The Duchess of Drury Lane

Six




‘. . . the horse and foot’

The season being over the company set out for York. According to Mama, Tate Wilkinson was lessee of theatres at York, Leeds and Hull, as well as touring the company around Yorkshire and earning himself the title of The Wandering Patentee.

The company walked around Yorkshire on foot like strolling players. Actors, of course, were accustomed to living on the road and not having a settled home, carrying everything they owned with them. But having only ever worked in town, at one or other theatre in Dublin, this way of life was new to me, and came as something of a challenge.

Wagons carried the scenery and props, as well as some of the children, who found it all rather exciting. Occasionally the women too would ask for a lift if they were tired, or beg rides from passing farm carts. I managed to do this on several occasions, if only for the sake of Mama. Hester, of course, was always quick to complain if she grew weary. My sister is kind and helpful at heart, but not the most patient soul, and with a quick temper. The men rode on horseback, assuming they were rich enough to own or hire such an animal, and sometimes allowed my young brother a ride now and then, if they felt like a walk.

So off we went, bag and baggage, trudging across country, over hill and dale. Beautiful as they undoubtedly are, the Yorkshire moors are bleak and windswept, rough, rock-strewn and boggy. A remote part of the country indeed, with nothing more to guide our way than sheep trods, and the well-worn paths of previous years. A stout pair of boots was essential, not to mention good health and strength.

It was a far from ideal situation for a pregnant woman, but fortunately I was fit and healthy, my spell of morning sickness long past. I did, however, worry about Mama, who was less robust, and barely recovered from our earlier trek from Liverpool.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked, coming alongside as we plodded along, equally concerned about me.

‘I am very well, Mama, really quite enjoying the warm summer sunshine.’

‘You aren’t worrying about Daly, are you?’

‘I try not to, but it isn’t easy,’ I confessed. ‘I wonder sometimes what his reaction was when he discovered I’d escaped his clutches. More than likely he would be angry. Nor will he easily let me go. Were he ever to discover where we are he would most certainly demand recompense for his loss, penalties on breaking my contract, and the repayment of my debt.’

She thought about this for a moment. ‘One advantage of this peripatetic life is that it makes it harder for Daly to find us.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘The theatre world is a small one, so not impossible.’

Wilkinson joined us at this point to ask how we were faring, and I smilingly thanked him for his concern. He was ever a kind, generous-hearted man. ‘I am well, thank you, kind sir.’

‘You look sprightly enough, praise be, but it is not easy for you, I know from my own wife’s labours. The horse and foot travels over one hundred and fifty miles a year,’ he blithely informed us.

I rather liked this description of us, as if we were a military troop rather than a troupe of strolling players, proud to be living and working together.

‘Are you hungry, dear ladies? We’ll be stopping in Tadcaster shortly where I know of a good inn.’

Fortunately, our rather rotund manager was fond of his food, and arranged regular stops at inns where he made sure ‘the horse and foot’ was well fed.

Those who could afford it would stay at the inn, while the rest would find cheap lodgings as close to the theatre as possible, hoping food would be provided and that the beds would be bug free, which I have to say was not always the case. Whenever we stopped to rest, or to prepare for the next production, I spent every free moment copying out or learning lines, making or mending costumes. Although I greatly depended upon Hester in this respect as she was far better with a needle than I. She would scour market stalls in every town we passed through.

‘See, I could trim a gown and bonnet with this,’ she would say, pouncing on a length of tatty looking gauze curtain. ‘And if I cut the sleeves off this old jacket it would make an excellent waistcoat for your part in The Romp.’

Whether I needed a hat and breeches for a page boy, mob cap or fancy gown, my talented sister could turn the most inauspicious looking garment into one that could easily have graced the great Sarah Siddons of Drury Lane.

‘What would I do without you?’ I told her. ‘I am so proud of you.’

‘And I of you,’ she answered, in a rare moment of sibling affection. As sisters we were fond but not overly sentimental.

My main task was to learn, as quickly and efficiently as I could, all the standard parts in our repertoire, from Shakespeare to Fletcher, Steele, Dryden and Cibber, as well as the regular farces we used. One day I might be playing Phoebe, the next Calista, or perhaps Maria in an extract from The School for Scandal. I might even perform in both main play and farce on the same night, sing a ballad or do a recitation during the interval. Just writing out the lines took an age, although Mama helped with this chore, as she had schooled me in my letters as a small child.

‘I’ve finished writing out the part of Rosalind for you,’ she told me, as we went to our beds after an excellent supper at the Sun Inn. ‘Which I’m sure you will play before too long. It is entirely suited to you.’ That was another thing about Mama. Her complete and utter faith in my talent and ultimate success.

I was so grateful to have my mother and sister with me for support. Surely we were now far enough away from Dublin to feel ourselves safe from Daly’s reach.

The company moved on to York for the races. The Yorkshire circuit was carefully planned to coincide with race meetings, assize weeks, fairs and markets. This was because the town in question would be buzzing with people who’d come in from the countryside around to enjoy the great event. The military, sailors, even fishermen also proved to be a loyal audience, and they too were taken into account when we chose our stopping places.

But it was hard work, our performances carried out in less than perfect conditions, often in rooms behind inns, or in stables and barns. The rare occasion when we acted in a real theatre was a treat indeed.

Once we were settled, there would be rehearsals every morning, and often in the afternoons too. Doors opened at four, allowing ample time for the audience to gather, and performances often lasted from six until midnight. It was an exhausting schedule but not for a moment did I complain. Wilkinson was paying me one pound, eleven shillings and sixpence a week, which I greatly valued.

My first stage appearance in York was with a part at which I excelled, and I soon had the audience shrieking with laughter at my favourite role of Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. They loved her cheeky audacity, and the vitality I put into the part. It was exhausting but I always came off stage in high spirits.

I next played Arionelli in The Son-in-Law, a part normally played by a man, which greatly offended a Mr Tyler, the actor who had played him before. He had acted opposite me in The Fair Penitent and when he objected to my being cast in this role, Wilkinson told him that if he had any complaints then he should try some profession other than acting. The poor man left, but a sense of ill will against me lingered long afterwards, as if I were in some way responsible for his dismissal.

While in York we took the opportunity to pay a call upon dear Aunt Maria. Sadly we found her sick in bed, a jaundiced look upon her face, and clearly close to death. Mama whispered to me that she thought the cause to be either drink or laudanum, or possibly both.

As if to echo these private comments, my aunt regarded me with a feverish gaze. ‘I did not deal well with the strains and stresses of theatre life, nor the disappointment of my lack of stardom in the capital. Other than that I believe I did rather well for myself. But I hope that you, dear niece, will do better, and learn from my mistakes.’

She was delighted that I was to follow her in the profession, and bequeathed her entire wardrobe to me.

‘That is most generous of you, Aunt,’ I cried, excited by the prospect of new costumes to replace the ones I’d been forced to abandon in Ireland.

‘Sadly, I’ve been obliged to pawn most of them, but I still possess some of my favourites, which may be of use to you.’

‘I’m sure they will.’

‘And I can alter them to fit,’ put in Hester.

She was distressed to hear our tale of Daly and learn of my condition. ‘I urge you most strongly to use the title Mrs, not only for the sake of your reputation but as a means of protecting yourself against unwelcome advances from would-be suitors.’

‘I will indeed.’

‘Nor do I care for the stage name of Francis, as I never had much time for your father. He let my dear sister down badly.’ Aunt Maria was equally adamant that I should not use her own name of Phillips. There was much more advice she gave me, to which I avidly listened, eager to soak up everything I could in order to build a good career for myself. And sadly, a week later she died, but true to her wishes we discussed with Wilkinson a change of name.

‘It cannot be Bland because of family problems,’ Mama pointed out. ‘Nor Phillips. My sister made her objections very clear on the use of our maiden name, as it may cause confusion, or detract from her own place in posterity.’

‘Then what shall it be?’ Wilkinson wondered, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the tip of one finger. ‘Dora we have, much better than Dolly or Dorothy, but we must come up with a new surname.’ He thought about this for some moments, as did we all. But then his face broke into a smile. ‘I have it, the perfect name for a new beginning. As the son of a clergyman it occurs to me that dear Dora here has in effect crossed the water. She has been rescued from her days as a slave and reached the promised land. So we will call her Jordan. Dora Jordan. How would that suit?’

‘Perfect,’ I agreed, smiling happily. My new career had begun.