suppose.” I could tell from his tone that he both liked and admired him.
I found Johnny serious and cynical by turns. His biting humour unsettles Hart but amuses me. He reminds me of a bored, restless dog who may bite, just for the fun of it.
Afterwards, we piled into carriages and went on to supper at Chatelin’s in Covent Garden with the actors of that house. Hart was much engaged with the serious Sir Will Davenant (who wears an inky black kerchief to cover the hole where his nose should be—gruesome). I try my best not to stare but find it difficult. Everyone was talking about the rising price of lace, tea (the curious new courtly drink), Davenant’s new
Tempest
(written in collaboration with Dryden), and war with Holland.
“The
Dutch
? Aren’t they our ally?” I quickly whispered to Hart, and was silenced by a small downturn of his mouth. Wasn’t Princess Mary of Orange the king’s sister? Now that she is dead they are our enemy? How disloyal, I thought silently. I was too afraid of looking ill informed to question further, and the conversation just moved on around me.
“Their pride is insufferable!” Hart proclaimed with feeling, banging his wine-glass down on the table.
Seeing my evident confusion, Johnny Rochester leaned in to explain. “They are perceived to be a threat to us,” he whispered under his breath,rolling his eyes to let me know that he considered them nothing of the sort.
“A threat to us how? By prospering away in Holland, planting tulips and…”
“Making cheese? Yes. Really by being smart and rich and unencumbered by self-doubt,” Johnny said quietly, taking a long swallow of a smelly something I could not identify. “They do not need a war to assert their place in Europe.”
“Do we?”
“If the king would throw out his mousy, pandering, pompous, self-serving Council, then no, we wouldn’t. But he is too afraid of going the way of his father to refuse them this absurd war. Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Gwyn, but I really must…” He pushed his chair back from the table and deftly slipped off into the crowd.
“Jane,” said Henry Harris, the tall, lightly built actor from the Duke’s (permanently condemned to second leads but quite good, I understand), as Johnny left. “He has just seen Jane, who has been … away.”
“Jane? Jane Russell, the tavern maid?”
“Ha! Tavern maid—very genteel. Yes, Jane Russell, although bar-keeping is not her primary profession, but I would never expect someone so deliciously protected as you to know that.”
I looked at him in dumb wonder, my mouth hanging open like a broken door.
Protected?
Is that how I appear now that I enter the room on Hart’s arm? I was not about to apprise him of my intimate understanding of that profession and so laughed at his obvious and not particularly clever remark.
I was sleepy and a bit tipsy (Johnny Rochester had given me rum) and thoroughly ready to take off my pretty but pinching shoes. Hart walked me home and, at the end of our lane, kissed me sweetly. I allowed him to do so, and it was not, in truth,
unpleasant.
Tuesday
Hart told me tonight that Jane Russell has been taking the mercury cure for the French pox—a whore’s curse. Mercury baths are said to be hideouslypainful and are often not successful. I worry for Rose! I shared my fears with Hart tonight, and he listened carefully and questioned me thoughtfully. It made me like him very much.
Getting somewhat used to kissing and have taken to stuffing a handkerchief up my sleeve to discreetly wipe my mouth when he is through. I have found that there is no point in wearing the berry lip paint that Peg gave me, as it just winds up all over both of us—messy. I cannot in truth say that I
like
the kissing, but I do enjoy the affection and protectiveness that come over him afterwards. What do
I
feel? Not great
passion,
certainly, but not dispassion, either—curious.
Early, six a.m.
I heard Rose come in just as it was getting light. Instead of
I found Johnny serious and cynical by turns. His biting humour unsettles Hart but amuses me. He reminds me of a bored, restless dog who may bite, just for the fun of it.
Afterwards, we piled into carriages and went on to supper at Chatelin’s in Covent Garden with the actors of that house. Hart was much engaged with the serious Sir Will Davenant (who wears an inky black kerchief to cover the hole where his nose should be—gruesome). I try my best not to stare but find it difficult. Everyone was talking about the rising price of lace, tea (the curious new courtly drink), Davenant’s new
Tempest
(written in collaboration with Dryden), and war with Holland.
“The
Dutch
? Aren’t they our ally?” I quickly whispered to Hart, and was silenced by a small downturn of his mouth. Wasn’t Princess Mary of Orange the king’s sister? Now that she is dead they are our enemy? How disloyal, I thought silently. I was too afraid of looking ill informed to question further, and the conversation just moved on around me.
“Their pride is insufferable!” Hart proclaimed with feeling, banging his wine-glass down on the table.
Seeing my evident confusion, Johnny Rochester leaned in to explain. “They are perceived to be a threat to us,” he whispered under his breath,rolling his eyes to let me know that he considered them nothing of the sort.
“A threat to us how? By prospering away in Holland, planting tulips and…”
“Making cheese? Yes. Really by being smart and rich and unencumbered by self-doubt,” Johnny said quietly, taking a long swallow of a smelly something I could not identify. “They do not need a war to assert their place in Europe.”
“Do we?”
“If the king would throw out his mousy, pandering, pompous, self-serving Council, then no, we wouldn’t. But he is too afraid of going the way of his father to refuse them this absurd war. Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Gwyn, but I really must…” He pushed his chair back from the table and deftly slipped off into the crowd.
“Jane,” said Henry Harris, the tall, lightly built actor from the Duke’s (permanently condemned to second leads but quite good, I understand), as Johnny left. “He has just seen Jane, who has been … away.”
“Jane? Jane Russell, the tavern maid?”
“Ha! Tavern maid—very genteel. Yes, Jane Russell, although bar-keeping is not her primary profession, but I would never expect someone so deliciously protected as you to know that.”
I looked at him in dumb wonder, my mouth hanging open like a broken door.
Protected?
Is that how I appear now that I enter the room on Hart’s arm? I was not about to apprise him of my intimate understanding of that profession and so laughed at his obvious and not particularly clever remark.
I was sleepy and a bit tipsy (Johnny Rochester had given me rum) and thoroughly ready to take off my pretty but pinching shoes. Hart walked me home and, at the end of our lane, kissed me sweetly. I allowed him to do so, and it was not, in truth,
unpleasant.
Tuesday
Hart told me tonight that Jane Russell has been taking the mercury cure for the French pox—a whore’s curse. Mercury baths are said to be hideouslypainful and are often not successful. I worry for Rose! I shared my fears with Hart tonight, and he listened carefully and questioned me thoughtfully. It made me like him very much.
Getting somewhat used to kissing and have taken to stuffing a handkerchief up my sleeve to discreetly wipe my mouth when he is through. I have found that there is no point in wearing the berry lip paint that Peg gave me, as it just winds up all over both of us—messy. I cannot in truth say that I
like
the kissing, but I do enjoy the affection and protectiveness that come over him afterwards. What do
I
feel? Not great
passion,
certainly, but not dispassion, either—curious.
Early, six a.m.
I heard Rose come in just as it was getting light. Instead of
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