Emilia
London, 1665
Emilia’s first visit to the Fortune takes place a week after her outing with the king. Arabella has been awake most of the night turning restlessly under the bedsheets, suffering the last effects of a lingering cold. As the sun peeks through the shutters, she turns to Emilia, her eyes swollen.
‘I’m so sorry for keeping you up.’
Trying to hide her exhaustion, Emilia smiles. ‘Save your apologies. I was awake anyway. This business with the king has ruined any possibility of a good night’s sleep. I don’t think I’ll know a moment’s peace until it’s resolved.’
Sniffling into a handkerchief, Arabella shifts onto one elbow. ‘But how will it end?’
Sitting up, Emilia stretches her arms above her head. ‘There’s no way of knowing.’ She turns her face away so Arabella can’t see her worried frown. Arabella views everything in life as if it’s a play. She wants instant resolution and a happy ending. She wants the actors to stick to their parts. Emilia wishes Arabella could appreciate that there are many elements here which are out of her control. The sense of power she experienced when she struck her bargain with the king has ebbed away, leaving uneasiness bordering on panic. She must write to Robert. She must implore him for his help or, if he cannot give it, then at least he might grant permission for her to fulfil the king’s wishes. Could she even go through with it? The idea of his wet lips pressed against her mouth makes her stomach contract. Closing her eyes, she inhales forcefully through her nose. No decision has yet been made. There is still time.
She asks Arabella if they should send a message to Winnie to cancel their appointment.
Arabella sighs. ‘No. I think we had better go and make an appearance as promised. Winnie has finished casting the final roles. I’m excited to meet the other actors and begin rehearsals. If the play is as great a success as Winnie promises it will be, Stephen Killigrew will soon be begging me to return. Of course, I will refuse but I will let him think he has a chance before I tell him no.’
Her happy mood lasts all the way to the theatre. Winnie has sent a carriage to convey them to Blackfriars. When they arrive, they are helped from the conveyance by a young female attendant who has clearly been instructed to wait for them, keeping watch. The girl escorts them towards an impressive two-storey building. The exterior has been freshly painted and projects an ambience of grandeur and welcoming cheer. When they step inside, however, Emilia is surprised to see sections of the panelled walls are missing. Some of the boxes are only half-built, the empty platforms still requiring seats and privacy barricades before they can be used. Black mould clings to the columns framing the stage and the ceiling is damaged, flakes peeling off in long ribbons. Winnie has exaggerated the progress of the renovation.
Their guide disappears to fetch Winnie, leaving the women alone. Arabella’s fingers dig into Emilia’s arm. The glance she throws her requires no translation. This is a terrible mistake! Emilia is on the verge of recommending to Arabella that they go outside for some fresh air when Winnie appears in front of them, flanked by a group of women. She is wearing a man’s satin waistcoat and a long skirt. Her hair flows loosely around her shoulders, creating an auburn halo which glints in the light from the lanterns. She beams at them, bowing low and then extending her arms in greeting.
‘You’re here! I can scarcely believe my own eyes. The incomparable Miss Arabella Pearson. Welcome to the Fortune, Miss Pearson. Welcome to our family.’ To those gathered around her she adds, ‘Friends, Miss Pearson, whose beauty is surpassed only by her skill and intelligence, will be the perfect lead for our production. She is a child’s laughter and bells ringing out across the Thames and sweet summer cherries and winter sunshine. She is our star.’ She begins to applaud enthusiastically and the others follow suit.
Arabella is smiling now, all trace of her earlier hesitation vanished. She greets the other actors warmly, shaking their hands and laughing in delight as the younger ones, excited by her presence, ply her with compliments.
Winnie introduces the woman wearing a leather apron as Hannah Clark, the head carpenter. ‘Hannah’s father builds the king’s ships down in Deptford. She’s been restoring the stage and drawing up plans to have the columns rebuilt. I know it looks like a lot of work but she’s confident she can have it all done by the time we open. Her sisters are going to come and help, too.’
Tucking her thumbs into her apron strings, Hannah outlines her plans for the restoration of the theatre based on the training she received from her father, a carpenter, who was blessed with five daughters but no sons. As soon as they were old enough, he put the girls to work in his shop to make ends meet, showing them how to measure and cut the beams of wood he used to build the foundations of other people’s houses. They learned how to hammer nails and remove them, how to construct furniture, how to scribe to ensure the beams fit tightly together and bore the loads they were assIgned. But when the opportunity to work on the king’s ships came up, their father seized it and moved away, leaving the girls in the family home, sending money back for their care and maintenance.
‘But we could not give up our passion for construction,’ Hannah tells Emilia. ‘We asked around for any little jobs that needed doing. We honed our skills and bought better tools. Now we hire ourselves out to anyone who is willing to pay. Not everyone is happy. We must regularly bribe the carpenter’s guild in order to continue working. It’s our hope that in time they will allow women to apprentice themselves to master builders and learn a proper trade. The Fortune is our most ambitious project yet. Have no fear, ladies. We will make it greater and grander than ever it was before it fell into ruin.’
‘I have every faith in you,’ Winnie says. ‘Come, Miss Pearson. Let me show you the rest.’ She leads them towards the back of the theatre. Thankfully, these areas appear less dilapidated than the main auditorium. The storage areas were sealed before the previous owner left, meaning some sets have survived. ‘They are all a little tired and dated, I’m afraid. Not altogether suitable for our purposes. I hope we can find someone to refresh them. If you hear of any talented artists looking for work, you must tell me.’
‘Emilia could paint them,’ Arabella says, shooting Emilia a meaningful look. ‘She is an excellent artist.’
‘Is that so?’ Winnie says. ‘You wouldn’t need to redo the sets entirely. Just go over what’s already there. I will supply the equipment and the paint.’
Emilia hesitates. Then she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s very tempting, but I’ve never worked on anything larger than a canvas and I fear you would only be disappointed.’
‘If you change your mind…’ Winnie leads them away to inspect the music pit. Emilia feels a little guilty but what experience or skill can she bring? She could use the money, it’s true. Robert has not sent her any allowance since she arrived in London, and the small savings she brought with her have dwindled to almost nothing. She has the king’s earrings, of course, but she’s reluctant to sell them. At least she can return the earrings. If the portrait is painted, there is no possibility of reversing the bargain she has struck.
A little while later, she returns to Arabella’s lodgings alone, leaving Arabella to get to know her new castmates. As she mounts the stairs, her head twinges. Stress or the beginnings of a cold? Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shoves open the door. Waiting for her on the floor is a letter. Arabella’s landlord must have delivered it while they were out. Please, Emilia thinks, don’t let it be from the king. But the handwriting is unfamiliar. Turning it over, she sees it is from the painter she met at the auction, the one she has drawn into her web of promises. Henry Greenhill. She murmurs his name aloud as she scans the contents.
Dear Madam Lennox,
It seems I have you to thank for the extraordinary commission to paint your portrait as part of the Duchess of York’s collection of Beauties. I eagerly anticipate seeing you again at our first sitting. Please respond with your availability at your earliest convenience. Yours, etc.
Emilia stares at the words, willing them to rearrange themselves or disappear altogether. Stubbornly, they remain unchanged. Eventually, she crumples up the letter. Guilt eats at her. She pushes it away. Her head pulses, the growing pain like an oncoming storm. She will have to spend the next hour lying down or risk it getting worse. Taking herself to bed, she climbs under the covers and falls into an exhausted dreamless sleep that no thought of painters or kings can breach.
A week later, Emilia is at Arabella’s writing desk. Hearing the bells chime eleven, she sets down her pen. She re-reads the letter she has written, her lips moving silently. Sometimes she speaks a phrase aloud, just to hear how it sounds. She is trying to imagine how Robert will interpret the letter’s contents, how he will respond. Will he be angry? Disappointed? Excited? Afraid? Perhaps he will feel nothing. Perhaps he will scan the letter and then toss it into the fire, not bothering to watch as the flames consume the paper. He will fail to reply, as he has failed to reply to the last letter she sent him. He has never been a man to overuse words, perhaps a result of his issues with speech during his youth, but two weeks have passed since she gave the king her answer. She feels like a person who has lost their eyesight, forced to grope in the darkness for meaning and guidance. If it were not for Arabella’s friendship and support, she might have despaired. But perhaps this is the letter that will finally prompt a response.
Dear Robert,
It seems that my last letter had not reached you, or else your response has not found me. And so I repeat myself here – I have been granted an audience with the king. His Majesty was most sympathetic to our plight, and has agreed to restore your land and titles, upon one condition. He asks that I become his mistress in exchange for his clemency. Robert, it gives me no satisfaction to report his directive to you. I have found a way to delay, but I cannot keep the king waiting forever. I beg that you write and give me your counsel – should I go through with the arrangement? It would be no pleasure to lie with the king and in truth, the thought frightens me. But I can see no other way for Walden to be returned to you. Please, I beg you, write to me at once and tell me what to do.
Your loving wife,
Emilia.
After one last perusal, she folds the letter, pulls on her cloak and hurries downstairs into the street. Owing to the serious and sensitive nature of her letters, Emilia has hired a private courier at great expense. The courier service is run by two brothers who operate out of the coffeehouse on the street below Arabella’s rooms. Although professional, the messengers are frustratingly close-mouthed. When Emilia asked them whether Robert had received her last letter in person, they merely shrugged. Emilia had been forced to set aside the urge to throttle them. Why do men protect each other even if they’ve hardly met? There appears to exist some unspoken code designed to keep women from knowing their secrets, as if it’s safer to trust men they barely know than the wife who shares their bed.
The couriers stand to attention when they see her enter the coffeehouse.
‘Another letter for your husband, madam?’ says the shorter of the two. He doesn’t even glance at the address, just takes the letter and holds out his hand for the money. As she passes it to him, he surprises her by withdrawing another note from his pocket.
‘This one is for you.’
‘For me? Is it from my husband?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, madam. A different man. He gave it to me earlier, said he knew you’d be along.’
‘Can you be a little more specific? What did this man look like?’
The young man screws up his face. ‘He was wearing a dress.’
‘A dress?’
‘Like a lady’s gown, but made of coarse stuff. And it was splattered with colours, almost like… ink.’
‘Paint?’
The man’s expression clears. ‘That’s it. He said he’d been trying to reach you for weeks but you’d not replied. He decided the only way to get your attention was to ensure this was delivered into your hands.’
Emilia’s pulse races. Muttering her thanks to the messenger, she hurries home, narrowly avoiding being run over by a man riding a horse. Once inside, she slams the door closed and goes straight to the window, peeking around the curtains at the crowd below, searching for the painter’s features. Although they met only once, she has not forgotten his dark beard or soulful brown eyes, the way his teeth shone as they conversed. When she did not respond to his first letter, he sent more. The tone grew sharper and more desperate every time. Emilia ignored each and every one.
Opening this latest missive, she scans the contents quickly, her heart beating fast. The artist, perhaps frustrated, has done away with niceties.
Madam Lennox. Since you refuse to respond to my letter, you have given me no choice but to call upon you at your residence. I ask you to be ready to receive me at midday so that I may take some initial sketches for the portrait the king has commissioned. I trust you would not wish to displease His Majesty with further delays. Henry Greenhill.
Emilia begins to sweat. She crumples the note in her hand. Once the portrait is finished, she will have to keep her side of the bargain. But she cannot – not until she has heard from Robert. The king has been silent since the deal was struck. Silent, but clearly busy. He sent her just one letter a few days ago, confirming that Robert’s titles would be restored and informing her the artist’s services had been acquired, which she already knew. At the bottom of the note, he had written:
We look forward to enjoying your company in due course. Your beauty, Madam Lennox, inspires us to be a better man. I have asked my sister-in-law, the duchess, if I may keep the portrait upon its completion. I plan to hang it in my bedchamber, where I hope it will be a happy reminder of our time together.
The words had chilled her. How had it come to this? Doomed to sit for a portrait whose completion signifies the end of her independence, enduring her husband’s silent refusal to offer advice. And there are the promises, too, that she has made to Arabella.
The theatre company established by Winnifred Duncan has proven to be just what Arabella needed. Through Winnie’s artful direction, Arabella has grown in confidence as an actor and as a person. She no longer weeps for Stephen Killigrew or his refusal to acknowledge the child they made. Instead, Arabella has made Winnie Duncan’s production her entire focus. At night, she and Emilia practise Arabella’s lines together, and every morning the actress heads off in the direction of the Fortune in Blackfriars. Emilia has been promising to go with her, but does not want to risk running into the artist on her way there. Her scheme to delay depends on her ability to evade his attentions. Now that he has told her that he is coming to Maypole Lane, she has no choice but to find an alternative hiding place. He must not be allowed to begin his portrait.
Seizing her cloak, she rushes out into the street and walks briskly in the direction of Blackfriars. Arabella is on stage when she arrives, projecting her lines loudly around the empty theatre. Emilia pauses in the doorway to watch her friend march across the boards, delivering her monologue to an invisible audience. Three other actors wait in the wings, listening for their cues. The smell of paint and glue is everywhere, so strong that it makes Emilia a little dizzy. Someone is hammering at the back.
As she watches Arabella finish her speech on the stage, she thinks of the time, months from now, when Arabella’s baby will arrive, throwing their already chaotic lives into turmoil. Last night, Arabella confessed that she plans to keep the child. The extra income from her work at the theatre will pay for food. She made Emilia promise to watch over the infant while she was busy with performances and rehearsals. Although Emilia is glad to help, she is a little afraid of what changes a baby will bring. She fears, too, the moment when she will have to make good on her end of the bargain she has struck with the king. How will she live with herself if she goes through with it? She fears Robert’s wrath, but she fears poverty too. Time is not on her side.
‘Madam Lennox. I haven’t seen you at rehearsals.’ Winnie Duncan is standing a few feet away, a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand. She speaks softly, clearly not wishing to disturb the actors rehearsing on stage. ‘How are you? I hope you will stay long enough to watch your friend recite her lines.’
‘I think I know them by heart already,’ Emilia says.
‘Arabella told us you’d been helping her. You are a good friend. And she is the perfect leading actress. Stephen Killigrew has no idea what he has given up.’
‘Have you heard from him?’ Emilia says.
Winnie frowns. ‘Not since he sent me a letter threatening to have the king’s men come and arrest us all for working without a licence.’
‘He couldn’t do that, could he?’
‘I have dealt with men far worse than Stephen Killigrew. Besides, he can do nothing until we actually perform. Until then, we are merely rehearsing, like any other company of players. Opening night is set for July. We have some time before then to formulate a plan of attack.’ She fingers a scroll’s edge. ‘I hope you aren’t worried about my commitment to this venture, Madam Lennox.’
Emilia wishes she could confess that she has fled to the Fortune to escape the attentions of the artist and his brush. She wishes she could tell the playwright everything that has occurred since she came to London. Winnie is a clever woman. But Emilia can’t risk taking her into her confidence. What she needs right now is a refuge, somewhere safe where she can go to escape the painter’s impositions. She thinks of her studio in the old folly tower at Walden, the scent of paint rising off the canvas, mingling with the decaying blossoms.
‘Miss Duncan? I was wondering if you are still searching for someone to paint the sets. I’ve had… a change of heart.’
Winnie’s face brightens. ‘Of course. We can set up a workshop for you at the back. It’ll be a little cramped, I’m afraid.’
But Emilia does not care. For the first time since she left Walden, she will have a place to paint.