The Duchess of Drury Lane

Thirteen




‘Little Pickle’

Spending the summer taking the waters in Cheltenham sadly did not save the King from a return of his malady. Soon the rumours were flying that he had fallen into a fever which had turned into madness. It was said that he wept constantly, talked continuously, and at times even barked like a dog, poor man. The desperate state of our monarch was on everyone’s lips. The Prince of Wales was to be made regent and Parliament was in a state of flux. Fox hastily returned from the Continent to take charge. Sheridan too was often called upon to attend Carlton House as he remained close friends with the Prince of Wales.

By February of the following year His Majesty was showing some signs of recovery and the nation rejoiced as the royal family attended a service of thanksgiving. There were command performances, firework displays and soon the royal boxes were full again, the King smiling down upon us as before. Mrs Siddons even appeared dressed as Britannia at a celebratory ball at Brooks’s.

The arguments at the Lane, however, had grown increasingly bitter. Tom King had stepped down and Kemble appointed as manager. I was now on thirty guineas a week, the equal of Siddons, although I had needed to threaten to leave and go to Covent Garden before Sheridan had stepped in to settle the matter.

And I was yet again pregnant, with still no sign of a wedding ring.

I was thankful to escape and go on tour as usual that summer, performing at Leeds, Harrogate and Edinburgh. But it was here that Mama suddenly suffered a seizure and within hours, was dead. It was so shockingly swift that I could hardly take in that she was gone from me. She was but in her mid-fifties, and had not enjoyed an easy life, having been shabbily treated by a much-loved husband and largely abandoned by her family. It was some consolation to me that in recent years she’d witnessed my success and not had any further concerns over money. Her last years had at least been comfortable.

The manager at the Edinburgh theatre protested when I took time off, but I was too overwhelmed by grief to act. Hester too was in tears, as was little Fanny, who had adored her nana. It was a sad time for us all, and I did not take kindly to the fellow’s resolve to withhold payment, nor his open criticism of me in the press.

If I have learned nothing else in life, I know how to stand up for myself. I wrote a most spirited defence, pointing out that I am never anything but a consummate professional. But surely one should be allowed a little time to grieve for a much-loved mother? I received many letters of sympathy in response.

I also wrote a few couplets in Mama’s memory, words from the heart, which an Edinburgh newspaper duly published.

A tender mother, and a patient wife;

Whose firm fidelity no wrongs could shake,

While curb’d resentment was forbid to spake.

Thus silent anguish mark’d her for his own,

And comfort coming late was barely known;

It, like a shadow, smil’d and slipp’d away.

For churlish Death refus’d to let it stay;

A two-fold dart he levell’d, to destroy

At once, both mother’s life and daughter’s joy.

I was thankful to return to London, where my daughter was born later in the year. I named her after my adored and deeply mourned sister Lucy. We did have some joyous news that year when we heard that my young brother George, who had been performing at Liverpool, had suddenly taken it into his head to marry.

Hester was appalled. ‘Why the rush? Marry in haste, repent at leisure, isn’t that what they say?’

I had to laugh, since Hester constantly damaged her own chances of wedlock by being far too particular and critical of any likely suitor. ‘His bride is Maria Romanzini, a young lady with whom I have acted at the Lane. She has good humour and a pretty singing voice, and has done well for herself despite a hard childhood and no father. Be happy for him, Hester. I shall speak again to Kemble and attempt to win George an engagement.’

It took some time but I finally did talk Kemble round, and in early February 1790 George played Sebastian to my Viola. He was not quite so polished in the role as I would have liked, but it was his first performance at Drury Lane, and I had every faith that he would improve. He was taken on at £5 a week as a beginner. Mama would have been so pleased.

From then on I was acting five nights a week, having added several new parts to my repertoire: Pretty Polly Honeycomb, Laetitia Hardy in The Belle’s Stratagem, and Lydia Languish in The Rivals. And for my benefit in March I chose Little Pickle in The Spoiled Child. Originally by Bickerstaffe, I had myself adapted the play to suit popular taste.

On the first night, as Hester pinned up my hair and helped with my make-up, she warned me that there were princes again in the royal box.

‘Oh, dear, I do wish you hadn’t mentioned them. It always unnerves me if I am aware of a royal presence in the theatre.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ she laughed, pencilling a dark line beneath my lashes. ‘They wouldn’t come so often to see you if they didn’t adore you. And you know how they do love the ladies. I’ve heard rumours that one of the younger brothers, William, I believe, was pursuing Sheridan’s wife, Elizabeth. But as he is ten years younger than her, she resisted.’

I looked at my sister askance. ‘How do you know all this?’

Hester laughed as she teased out the curls about my forehead. ‘Don’t you just love gossip? I do. Sheridan would have had only himself to blame if she’d succumbed.’

‘Why?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

‘Because he has been engaged for some time in a passionate love affair with Harriet Duncannon, sister of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. There was a shocking scandal with her husband threatening divorce, and the lady was obliged to flee the country until it all died down.’

‘Goodness, how dreadful. I could never cheat on a husband. How could I ever hurt dear Richard in that way?’

‘Ah, but Richard isn’t your husband, is he?’

I looked at her through the mirror, struggling to mask my feelings. ‘But it would still be a betrayal.’

She shrugged. ‘One perhaps he deserves. Unless he were to change his mind and marry you, after all.’

‘There seems little sign of that,’ I admitted, and putting aside my disappointment, went out on stage to meet my adoring public. From the moment I first trod the boards back at Crow Street in Dublin, the stage was always the place where I felt happiest, and could set my worries aside.

At the end of the performance, which I must say went well, I looked at my strangely naked face after Hester had removed all the grease paint, and noted a fan of lines from the corner of each eye. ‘Do you realize that I shall soon be twenty-nine?’

‘Really quite doddery,’ she chuckled. ‘Perhaps I should buy you a walking stick for your birthday? Oh dear, is that a grey hair I see?’

‘Don’t tease, Hester. I’m beginning to feel the passing of the years.’

‘You are at the peak of your profession,’ she scoffed. ‘A woman in her prime with three adorable daughters, a lovely home, and money in the bank. No reason for complaint at all.’

‘Now you are making me appear greedy and selfish when all I meant to say was that I feel I have failed Mama by never having married. How bitterly she resented that lack of respectability in my life, which in a way seems to echo her own precarious marriage with Papa.’

‘Men are all scoundrels,’ Hester scorned, as she had many times before. ‘Ford might enjoy the kudos of dangling a famous actress on his arm, but I do wonder if now that he’s won a seat at East Grinstead and entered Parliament, he no longer deems you worthy of him.’

I stared at her aghast. ‘How can you suggest such a thing?’

‘Because your dearest beloved is very much a man of ambition,’ my sister persisted. ‘He is where he is today thanks to Sheridan’s influence, which he has carefully nurtured. He no doubt hopes to call upon it further to secure himself a post in high office. Would such a man welcome a wife who is an actress, with at least one illegitimate child?’

I could feel my cheeks growing warm with annoyance and embarrassment, yet could find no words to deny her statement. In truth I had never looked at it in quite that light until she pointed it out to me. And I did not like what I saw. I was happy for Richard’s success, naturally, and we appeared, outwardly at least, quite settled. We were a couple in every way but the one that counted most, certainly to me. But if he was having second thoughts about my suitability as a wife, then our relationship was indeed doomed, my hopes of respectability forever dashed.

Richard took a little place at Richmond for us, as a weekend retreat. Was that not proof of his love? I asked myself. ‘You can go there to rest and recuperate on the days you have no performance,’ he suggested. ‘It will be a good place to recover from the long hours you spend in rehearsal and on stage. I shall come when the House is not sitting. It can be our secret hideaway.’

‘Oh, Richard, how good you are to me,’ and I kissed him with joy in my heart. Perhaps he was coming round to thinking of marriage, after all, I thought.

As things turned out I was to spend more time there than he, but then the House was very often sitting, or he would have legal matters to attend to. I loved to take my children there for long periods, and indeed did a summer season at Richmond that year of 1790. Our new home was conveniently situated in Petersham, so I could easily stroll across the meadows to the theatre. On days when I wasn’t playing, while Hester minded the children for me, I would escape to walk in the nearby deer park, and breathe in the fresh country air. It felt such a relief after being shut up in gloomy rehearsal rooms for hours on end.

Nor was I pregnant for once, so was feeling fit and well, bursting with energy and enjoying this time with my children.

Deciding that the house in Gower Street had too many reminders of dear Mama, I took a new house in London, at my own expense. It was a delightfully fashionable property situated in Somerset Street between Portman Square and Oxford Street. The decision was mine alone, although Richard was happy to come too, of course. He was less happy, however, when I chose not to share his bed for a while.

‘I’m sorry, dearest, it is merely temporary, but I have no wish for another child just yet.’

He glowered at me, his narrow face looking more pinched than ever. ‘If this is some feeble attempt at blackmail, I refuse to be bullied, Dora.’

I looked at him in all innocence. ‘I really cannot think what you mean.’

It was while I was out walking in the deer park one day that autumn, that quite by chance I came across a stranger seated upon a log. He was hunched over with one of those large floppy hats pulled down over his peruke. I couldn’t see his face but he was clearly a gentleman, judging by his fine suit. As the afternoon was falling to dusk, I hastily turned to leave, not wishing to disturb him, but then accidentally stepped upon a twig.

He put a finger to his lips to shush me. ‘Don’t make a sound. Do you see that deer, she has a fawn with her. We must take care not to startle her.’

He spoke in little more than a whisper, then patted the log beside him, indicating I should sit. I hesitated for a moment but then did so, gathering my skirts in my hands so they did not rustle the leaves. We sat together for some long moments like this, almost shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence, each of us utterly engrossed in watching the deer crop the grass, while she continued to keep a wary eye on her young.

‘I love animals,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you?’

I said nothing to this, not wishing to risk disturbing the deer. Besides, I’d never had the opportunity to find out whether I liked them or not in the theatrical world I occupied.

He went on talking, very quietly. ‘I love to sit here in peace and solitude and watch the deer. So long as I remain quite still they do not object, may not even be aware of my presence.’

Although he was still seated I could tell by the length of his legs and his powerful thighs that he was reasonably tall, with an impressive figure. I thought it unlikely the deer was entirely unaware of his presence, any more than I was, although for a different reason.

After a while mother and baby moved away into the depth of the wood, and as it was growing quite dark by this time I leapt to my feet, anxious to return home while I could still mark the path. ‘I must go, but I too love the peace and solitude of this place. It really is beautiful.’

The young man likewise got to his feet and turned to me with a smile. ‘As are you, Mrs Jordan.’

My eyes widened in surprise. Even though I was now supposedly famous, I still fully expected to move about without being recognized. ‘You know who I am?’

‘I have had the pleasure of watching you perform. I saw you as Little Pickle in the spring, and most delightful you were too,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember ever having laughed so much.’

I smiled. ‘Then you have the advantage of me, sir. Perhaps you would be so good as to introduce yourself.’

He instantly swept off the hat and sketched a deep and noble bow. ‘William Henry is the name, captain in the Royal Navy, officially retired and ship paid off. Perhaps better known as the Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster.’

I was staring at him in open astonishment, may even have gasped, my mouth dropping open most unbecomingly, for without the hat I recognized him instantly as the fresh-faced young man I’d seen occasionally occupy the royal box. I hastily sank into a deep curtsey.

Laughing, he took my hands to gently raise me up. ‘No need to stand on ceremony between friends, Mrs Jordan. And I believe you and I could become great friends.’