The Darling Strumpet (18 page)

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Authors: Gillian Bagwell

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General

BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
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“And so she should be,” Mohun agreed. “Well done, Nell.”
She blushed happily at the praise as Hart swept her off her feet.
“You were the best of the new girls,” he said, kissing her before setting her down. “No question. You’ve got true presence and a great gift for comedy. And Killigrew’s agreed—we’ll put you on in
The Siege of Urbin
next. You’ll have four or five quite nice little comic scenes that will let you stretch your wings a bit.”
 
 
 
“I’M REALLY TO WEAR THESE, AM I?” NELL ASKED HART, HOLDING UP the breeches that were part of her costume as Malina, a girl who disguises herself as a boy.
“You are. And I don’t know whether I’ll be more proud that those sleek little legs of yours are mine to touch, or ready to kill anyone for looking at them.”
Nell loved playing in
The Siege of Urbin
even more than she liked
Thomaso
. She had the second-largest female role, after Anne Marshall as Celestina, and their first scene opened the play. Later, disguised as a young man, she flirted outrageously with Betty Davenport as Clara, and her terrified reaction when Hart as the Duke drew his sword against her always got shouts of laughter.
Nell also relished the opportunity to work with Michael Mohun and Nicholas Burt, always learning as she watched and played with them, and grateful for their compliments and words of advice.
Looking over at Hart at supper one evening after the play, she laughed to remember how she had been jealous of him and Anne Marshall. She adored him with her soul, and he had never given her a moment’s reason to think that he did not feel the same.
 
 
 
THE END OF THE YEAR WAS ALMOST COME, AND SOON IT WOULD BE 1665. Nell and Hart had stayed up late and come to Tower Hill to get a good view of the comet that had illuminated the sky for several nights. They stood together in the dark, looking heavenward. There was a chill wind biting, and clouds scudded across the icy face of the moon, waxing toward fullness.
“There!” Hart cried.
“Oh!” Nell sighed. “Magnificent.”
The comet shone bright, trailing a sparkle of stars in its wake. It must be a harbinger of glorious things to come, Nell thought. This year had been one of supreme happiness, and the coming year promised more joy, with Hart at her side and her first leading role.
“When will the comet come again?” she whispered.
“Not until you and I are long gone from this earth, sweeting,” Hart said into her ear, holding her close. “So look well upon it, that we may always hold this moment in our hearts.”
 
 
 
NELL WAS SO CAUGHT UP IN THE EXCITEMENT OF THE PLAYHOUSE that she cared little for what was happening in the world beyond. But it was becoming impossible to ignore the talk of war with the Dutch that was looming on the horizon. Many of the scenekeepers at the playhouse were sailors, like Dicky One-Shank, and Nell found a knot of them gathered in angry discussion outside the stage door one morning.
“What’s happened?” she asked Dicky.
“The press-gangs are out,” he said, “and they’ve taken up Bill Edwards and John Gilbert.”
“Press-gangs?” Nell asked, looking in confusion at the agitated faces around her “What’s that?” A babble of voices broke out in explanation.
“The king is readying for war, and needs sailors to build up the navy,” said Matt Kempton, a young red-headed giant. “And if he cannot get enough sailors who are willing, he gets them any way he can. The press-gangs pluck men off the street and press them into service, whether they will or no.”
“But that’s terrible!” Nell said. “Is there nothing to be done?”
“Nothing, once they’ve been taken off by force,” Dicky said. “The only thing is to avoid capture in the first place.”
 
 
 
JOHN DRYDEN’S NEW PLAY,
THE INDIAN EMPEROR
, WAS A GRAND TRAGEDY in verse. The part of Cydaria, a noble lady, was far more challenging than Nell’s first two roles, and she needed much training before she would be ready. Lacy was undertaking her lessons in carriage and movement.
“Slow down,” he exhorted her. “Cydaria has no need to hurry and bustle like that. And don’t fidget and shift when you’re not speaking. Stand straight and proud. Stillness draws more eyes and lends more regal grace than any movement.”
And though she would not dance in this play, Lacy was looking further ahead.
“You’ll need the dancing soon enough. And when you do, you’ll not want to have it all to learn on top of your words and everything else.”
So he worked with her daily, teaching her court dances, from the stately pavane to the lively galliard and coranto. Nell was surprised at the delicacy and liveliness with which he moved.
“You have to think yourself light,” he explained. “Picture yourself like a puppet, your head suspended by a thread dropping down from heaven. That’s it. You’ve got it now.”
Nell had far more lines than she’d had in her previous parts. Hart read them to her and she repeated them back until she had them pat. He was astonished at how quickly she learned the words. She heeded his advice and repeated them over to herself whenever she could.
“You’ll need that discipline,” Hart said. “You may need to keep a score of parts in your head so that you can perform with not much more than a run-through.”
“A score of parts?” Nell asked, horrified.
“Easily, if you do well. I know forty or more.”
 
 
 
REMEMBERING THE WORDS WAS ONE THING. UNDERSTANDING THEM was quite another. With a frequency she found embarrassing, Nell had to ask Hart to explain the meaning of a word or a whole string of words—each of which she understood on its own, but which when put together seemed incomprehensible.
“What does it mean, ‘My feeble hopes in her deserts are lost?’”
“It means Cydaria fears Cortez can never love her. She thinks he loves Almeria, you see.”
“Oh,” said Nell. “Well, why don’t she say that, then?”
“Try it again,” said Hart. “And remember the verse. If you’re speaking it right you can feel the meter, and it will help you both to remember the lines and to speak them so they will be understood.” Nell tried to think of the verse, and spoke again.
“My feeble hopes in her deserts are lost:
I neither can such power nor beauty boast:
I have no tie upon you to be true,
But that which loosened yours, my love to you.”
 
As soon as Nell thought she had mastered the verse in a speech, Hart would make her do it over.
“Good. Now again. And this time you must make it seem as if you are thinking and speaking the words for the first time. Listen:
“Make me not doubt, fair soul, your constancy,
You would have died for love, and so would I.
 
“Do you see?”
Nell was amazed, as always, by how Hart spoke the words as though they were his own. Listening to him, she was struck by the thought that her own speech placed her upbringing squarely and undeniably in the maze of filthy streets and alleys around Covent Garden.
“You’ve no need to make big changes,” Hart assured her. “Your voice is pleasing and strong. Pronounce a few words differently and you’ll be fine. In this speech, for instance, remember there’s an ‘h’ sound at the beginning of ‘heaving,’ ‘heart,’ and ‘here,’ but not of ‘injuries.’”
Each day Hart and Lacy worked Nell rigorously, prompting, correcting, and praising. Each day she felt that she knew a world more than she had known the previous day, and yet became more keenly aware of how much more there was to know about the business of acting. Her head was full of the lines she was learning. Her body ached from the unaccustomed dancing. She found that she was hungry all the time and ate ravenously. She could not easily get to sleep at night, though once asleep she slept like the dead.
 
 
 
AT LAST CAME THE DAY OF THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF
THE INDIAN Emperor
. Nell’s stomach had been churning with nervous excitement since she had woken, and now, pacing backstage as she waited to go on, she was terrified. Why, oh, why had she ever wanted to be an actress?
Her cue came. She launched herself onto the stage, conscious of the hundreds of eyes upon her. Her throat tightened, and she could barely speak her first line, an aside. Then she looked to Hart, found safety in his eyes, and to her surprise, her voice came out clear and strong.
“Thick breath, quick pulse, and heaving of my heart,
All signs of some unwonted change appear …”
 
The symptoms required no acting—her heart felt as if it would leap from her chest. She struggled to control her breathing as Hart had taught her, inhaling deeply but silently at the end of the line so that she could give her next two lines on one breath.
“I find myself unwilling to depart,
And yet I know not why I would be here.”
 
Hart moved closer to Nell, taking her hands in his. She looked up into his eyes. He smiled, and she felt her body relax in the warmth of his presence as she continued with the speech.
“Stranger, you raise such torments in my breast,
That when I go, (if I must go again)
I’ll tell my father you have robbed my rest,
And to him of your injuries complain.”
 
“You raise such torments in my breast.” The words put her feelings for Hart so perfectly that she felt as if she were truly speaking to him, and her fear melted away.
 
 
 
LATER, NELL SAT NEXT TO HART AS THE COMPANY SUPPED, HER HEAD pleasurably abuzz from wine. In the flickering candlelight, she looked at the faces around her, laughing at some jest of Lacy’s. It was dark and cold outside, but here all was warm and snug, and she was among friends. She heard once more in her head the opening lines of the play, and thought how apt they seemed.
On what new happy climate are we thrown,
So long kept secret, and so lately known?
 
The day after the first performance, Nell went to the stage to check her props and found Dicky and several of the other scenekeepers gathered in the wings, some with tears on their weather-roughened faces. Matt Kempton turned as she approached.
“It’s the
London
,” he said. “The ship that Bill and John were pressed to. It’s blown up, with great loss of life.”
“They were my shipmates,” Dicky said, wiping his ruddy cheeks. “And my captain, Robert Lawson. We all served in the
Fairfax
at Goodwin Sands. Where I lost my leg.”
“How many are lost?” Nell asked. “Are Bill and John killed?”
“No one knows yet,” Matt said, “but the crew numbered more than three hundred, and they say but few survived.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
 
 
“
Y
OU SHOULD LEARN HOWEVER YOU CAN,” HART SAID. “WATCH other actors. Observe what works and what does not, and why.”
So today Nell sat with Beck Marshall in an upper gallery at the Duke’s Playhouse, to see their rival company perform Lord Orrery’s new play,
Mustapha
. Nell didn’t think much of the play, but the day was a success anyway, because the king was there.
Barbara Palmer sat beside him, preening and fanning herself, obviously aware that she was being watched as closely as the actors. Nell thought how magnificently beautiful she looked, but there was something cold and hard about her. The flashing eyes she turned on the king were proud and triumphant. Did she love him? Nell wondered. She saw little tenderness in Lady Castlemaine’s gaze.

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