Emilia
London, 1665
Emilia stands outside the entrance to Whitehall, looking up at the windows, praying for a sign. Maybe it’s a sign from the king himself, his melancholy expression turning to one of gladness as he recognises the woman with the flaxen hair who has visited the public gallery every day for the past month, sheltering a little flame of hope in her heart. Maybe it’s just two blackbirds, nestled side by side on the window ledge. A pair together is said to be lucky since the birds are often at war with each other, like England and France, preferring solitude over companionship. The windows hold nothing but cloud and sky.
Emilia begins to weave through the crowd of people entering and leaving the palace via this side doorway. Most are servants running errands. The rest are ordinary folk, like her, seeking out the king’s healing powers or hoping to beg him to right some wrong. A woman in a dirty bonnet clutches her daughter’s hand. The little girl holds a bunch of wilted daisies. A gift for the king? It will take more than daisies, Emilia thinks, then chides herself bitterly for her lack of faith. Luck might be on her side. Entering the palace and climbing the stairs to the high-ceilinged reception room, she scans the space, identifying the people who return, as she does, every day. There is the man with the wooden leg and the blind girl who spends the entire day praying loudly on her knees for the king to notice her. Their familiarity brings both comfort and despair. Emilia knows how to be patient but the endless unrelenting sameness of her days in the Stone Gallery has begun to erode her composure.
In dreams, she is locked in this reception hall. Every door she tries leads nowhere. Every staircase carries her back to these four walls. As she cries out, begging for help, the faceless crowd watches impassively and does nothing. And the king? He never comes. No wonder she’s exhausted. She wishes she could return to Arabella’s rooms and sleep forever, but she can’t give up now.
A woman on Emilia’s left has brought her knitting. Emilia watches the woman unfold some squares of yarn and find her place. Perhaps Emilia should bring some sketching paper and a stick of graphite to pass the time. It’s been so long since she made anything resembling art that she isn’t sure she still possesses the skill. She misses the sense of inner calm she used to gain from sketching or painting. The few art supplies she took with her when they left Walden remain untouched, hidden in her belongings. The successive deaths of Robert’s parents and his ongoing melancholy made the idea of sitting down to contemplate the curved handle of a porcelain vase or a bouquet of flowers seem callous and indulgent. Perhaps one day…
A sudden movement attracts Emilia’s attention. A liveried herald comes to stand at the edge of the stage. Clearing his throat, he announces that the king is indisposed and will not be attending the public gallery.
Concerned mutterings breaks out.
‘When will he return?’ someone shouts.
The herald frowns. ‘I’m afraid I cannot say.’ More muttering, louder now. As the petitioners’ discontent grows, the king’s herald raises his voice in order to be heard over the din. ‘I’ve been advised the king is unlikely to meet with the public again for at least a month if not more. He is presently preoccupied with business and cannot be disturbed. You are welcome to return tomorrow but know that you will be waiting in vain, for His Majesty will not appear.’
His words are greeted by a long groan. The crowd begins to disperse, some throwing hard looks at the king’s herald. But Emilia’s feet are rooted to the floor. Her ears are ringing and her vision blurs. No king. No hope. For the first time, the disappointment she has suffered day after day, week after week, turns to despair. What will she do now? Where will she go tomorrow?
The herald is still standing on the platform. Catching his eye, Emilia says, ‘Please sir, I must speak to the king. Is there nobody else who can dispense clemency in his absence?’
The herald peers down at her. She must cut a pathetic figure, slump-shouldered, her mouth downturned.
‘I’m afraid not, madam. You’ll have to come back when the king is accepting public petitions again. Or you could track him down at the racecourse, like the other mares.’
He chuckles, as if pleased with his saucy rejoinder.
She nods grimly and turns away. ‘Thank you.’
‘Lovely hair,’ he calls after her.
She looks back in time to see him slip through the swagged entrance to the king’s private quarters.
The door thuds closed.
The fastest route from Whitehall to the Duke’s Theatre is via a network of alleys and backstreets which run parallel to the river. After losing her bearings twice, Emilia stops to ask a woman in a stained pink smock for directions.
‘Off to the theatre, are you?’ the woman says. ‘Those actresses are no better than whores.’
Emilia flushes at this brutal and unfair assessment. She longs to defend Arabella, but fear stays her tongue. At least the woman’s directions are reliable. Emilia arrives in Portugal Street to find it choked with carriages. The theatre is unmistakably the most popular attraction this side of the Thames. Built a few years ago to house the most lavish sets and a music pit big enough to hold a full orchestra, it’s considered a triumph of modern architecture. Behind the stone facade flanked by towering columns lies an amphitheatre capable of holding more than eight hundred patrons. There is no shortage of theatregoers. Even old favourites like Hamlet and Dr Faustus have proven exceptionally popular. During twenty years of Puritanical rule, Londoners had suppressed their desire for pleasure; now they have welcomed it back into their lives like a long-lost friend.
Emilia skirts around the noisy patrons crowding the entrance. Hurrying down a narrow lane, she locates the stage door and slips inside. The underbelly of the theatre is dimly lit. Emilia squints through the gloom, trying to discern the landmarks she has heard Arabella describe that will lead her to her dressing room. She turns left at a donkey mask nailed to a wooden beam and right at a suit of armour. Someone rushes past her, nearly knocking her down, the smell of bismuth and body odour wafting in their wake. They don’t stop to apologise and Emilia stumbles on, heading towards the room she guesses to be Arabella’s. The door is closed, but Emilia can hear loud voices within. One of them is Arabella’s. Filled with relief, Emilia knocks. Arabella will know how to comfort her after the king’s unexpected withdrawal. She seems to have left her childhood of want and scarcity behind and built an enviably secure life here in London. Emilia is lucky to be able to rely on her. Bitter hardships are best faced with a friend.
When her knock goes unanswered, Emilia pushes the door open and walks inside.
Her first thought is that she has wandered by accident onto the stage. Although spacious and well-furnished, the atmosphere inside the dressing room is heavy with emotion. Arabella is hunched on a green velvet chaise, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. On the other side of the room, a man Emilia doesn’t recognise stands with his arms folded before a vanity table littered with pots of makeup and combs. Dressed in a demure brown suit, his expression is aloof and resentful. His eyes dart to Emilia. Instinctively, she takes a step backwards. He looks like a man who has made himself the hero of his own story and desires no competition for the spotlight. As she begins to apologise for interrupting, he pushes past her and slams the door closed behind him. Arabella bursts into tears.
‘Oh, Emilia, I’ve made a terrible mistake!’
Emilia rushes forward and drops to her knees. Slipping her arm around her friend’s shoulders, she murmurs soothing words, waiting for Arabella’s distress to blow itself out. When she is finally calm, Emilia says, ‘Who was that man?’
Arabella blows her nose into her handkerchief. ‘That was Stephen Killigrew. He’s the director of the production and the manager of the Duke’s Company.’
‘Was he angry?’
‘With me? Yes!’ Her laugh has a sob in it. ‘Although I’ve done nothing to deserve it, unless you count falling in love with the wrong man to be a grave error.’
She falls silent, leaving Emilia to ponder who her friend could be speaking about. Arabella rises and crosses to the vanity. Lowering herself onto the stool, she examines her face. ‘I look so frightful. How can I go on stage like this? And yet I must. I can’t afford not to. The child will need a nursemaid, someone to watch over him while I work. He will need food and clothes, a cradle, various furnishings…’ She continues prattling while painting her face, as if she’s forgotten Emilia is there. Emilia has to ask her question twice, softly at first and then louder, more insistently.
‘Who is the father? Is it Stephen Killigrew?’
Arabella drops her brush. Her green eyes meet Emilia’s grey ones in the mirror. Slowly, she nods. ‘He refuses to acknowledge it…’ She touches her stomach, still flat under a tightly laced bodice. ‘He insists the child must belong to some other actor. As if I would let any other man touch me. You know they keep a woman here? Stephen pays her to entertain the men, so that they stay away from the actresses. Obviously, he doesn’t place such restrictions on himself.’ She closes her eyes. ‘Oh Emilia, what will I do? This baby will arrive in winter. And in the meantime, who wants to watch a pregnant actress waddling around the stage? But if I can’t work, I can’t afford to live. I’ll be ruined.’
Emilia touches her friend’s shoulder. Her own troubles seem trivial in the face of Arabella’s dire predicament. A small part of her envies the ease with which some women conceive a child. Emilia knows that she would be a good mother. She would protect her child with her life. So many unwanted children are born, yet for all her prayers, God has denied her this blessing. Guilt washes through her as she catches sight of Arabella’s worried expression. An unmarried mother. An actress. Life will be hard for Arabella and her child. She must put aside her jealousy and support her friend.
‘We will find a way for you to keep your child and your career,’ she says.
Arabella inhales deeply.
‘It’s true,’ Emilia continues, hoping she sounds convincing. ‘Believe me. We will just – we will write a new part for you. You can be Madam Bun.’
Arabella smiles. ‘Who will you be?’
Emilia thinks for a moment before answering. ‘I’ll be a rich widow with ten lovers, some young and eager, others old and vigorous. They will spend the whole play running around fighting over me, each hoping I leave them all my money in my will. They will appeal to the audience who will shout out recommendations to win my favour, such as performing suggestive dances, composing sonnets about my beauty, and stuffing their codpieces with gigantic turnips…’
They are both doubled over with laughter now, the day’s pressures escaping in a bout of uncontrollable mirth.
‘God help me,’ Arabella gasps, tears running down her face. ‘I will die of shock and embarrassment when I give birth and must expose myself to a roomful of people.’
‘You do that now,’ Emilia observes.
‘Ha.’ Arabella sobers. ‘You’re right though, in a way. But I should finish getting ready. They’ll send someone to find me before long. I don’t know how I will ever get through today’s performance.’
The orchestra is playing the first strains of the opening act when Emilia prepares to take her place in the box reserved for last-minute arrivals. Seats are restricted to courtiers or high-ranking officials, but one of the male stagehands, a friend of Arabella’s, agreed to sneak Emilia in. As the foot lamps are lit and flicker into life, the stagehand beckons Emilia out of the wings and hurries her up the stairs into the empty box. He retreats to the entrance of the box and stays there, watching her. Emilia, feeling his gaze upon her back, wishes he would leave. Hunching away, she stares down at the actors and the audience from her eyrie, wondering if this is how God feels as he watches his subjects running around committing sins under his nose. It’s wrong, of course, to imagine herself as God. But she’s never had control over anything. All the rooms at Walden, even the folly tower where she painted, belonged to her father-in-law. The only thing Emilia has ever owned is her passion for art and her good looks, which she would gladly trade to go back in time and deflect Bancroft’s suspicions before he discovered the truth.
Sensing the stagehand leave, Emilia relaxes and settles in to watch the play unfold. Supported by a generous donation by the king, Stephen Killigrew has poured an extraordinary amount of money into the production. From Arabella’s descriptions, Emilia pictured the sets to be prettily conceived but flat, lacking depth. She did not expect this intensity of colour – the vivid lushness of the Amazonian jungle brought to life, the bronze sun a golden disc beaming shafts of light across the flagstones of a Peruvian court. Emilia is enthralled. She leans forward, trying to understand how the individual elements of each painted colour have fused to create this alternative world, this landscape located so utterly outside the sphere of seventeenth-century London. In another lifetime, she thinks, I would like to paint such scenes. I would use my imagination and ask travellers for their tales and experiences. I would even, if I had means and were brave enough, travel there with Robert. I would keep those places green in my memories, so that at any moment I could close my eyes and find myself back there, all of life humming around me. I would teach my son to sketch too, or my daughter, if I had one. We’d start with flowers, working our way through the most exotic blooms. Then we would try parrots, trees, beaches, the sky shining through a green canopy, frogs and insects. Such places must exist.
Her reveries are interrupted by a sudden disturbance. Someone has entered the box. Squinting into the darkness behind her, she sees a man wearing a hooded traveling cloak. He sinks into the chair beside her, uncomfortably close. Emilia’s heart begins to pound. Did the stagehand forget this box was occupied? Should she leave? She is on the verge of standing when the stranger pushes back his hood, revealing himself.
It is the king.
For one disbelieving minute, she thinks she must be mistaken. But she has spent too many hours staring beseechingly at him not to recognise him. She bows her head and drops to her knees. How can the king be here? There has never been such an error. The stagehand will surely lose his position for seating them together.
A gentle tap on her shoulder causes her to look up, into the king’s face. He is wearing a humorous expression she has never seen before, and his eyes are dancing. He places a finger against his lips and with the other hand gestures to the seat she has just vacated. Nervously, she obeys.
Down on the stage, the actors are saying their lines, but they might as well be speaking another language for all the meaning they impart. Too terrified to look at the man beside her, Emilia stares sightlessly at the sets which until moments ago were fascinating enough to absorb all her interest. Somehow, she manages to sit through the next hour, watching as Arabella, dressed in gauzy silks and veils, moves about the stage, unbothered by the oppressive weight of a feathered headdress. Killigrew’s instincts are good; she is an excellent actress. Her ability to cycle through a variety of emotions – terror, disgust, sadness, contempt – surprises even Emilia, who has watched her practise in the room they share. She is surely destined for greatness, Emilia thinks, if they can only overcome the not insignificant problem of impending motherhood.
When the play is over, the actors gather on stage to take their bows while the audience applauds and stamps their feet. Killigrew appears. Crossing the stage with an awkward, lopsided gait, he rakes back his hair and waves at the crowd as if to dismiss their ardent enthusiasm. This casual indifference strikes Emilia as contrived. According to Arabella, Stephen loves to be petted and adored. No wonder Arabella fell for him. She suffers a kind of blindness when it comes to men, seeing in them the child she once was, desperate for love and attention.
The king claps, too, ostensibly for the players, although when Emilia glances over at him, she finds him watching her.
He angles his body in the seat. ‘Madam, forgive me for startling you earlier. I’m fond of surprises and royal life offers such little opportunity for mischief. When I saw you sitting there, I couldn’t resist making merry sport of my disguise. You know me, I hope. I’ve seen you in the public gallery. How anyone could fail not to is beyond my comprehension.’
His smooth words quell a little of her anxiety. When he asks for her name, she provides it without hesitation.
‘Emilia,’ he says, drawing out the final letter. ‘Very pretty. I’m sorry we have not had a chance to speak until now. I would have called you forward sooner, but my relationship with the good Lady Castlemaine is at a delicate juncture. I couldn’t risk upsetting her.’
Emilia thinks of the woman with the dark hair, the way she commands the king’s attention every time she appears. Arabella says she is the king’s lover and his chief mistress. Stories about her beauty and wit circulate through the taverns and coffeehouses, along with crude engravings of her image copied from official portraits. The king has gifted her a grand mansion overlooking the river and an army of servants to do her bidding. She’s widely acknowledged to be one of the most powerful women at court. Anything she desires, the king provides. Not even the queen can come between them. Their connection is said to be unshakable. So why would Emilia’s presence in the king’s company upset her?
Reading her puzzled expression, the king says, ‘My Lady Castlemaine is the jealous kind. She knows she has my heart utterly. Still, that isn’t enough for her to tolerate any suggestion that I might be attracted to someone else. And you have, you will forgive me for saying this, an angel’s countenance.’
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’
He smiles. ‘So, fate has brought us to this meeting place, far from the keen eyes of Lady Castlemaine and her spies. Tell me – what is your purpose for visiting Whitehall? Is there something your gentle king can provide?’
Emilia hesitates. How to ask for the thing which has brought her all this way, which will put these miserable few years – with a husband who has lost his humour and his happiness, along with his titles – behind her? Alarmingly, she hears the sound of the audience beginning to dim as the last groups leave the theatre. Time is running out. ‘Your Highness, I came to court to beg you to reconsider the forfeiture of Walden House, which was taken from the Earl of Lennox by your agent, Master Bancroft, three years ago, due to some confusion.’
The king frowns. ‘What was the nature of this confusion?’
‘My father-in-law made a mistake. He tried to protect someone he shouldn’t have. He’s dead now, along with his wife. I’m asking you to reverse the punishment visited upon my husband, Robert, in his father’s name. Since he lost his peerage and his home, my husband has fallen into the deepest melancholy. He has lost his purpose for living. He has been forced to find work in various towns and villages far away from the places he knows and the friends who keep him steady. Taverns, slaughter yards, shipping docks. He is not afraid of hard work and nor am I. In fact, I think the distraction has been good for him. His troubles come to him at night, though. He dreams he is back fighting the war, where he served with the Royalists, longing for the day you would be restored to your throne. When he wakes, crying, as he does often, he must endure the double loss of recalling his situation, caused by his father’s foolish error: homelessness, coupled with an untethering to everything he once held dear.’
‘He has you,’ the king counters.
She smiles sadly. ‘Yes, Sire. He has me. But I cannot perform miracles. I am not enough to make him happy.’
‘You would be enough for me.’
She accepts the compliment awkwardly. ‘I came here for Robert. Not myself.’
‘Yet you must know how beautiful you are.’
‘I have no opinion on my appearance, although I’m very glad to learn that you think me beautiful. If you could also find in yourself the kindness of spirit which would allow you to forgive an old man and rescue his son, still living, from an existence of shame and disappointment, I would be forever grateful.’
The next few minutes are perhaps the longest of Emilia’s life. The king, looking thoughtful, taps his gloved hand against his thigh. Emilia pretends not to notice, although the restless motion provokes her anxiety. She schools herself to remain calm. As the last theatregoers leave, a hush falls over the auditorium. Emilia is aware of the king’s minders, standing guard outside the box’s entrance. Their backs are to her but no doubt they are listening.
‘Madam Lennox,’ he says at last, ‘your concern for your husband is admirable. That you love him is evident. I do wonder if he deserves you, but that’s for him to prove. In the meantime, I invite you to share my bed. My Lady Castlemaine is in a delicate way which is to say, she’s expecting my child. Her condition is making her unusually prickly. She has forbidden me to visit the public gallery and barred me from her bed. I’ve paid for a new nursery and showered her with gifts. Still, she refuses to admit me to her chamber. This leaves me in something of a quandary. I must find a solution to this problem, for it is very vexing. It is causing me some restless nights. Perhaps you, Emilia, are the answer?’
He falls silent, leaving Emilia to contemplate the implication of his words. An uncomfortable prickling spreads across her chest and neck. The phrase ‘share my bed’ repeats itself in her mind. For one strange moment, she imagines the king is like Robert, that he wants the comfort and security of a woman in his bed, watching over him, protecting him while he rests. But no. That is not at all the king’s intention. Her gaze is drawn to the king’s hand, to the jewelled rings resting on the gloved knuckles. The stones in their gold settings are obscenely large. The emeralds glitter, the rubies wink. Little flames flicker in their depths, reflecting the bright candlelight cast by sconces mounted on the theatre walls. For all their bright beauty, the jewels leave Emilia cold. She isn’t filled with the desire to be touched by these hands. The idea is so unsettling, she finds it impossible to frame an answer.
Of course, the king is human. Despite his proximity to God, his divine right to rule, he has a body and must submit to its functions and desires. Emilia has never thought about him going about his day, rising in the morning and using his close-stool, standing still while his attendants strip off his sweaty nightshirt and dress him in his perfumed clothing, getting him ready to greet the citizens waiting in the Stone Gallery. The brutal intimacy of such an image is shocking and unpleasant. A wave of nausea ripples through her stomach. She clenches her jaw and swallows, trying to stop the bile from rising into her throat. Forcing herself to smile, she inclines her head – not quite a nod, but not a flat refusal either.
The king seems to take this as encouragement. Shifting closer, he says, ‘Let me tell you about myself, Madam Lennox. I am a kind and fair ruler. I treat those around me with the utmost care. My private circle is small, but I reward and protect those who prove themselves loyal. There is nothing sweeter to me than good wine, refined conversation and physical affection. In these times, I believe we must take our comfort where we find it. It would please me to grant your request in exchange for access to certain privileges to your company. Assuming you agree, rooms shall be found for you at Whitehall – a temporary arrangement, until a house or some better lodgings can be arranged. You will have everything you want and need. Anything you desire. But you must be gentle and tolerant. You must not refuse me when I pay you a visit. And you must keep our arrangement a secret.’
Without asking for permission, the king drops his hand heavily over hers and squeezes her fingers. Emilia fights the urge to rip her hand away. An enormous pressure begins to build inside her head. She tries to find again the thread of her earlier understanding. In exchange for the restoration of Robert’s titles, the king will make her his mistress. She will be the new Lady Castlemaine, although their affair will be conducted in private, not openly paraded before the court and the queen. What would it be like to lie with the king?
The king is not an unattractive man, but he is a stranger, one whom she has only, just now, begun to think of as a person instead of a figurehead. She imagines he is well versed in the art of making love and that he will expect his intimate companions to have mastered the act. Her experiences with Robert have not fostered much confidence in her ability to please a man. Emilia knows the woman’s job is to make the man desire her. She can’t risk offending the king by spoiling his pleasure. But to refuse him would also give offence. She would have to return to Robert empty-handed. Of all possible outcomes, she wonders if this would grieve her most of all.
She is about to tell the king she needs time to consider when a guard appears and whispers urgently in his ear.
The king frowns. He stands and bows. ‘I apologise, Madam Lennox, but I must take my leave. I promise we will find another opportunity to speak.’
She is too surprised by his abrupt departure to be dismayed. Perhaps Lady Castlemaine’s spies have spotted them together. Numbly, she wanders downstairs and backstage to find Arabella and share with her what has occurred.
The women spend the rest of the night discussing the king’s proposal. Back at Maypole Lane, they fall asleep together on Arabella’s bed, and when Emilia wakes, she wonders if it was all a dream.
Fixing breakfast for Arabella, Emila tries to quiet her mind by busying her hands. When someone knocks on the door, she jumps. Surely the king would not come asking for her answer so soon?
But no – it is a messenger who stands before Emila when she opens the door. He is covered in soot and his eyes are bloodshot. Gaping at him, Emila realises he is the stagehand who ushered her to her seat at the theatre. He holds a note in his shaking hand.
‘There was a fire,’ says the lad. ‘Started in the set room after the show. Some fool must have knocked over a lantern.’ Emilia thanks the boy and rushes to wake Arabella. The note is from Stephen Killigrew, explaining that the damage to the theatre is extensive and the play will need to close until an alternative venue can be found. Arabella is to await further instructions.
They are lucky to be alive. But how will Arabella bear this loss? It could be a month or more before Killigrew secures another theatre. A month or more with no money coming in, and a child on the way. Emilia grasps her friend’s hand. They will bear this bad news together, she decides. Just as they will deal with the king.