The Duchess of Drury Lane

Twenty




‘. . . a young Admiral or a Pickle Duchess’

In January of 1794 I at last gave the Duke the son he craved. We named him George FitzClarence, and had him baptized in May. The birth was long drawn out but he was a fine healthy baby. As always I recovered quite quickly and fed him myself, which I’m quite sure the society ladies of Richmond would never do. I also took some much-needed rest from the theatre, enjoying a few months’ peace to devote myself entirely to my child. I loved to walk out through the park pushing the perambulator, calling at the shops in Richmond, one of my favourites being a milliner’s shop. I liked to remember the days when I had worked in one myself as a girl of fourteen. I loved to try on hats, and they would laugh when, having done a fair imitation of a society lady admiring myself before the looking glass, I would then put baby George on my lap and change his linen.

‘I have never seen the like,’ marvelled the proprietor. ‘You are a mother to those children in the truest sense of the word.’

Mother, mistress, actress, manager, sister, financier, supporter and help-meet. All things to all people, except a wife. I stifled a sigh of nostalgia for what might have been. Perhaps Sheridan had been right after all, respectable marriage for an actress was never on the cards, but I loved my Billy and had no regrets.

In April he was made a vice-admiral, more by way of compensation as it was but an honorary position with no role attached to it. He seemed reasonably content and was often at the House of Lords, and visited his brother for hard duty drinking sessions perhaps a mite too often. He seemed content, yet I worried about his lack of purpose in life.

‘Are you sure you won’t grow bored when I return to work?’ I asked him.

‘I shall find plenty to amuse myself. Do not fret, dearest.’

‘Perhaps you will grow tired of my frequent absences in the end?’

He drew me into his arms and kissed me. ‘I would never grow tired of you. So long as you come home every weekend, I am content.’

Later that summer we enjoyed a short holiday in Brighton at Mrs Fitzherbert’s house with William and baby George, and it was here that I was privy to a conversation between the brothers.

‘I fear if I don’t do something, I may well lose Petersham,’ William confessed to the Prince of Wales. ‘As you know, I have it on a mortgage and I never know from one month to the next whether I can continue to maintain it.’

‘The King will surely never allow that to happen,’ the Prince replied, somewhat dismissively.

‘I think it highly likely that he will, since he refuses to settle my debts.’

Possibly out of a sense of guilt for helping to create those debts, George later went to the King and suggested that His Majesty might ask Parliament to purchase the property, and allow William to remain as tenant. Apparently Pitt did not approve of the plan, pointing out that there were far more important matters upon which to spend the public purse.

The King also declined to relieve his son of the mortgage, and my Billy was obliged to seek a loan elsewhere to help pay off at least some of his debts.

‘Robbing Peter to pay Paul, that’s all I seem to do these days,’ he mourned. ‘I’ve written to Coutts stating that seven thousand pounds will settle my difficulties, and then by economy I hope to be once more free.’

Coutts was sympathetic if not particularly optimistic, but then William had given no indication of any real understanding of the word economy, bless his dear heart.

I returned to the stage in September when baby George was eight months old, thinking it important to keep some money coming in. I signed a new contract to appear at the new Drury Lane Theatre, which was at last open. It was utterly magnificent, if with a vast auditorium that was far too high, with poor sight-lines and difficulties with sound. Sheridan was still struggling over finances and wages were not being paid, resulting in strikes by dissatisfied staff and actors alike.

In the time-honoured fashion of all actors I took my baby with me, sending his devoted father constant little notes that ‘your dear little boy is perfectly well. He is now very much a theatre baby.’

By then I was already pregnant again. The Duke was, as I say, a most vigorous and passionate lover.

The Bon Ton Magazine announced:

Mrs Jordan is shortly expecting to produce something, whether a young Admiral or a Pickle Duchess it is impossible yet to tell.

I continued with my career as before, staying at Somerset Street during the week and going home to Richmond every Saturday. Sheridan arranged for Elizabeth Inchbald to write a play for me. It was entitled The Wedding Day and was a great success.

The one that followed, however, was a most dreadful flop. This was a satirical play about gambling, titled Nobody. It was written by Mary Robinson, who was most condemnatory on the subject of the nation’s favourite pastime. She had begged me to persuade Sheridan to put it on, and, perhaps foolishly, I did so, not only because she had once been mistress to the Prince of Wales, but was also a writer of some renown.

It was a bad mistake and most of the cast cried off. Bannister and I struggled through as best we could, despite the society ladies hissing behind their fans, and the young bucks in the pits blowing their cat-calls. It was also slated by the critics and finally Mrs Robinson had the good sense to withdraw the play. It was particularly sad considering the many literary achievements this fine lady had to her credit, most of which commented on the shortcomings of high society.

But seeing how pitiful this one-time adored and beautiful mistress of royalty had become, now suffering ridicule, ill health and neglect, brought a shiver to my spine almost as if someone had walked on my grave.

Such worries had little time to linger, as I soon had concerns of a more personal nature when Hester sent me a frantic message to say that Fanny was ill. She was twelve by this time, and normally such a healthy child, but I went at once to Brompton to nurse her. I found her fretful and feverish, but glad to have her mother there.

‘I will stay with her,’ I told Hester. ‘You keep the other children away so that they don’t catch whatever it is.’

‘I can cope perfectly well,’ my sister snapped, in that impatient way she had. ‘Are you not in a production? We cannot risk you catching it either.’

‘She is my daughter. Do as I ask without argument for once, please, Hester.’

But our efforts were in vain as Dodee did catch it. Both my girls were soon very ill indeed, although thankfully Lucy was spared, having been kept well clear. Doctor Turton, one of the royal physicians, quickly arrived on the scene, the Duke having kindly called him out.

‘I would say it is either putrid or scarlet fever. Either one can be extremely dangerous.’

I felt weak with fear. ‘What must I do to make her better? Is there something you can give her?’

‘If she can take this bark, and keep it down, there is hope.’

He very generously stayed with me all through that first night, which seemed endless, one which Hester and I spent wringing out cold cloths in an effort to bring down the girls’ fever. I stayed for a further three nights, so fearful for my daughters that I grew quite demented. The Duke wrote regularly, asking to meet me, but I was nervous of using the coach in case I should infect it. I offered to walk out to meet him, although not too far as I was utterly exhausted. But then I was advised by Doctor Turton not to do even that in case of spreading the contagion.

‘I should never forgive myself,’ I wrote to him, ‘if I was the cause of giving you any pain either of body or mind. Poor Fanny is very ill – her life depends on her being able to keep the bark on her stomach. Love and kiss my dear little boy . . . Yours ever, Dora.’

Praise the lord, my darling Fanny slowly began to recover, as did little Dodee.

‘All thanks to your good nursing,’ Doctor Turton told me.

‘My daughter owes her life to your bark, doctor, whatever it may be.’

In March 1795, I gave birth to another child, this time a daughter. The Duke chose to name her Sophia after his sister, a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Within the month I was back at work, taking baby with me as I was still feeding her: a necessity as money had begun to be something of a problem.

As if I didn’t have enough to contend with, the Duke and I were sitting peacefully at home at Clarence House one afternoon when we heard a great commotion at the door.

‘What on earth is going on?’ he cried, jumping up.

At that moment a footman appeared, looking somewhat harassed. ‘I tried to send him away, but the fellow says he is Mrs Jordan’s brother, Your Highness.’

And there stood George, looking very much the worse for drink, his clothes in a most disgusting state. I was utterly mortified. ‘George, what on earth are you doing here, and in such a condition?’

The Duke very tactfully left the room while I drew George on to the couch beside me. I recoiled a little as he stank strongly of gin. ‘Please bring coffee, and a bowl of hot water,’ I asked the footman.

‘My lovely Maria has left me,’ George cried, his words slurred. Never had I seen him so inebriated, as he’d rarely touched a drop of drink in his life. ‘She says we have drifted apart and has taken up residence with Caulfield, the comedian.’ And my poor brother began to sob.

‘Oh, George, I am truly sorry.’ It was quite common in our profession for actors working in different parts of the country to see each other but rarely, and marriages frequently broke down as a result. ‘Is there no hope?’

He shook his head in despair. ‘None. She has turned me out of the house, so I have nowhere even to live. She says I am useless, which is certainly true. I am not the actor she is, or you are, Dolly,’ he mourned, maudlin in his self-pity.

‘You do not have to be, George. You need only be yourself. Our mother once told me the very same thing when I was feeling low.’

‘I cannot. Without her, I am finished. I shall never act again.’

‘Nonsense, you will recover. We all must after heartbreak.’

I was devastated to hear this news, as the last thing I wanted was to take my brother in. But despite my sisterly scolding, copious amounts of coffee, and helping him to clean the vomit from his clothes, it was clear he was a broken man. I had no alternative but to send him to Cousin Blanche in Trelethyn to recover, and agree to give him an allowance of fifty pounds a year. What else could I do? He was ever weak, like his father, yet he is my dear brother.

I apologized profusely to the Duke, but unlike Ford, when he learned of my generosity, he uttered not one word of condemnation.

Oh, but it was an extra burden I could have done without.

‘It is the most vexing thing, but I am to be obliged to marry,’ The Prince of Wales mourned to us one day. ‘Parliament has agreed to pay off my debts, which confound it have now topped six hundred thousand pounds, so long as I agree to marry a German princess.’

‘But I thought you were married already, to Mrs Fitzherbert?’ William said, looking puzzled. I never took part in these brotherly discussions as it did not seem to be my place. I sat silent, my head bowed over my embroidery, an occupation that kept my fingers busy when waiting backstage, or as now when I wished not to appear to be listening.

‘My marriage to Maria is not considered to be legal, since I never received the King’s permission. I am to be sold off to Caroline of Brunswick. How I shall face another woman in my bed after my darling Maria, I cannot imagine.’

William laughed out loud. ‘But you never were faithful to your darling Maria. What of Lady Jersey? Is she not your mistress also?’

‘But Maria is the wife of my heart and soul.’

‘I understand,’ William softly agreed. ‘As Mrs Jordan is to me,’ and he cast me a fond look which I smilingly returned.

‘I am told that Caroline is very like our dear sister Mary. If so, then she will be all I could wish for in a wife.’

The Duke naturally attended his brother’s wedding on the eighth of April, 1795, and witnessed George’s revulsion at sight of his bride, who turned out to be not at all like Mary. I, of course, was not present, but he told me that the poor girl had been trussed up in a most unflattering gown at Lady Jersey’s instigation. She was presented to the Prince almost the moment she stepped ashore without even being allowed time for proper ablutions, over which the Prince was most fastidious. She was also loud and somewhat vulgar, certainly in her husband’s opinion. He went to her bed drunk and left it swearing never to return.

The wedding celebrations continued with a ball, and I was not invited to that either, which was only to be expected, this being a family occasion, but hurtful all the same. William, however, was unaware that I watched the proceedings from the gallery where the band was playing.

I found it excruciatingly painful to witness how closely he paid attention to the court ladies. I fear he rather enjoyed himself dancing with all the young beauties in their enchanting gowns, no doubt telling them his seafaring yarns, and basking in their enticing little smiles.

‘You were flirting with that woman,’ I accused him later, eyes hot with tears.

He looked quite shocked. ‘Dearest, I did no such thing.’

‘I saw you with my own eyes. While I was considered unworthy of attending such a magnificent event, thereby being humiliated before everyone, you can put yourself about as you choose.’

He looked rather annoyed by this charge, although I was quite certain he’d thoroughly enjoyed the attention. ‘How could you be humiliated when you were not even present?’ he said.

‘Because I am your wife, in all but name. I am beginning to think that perhaps this was all a terrible mistake and we should separate.’

He looked utterly mortified. ‘Why would you wish such a terrible thing? Do I not love you with all my heart and soul?’ I could see him struggling to damp down his quick temper, but I was too far gone in my own to care that he felt hurt by my accusation.

‘Oh, I dare say you do, just as the Prince of Wales loves Mrs Fitzherbert. But yet you are both free spirits and can love more than one woman without fear or favour, it seems,’ and I burst into tears.

William instantly drew me into his arms. ‘Never could I love any woman more than I love you, Little Pickle. You are my life, my All.’

I looked up into his blue eyes, warm with love, and was filled with shame. How could I have doubted him, even for a moment? ‘Oh, and I love you too, dearest Billy.’

He beamed. ‘Well, there you are then. Are we not the happiest, most devoted couple? Do we not have a domestic bliss that most would envy? Dora, my love, you have nothing to fear from anyone, I swear it on my honour.’ And somehow his sincerity was so genuine, so heartfelt, that I was convinced, and all ill feeling between us was dispelled with a night of passionate lovemaking.

Fortunately for the Prince of Wales, Caroline of Brunswick almost instantly fell pregnant, so he was further spared her bed. But I sensed that William felt sorry that his brother did not share our good fortune on the domestic front. That summer George came to Clarence House to bemoan the misery of his marriage and stayed for two long weeks.

‘I refuse to live with that woman,’ he declared over his fourth glass of claret.

‘But you must,’ William chided him. ‘If this child is a girl you will have to try again for a boy.’

George grimaced in horror. ‘Never!’

I made a great fuss of him, sitting at the head of the table and playing the perfect hostess, even though I was feeling far from well myself, having suffered a miscarriage in July, no doubt caused by pressure of work and one or two falls and sprains onstage. In January of the following year I sadly suffered yet another. By then Caroline was safely delivered of a girl, christened Charlotte after her grandmother. George was delighted and declared himself most satisfied. Three months later the Prince and Princess of Wales separated.

The Duke celebrated his brother’s success, even if the new Princess Charlotte did put him one step further from the throne.

To my complete horror, Daly suddenly presented himself at my dressing room one night at Drury Lane, turning up at my door like the proverbial bad penny. It took all my strength and resolve to see him, but I was curious to know what he wanted from me. I feared it might concern Fanny, and I was right, at least partially.

He stood before me with that squint-eyed look and my stomach curdled with loathing. ‘I have come to see my daughter. It was naughty of you to run away like that without even telling me about her. But I shall forgive you, Dolly, as I always do whenever you make a mistake.’

Anger rose hot and fierce in my breast; even the mere sight of him filled me with loathing. ‘The biggest mistake I ever made was to trust you. Fanny is my daughter and no concern of yours. And my name is Dora.’

He held out his hands in a familiar placatory gesture. ‘You cannot deny the child a father.’

‘She has no need of a father. She has a doting mother and an adoring aunt, not to mention the Duke to protect her.’

‘I can offer you one hundred guineas a week if you would come back to Dublin and perform at the theatre. What do you say to that?’

I laughed out loud. ‘So that is what this is all about! You wish to cash in on my fame. Either you are desperate, or a liar, or maybe both, but were you to offer me ten times that sum I would not come. Get out of my dressing room this minute. I also recommend you leave the country before I have you arrested for what you did to me.’

‘You would never dare,’ he scoffed, and straightening my spine I took a step closer, so that he did not mistake my sincerity.

‘Do not test me too much, Daly. If you come anywhere near Fanny you will live to regret it. The Duke is a powerful man with friends who could make life extremely difficult for you. Go home to Ireland in one piece, while you still can.’

He swore loudly, spun on his heel and strode away. I found that I had to sit down as I was actually shaking. But the bluff, for that is exactly what it was, had worked. At last, I thought, Daly is gone from my life for good, and from dear Fanny’s.

There were times during the long, cold winter that followed when I would think of that offer of one hundred guineas as Sheridan continued to struggle with his finances and paid me only in dribs and drabs. But never would I trust Daly again, so I dismissed him from my mind, proud that I had found the courage to stand up to him at last. But at times I felt worn out by the struggle to fit everything in, to constantly move from house to house, being at Somerset Street when in town, then home to Richmond at the weekends, minding my children and keeping the Duke happy.

Yet we were happy, deliciously so. Busy but content. Sheridan naturally disapproved of my frequent pregnancies, for all I kept on working, often to the very week I went into labour.

This season I was playing Nell in The Devil to Pay, and even Ophelia, would you believe? And my fame continued to blossom. Admirers would come to my dressing room simply to talk to me. I became friendly with a young Cambridge undergraduate by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who fancied himself as a poet and playwright, and sought my critical appraisal of his work. Seeing that he had merit, I gave him every encouragement, as I am rather fond of poetry myself.

There were others too who came to me for support and advice: a William Hazlitt, and a young clerk by the name of Charles Lamb who liked my rendition of Shakespeare.

In the months that followed exhaustion would often get the better of me, and I sometimes longed for a more settled life and a home in one place, able to devote myself entirely to my family. But then I would remind myself what a very fortunate woman I was to have such a beautiful family and also a wonderful career which brought me so much pleasure, and not a little in the way of financial reward.

On one occasion I was offered twenty guineas for three more nights, which is hard to resist, particularly if the house is a good one. And with a rapidly growing family, money was ever a cause of concern. Yet I was careful not to trespass upon the Duke’s good will too much. I always made a point, if I was to be away longer than intended, of seeking his agreement before I accepted.