The Duchess of Drury Lane

Twenty-Nine




‘. . . his liberality towards me has been noble and generous in the highest degree’

I spent weeks preparing Cadogan Place for the dear children, and almost began to despair that the Duke would ever allow them to come to me, my spirits quite agitated by the delay.

‘If it were not for the bustle of endeavouring to get the home ready for the dear little ones, I should be found hanging some morning in my garters,’ I wrote to George, my only confidant.

But at length William brought them in early February, delivering them to the back door of the house to carefully avoid meeting me. I did appreciate it would be hard for him to part with the children, but felt sad that our lives had sunk to this level. Miss Sketchley came too, for we had become close companions. I certainly needed her, as it was not easy coping with the children in a small town house when they were used to a place the size of Bushy.

Months had passed since the settlement had been agreed and money continued to be tight, as I still hadn’t received my allowance from the Duke. Neither was I permitted to work. Since I failed to get any response from Barton on the matter, in desperation I wrote to the Regent for help, and to the other royal brothers. The lawyers were not pleased, but later that month the first payment was at last made.

‘Now see what the rumour mill is accusing me of,’ I said to Miss Sketchley one day, shocked by what I had just read in the latest scandalous news sheet. ‘The Princess Charlotte is saying that I intend to publish the Duke’s letters. As if I would choose to offend him in such a way!’

‘They cannot understand how it is you continue to bear the Duke such fond regard, after the way he has treated you.’

‘To abuse his good name would be more than I am capable of.’

But the incident so distressed me that I instantly packed up all the letters from him, save for the last four, and dispatched them to McMahon with a brief note expressing my dismay at such a charge, concluding with, ‘Excuse this – for I am so ill I write from my pillow.’

What would those advisers do to me next?

I still had not heard from dear Sophy, but she was ever obstinate and I could only hope she would come around, given time. There was some good news at the end of the month when Dodee gave birth to a fine boy. But then one morning when Miss Sketchley brought breakfast to me in my room, she expressed concern over Fanny.

‘She is waiting in the drawing room, come again to beg for financial assistance, claiming she and Alsop are in a most shocking state.’

I sighed. ‘What is it this time? Does this young man imagine he married a bottomless pit of wealth with royal connections?’

‘I fear that may well be the case, madam. The couple are ill-matched and constantly at odds. But there is something even more troubling about your daughter, I’m afraid.’

I looked sharply at her, my morning chocolate quite forgotten. ‘In what respect?’

‘You must judge for yourself.’

One glance told me everything. Fanny was hollow-eyed, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, and yet there was a lack of focus in her gaze, a slurring of her words as she put her plea to me, and I knew at once that she was again using laudanum. But what she had to tell me was even more terrifying. ‘Alsop has admitted to debts amounting to two thousand pounds, which must be paid if he is not to escape debtor’s prison. You must help us, Mama.’

My heart plummeted with fear, even as I put my arms about her. ‘Fanny, my dear, there is nothing I can do. I do not have such a sum. How could I find two thousand pounds?’

She jerked away from me, her face crimson with fury. ‘Were it your precious children by the Duke you would find it well enough.’

‘I would not, my love, I could not. My savings are all gone in trust funds, insurance, dowries, tax and debt.’

‘Don’t you understand, we are to lose the house and have nowhere to live.’

‘That at least is easily remedied. You can move in here, with me,’ I said, even though the prospect of having Alsop live under my roof filled me with trepidation. I couldn’t help but remember an elderly actress I met on tour, who had invited me to tea to reminisce about old times. She was very comfortably retired, living in perfect tranquillity on the Yorkshire coast. Would I ever find such peace? I wondered, as I smiled at Fanny. ‘I’m sure we will all rub along perfectly well.’

Perhaps she caught the doubt in my voice for she began to rail at me using the most foul language, which could only have come as a result of the laudanum. Then she stormed from the room and the house. It was not the first time she had taken herself off in this way, but that did not spare me a great deal of anxiety until she returned a week later. By then her husband was well settled in, seeming not in the least concerned by his wife’s erratic behaviour. Thereafter, Fanny lost no opportunity to remind me constantly that he would soon be incarcerated for debt if I refused to help.

‘It is no good,’ I said, pouring out my heart to Miss Sketchley. ‘There is but one way I can help them and that is to go back on the stage and start earning again.’

She looked at me, appalled. ‘But if you do that, you will lose the children.’

‘I know, but Fanny has always suffered from being the odd one out. And she is right in a way, the younger children would be well taken care of by their father, and no doubt their royal aunts and uncles, even if they did not have me around every day.’

‘Oh, madam, think what you are suggesting.’

I looked her squarely in the eye. ‘I cannot refuse to help Fanny. She is my daughter. She envies me, her own mother. The theatre may be in her blood but sadly she has little talent, and will be the harsher judged for being who she is, so how can she earn the money needed to save her husband from prison?’

‘She is taking laudanum, madam, her temper growing more and more unpredictable.’

I felt bone weary, as if a lifetime of striving had come to nought. ‘I can see no other solution. Perhaps, if I am out of their lives, my children can be brought up without the slur of scandal attached. Will you stay with me, Miss Sketchley? They will have Mrs Cockles, but I should hate to lose your companionship.’

‘You will never lose that,’ she assured me. ‘No matter what.’

And so my darling children were to return home to Bushy House. My heart was broken, but they went happily enough, not fully understanding what was going on. They were so well attuned to my peripatetic lifestyle that they simply assumed I was off on another tour.

‘I can ride my pony again,’ Tus yelled, jumping up and down with excitement.

‘You can, dearest. Now see that you are good children for Mrs Cockles, and for Papa.’

‘We will, Mama,’ said Eliza, kissing me. ‘And we’ll see you soon.’

Nor could they know how difficult it might be in future for me to see them as much I would like, although the Duke had promised me ready access, when he was not at home. His advisers, however, would do all in their power to prevent me. Mely might have forgotten me altogether by then.

The day they left I fell into bed and wept. Never had I known such despair.

I returned to Drury Lane to great applause. I was even paid £600 owed to me from before the fire, but otherwise the offer was much less than I normally received, and at the end of that short engagement I chose instead to go back on tour. I went with heavy heart, filled with nostalgia for what I had lost. I missed the letters I used to receive from the Duke each day, which I would read so avidly, his thoughtful little gifts and the newspapers he would send to keep me abreast of London news and gossip. I was left with only my children for news, those who were old enough to correspond, that is, and they had busy lives of their own. In Sophy’s case there was a profound silence, as she remained in a sulk, for some reason blaming me for her father’s decision.

To his credit the Duke did what he could to help Alsop by securing him a post in India with Lord Moira, who had been appointed Governor-General of Bengal. Alsop was delighted. Fanny said she might follow him in due course, but I did not encourage her in this plan, for who would fund her journey? I tried yet again to persuade her to abandon the laudanum and pitch in her lot with me, perhaps a pleasant retirement together in the fullness of time. But she took to wandering the streets more and more, seeking her drug where she could, occasionally procuring theatre work, but not enough to sustain her.

Both George and Henry were happily pursuing their military careers in Europe, and Lolly started as a midshipman in March of the following year when he turned eleven. Lucy was content with her Colonel. Dodee and March also moved into Cadogan Place after their second child, so I was unable to let out the property to ease my load, and was also still paying them the promised dowry by instalments.

In February 1813, weary of touring and having an excellent offer from Covent Garden, I agreed to appear in Centlivre’s play, The Wonder: A Woman Keeps a Secret.

I should have realized that returning to London was a mistake. After only the first night, The Times at once went on the attack. The paper implied that I was fat and old, no longer the talented actress I’d once been. It said that the audience had only come to watch me for the wrong reasons.

They likened me to a character in the play, saying I had been ‘admitted to the secrets of harems and palaces, seen their full exhibition of nude beauty, and costly dissoluteness, the whole interior pomp of Royal pleasure, the tribes of mutes and idiots, sultans and eunuchs, and lavish passion and lordly debility’.

‘Can you believe such language?’ I asked of Miss Sketchley, who listened in mute horror as I read the piece to her. ‘In effect, they are accusing me of living a promiscuous life, and also of vile avarice. They call me vulgar and degraded. They insult the Duke, and even criticize the fact that my children are now “strangely allowed to move among the honourable people of England, received by the Sovereign, and starting in full appetite for Royal patronage . . .” The paper’s final claim is that I have brought “shame on those who must have it in their power to send me back to penitence and obscurity”.’

‘Oh, madam, that is quite outrageous!’

I was utterly mortified by the brutality of the attack. I had been pilloried many times in the past for the choice I had made in allying myself to a prince, but none quite so vicious as this.

I wrote a response, of course. I’d never been one to suffer in silence if I thought myself unjustly criticized. I sent my reply to a more supportive journal, hoping they would print it. It was long and impassioned, but this was the nub of it.

In the love of truth, and in justice to His Royal Highness, I think it my duty, publicly and unequivocally, to declare that his liberality towards me has been noble and generous in the highest degree . . . He has with his accustomed goodness and consideration, allowed me to endeavour to make that provision for myself . . . This then, sir, is my motive for returning to my profession . . . having every reason to hope and believe that, under these circumstances I shall not offend the public at large by seeking their support and protection.

That, of course, was the question. Had I offended my public? Did they see me as ‘vulgar and degraded’? Did they believe I would abandon my children for no other reason than avarice, that I lied when I stated that I thought their best chance in life was with a father who could provide and care for them better than I?

‘How can I face the audience after such an attack?’ I mourned to Miss Sketchley. ‘I shall be booed out of town.’

‘I will be in the wings with you,’ she promised, quite unable to spare me such a humiliation but standing by me in my darkest hour. I hugged her close, grateful for her support.

That night as I waited to go on stage I was in a state of pure terror, suffering from the kind of stage fright I hadn’t endured in years. Yet I refused to run away as I had done on that first occasion when I was but sixteen. I had lived a lifetime since then, faced the slings and arrows of fortune, and I would face whatever they threw at me now with fortitude and courage. I lifted my chin, hardened my resolve and walked out on stage. The audience were eerily silent, which, if anything, increased my sense of disquiet still further.

But when one of the characters spoke the lines, ‘You have an honest face and need not be ashamed of showing it anywhere’, the audience erupted. They leapt to their feet to cheer and applaud. The sound of their love and support filled the entire theatre while I stood bemused, tears rolling down my cheeks in disbelief. It was several minutes before I could even speak. My public had welcomed me back with open arms and loving hearts. I was home.





Author’s Note




Very little is known about Dora’s early life and no two sources agree on the date when she first appeared on stage. There is even dispute over the exact date of her birth, but I have opted for what seems the most logical. She became, against all odds, one of the greatest comedic actresses of her day, a noted celebrity earning the equivalent of thousands of pounds a week. She was an independent woman of great courage, if too generous-hearted for her own good.

Her letter in response to these last scandalous remarks, did indeed appear in every paper in the land, and The Times was obliged to do likewise and retract its earlier piece. There were no further attacks and her return to the stage was a success, although some of her sparkle had gone. Yet she retained a strong following, continued to work hard and be as generous as ever with her family. In 1814 she enjoyed a holiday in Brussels, where she was lauded as la belle actrice. The Duke kept his word and she did get to see her children occasionally during holiday periods, although at Lloyd’s house, never at Bushy, and she was finally reconciled with her daughter Sophy. The Duke himself continued to sink into debt which soon reached over £50,000, kept solvent only with the help of the loyal Barton.

George and Henry suffered from a military disgrace and were sent to India. Fanny might have gone with them to rejoin her husband, but George refused to take her. She had been creating yet more trouble by writing threatening letters to the Duke. Dora banished her to Trelethyn, and while on tour left Dodee’s husband, Frederick March, in charge of her affairs, particularly with regard to supplying Fanny with funds. Dora naïvely gave him blank cheques to perform this task, but on her return was shocked to discover that this second, most trusted son-in-law had cheated her out of several thousand pounds. With no direct access to the Duke she turned to Barton for support, begging him for help. Seeing his opportunity to be rid of what he perceived to be an embarrassment to the royal family, he urged her to leave for France to avoid being incarcerated in debtor’s prison for the debts run up in her name. He promised to speak to the Duke and deal with them, at which point she could then return.

Dora believed him, took his advice and fled to France to avoid incarceration as she had once fled to Yorkshire. Miss Sketchley went with her. Barton also promised to forward her all letters from her children, but there is no evidence that he kept these promises. He never did tell the Duke the extent of her financial difficulties, and even though Dora wrote bright and cheerful letters every day to her children there is little evidence that she received many in return during the last months of her life, although until then they’d been regular correspondents.

Dora died in France on 13 July 1816, possibly of liver disease, with only the loyal Miss Sketchley at her side. The Duke was said to be so devastated by her death that he would not allow her name to be spoken in his presence for two years. He had proposed to the widowed sister of Tsar Alexander, who also refused him, and ultimately married Adelaide of Saxe-Meiningen. He succeeded to the throne as William IV in 1830, and it proved to be a happy marriage although she was not able to provide him with the legitimate heirs he needed. Queen Adelaide was, however, a fond mother to Dora’s children, and insisted that the portraits the Duke had collected remain on the walls of Bushy House.

Furious over her mother’s untimely death, Fanny attempted to publish a memoir about her, which was probably suppressed by royal advisers. The Duke paid for her to go to America and by then she had an illegitimate child, although it is not known what happened to him or her. Fanny died in June 1821 of an overdose of laudanum, officially classed as suicide.

Dora’s other children were welcomed into society and all married into the English aristocracy. They did not have a smooth ride, because of their scandalous origins, and always carried a resentment in their hearts over the way their mother was treated. But their success would surely have delighted Dora, and perhaps made all her hard work and sacrifice worth while.