The Duchess of Drury Lane

The Duchess of Drury Lane - By Freda Lightfoot



Prologue




‘. . . the return of an old friend’

1816

The winter sunshine is too weak to take the chill from my bones or ease my cough as I sit gazing out upon two dreary cypress trees. Nor does it lighten the gloom of these shabby rooms. Saint Cloud is proving to be as much a disappointment to me as was Marquetra or Versailles. The rooms at our lodging house are cold and bare, with but a few pieces of old furniture, nowhere comfortable to sit apart from the small couch upon which I recline. Not that my surroundings trouble me greatly, since what house could possibly compare with my lovely Bushy? My thoughts, as always these days, are with my darling children. I ache for a letter from Lucy telling me how her latest pregnancy is progressing, from dear deluded Dodee or even foolish Fanny. And from my boys of course. If I can depend on nothing more, I can be certain of the love of my children. They will ever sustain me.

But yet there is no post again today, and I worry over why that is.

‘Has Frederick visited you recently?’ my visitor asks, as if reading my thoughts.

I sit up a little and talk of the last time I dined with my son only a week ago, which always cheers me. ‘His regiment is not to remain in Paris long, but may move on to Cambrai soon. Should that happen, then I shall follow, if my health permits. Paris is an odious place and I shall not be sorry to leave it. George and Henry write to me of the wonders of India. Lolly is at sea and Tuss at school. And my darling girls . . .’ I pause, not wishing to admit why it is so difficult for them to visit their mother, that their father in fact forbids it.

‘They are too young for travel, I should think,’ she agrees.

‘Quite.’

‘But as a widow, Madame, you surely need your family about you at this sad time.’

I inwardly smile at her artless questions, well aware it is the natural curiosity of a newspaper reporter, as much as friendship, that inspires them. My dear Sketchley has painted me as a grieving widow. This masquerade she has created is as a Madame James who was supposedly married to a businessman, now deceased. It suits me to play this role, and am I not adept at acting a part? But I welcome all visitors, usually fans who have guessed the truth of my identity. They often call at Number One rue d’Angoulême and I am happy to see them, including Miss Helen Maria Williams, for all I have reservations about her motives.

‘You speak true. It is not, believe me,’ I say, ‘feelings of pride, avarice, or the absence of those comforts I have all my life been accustomed to, that is killing me by inches. It is the loss of my only remaining comfort, the hope from time to time to see my children.’

‘I’m sure your daughter will visit, once the baby is born, and your other sons when they return from active duty.’

‘Another frustration,’ I tell my sympathetic listener, ‘is based upon my inactivity. I have never been one to lie about doing nothing,’ and I return my gaze to the dank, overgrown garden, far too tired and sickly to venture out.

‘Have you done any writing lately?’ she gently asks, silently acknowledging my solitude. ‘It is ever a comfort to set down one’s thoughts, I find. Perhaps it may cheer you if I read you my own latest effort. I would welcome your critical opinion.’

‘That would be delightful.’

Poetry is an interest we share, since we are of an age, and each with a past filled with emotion and nostalgia. Our chat about poetry is often interspersed with tales of Napoleon, a favourite topic of conversation as Miss Williams’ politics are somewhat militant. Even now she is relating some anecdote of the revolution. I respond as best I can, understanding little of what she says, but glad enough of her company, the presence of another human being in my empty life.

I listen to her poem, making one or two comments, mainly of praise since I do not care to risk damaging any artist’s sensibilities. Have I not personally suffered at the hands of my peers whose opinions were warped by jealousy, or have whipped up animosity in an audience for the same reason? ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that. You have a natural way with words, and I have a gift for you too.’ I reach for a small volume set ready on my side table and hand it to her. ‘Miss Sketchley kindly arranged for my collection of poems to be printed. I thought you might care to have a copy.’

Miss Williams takes the book from me, eyes shining. ‘Oh, how very kind of you, Dora.’

I wince slightly at the use of my first name, not something I have encouraged while in France, but after several visits perhaps we may be called friends now. I am, of course, aware that my charade has not fooled this woman. She knows full well who I am, and no doubt how I came to be in these dire straits. What she does not know is that I have known poverty before, and view it rather as the return of an old friend, not exactly welcome but most certainly familiar. And Miss Sketchley’s recent visit to London did not bring the news I had hoped for. Barton promised to help but seems to be having little success thus far.

‘Do you intend to stay in France long, Madame?’

‘Only until my health improves,’ I assure her. ‘My dear Sketchley fusses over me like a mother hen but I hope to return to the stage soon. Acting is my life, you understand.’ I go on to speak warmly of the leading men I’ve worked with: John Bannister and John Kemble, to name but two. The former being very much my favourite as the latter has caused me no end of trouble, as did his sister, Mrs Siddons, in her day.

‘You must indeed miss it, having enjoyed such a long and successful career.’

‘I was most fortunate.’

‘Did you always wish to be an actress?’

I give a soft laugh. ‘Not at all. I was something of a tomboy, more interested in climbing and boasting to my brothers that I could jump higher down the stairs than they dared even try. Acting never occurred to me. I left that ambition to my sister Hester. I was perfectly happy working in a hat shop, but then tragedy struck our little family and our lives changed for ever.’

She edges forward in her chair. ‘So how did it all come about? Do you remember the first time you ever stepped on to a stage?’

‘Oh, indeed, I remember it only too well. I was absolutely terrified.’