It was the beginning of that passionate friendship which I shall remember all my life. I was very fond of Anne Trelawny; she was my confidante and had been from childhood — but this was different. Anne was to me just another girl, older than I, wiser in many ways, my very good friend. But Frances was like a goddess.

I thought of her a good deal and I decided I would write to tell her of my feelings. This I did and her response was immediate. She told me that she cared for me in the same way as I did for her and that we must meet whenever it could be contrived and when we could not we would write to each other.

So began our romantic correspondence. We would ask people to take our letters to each other. I prevailed on my drawing master, little Richard Gibson, to do it and he was eager to oblige. I noticed that people were very ready to please me nowadays. True, my stepmother was pregnant, and if she had a son my position would change immediately, but the son had not yet put in an appearance and royal babies had a habit of either being girls or not surviving.

Sarah Jennings was a good courier although I did not altogether trust her. I preferred to use my little dwarf.

Frances had given a new zest to the days. Each morning when I awoke, my first thoughts were of her. Should I see her that day? Would there be a letter from her? Life was wonderful. I loved and was loved.

I wrote to her and told her that I felt toward her as though she were my husband. My love for her was greater than I had ever felt for anyone before — even my father. I loved him dearly but he was just a father. This was different.

I was very young and totally innocent. I knew that this was how lovers talked to each other — in plays for instance. Unlike my sister Anne, I liked to read of romance and passion in those pieces where the lovers were a young man and woman, but I saw no reason why the lovers should not be of the same sex.

I gave Frances a new name. It was Aurelia, a character in one of Mr. Dryden’s comedies. In this, Aurelia was a delightful creature whom everyone loved. As for myself — I must have a special name, too. It was difficult to find anything that fitted myself. Beaumont and Fletcher had written of a young shepherdess named Clorine, who was faithful through all sorts of trials.

So we became Aurelia and Clorine. It gave a romantic secrecy to our correspondence.

One day my father came to see me.

He said: “You are growing up, daughter. Twelve years old, no less, and Anne coming on a little way behind. The King thinks it is time you made an appearance at court now and then. After all, you are my daughters.”

“What shall we have to do?”

“Well, he has an idea. He thought it would be rather interesting if you gave a performance. Some play ... something in which you could sing and dance to show the court you have not been idling all this time.”

“A performance! Do you mean act?”

“Why not? It will be amusing. You will enjoy it.”

“Like actors on a stage?”

“And why not? But your stage would be Whitehall. I have a plan. I am sending for the Bettertons ... the great actors. They will come to court and teach you how to say your lines. We shall make sure that you have some beautiful dresses. It will be a great introduction to court. I shall be so proud of you.”

“Anne and I to act! Do you really think we can?”

He touched my forehead lightly. “Do not frown, dearest daughter,” he said. “When Mrs. Betterton has coached you, you will act perfectly. You will enjoy it. Some of the girls can join in. Jemmy will help. He will want to be in it. He will be coming over to see you.”

I was a little taken aback and I wondered whether Frances would be present to see me act. I should have to do my very best.

It was interesting to meet Mrs. Betterton. She was a very handsome woman and most deferential. She told us to read for her. I wondered what she thought of Anne, who could scarcely read at all. She said she was quite pleased with me.

She instructed us to say words after her. I enjoyed it, particularly when Jemmy arrived.

He was very handsome and tended to give himself airs. I did not mind that. I liked Jemmy. He was always very friendly toward me. I had heard Sarah Jennings say that he acted as though he were heir to the throne and seemed to forget he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.

I had long ago discovered what that meant and because of it Jemmy could not have what he had set his heart on. Jemmy was a very ostentatious Protestant, though I did not believe he was very religious in truth. He just liked to be present at all the ceremonies of the Church so that he could remind people of this. He was very popular, though there was a great deal of scandal concerning him at this time. It had something to do with a Mrs. Eleanor Needham, daughter of Sir Robert Needham.

When Jemmy arrived he was as blithe as ever. He snapped his fingers at scandal. I suposed he was too accustomed to it to take much notice.

He was a very good dancer and was going to perform with us, but that would not be until the play was over, for that was for ladies only.

It was all very exciting. Even Anne was aroused to enthusiasm and made an effort to learn her lines; she really worked hard under Mrs. Betterton’s tuition. Anne was to take the part of Nymphe in the play — a chaste nymph like myself.

The story of Calisto, the Chaste Nymph, was taken from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and John Crone had been commissioned to write a play from it.

Jemmy was overcome with mirth about something and when I asked him what it was, he said he dare not tell me, but I could see that with a little prompting he would. In the story, Jupiter pursues the Chaste Nymph with the object that she shall be chaste no longer.

At last I prevailed on Jemmy to tell me what amused him.

“The noble Duke will not allow his daughter to be sullied, even by the greatest of the gods,” said Jemmy. “Poor John Crone! He has to make a different ending. Depend upon it, dear cousin, my chaste nymph, you are in danger of losing your virginity, but you will be rescued in time. This is one occasion when wily old Jupiter will not have his way, for Calisto is in truth the Lady Mary ... and the daughter of my Lord Duke must be rescued in time.”

This seemed very funny and everyone laughed mightily.

It was a most enjoyable time and we were all very excited about the play. Sarah Jennings, of course, had a part, and Jemmy told us that Lady Henrietta Wentworth was going to play the part of Jupiter, which gave him great pleasure.

Frances would be present. I should act for her and I must be good.

Sarah Jennings, who was going to play the part of Mercury, had no qualms. She was sure she would give a superb performance. I heard her telling Margaret Blague, who was dressed in a magnificent gown embroidered with brilliants, not to be so nervous. She was not in the least.

Margaret was protesting: “I did not want to do this. I do not want to act. But they told me I must. Oh dear, I am sure I am going to spoil everything.”

Mrs. Betterton said: “This is an attack of nerves which comes to most good actresses. Some say that if one is not a little nervous one will not give a good performance.”

I could not help glancing at Sarah. She never felt nervous, I was sure. Sarah interpreted my glance and merely tossed her head. Rules which might affect others did not touch her; in her opinion she knew better than everyone else about any subject and that included acting; and even in the presence of a highly acclaimed lady of the theater, Sarah would rely on her own judgment.

Henrietta Wentworth and Margaret Blague were talking together. How different they were! They were two of the most beautiful girls at court however. Henrietta Wentworth was rather boldy handsome; she would make an excellent Jupiter. Margaret Blague was shy and retiring; and she was sure she was going to make an inadequate Diana. Moreover, she was very religious and felt there was something not very moral about acting.

Henrietta Wentworth was admiring the beautiful diamond Margaret was wearing.

“It was lent to me by Lady Frances,” Margaret explained. “I do not want to wear it. I hate borrowing things. I am always afraid I will lose them. But Lady Frances was insistent. She said it suited the part and my costume.”

“Why should you lose it?” cried Henrietta. “I love jewelery and that is a very handsome piece.”

The stage was set. Mrs. Betterton hovered about us, giving last-minute instructions.

“Do not forget, Lady Anne, plenty of feeling in your words. And you, Lady Henrietta, remember, Jupiter is a great god, the head of them all. He has come to woo Calisto. And Lady Mary, you must show your determination to resist his advances ... just as I showed you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Betterton. Yes, Mrs. Betterton,” we all assured her we would remember what she had taught us.

The music had started and we were there. It was wonderful. There were one or two little mishaps. Anne forgot her lines on one occasion, but Mrs. Betterton’s voice, hushed though clear, came from behind the scenes. Diana was not where she should have been at a certain point, but that also was put right. The ballet went well. I saw Jemmy dancing with Henrietta Wentworth and the audience seemed to like it, for they applauded with enthusiasm.

The King himself congratulated us all; then he kissed both Anne and me and said he had not known there was such thespian talent in the family, which made everyone laugh and applaud again.

We were all very happy, except poor Margaret Blague, who was in a state of dire dismay, for her fears had been realized and she had indeed lost the diamond which she had been lent by Lady Frances Villiers.