The Duchess of Drury Lane

Twenty-Six




‘. . . that I am a better actress at this moment than I ever was’

1810

Christmas that year was special as both my boys were home. The house was alive with fun and laughter. George had suffered from a wound and dysentery but was now recovering well, and dear Henry returned to me as a seasoned seaman, no longer the child I remembered. They went hunting and shooting with their father, while the girls and I took carriage rides in the park. There were games of charades and billiards, reading ghostly tales to each other by a blazing log fire and the traditional exchange of gifts. I played on my lute while we all sang till we were hoarse, the girls showing off their pretty new gowns as they danced. And we must have consumed more than our fair share of plum pudding and mince pies, port wine and sweetmeats, not to mention a haunch of venison, goose and game. It was such a joy to have my family all around me again.

But before the goose was picked clean, before even Twelfth Night, I began to pack up ready for my next tour.

‘You do not leave already?’ the Duke asked, a scowl marring his brow.

‘I fear I must, dearest. The engagement paid too well to refuse, and you know that I have tax to pay, and Lucy’s dowry still to find, not forgetting a pension for myself before I retire. I fear I am too burdensome to you, but I assure you that I want only to get out of debt then I shall indeed remain at home with my family. One or two more good engagements should set me quite free. I shall then convince you that neither money nor pleasure shall take me from home.’

We kissed and said our farewells, and if his embrace lacked some of the ardour I had once known I tried not to dwell upon it. I packed my bags and Lucy and I, ably supported by Thomas and Turner, set out into the cold once more.

January was spent in Manchester, where I performed in a most beautiful theatre almost as large as Drury Lane, which made me wonder if that national treasure would ever be rebuilt. Bannister and other friends were with me, and although I had much rather have spent New Year’s Day with my family, I felt greatly appreciated. The applause was deafening.

A local Methodist minister may not have agreed with this generous acclaim as he sent me a letter solemnly accusing me of holding communication with the Wicked One, who had apparently bewitched me with charms, spells and magic.

I couldn’t help but laugh about this to Lucy. ‘They say the fault is entirely mine that they have been tempted against their will to come to the Devil’s house six times, never having seen a play before, and hated all such abominations.’

‘I did not realize you had such influence, Mama.’

‘No more did I. But I apparently spirited the money out of their pockets and induced them to neglect their families and employments.’ I handed her the letter, much amused.

Reading it, she smiled. ‘It appears that you yet have a soul worth saving, if only you will give up your profession and intimacy with the Wicked One.’

‘I shall certainly bear that in mind,’ I said in mock seriousness.

As the month progressed we travelled from town to town: Rochdale, Blackburn, Chester and many more, huddled in shawls and warm coats, our frozen feet on a rapidly cooling hot brick. Fagging myself to death, as usual. My ankles were swollen and quite painful, so I took some time off at Kirkstall Abbey to refresh my spirits before going on to Halifax and Leeds.

There I played at the very theatre where first I had appeared in England after our long weary walk from Liverpool with Mama, only this time we stayed at the Grieves Hotel with a handsome bed and a good room for once. Then on to York where the theatre was as cold as ever and we all suffered from sore throats, but where on this occasion I was in favour with the ladies of that fine town.

Without doubt, what most fuelled my energy was a good audience. They seemed better than ever, every box taken. Dear old Wilkinson would have called it a ‘thunderer’, and I couldn’t help a small satisfaction when I heard of Mrs Siddons playing to a house of but thirty-one. I might linger in the Green Room feeling exhausted, certain that I could not possibly go on. I would sometimes pace the stage a little before the curtain rose in an effort to prepare myself, but the moment the performance started it was as if a flame had been kindled inside me. I was afire with new energy, my step quick and light, all worries and family concerns gone from my mind, and I was reborn.

If I possessed any magic it came to the fore only on stage, not in the real world. Young actors and actresses would eagerly listen to every little instruction I gave them at rehearsals. They seemed to see me as a legend in my own lifetime, which was most flattering.

More offers came in, which I declined as civilly as I may, my thoughts of the Duke losing patience with my long absences constantly in my mind. I seemed to have no state of moderation. I was either deliriously happy or in the pit of despair.

And Lucy, I fear, found this a comfortless and weary life. She was quite right, for it is certainly that. We were glad to return to Bushy, where she soon informed me she had accepted the hand of Colonel Hawker. I was a little shocked, as he was in truth far too old for my darling girl, being a man approaching fifty.

‘I hope you love him, dearest,’ I anxiously asked. ‘Do not accept him otherwise, and certainly not because you are fatherless. I do so want you to be happy.’

‘I shall be happy, Mama. The Colonel is kind and good.’

‘But does he have passion?’

She gave me her patient little smile. ‘I am not sure it is in my nature to seek passion, Mama, but he is certainly sensible and safe.’

‘Is that important?’ I was not entirely surprised by this practical view she held of what was required in a husband, if a little disappointed by it.

‘When I compare him with Fanny’s choice of Alsop, yes, I dare say it is.’

A daughter’s husband never does come up to snuff, I thought. But I made up my mind to be happy for her, and dear Lucy was married at Hampton Church in April, a quiet affair supported by myself, Henry and Sophy. There was further good news in May when Dodee gave birth to a delightful little girl.

By June I was again on tour, this time as far north as Edinburgh, travelling one hundred and thirty miles each day from five in the morning to ten at night. And as Lucy was with her new husband, Fanny accompanied me in her place. I received several requests for further engagements, including Glasgow and Bath, although I always checked with the Duke before accepting any of them.

‘If it will answer my purpose better than Liverpool, I will do it, particularly as it will be the last time I shall leave you,’ I wrote.

I knew in my heart that I could not test his patience for much longer.

I was playing Nell in The Devil to Pay in Glasgow at the end of June, when I received word that the Duke had been taken seriously ill with an attack of asthma. This was a regular occurrence, but far worse on this occasion. The managers kindly gave me leave, and although I would need to return to complete my contract with them I immediately set out for Bushy. We drove night and day, never leaving my carriage either to eat or sleep, and I was in the most dreadful state throughout the sixty-three hours of the journey. It was unbearable to think that something terrible might happen to my dear Billy while I was so far away.

But on my arrival at Bushy I found him already on the road to recovery, tended by Sophy, and by the royal doctors Dundas and Blane. Lucy had already left with the Colonel to join his regiment in Portugal, which almost broke my heart.

‘Will she be safe?’ I asked William, desperate for reassurance.

‘Why would she not be, as she is with her husband?’

He sounded offhand, quite indifferent to my concern, perhaps because his spirits were low and he was not yet fully recovered. I changed the subject, thinking to cheer him. ‘I have agreed to play one last time at Covent Garden for £100 per night. Great terms, I’m sure you’ll agree. It will be my retirement performance there. After that I must pay the same compliment to other theatres, Bath, Margate, and so on. Then I shall most gladly retire.’

‘If you feel the necessity. I thought you wished not to quit the stage?’

‘I wish only to settle my debts first, then I will be more than satisfied to leave.’ I had rather hoped this would please him, but as with his recent letters he was not showing the enthusiasm for my decision that I had hoped for. ‘Were you not once of the opinion yourself that for the sake of propriety I should quit?’ But seeing how he still breathed with difficulty, I put my arms about him to kiss his brow. ‘I am tiring you, dearest. You must rest.’

‘I shall go to Brighton,’ William decided, of a sudden. ‘The fresh air will do me good.’

‘An excellent notion.’ He did not offer to take me with him, or think that it might do me good to have a restful holiday by the sea. ‘So long as the Prince does not lead you into more hard drinking,’ I finished on a lighter note.

This brought forth the semblance of a smile and we parted on good terms, if somewhat more distant than usual.

‘Please write to inform the boys that there will be no birthday celebration at Bushy this August,’ the Duke casually announced one day, although he must have known I had been making preparations for the occasion myself for some time. ‘The Queen has graciously decided to mark the day by giving me a fête.’

‘Oh, how very kind of Her Majesty.’

William half turned away, avoiding my enquiring gaze. ‘You know that you cannot be included in the invitation, Dora,’ he added, and almost sighed with relief when I merely nodded, silently determined not to make the slightest fuss.

‘What a very sensible woman you are,’ he said, and I tried to remember the last time he had called me by my pet name of Little Pickle. ‘Her Majesty has also granted permission for Sophy to go out into society, now that she is sixteen. Is that not most generous of her?’

I gasped, thrilled by this news, at least. ‘It is indeed.’

‘I shall naturally escort her myself.’

‘Of course.’

I spent the Duke’s forty-fifth birthday at Bushy. Quite alone. I sat in the garden in the sunshine and wrote to my son, explaining that the Duke had found it necessary to make some retrenchments and thought it prudent not to mark the day. I made no mention of the Queen’s fête, although I did explain that the other boys were also away either at school or at sea, and the girls were out. I decided not to say they were at Windsor.

‘If you see dear Lucy, I trust you will be able to prevail on her to remain at Lisbon. I am now quite alone, even Mely has taken her flight, and the house is so still that it does not appear like Bushy.’

I should have returned to Glasgow to finish my engagement but I was tired, and had lost heart somehow. I remained at Bushy for the rest of that summer.

I went on tour again in the autumn but Fanny was not the support my lovely Lucy was, constantly dissatisfied, as was her husband. I would frequently hear them quarrelling when they thought I wasn’t listening, and generally about money. He was not my favourite son-in-law by any means. Alsop would do well, I thought, to learn from the prudence of March, dear Dodee’s husband. The fellow was too full of himself and money slipped through his fingers like water. There were times that I feared for my daughter.

‘I may become a concert singer,’ she said one day as she brushed out my hair before I went on, as she had used to do as a small child so long ago.

‘Your voice is pleasant enough, Fanny dear, but not in the top notch.’

‘Then I shall act. I have before and could again. You aren’t the only one with talent, Mama,’ she grumbled, sounding so like Daly it brought a shiver to my spine.

‘Of course you can act, darling, given the right part. But remember that as my daughter a great deal would be expected of you, and it would be humiliating were you not able to fulfil those expectations. Why not, for now, continue to help with the costumes and see how that serves?’

‘Why are you never ready to see me progress?’

‘This may be the wrong moment to discuss it, Fanny. I am rather tired after performing in the play, and must now go on in the farce. Nor have I been sleeping well lately, what with the boys away in the war and other worries I have on my mind.’

‘You worry too much about them, and not enough about me,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, Fanny, that is not true. I would do anything to see you happy.’

‘No one cares about me. I’m not even sure the Duke wants me at Bushy for Christmas this year. He is behaving most oddly towards me.’

Towards everyone, I thought, but said nothing more, and tossing her head she stormed off, leaving me to sigh and finish my hair myself.

The next day I woke very late and with a most dreadful headache. ‘Goodness, I slept like a log, so why on earth do I feel so bad?’

‘I put a few drops of laudanum into the warmed wine I gave you at bedtime. You said you needed a good night’s sleep, Mama, so I made sure you would have one.’

‘Fanny! You had no right to do such a thing, and certainly not without asking. A drop or two of laudanum leads to another, and another, and that way lies oblivion and madness. Don’t ever do that again.’

‘I can’t see that it will do you any harm,’ she huffed, but I watched her most carefully after that, and saw to my horror that she continued to take a drop or two in her own wine each evening. Again I warned her against it.

‘My own Aunt Maria, who died before you were born, fell victim to laudanum and died early as a result. I pray you do not fall into the same trap.’

‘It is but a drop, and only when I feel the need,’ she coldly responded. ‘I am not a child to be told what to do any more, Mother.’

And so I held my tongue, knowing anything I said would only make her the more pig-headed. But it was another thing to worry about. Sons may be a constant concern but daughters are the very devil.

Princess Amelia died of tuberculosis on the second of November, 1810, and I know the Duke found the funeral a miserable affair as the entire family grieved for the loss of this delightful young woman. On hearing the news of his daughter’s death the King had collapsed, and fallen once more into madness. Now over seventy and blind, few people expected him to recover. Out of respect, Parliament had adjourned for two weeks but running the country must go on, and so they reconvened. William had felt it incumbent upon himself not to miss a day in the Lords so that he could keep an eye on events, knowing that his brother was already making arrangements for the regency.

Sophy and Frederick accompanied him on this sad occasion and, much to my relief, received a cautious welcome.

‘Everyone was so kind to me,’ Sophy told me. ‘Especially all the aunts. Why have I not met your family before, Papa?’

He half glanced across at me. ‘They disapprove of your Mama,’ he said, somewhat bluntly.

I warmly clasped her hands in mine. ‘I heartily wish things could be different for you, my love, although I do appreciate the efforts the princesses made in making you feel more comfortable.’

Sophy was frowning, struggling to understand. ‘Is that why you were not invited, Mama? Because you and Papa are not married and you refuse to give up the stage?’

‘Something of the sort, but you are not to worry about me.’

‘And they would not meet me because I am illegitimate?’

I winced. ‘Do not even speak that word, Sophy,’ I gently scolded, shocked by the pain in my daughter’s face.

‘But if they disapproved of me before, why am I now invited to so many functions? I have received two this week already, both to balls.’ There was excitement in her voice, which she was striving to quell. ‘Of course, these will not now take place, with the King ill, but I don’t understand. Why am I now being so favoured?’ She looked up trustingly to her father for an explanation. He offered none, suddenly finding something of great importance he must do elsewhere that very minute.

Later I tried to offer him reassurance. ‘Sophy is charming in mind and person and will make a clever and accomplished woman. Allow her to entertain for you, and to accompany you on social occasions as the Queen has suggested. She is now old enough to receive your friends – do, love, oblige me in this as it is what I have long wished. The company may amuse you too. I assure you it will give me the greatest pleasure to see her go out into the world.’

‘There may be no royal blood in your veins, Dora, but there are buckets of warm generosity,’ and for some reason his eyes filled with tears.

When I went back on tour I wrote to emphasize this point. ‘But do give her a proper dress allowance. She must from circumstances cost you much more at present. Suppose you allow her the profits arising from the dairy and cheesing house towards the sum . . .’

I assumed that his current gloom must be connected with money, and I thought it my task to find a solution.

I returned in the late autumn to find the house empty of the Duke’s presence. Not even darling Sophy was at home, or Mary. William came only on Sundays, but then he would be bound to be away more, now that he was escorting our daughters out and about. Even so, he seemed different, almost as if he were avoiding me, which made my heart pulsate with fear and pain. And if I made the slightest suggestion that he might stay home more, he would roar like a bull, or sulk for days.

I did once say to him: ‘I believe when I am out of the gate at Bushy Park I am very soon forgot.’ And where once he would have taken me in his arms and kissed me, calling me his Little Pickle, he merely smiled and said nothing.

I must retire soon, I thought, or I would lose him entirely. Although if I did lose him, I should need employment, as the allowance that had been part of our initial agreement would not be sufficient to cover all my responsibilities, even if his debts allowed him to pay it in full.

Christmas that year was the most melancholy I could ever remember. Not a typically merry Bushy House Christmas at all. I was glad that Sophy was being taken out and about by her Papa, sometimes not getting home until five in the morning. But the thought of those who were absent spoiled it all. Where were my boys? Were they well? News of the King was no better and after a month at home spent largely with only Miss Sketchley and the little ones for company, I was glad for once to go back on tour, this time to Bath and Bristol, and the joys of a good house.

I missed my family, as always, but was happy to write to the Duke and inform him of my success.

‘From the applause and admiration one would think that I had but started in the profession instead of being near the end of the race . . . I can for an hour or two forget you all and the various anxieties that in general depress my spirits. I really think, and it is the opinion of several critics here that have known me from my first appearance in London, that I am a better actress at this moment than I ever was.’