Part 27 (1/2)
”I must say,” Teddy spoke from the bed, without opening his eyes, ”that was very well done, old girl.”
”Yes,” said Chiffinch quietly. ”Very well done.”
When My Friend Is in Trouble
February 17, 1669-Whitehall (morning) Good G.o.d, when will these boys stop punching each other? Last night at the king's private dinner for the Dutch amba.s.sador (excellent manners, very white teeth), Johnny began to tease Tom Killigrew, who usually begs off and does not come to these things, as his wilder days are long over, but the king had asked for him personally. I think he thought Tom's presence would ease my nerves-it did. It was an informal dinner, but I am unaccustomed to dining with foreign dignitaries.
The king himself helped me dress, choosing a square-necked, deep raspberry satin dress (I wasn't sure with my red hair, but he insisted) and slender black slippers. Once I was dressed, coiffed-a la negligence-and scented, the king returned and presented me with a beautiful necklace of enormous, evenly matched pearls. I threw my arms around his neck, and Monsieur Bertrand, my hairdresser, cried out in alarm as his delicate work was crushed. Charles was delighted with my reaction and proceeded to spend twenty minutes explaining the mechanics of the newly fas.h.i.+oned spring clasp. We were very nearly late for supper.
In any event, the dinner went smoothly, and we were all enjoying some music-the beautiful and famous Arabella Hunt played the lute and sang in her haunting soprano, and James York played some lovely compositions of his own, I had no idea he was so musical-and fine claret afterwards, when Johnny, drunk and looking for trouble, began to antagonise Tom: asking him why it is that the King's playhouse is so much less imaginative than the Duke's? Was he short of good writers? Obviously, he must be if he employs Dryden, he reasoned in a menacing voice. Does he lack the money to pay good writers-and, if so, would he care for a loan? Does he want for good actors who can enact good plays? And on and on and on on. Tom sat thunderstruck. Johnny is his friend, and while he is always teasing about the writing, Dryden's writing mostly, and the re-used sets and the patched costumes, it is unlike him to be outright cruel. Tom flushed furious pink and began to counter the a.s.sault when the king and the duke (the respective patrons of the two theatres) broke in, good-naturedly calling for an end to the unpleasantness. Just then, while the king was still speaking, Johnny leaned over and boxed Tom's ears. Without another word, Charles stood and, gripping him by the elbow, marched him from the room. They did not return.
Later-King's Apartments, Whitehall ”You forgave him? Already?” I asked Charles, bewildered. Dot and her new litter (six pups!) settled down beside me. ”You do not require him to publicly apologise to the amba.s.sador, or to your brother, or just to Tom, at least?” Or me? I thought but did not say.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Charles take off his periwig and slippers and hand them to Buckingham, who was acting as Groom of the Bedchamber-he really is lazy, not bothering to turn down the bed and leaving the door to the King's Closet ajar, meanwhile drinking most of the wine-but Charles invites such familiarity and chooses not to curb him. Buckingham was weaving about the room, royal slippers in one hand and a wine-gla.s.s in the other.
”In the wardrobe,” I directed curtly. ”Dot will chew them up by morning otherwise.”
”Of course he forgave him,” Buckingham answered for the king, putting the slippers away. ”What is he to do? Punish him for a silly prank? That would make Charles look ridiculous. It was harmless, Nell,” Buckingham said easily. ”Johnny had a bit to drink and was just roughhousing. Tom knows that.”
He banged the wardrobe shut, startling the sleeping spaniels. Privately, I thought Tom knew nothing of the sort and was shocked and hurt by Johnny's behaviour.
”Roughhousing in front of the Dutch amba.s.sador, the king, and the Duke of York?”
”Why not?” Buckingham shrugged. With that, he swept an elegant bow and swaggered out, without waiting to be dismissed.
”You can't think that? Surely, he must be shaken out of this and not indulged?” I asked Charles once we were alone. He had been strangely quiet. ”Johnny has been drunk before, but this was different. He was so angry, and his behaviour, well, it was just not acceptable.”
”Yes,” Charles said soberly as he climbed into bed. ”Yes, he is angry. And I forgave him.”
”Angry with whom whom?”
”Everyone: you, me, James, Dryden, the queen ... everyone who is content in their life, as he can find so little contentment in his own. Ellen, he is ... ill.”
I had heard vague rumours of Johnny's illness. The French pox. ”I thought it wasn't confirmed by a physician,” I said weakly.
”I have sent for Dr. Denis from Paris-he will make a final diagnosis-but it is not hopeful, sweetheart. And Johnny knows it.”
I turned into his chest and closed my eyes to the deranged, disfiguring horror of his words.
”But I know Johnny will remember himself,” Charles said softly. ”He will regret his behaviour in the morning and apologise, without my asking. He loves me too much not to.”
I hope so, I thought. I very much hope so.
February 18 (early) No apology-instead, disaster. This morning Johnny, still drunk, dismantled Charles's great sundial. Without reason or explanation, he left it in gleaming golden chunks on the lawn. Charles is furious.
Dr. Denis arrives tomorrow. I cannot find it in myself to be angry with Johnny.
February 22 Diagnosis: as predicted. Prognosis: terrible. Dr. Denis prescribed a course of mercury baths and returned to France.
February 27, 1669-Bagnigge House (snow) I was sitting in my tiny drawing room reading a new comedy for the spring season when I heard a single carriage thunder into the drive. I looked up, hoping it was a furniture wagon bringing the new feather mattresses. The bedsteads have arrived but no mattresses yet-uncomfortable.
”I've decided,” the king said, stamping his boots to shake off the snow. ”I'm sending him away. This morning was the last straw.”
Johnny. I knew from his tone that it must be Johnny, and from the taut lines of Charles's face that it must be serious. I rang the silver bell for Mrs. Lark to bring the coffee and cakes. As Mr. Lark was spending so much time here, I had decided to hire Mrs. Lark to do the cooking and was.h.i.+ng and to take care of the animals, the growing number of animals-Grandfather has come to join me and brought his bad-tempered goat Jezebel; sadly, Jeffrey pa.s.sed soon after Great-Aunt Margaret. The Larks have happily moved into the small apartment above the stables and are quickly whipping this house into shape. Grandfather and Mr. Lark have finished repairing the moulding in the huge rectangular dining room and have moved onto refitting the draughty bedroom windows. Grandfather loves a project. Mrs. Lark has scrubbed down the entire house, top to bottom, unearthing very pretty woodwork buried beneath years of dust and dirt. And this is just my tiny country home. G.o.d knows how many people I will need to hire when I move to the new London house that I finally accepted from Charles.
”Away?” I asked, turning back to Charles, who was settling himself onto the rug, spreading cus.h.i.+ons by the fire. Even though I now have furniture, very fine furniture that Charles helped me to order (and pay for), he seems to prefer the floor. Molly immediately came waddling over and, shaking out her feathers, settled down beside him, pus.h.i.+ng her long beak into his coat pockets. Ruby and Scandalous were busy cavorting with his pack of spaniels under the dining table and did not notice the treats for the taking.
”Away where?”
”France, soon. I'll pack him off with letters for my sister. Let him try this kind of nonsense in Louis's court. I won't have him here.” Molly found the crackers meant for her in his left pocket and began to crunch them with gusto.
”What happened this morning?” I asked, fearing the answer.
Mrs. Lark brought in the coffee tray. She always keeps a pot brewing in case the king unexpectedly visits, which he does-often.
”He was baiting the Duke of Richmond, Frances's husband, who is not bright but harmless, and it was resolving into a duel. Frances was hysterical and came to fetch me. I broke it up, calmed the dullard duke, and sent Johnny away. He will leave in a few weeks, once the correspondence is arranged. At least he can do something useful. Until then, he is to stay at Adderbury.” Charles leaned his head back onto a cus.h.i.+on, his mouth set in a resolute line.
”Will you see him before he goes?”
”No. Not unless he is sober. And I do not think he has been sober for some time.”
March 12, 1669-Newmarket Johnny sailed this morning, and as promised, Charles did not see him. I sent him a brief note, wis.h.i.+ng him a good journey and a peaceful stay. I did not wish him joy. It would have felt false.
Later Cards tonight with Savile and Charles. Savile told a story I had never heard. When Johnny was in the navy, his s.h.i.+p came under heavy enemy fire. Standing on the deck in great danger, Johnny and two other sailors made a solemn pact. If any of the three were shot and killed, the dead man must appear to the other two and rea.s.sure them of the sweetness of G.o.d's grace in heaven. Both of the other sailors were killed that day, but neither returned to Johnny.
April 13, 1669 Johnny's wife, Elizabeth, gave birth to a daughter, Anne, at Adderbury yesterday. She is to be called Nan for short. He missed it. Rose and I sent a basket of new baby linens, a wooden rattle, and a soft woollen blanket. Charles sent a gold-and-pearl pendant and his love.
Exit the Actress
When My Greatest Rival Is Removed
May 1669-Theatre Royal ”It is awful, admit it. His worst yet,” Teddy said, banging the script down on the stage. Papers went flying; it was cheaply bound and came apart easily.
”It isn't my favourite, but at least he's turned out something, something,” I said, starting to pick up pages.
”Tyrannick Love, or the Royal Martyr-what sort of t.i.tle is that? Dryden ought to know better,” Teddy continued, roughly taking off his soft rehearsal shoes and banging them down on the stage, too. It had taken nearly two months for his collarbone to completely heal but he was now back to performing, and was irritated that Dryden had not written him a part. ”And Nell keeling over at the end-who wants to see that?”
”What?” I asked, alarmed.
”Honestly, Ellen!” Hart scowled at me. ”The man writes the play for you, and you didn't even bother to read it, did you?” Without waiting for my response, Hart stomped off to his tiring room.
He was right. I had not finished reading the script and had no idea how the play ended. I have been behind lately, spending all my time with the king. He is currently occupied with his secret negotiations with the French. Ostensibly, it is an alliance to end the Dutch war-still dragging on, who can believe it? His sister, the Madame, is acting as intermediary as this is a treaty of some delicacy-they are also, I was appalled to discover, considering a future secret contract that will bind Charles to enter the Catholic faith in exchange for Louis's considerable financial aid-a contract that does not specify when when he must convert to Catholicism but gets the king out his current horrifying debt without resorting to Parliament. Dear G.o.d, let no one find out. he must convert to Catholicism but gets the king out his current horrifying debt without resorting to Parliament. Dear G.o.d, let no one find out.
”If it solves my money problems, pays my navy, builds my hospitals, and helps me to better safeguard my people ... won't G.o.d understand?” Charles reasoned.