Emilia
London, 1667
‘I don’t remember it ever being this cramped and crowded,’ Arabella says, as the coach sets them down on the corner. People flow around them, carts and horses, stallholders, sailors heading down to ships docked at the Thames. Arabella, watching their passage, jiggles the small infant on her shoulder, craning her neck to search for Winnie’s face in the crowd. ‘How did I ever stand the noise?’
Emilia strokes the infant’s head. ‘I think you’ve just become accustomed to the quiet life. Perhaps we should return to the country?’
Arabella doesn’t answer and Emilia wonders if it’s just distraction that stills her tongue, or if the enormity of what they have experienced over the past year-and-a-half has caused her to doubt their wisdom in returning to London. Perhaps it’s impossible to go back to the way things were before. Is that such a bad thing though? In some ways, yes. In others…
The plague killed thousands. Stories reached them in Oxford of bodies piled in the streets or tossed all higgledy-piggledy into great pits dug along the city’s outskirts. When burial wasn’t possible, because there was nobody left to dig, pyres were lit and the scent of charred flesh mingled with the smell of the herbs people burned to nullify the pestilent vapours. In Oxford, a few families succumbed, thankfully nobody they knew or had met. Emilia prayed for them. She prayed for Henry and for George. She even prayed for Robert to find safety and shelter, either with Susannah or on his own. For a time, contacting anyone in London was almost impossible. People were too busy trying to survive, no couriers would take the mail. The news that filtered through took months to arrive and when it did, it was sometimes too grim to bear. Then reports of the fire came. Sparked by an errant flame which ignited a pile of fuel housed inside a bakery, the blaze had roared through London, destroying houses and workshops, burning down the Royal Exchange, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Guildhall. Only a few were hurt, even fewer killed. Arabella had wept in Emilia’s arms as she imagined her beloved city razed by fire. Winnie fretted, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, only pausing to scribble off another letter to one of her London friends, asking for news of the Fortune, wanting to know if it had survived.
To distract themselves from the dire situation unfolding in the nation’s capital, the women rehearsed Love’s Fool. As they practiced, Winnie stayed up all night, working on a new play. Sometimes, she locked herself in the attic and did not come down till supper. Her dedication began to border on obsession and Emilia worried she would waste away. Unable to hold her tongue any longer, she and Arabella confronted Winnie over supper. Winnie seemed surprised by their concern. She was just keeping busy. It had always been this way. When inspiration struck, she needed to capture her ideas before they disappeared. Her enterprise would only last until the play was done. Emilia realised the frenzied activity was part of Winnie’s process, the way staring at the masterpieces in Walden’s picture gallery had been part of hers. They left Winnie to her work.
A few weeks later, the play was done and Winnie emerged from her fugue, tired but smiling. The timing was fortunate. That same night, Arabella’s pains began. Emilia ran to fetch the midwife. Six hours later, a healthy baby girl was delivered. Placing her in Arabella’s arms, Emilia heard the soft voice of hope whisper in her ear. Here is the future. Look, she’s perfect. Have faith and everything will be well. Arabella named her Violet, after the lead character in Winnie’s new play.
Months passed. Still, London suffered. There seemed no choice but to wait for the disease to run its course. Eventually, the king deemed it safe enough to return. This was the signal people had been waiting for. The king would not risk his own neck. Winnie informed them she planned to return to London and wanted to know if Arabella and Emilia intended on returning, too. She told them she would go ahead so she could check on the Fortune and find accommodation for them all, if they wished to join her. After some deliberation, Emilia agreed. It was time for them to go home. But what would they be returning to?
When Winnie’s letter arrived two weeks later, she had dispelled some of Emilia’s fears.
London feels strangely unfamiliar, as if she’s hurting or missing part of her soul. The worst of the illness is over. Great activity unfolds across the city as houses and workshops are rebuilt. People are keen to forget the past. Public houses are busy and theatres are reopening. Our own dear Fortune remains unscathed. There is an unspoken pain at the heart of London which I suspect only time and joy will heal. Come back and see for yourselves! Let’s live as we were intended to live and make art with our talents. I have hired new actors and tentatively set a date for a new season of Love’s Fool. If you are agreeable, let me know and I will set things in motion.
Showing the letter to Arabella, Emilia had said, ‘We don’t have to go yet, if you aren’t ready.’
Arabella had only hesitated for one brief moment, then given her assent. ‘We must go,’ she said. ‘We can’t rely on Winnie’s kindness for the rest of our lives. My savings are depleted, as are yours. We must make our way as we once intended. I want Violet to grow up knowing she can survive anything.’
And now they are here, in London, ready to survive. Emilia smiles at Arabella and Violet, her family. Then, turning, she spies Winnie, shouldering her way through the throng. ‘There she is!’
The theatre manager rushes over to meet them. She kisses their cheeks and chucks Violet under the chin.
‘Here you are, at last! You must be so tired. Come along, the house is ready.’
She leads them towards a sturdy freestanding house, a small herb garden planted just inside the gate. ‘The others are upstairs,’ Winnie tells them. ‘Your rooms are at the end of the hall. Come down and meet the cook, Rose, when you’ve freshened up. I have to get back to the theatre.’
She leaves Emilia and Arabella to find their way to their rooms. There, Arabella sinks onto the bed to feed Violet, who has begun to grizzle. Emilia watches her, stroking the baby’s head tenderly.
‘A week till opening night,’ she says. ‘Are you nervous?’
Arabella sniffs. ‘I would be, if we hadn’t spent all those nights practising. But I’m a little worried that my body has changed too much. Perhaps I cannot pass for a courtesan now?’
Emilia smiles. ‘You are as beautiful as ever.’
‘You sound like a lying lover I used to have!’ Arabella snorts, and then her expression suddenly becomes serious. ‘Will you visit him?’
Emilia chews her lip. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I desperately want to. But why didn’t Henry write? George must have passed on my message. Perhaps he doesn’t want to hear from me. It was too late.’
‘There must be some explanation,’ Arabella says. ‘Some miscommunication. Henry loves you.’
Emilia smiles sadly. ‘Maybe he did once. Love isn’t really enough to withstand every event, is it? We hardly knew each other. Over time, connections fade.’
‘I’d like to think they don’t. Have you heard from…’ Arabella still can’t bring herself to say Susannah’s name.
Emilia breathes in through her nose. She shakes her head. Arabella touches her hand.
The letter from Susannah arrived last week, delivered by a man as they were packing for London. The woman’s handwriting was barely legible but Emilia understood its meaning. She sank onto the floor, her vision swimming. Arabella, taking the letter from her shaking hands, started to read it aloud but her voice petered out before she reached the end. Emilia remembers only parts, but they are burned into her mind.
Regret to tell you… Robert died on his way to reach us… innkeeper took some coins to ensure his Christian burial and sent the rest on… Robert left word that you were in Oxford. He wanted me to tell you… We are so destitute. Please send more, when you can…
‘Robert did not leave Susannah much in the end,’ Emilia tells Arabella now. ‘His plans were worthless. He could not escape the sickness and now Susannah must find some way of supporting her children. But it could just have easily been me in her place, had I borne Robert’s children. I pity them.’
‘It’s not your problem to solve.’
‘No. And I have nothing to give. For all the world knows, I perished along with Robert. Walden is out of reach. After Robert’s death, the king transferred the deeds to one of his distant cousins. It was never my home, anyway. I cannot go backward, only forward.’ She sighs. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’
‘You won’t get lost?’ Arabella says, looking worried. ‘You were never very good at navigating London on your own.’
Emilia conceals her smile by glancing away. They’ve grown accustomed to checking on each other. ‘I will ask if I need assistance. Don’t fret.’
Despite her insistence on leaving the past behind, she finds herself in Covent Garden, standing in front of Lely’s studio. She watches for a while, but nobody goes in or out. After a time, Emilia walks on.
At Blackfriars, she enters the theatre. Winnie is shouting instructions to the crew who are winching the heavy sets onto the stage; she’s had to hire men, which irks her.
Emilia’s heart fills with pride as she watches. She’d thought she’d never see those sets again. She expected to sicken like so many others, to die wishing for more time. What will she do with her time, now that it stretches out in front of her? What she wishes is to turn back the clock, to have her time over again. She would go to Henry and accept his offer of protection, of a life together. She would tell him that she loves him.
‘Emilia!’ Winnie walks over briskly. ‘What do you think? Is it fit for a king? Do you think he will come?’
Emilia laughs. ‘It looks wonderful. It always did. If the king comes, as I presume he will once he hears how incredible the new production is, I plan to hide myself away in the wings. I’m nobody, and that’s the way it must remain. Though—’ she laughs at the thought. ‘I may not be quite so much to his liking anymore.’
She pats her hair in its knotted bun, tidying the dark strands which bear no resemblance to the fine, pale filaments which once stirred the king’s desire. Arabella helps her apply the tincture every few weeks, using a mixture of plant extracts they source from the dyer in the marketplace. Freed from the burden of her blonde hair, the attention it always brought her, Emilia knows at last the pleasure of moving anonymously through a crowd, the joy of being a woman whose worth lies not in her looks but in the skills she possesses.
Winnie squeezes her arm. ‘I have a proposal for you, Madam Nobody. I want you to design all the sets here. I can find you some helpers, apprentices. We won’t tell people, of course; we don’t wish to offend the guild. But you will have steady work. An income. You will be the mistress of your own fate. How does that sound?’
Emilia lets her smile answer for her.