The Duchess of Drury Lane

Twenty-Two




‘. . . the lady who has so captured my heart’

In the years following, our lives at Bushy continued in the most pleasant manner imaginable. I would often find myself overseeing work still going on; dear Billy was never short of plans for improvement, yet nor did he stint on the requirement for him to attend the House of Lords, so how could he always be present? I would speak to the builders then take my daughters to their dance class, attend rehearsals for my latest production, or enjoy afternoon tea with my neighbour, Mrs Garrick. Somehow I managed to divide my time between family and stage, able to pursue a career I loved while living with a man who meant everything to me, a man who adored me in return and who frequently sought my advice and counsel.

On one occasion I was able tactfully to persuade him against erecting a building which would have been to the detriment of old Mrs Garrick’s estate.

‘If you continue the building you will have all the old cats at Hampton Court on your back,’ I warned him. The plan was cancelled. Mostly though, I was careful to defer to the Duke’s wishes. He was, after all, a royal prince.

‘Shall we have green or crimson drapes in the dining room, Dora?’ he would ask.

‘My love, let us call in the upholsterer to bring us some swatches and advise,’ I would cautiously reply.

Never in my life had I lived in a house of this magnitude, and it felt at times overwhelming. But to me it was more than a mansion, it was our home. The colonnades were closed in to form curving corridors along which the children did indeed love to run, each leading to a pavilion. The entire house bristled with activity, with nursemaids and servants, but also with dogs and muddy boots, with toys left scattered about, with fishing rods and sporting guns. There was noise too, and plenty of it, perhaps the discordant notes of a child hitting the wrong keys in a piano lesson, a boy tooting on a trumpet, the squawk of a pet parrot, or simply endless happy laughter.

In the summer there would be the crack of leather ball on willow as cricket became a passion for all my boys. There would be jolly picnics and swimming in the lake, boating on the Thames, tug-of-war and team games with the village boys. Oh, what fun we had. Even helping in the gardens and on the farm was regarded as a pleasure. The children loved to join in, whether it be the gathering and stacking of hay, helping with the lambing, or picking the ripe peaches, plums, strawberries or raspberries when in season. They might have tangles in their hair, their clothes be stained with dried mud or blackberry juice, but they were carefree and happy. What better childhood could they have?

We also had staying with us the Duke’s eldest son, William, a dear boy of whom I was most fond, and naturally destined for the navy. I would see him to school and write to him every week, sending him presents as I did all the children when their time came. Sometimes the Duke of Cumberland’s son, FitzErnest, also came to stay at Bushy. His father took little interest in the boy, but he was very much loved by me and he too came to regard Bushy as his home.

No child would ever lose out on love and attention from me, no matter what his background.

I loved to plan birthday celebrations. I might bring in a conjurer from a local fair to entertain the children, or a band so that they could dance. And there were indeed ponies and donkeys for them to ride. Dogs and cats, rabbits and hamsters, not forgetting Polly, our pet parrot.

Christmas was always a joy with a full and merry house, in which the Duke delighted. I was more shy in company, preferring not to put myself forward.

Of course children are sick sometimes; then I would sit up with them at night, rub embrocation on their chests if they had a cough, nurse their colds or dose of measles. I would read them stories and every night visit each child’s bedroom before retiring to my own. They were, and still are, the world to me.

As was my custom I took Freddles, as we came to call him, with me to Drury Lane when I returned to work in the spring of 1800. And to my joy, in May, the Duke informed me that the King himself was to attend a performance.

‘He wishes to see She Would and She Would Not. Can you do that for him, dearest?’

‘With pleasure.’ I believed I was yet again in the family way, but would not be showing for some months, and my health was very much improved.

‘For once His Majesty will be accompanied by the Queen and the princesses,’ William said, giving me one of his most tender kisses. ‘I think they wish to view more closely the lady who has so captured my heart.’

My stomach lurched in a conflict of excitement and trepidation. The royal family might be tolerant of my presence in the Duke’s life, but no attempt had been made to meet either me or our children. Would this be the moment when they did? I wondered. ‘Hypolita is one of my most famous roles so I will do my utmost not to let you down, although pleasing Her Majesty will not be easy.’

As things turned out, pleasing either one of them was the least of our concerns. The Duke himself led the royal party into their box. Sheridan was supervising backstage and I was watching from the wings, waiting to go on. As the King entered there came the loud crack of a pistol. To my horror a man in the pit had fired a shot, narrowly missing the King. A great gasp went up from the terrified audience and perhaps, in the midst of considerable confusion, the Queen thought the noise came from backstage, for she carried on walking into the box. I saw the King frantically signal to her not to enter, then heard him say: ‘They are letting off squibs and perhaps there may be more.’ As if trying to stop her.

But Queen Charlotte was no fool and quickly realized what had occurred. ‘My dear, is it safe to remain? Should the show not be cancelled?’

‘Certainly it must continue,’ said the King, and bravely stepped forward to show that he was unharmed. More gasps from the audience, followed by rousing cheers.

While this was going on, William had leapt over the edge of the royal box and flung himself at the would-be assailant, manhandling the fellow to the ground, along with one or two other noble gentlemen who came to assist. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen him do.

The audience were in near pandemonium by this time. ‘Put him up on stage,’ someone cried.

‘Aye, let’s see him properly bound.’

Fearing the bucks in the pit might turn nasty and call for the man to be strung up there and then, I walked to the front of the stage and put up my hands to quieten them. ‘My friends, do not fear, all is well. The miscreant has been secured, and will be properly dealt with. As you see the King is safe, and the evening’s performance will shortly recommence.’

The prisoner was then frog-marched from the theatre by the constabulary, and dispatched to the prison in Cold Bath Fields. He was later identified as James Hadfield, a dragoon with the Duke of York’s company, and duly incarcerated in Bedlam on the grounds of insanity.

But that was still to come. On the night in question the audience were responding to my calming words and beginning to settle. To my astonishment Sheridan handed me the words of a new verse for ‘God Save the King’, which he had that very moment scribbled down.

‘Sing it, Dora,’ he instructed, but I did not feel I was the right person for such a task.

I handed the verse to Michael Kelly, who stepped forward and led the entire company with his amazing voice, the audience joining in with gusto. They sang the verse, ‘Our father, prince and friend’, three times, savouring the words, before Kelly finally brought the rendition to a close.

The King and Queen stood proudly smiling throughout, but as they settled themselves to watch the performance I could see that the princesses were far from happy. What a terrible shock for them, poor creatures: so rarely allowed out in public, and on an evening which should have brought them nothing but pleasure, they instead saw their father almost assassinated before their eyes.

I was joined the next day at Somerset Street by an old friend, James Boaden, who wished to ease his mind that I was quite well after the fracas. We enjoyed a dish of tea and a little light refreshment while discussing the horror of seeing our monarch so attacked, remarking upon his equable composure. ‘I dare say His Majesty must live in fear of revolution reaching our own shores. Fortunately, no real harm was done and the man quickly restrained, thanks to the Duke’s quick action. He spent the night at the palace, anxious to calm his sisters after their fright.’ I strummed my fingers lightly over my lute, smiling at young George who had decided to engage in a play fight with our visitor. Boaden also liked to bring me the latest gossip. Not necessarily good, as in this case.

‘All the papers are full of it this morning, expressing admiration for the bravery of the Duke of Clarence, and great relief at the safety of the King. Unfortunately, some are saying that it was not appropriate for your good self to address the house as you did, Dora, in the presence of the Queen and the princesses.’

My fingers stilled. ‘What nonsense! I did nothing much at all, and certainly nothing wrong. I was not the one who attempted to kill the King, and someone needed to calm the audience. Since it was I who would be facing them first onstage, the task surely fell to me. Why would I refuse simply because the Queen was present? What difference did that make?’

‘They claim that you are not fit to be in Her Majesty’s company at all,’ Boaden said, avoiding my eyes by feigning to field my son’s attacks while actively encouraging him to continue the game.

I could feel the warmth and colour slip from my cheeks, as if the spring sunshine was not shining into my drawing room and my beautiful children were not playing about my feet. ‘Is that because I am not considered to be a decent, respectable citizen, but one who should be kept locked away, unfit for public viewing?’

Boaden sadly shook his head. ‘Do not take these things to heart, Dora. There are always moralists who will loudly prate their opinions. It is but a storm in a teacup. All that matters is the King is safe, as are the princesses, although Princess Amelia will take some time to recover, I believe. My dear, this boy is a veritable Hercules.’

I looked at my six-year-old son pummelling poor Boaden with his small fists as if in a boxing ring, while eighteen-month-old Mary had her arms clasped about one of my old friend’s knees, hanging on like the grinning monkey she surely was. I couldn’t help but laugh. What cared I for gossip? Had I not put all that scandal and mischief behind me and was at the peak of my career and happiness? I had no intention of allowing them to sully my life again. My fame was stronger than ever, and all was going well for me. More importantly, I was blessed with the most wonderful family, and a brave lover who did not hesitate to overpower a would-be assassin. I was indeed the most fortunate of women.

‘Listen to this,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I have written a song, “The Bluebell of Scotland”, all about a brave young man going to war, which is to be published. Let me sing it for you.

Oh where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?

Oh where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone?

He’s gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done

And it’s oh! in my heart I wish him safe at home.

By the time I had finished my soldier song the children were dancing, Boaden was singing with me, and we had quite forgotten the unpleasant criticisms from the press.

The country was at last enjoying a period of peace, the Treaty of Amiens finally coming to fruition in March 1802. How long it would last no one could say, but it came as a great relief to all. By then I had added Elizabeth, born in January 1801, and Adolphus, born in February 1802, to our growing family. Mrs Siddons was apparently threatening to retire while I was working harder than ever.

Every August the Duke would go to Brighton, and he would often take the three older boys with him where they could enjoy the sea bathing. I was touring in Kent, dreaming every night of my new son, now known as Molpuss, the most melancholy and dissatisfied woman in Margate. As it turned out it was just as well the children were not with me, as I had a scare of my own while on my way to Canterbury from Margate, quite late one Sunday evening. I rarely slept well when I was away from home so it seemed to make sense to save time by setting out after the show, which turned out to be a bad mistake.

Thomas was with me, of course, and my maid. Turner was driving the coach. Thankfully Lloyd was with me also, and it was he who first noticed that something was amiss. The summer night was warm and wet, and we were all tired. I cushioned my head on the squabs, the sound of the wheels swishing in the mud soon lulling me to sleep. After a time, Lloyd shook me gently awake.

‘I have no wish to alarm you, madam, but I fear we are being followed by what appear to be two black-coated highwaymen. They have been behind us for some miles, ever since we left Sittingbourne.’

I felt my heart quake a little, but moments later came the sound of galloping hooves as one of the horses approached the carriage. The brigand must have set about the post boy as I heard Turner call out to him to leave the lad alone. His bravery won him a beating, and I cried out in fear as Lloyd attempted to calm me and the poor maid, who was by now in hysterics. The second highwayman brought the carriage to a halt while the first again struck Turner, this time across his face so that he fell from where he sat atop the leading horse. I saw my valiant driver at once scramble to his feet, determined to protect us. Thomas too attempted to retaliate and was likewise struck for his pains.

‘Leave us be, we are nought but poor strolling players,’ shouted Lloyd.

They must have seen that we had nothing of value, or else thought themselves out-numbered, for the pair suddenly turned tail and rode off. I collapsed with relief, and it was some time before I could stop shaking. We drove the last three miles to Canterbury at top speed and I vowed never to travel at night again, no matter what hours it might save me.

As if this were not bad enough, I then experienced a further disaster when at Margate a week later my gown caught fire, with flames up to the waist, while playing in The Country Girl.

‘Notwithstanding all these disasters,’ I wrote to the Duke, ‘I shall come home safe to you and the dear children.’