The Duchess of Drury Lane

Twenty-Four




‘I dreamed of everyone at Bushy, my heart crying out to be home’

Following this request, or rather demand, I informed Drury Lane that I was taking a sabbatical and resisted all attempts by Bannister, my leading man, to entice me back with new plays. Throughout that spring and summer of 1806 I no longer needed to dash off in the carriage every day for rehearsals. Nor did I need the expense of the house in Somerset Street, which I let go. And instead of fussing over costumes and make-up I was able to relax in a simple gown and fichu. We lived a modest, quiet life, so quiet I would sometimes joke that we could be dead and buried without anyone knowing we had even been ill.

The poor Duke grieved over the death of his friend Nelson and attended his funeral in January. But then we were beset with family problems. George was sent home from Great Marlow, the military college, in February in disgrace for not paying proper attention to his studies. His misery wrung out my heart, but I feared the reason for such neglect on his part may well have a deeper cause. I said as much to William, suspecting he thought the same.

‘Do you think he was bullied or ridiculed because of me?’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, although his eyes did not meet mine. ‘The boy is clearly bored with lessons and seeks adventure, as his father did before him.’

He was certainly a high-spirited, intelligent boy, and not insensitive to the world around him. In our hearts we both knew that George’s unhappiness was due to the irregularity of his parents’ relationship, his illegitimacy, rather than ineptitude with his studies. But neither the Duke nor I made any further comment on the subject, either to George himself or to each other. Where was the point, since a situation that could not be cured must be endured?

Worse news came in March when we learned that the Duke’s son William had been drowned at sea when the Blenheim became caught up in a cyclone and foundered off Madagascar. How we grieved for that fine boy. I had loved him as if he were my own, and he was but seventeen. What a terrible waste of a young life. The poor Duke was utterly heartbroken. Nothing meant more to him than his dear children.

But happy relations between our two selves were thankfully restored and by August he was sufficiently recovered to celebrate his forty-first birthday in fine style. We held it in the new dining room, which everyone admired, as they did the newly painted clouds on the ceiling of the hall, the bronze pilasters and lamps suspended from an eagle. The grounds, where music was played, were open to the public, and in the evening four of the Duke’s brothers came. The Prince of Wales himself led me to the head of the table where I was to preside over dinner. I was deeply flattered, and foolish enough to believe that abandoning my career was beginning to pay off, so that I might be fully welcomed into the royal family after all.

But yet again I was attacked by the press. William Cobbett branded my children bastards, accused me of vice and immorality, and their father of being guilty of a crime both in law and religion. He claimed the whole birthday celebration to be a lie on my part, as the royal family were far too pious and moral to involve themselves in such an occasion. By this he meant be seen in my company!

It near broke my heart to see William’s reaction. ‘How dare the fellow defile us in that way,’ he roared, more angry than I had ever seen him. I certainly felt that my sacrifice had been in vain.

I did enjoy having more time to spend with my children, and in March 1807 Amelia was born; as I was by then forty-five, I sincerely hoped she would be my last child. There were yet again builders working at Bushy and for a while I feared my bedroom would not be ready in time. The Duke was away, as he so often was, and I wrote a mild complaint of the stress I was under.

‘I really don’t know how to manage the bricklayers.’

Fortunately he returned at once, and assured me the room would be ready by March.

‘Good, as that is when I shall need it,’ was my patient response. But by the time little Mely was six months old I knew I needed to earn some money, that the question of my returning to work could be ignored no longer.

I approached the Duke with caution, casually mentioning a pressing tax bill as I put forward my request. ‘In addition, dearest, my older girls are coming up to a time in their lives when they are likely to marry and will require dowries. I must do right by them, make sure they marry well and are properly set up. And you know full well that I have no wish to be a burden to you.’

Perhaps because of all the trauma we had suffered, he made no objections.

Drury Lane welcomed me back, if at reduced fees, with jubilant applause and packed houses despite my long absence. Sheridan seemed relieved to see me, perhaps because his debts were greater than ever. This time I took a house in Mortimer Street where I was able to have the children with me, although we naturally returned to Bushy each weekend.

Oh, but it was good to be back on stage, to feel again that moment of pure exhilaration when an audience falls about with laughter at something I have said or done, or simply at the expression on my face. It is always an honour and a pleasure to bring people such delight.

The Duke was able to gain young George a commission in the 10th Hussars as a cornet, which made the boy proud to carry the colours of his regiment. He faithfully promised his father that he would mend his ways. William himself took him to Portsmouth to see him embark with his regiment for Portugal, as his own father had once taken him. I could hardly bear even to think of my fourteen-year-old son at war, yet like all mothers I must learn to let him go.

As for dear Henry, I had been obliged to swallow my fears and make no protest as he went as a midshipman at the tender age of eleven with Admiral Keats to the Baltic.

The poor Duke, however, was still suffering from a severe lack of purpose. And having supplied the nation with three recruits already in William, George and Henry, and with three more boys to follow, he begged yet again to be given a command at sea. This time he had every hope of having his wish fulfilled.

He wrote to me from Portsmouth to explain his coming absence in one of the many letters he sent me while I was in London.

Through your excellence and kindness in private life I am the happiest man possible and look forward only to a temporary separation to make that happiness more complete from having provided for our dear children. My love and best and tenderest wishes attend you all at Bushy . . . Adieu till we meet and ever believe me, dearest Dora, Yours most affectionately . . .

I fully sympathized with this need in him, for all it filled me with terror at the thought of his actually going, but of course nothing of the sort actually happened. The Duke’s request, as always, was refused.

His brother the Duke of York was then involved in a most dreadful scandal where his mistress, Mary Anne Clarke, was found to be using his position as commander-in-chief to sell commissions. The scandalmongers once again did their worst and then like hungry wolves turned upon us, accusing the Duke of having seduced one of my older girls.

‘So far as I am aware neither one of my daughters is pregnant, and they look upon the Duke as a father figure, not a lover,’ was my sharp response to anyone who repeated these cruel and infamous reports to me. But, much as we might try to ignore them, they were deeply hurtful and offensive. Were we never to be left in peace?

‘The Duke is an example for half the fathers and husbands in the world,’ I protested, which is most certainly true.

And then, to add insult to injury, Drury Lane burned down in February of 1809. I was mortified. What ill luck to have enjoyed but a few short months back on stage, only to lose it again.

But however inconvenient for me, to Sheridan it was a disaster of mammoth proportions. He and I had often been at odds during the twenty-four years I’d worked for him, but I felt nothing but sympathy for him now.

‘We have at least managed to salvage the theatre’s charter,’ I said, striving to offer some sort of consolation.

‘But not much else. And I doubt I can recoup my losses this time.’

‘The company will be able to “borrow” other theatres, so surely you can continue? You have rebuilt before, why not again?’

‘I need backers, Dora, and so far there is little sign of my ever finding one.’

He was not the man he had been, certainly no longer the clever wit who had written those two marvellous plays.

I threw myself into performing in several benefits to support stage hands who had lost their jobs. But then the Duke, for reasons best known to himself, again requested that I withdraw from the stage.

This time I was prepared. Remembering how he’d used the words ‘more fitting’ were I not to appear, as if the King or Queen objected to seeing my handbills all over town, I tactfully put my suggestion to him.

‘Would it perhaps be more appropriate if I were not to appear on the London stage? Would you prefer it if I were to confine myself to touring?’

His face seemed to light up with relief. ‘Ah, what a very sensitive and understanding person you are, Little Pickle. That is a splendid notion. Yes, let us agree that you will take no more engagements in London, but simply tour.’

The prospect of spending my entire time on tour filled me with dismay: the cold, flea-bitten lodgings, the dreadful food, the endless travelling, being constantly beset by people from dawn to dusk, with twenty hands to help me out of my carriage. And very often the most amusing entertainment to be found to fill the long hours when I was not on stage was only to read, read, read. But touring was better than nothing, and allowed me to continue earning.

And if I were never seen in London the royal family would not be constantly reminded of my presence, I thought, although I refrained from saying as much.

And so I returned to endlessly touring the provinces. It might be Margate and Canterbury, then there was the northern circuit from York as far as Edinburgh, and on occasion Manchester or Birmingham, neither of which town I cared much for, although the houses were always good, and the people most respectful and friendly. The West Country was ever my favourite. I rather think that if I did not have Bushy I could live in Bath. It is a most delightful town.

But my next engagement was in Ireland. What on earth had possessed me to agree to go there?

The sea was rougher than I remembered, but then I had only ever done this crossing once in my life before when I was running away from Daly, so how was I to judge? The Irish Sea is well known for strong currents that pull you this way and that. As we heaved and tossed in our misery, the prospect of returning to my native land depressing me even more than the weather, I couldn’t help but think of young William, his dear life cut short in such a terrible way. His death made me fear for my own sons: George in Corunna caught up in the war, Henry still somewhere in the Baltic. I worried about them constantly and was a constant correspondent to both my boys. As was their father, advising them against gambling and drink, and not to waste money.

While we were in Bath on this current tour, we all walked to the stagecoach and expressed universal joy to find letters from dear George. In my reply I urged him to write often, and to use a dictionary for his spelling which was quite atrocious.

I also gave my eldest son advice on how to address the Duke.

‘. . . as you are now a Lieutenant and employed on actual service it would be more appropriate if in future when you mention the Duke, that you should say my father, or the Duke. It may prevent any little ridicule that might be excited by your saying Papa.’

It was, I believe, important to do what I could to protect my children from the derision I had suffered in the past for my own lack of legitimacy. Sophy too was causing concern as she frequently refused to stir from her bedroom.

‘What is wrong with the girl?’ her father would fret, and I would offer what reassurance I could.

‘She is but suffering from a headache as her constitution will shortly undergo a change. She is fourteen, and we must be as understanding as we can.’

But I think the problem was more troubling than simple biology. Both my older daughters had recently married: Fanny to Thomas Alsop, a young clerk from the ordnance office, whose temper I feared very much. Dear quiet Dodee had wed his friend, Frederick March, also a clerk, only two months ago. I believed the pair to be very happy, a complete Darby and Joan. He too was illegitimate and I provided both girls with a substantial dowry of £2,000, of which in Dodee’s case I paid half up front. The Duke had agreed to pay the rest as interest on several loans I’d made him over the years. I also agreed to provide an allowance of £200 per year.

How I longed for a respectable happy marriage for each of my younger daughters. But is that possible with me for a mother?

‘Will this journey never end?’ poor dear Lucy moaned as she retched into the bowl I held for her. She had been a welcome companion throughout this most successful tour, although by now she might well be regretting having offered to come at all.

It certainly seemed a lifetime since we had left Holyhead. Even our beds were soaking wet and there was no comfort to be found anywhere. We were all mightily relieved when, after ten long hours at sea, the ship finally docked and I could see the customs house at last. We were taken straight to our lodgings in St James’s Street.

I saw at once that they were not so clean as the ones we had in Bath, although at least they were not devoured by bugs as were the beds at the Bush Inn at Bristol. And the weather had improved, the June day warm and pleasant, most welcome after the cold spring we’d endured with snow as late as April, and a sea of mud and water all around Bath.

‘The managers, Mr Crampton and Mr Atkinson, have called to see you, Mama,’ Lucy said, her own pallor as white as the sheets – whiter perhaps, looking at this particular linen.

‘Tell them I am too much fatigued and unwell to see anybody.’

Had I nursed the hope that a good dinner would restore me, I was soon disenchanted. When the food finally appeared at eight o’clock it was quite inedible. We were obliged to eat some cold soup that we’d brought with us.

‘Do I not deserve every penny of the money I earn, with what I have to suffer?’ I asked of my daughter.

‘Indeed you do,’ she agreed. ‘And the first thing we must do is to clean up our quarters.’

‘If we can do so with tact. The Irish easily take offence from the interfering English.’

After a moderately comfortable night in which the bed was at least dry and did not rock from side to side, we were woken early by a noisy commotion downstairs. I sent Thomas to investigate and he returned within minutes with disturbing news.

‘The place is heaving with people anxious to see you. They have brought you fish and fowl, flowers and sweetmeats, gifts galore to lay at your feet.’

My heart sank, as of all things I do like to guard my privacy. I had learned that in my particular station of life it was wise to keep one’s head down and avoid company. Had I not suffered enough from the scandalmongers? ‘Pray thank them kindly, Thomas, and explain that I never go out when from home.’

‘Very good, madam.’

He had, of course, delivered this message countless times before on any number of occasions. Apart from any other consideration, I’d learned to my cost that if I was not careful I could find myself on public view from the moment I breakfasted to long after the fall of the curtain at midnight.

Lucy returned from a trip to the bakery to purchase bread with sorrier news. ‘It seems that we have arrived far too soon and you will not be needed for several days yet. Kemble has still not completed his own engagement, and is in a rage at your even being here, his wife claiming you did it deliberately in order to injure him.’

I was utterly devastated, and rightly angry. ‘Goodness gracious, the fault was not mine, more likely a piece of bad management.’ I found it quite distressing to think of the extra time I could have enjoyed at home had I known. Lucy slumped in misery on the bed and I wrapped my arms about her as my mother had used to do with me.

‘I assure you, dearest, we are not staying here. I would pay ten guineas to be allowed to quit this place.’

I sent Thomas to fetch us dinner from a local tavern that night, and the next day, having no wish to go out, I returned the hired carriage as I regretted the expense. We did not find better quarters but at least employed a cook, although I was startled when she served us in her bare feet.

‘I beg you to put on your shoes and stockings,’ I said, but she only laughed at my fussing.

‘Sure and I can’t be bothered with them. I think meself much cleaner without them. It’s a nadeless custom, to sure,’ she concluded, as if that settled the matter.

‘Well, I suppose you will not be dressing the dinner with your toes, so I must endeavour to be content,’ I replied with a sigh of resignation. There really is no telling the Irish anything.

‘Mr Jones, the proprietor, has invited you to dinner on Friday,’ Lucy informed me later that day.

‘Then you must politely decline. Say that I am unwell.’

She looked alarmed. ‘But he may cancel your engagement, Mama, if he thinks you ill.’ She was such a gentle, unassuming child, I thought.

‘Then ask him to postpone the occasion until I am fully recovered from the journey.’

As it turned out we dined instead that Friday with an old friend, Mrs Lefanu, Sheridan’s sister, a huge woman, and no wonder judging by the lavish hospitality she offered. I swear I have never seen so much food, nor a salmon so large. Its tail rested on my plate and the head almost in the lap of my neighbour opposite, an Englishman who was, I believe, as astonished as myself.

‘Would you take a little salmon?’ he was asked.

‘I think I have quite enough on my plate already,’ he drily remarked, and I dared not catch his eye for fear of laughing out loud.

Both Lucy and I ate our fill, but declined a sip of the very large cup of porter that was passed around. The prospect of putting my mouth to the same place as others, even if the cup was silver, made my stomach heave even more than the rough crossing.

‘I always hated my native land, if that is what it is, but now I detest it,’ I told my daughter on our journey back to our lodgings in the chair we had hired in place of the carriage. And that night I dreamed of everyone at Bushy, my heart crying out to be home.

I hated to be absent for too long. The King could not maintain his fragile state of health for ever, and with only the Princess Charlotte as heir following the Prince of Wales, pressure would surely be brought to bear upon the other brothers to marry. Aware as I was of this risk, I could not bear to think of it. As I tossed and turned in yet another strange bed, I brought to mind a comment of the Duke’s in a recent letter to me in Bath, where he said that I had been more punctual this time. He appeared just to have found out that we ‘go on together very well’.

In my reply I wrote, ‘It was fortunate that you concluded the sentence with the hope that it would never be otherwise. You may have your doubts about it, I have none. Mind, I only answer for myself.’

I spoke in jest, as is my wont, yet I was beginning to worry, very slightly, that he was perhaps growing accustomed to my absences. Did he need me as much as he used to?

‘I have read somewhere of a man that was very much in love, who left his mistress for the sake of receiving letters from her. This was great refinement certainly,’ I wrote. ‘For my part I like a little personal intercourse a great deal better . . .’

Not something that can be enjoyed when there is the cold Irish Sea dividing us.