledgement, and the procession moved on. The little queen looked around for explanation from her ministers and her Portuguese ladies (all in black and
not
dressed English). Everyone carefully avoided her eyes.

Later, Duncan and I wandered home, sharing a cone of sugar-cakes. He used his linen cuff to brush the sugar from my chin, and finally mentioned the unmentionable. “Is she happy?” he asked, faltering. “Doing
that,
I mean.”

“Oh, Duncan.” I did not know how to answer him.

Sunday, September 21 (Lord’s Day)

Farm Cottage, Oxford

Dear Edward,

So happy to hear that you are comfortably settled in London. The girls sound attractive—make sure to watch them. Ellen in particular sounds the very picture of her father. He was always such an able and likeable mimic and had such tidy movements. He, too, suffered fiery curls. I am sorry to hear that Nora is not thriving, but then she has always been a selfish woman, given to melancholy and exaggeration. You must not let her influence the girls. Are they attending church? Washing regularly? Practicing their music? Minding your lessons? I am quite sure Nora did not pay the least attention to their education. You did not mention any of this in your letter. Do try to be more specific when you write next, dear.

Edward,
is
Nora taking proper care of you? I worry with winter coming on and your delicate health. Does she know how to make the bread and milk poultice for your cough? The Michaelmas term is starting, and Oxford is bustling again. The chickens are laying, and the calf is weaned. The cheese is heavenly.

Your loving (and worried) sister,

Margaret

Note
—A don called Pressman has applied for the room. He will be teaching history at Pembroke beginning this term. He is clean and quiet and can pay the rent (a month in advance, and I was sure to check under his fingernails for dirt). I have decided to take him on, provided he is willing to bring in his own bath-water and feed the goats.

The Octopus has taken to pinching my bottom after he fills my basket. I have become adept at outmanoeuvring him, but I have to be quick. Exhausting. “You could…” Rose says.

“No, I couldn’t,” I repeat firmly.

Rose still undresses in the dark, regardless of whether I leave a candle burning or not.

“The world will end a week from tomorrow,” Rose informed me breathlessly, shedding her heavy muffler. It was one of her rare afternoons at home. “I just had it from a woman in the market,” she continued, hanging her icy mittens over the hearth rail. “Everyone is talking about it.”