The Duchess of Drury Lane

Seven




‘the fly in the ointment’

The entire company was humming with excitement. Mr William Smith, an actor with the Drury Lane Theatre, was coming on a visit. Wilkinson had opened the new Theatre Royal in York in 1770, and its reputation had grown since those early days. It was very often a place London impresarios such as Richard Brinsley Sheridan, or their agents, would come to seek out new talent. Gentleman Smith, as he was known, was in York because it was race week, but naturally everyone hoped to be noticed, perhaps even offered a contract. An opportunity to star at such a famous London theatre was every actor’s dream.

I was playing in The Romp, and afterwards the gentleman himself came backstage to congratulate me on my performance. ‘You would do well at Drury Lane,’ he said, making me blush.

‘I think you flatter me, sir.’

‘Not at all. You are wasted here, touring the provinces. The capital is where you should be displaying such a rare talent.’

Before I could answer, Wilkinson suddenly appeared at my elbow. ‘How kind of you, sir, to compliment my actors. Such appreciation of our efforts is always welcome. But I would tactfully remind you that Mrs Jordan is articled to my company, and has no plans to leave it.’

No one was more aware than I that I could not break my contract without incurring penalties, but Gentleman Smith had planted a seed in my head that would continue to grow.

‘No indeed,’ I hastily agreed. ‘I am most happy here.’ Which was certainly true. I took care to note that my admirer did not miss a single performance that week, and then left without making offers to anyone, which was a great disappointment to all.

Wilkinson was so alarmed at the prospect of losing me that he at once doubled my salary and gave me another benefit. I was delighted, as it is always good to feel valued. He also promised to draw up longer articles, once the tour was over. Sadly, being granted a second benefit so soon did not go down well with fellow cast members, and only added to their jealous mutterings.

Perhaps as a result of this conversation with Gentleman Smith, and while we were still in York, Wilkinson introduced me to a Mr Cornelius Swan. He was quite elderly, a Shakespearean scholar and drama critic of renown. He too most charmingly praised my performance, and soon became a great friend.

‘May I, dear lady, offer my services as tutor, or perhaps coach would be a better word. Mr Wilkinson believes you show great potential but would benefit from a few lessons. Perhaps I could be of assistance.’

He was indeed of the greatest assistance, taking me through my lines, pointing out where the emphasis should lie, explaining the exact meaning in Shakespeare’s poetic words, which I found most enlightening.

He called me The Jordan and if I was feeling unwell, which I sometimes was due to my pregnancy, he would sit by my bed with Mama’s red cloak about his shoulders and instruct me in the character of Zara, in the tragedy of that name by Voltaire, although he introduced me to the part using the English version translated by Aaron Hill.

He later told the manager, ‘You must revive that tragedy, Wilkinson, for I have given the Jordan but three lessons and she is so adroit at receiving my instructions that I declare she repeats the character as well as Mrs Cibber ever did. Nay, let me do the Jordan justice, for I declare she speaks it as well as I could myself.’

I could not help but smile at this evidence of pride in his own acting skills, appreciating the great critic’s help even as I insisted that comedy was much more my forte. Life was indeed most pleasant and it felt good to stay in one place for a while and have more time to study.

Our contentment ended when one morning Mama came rushing in bearing a letter. ‘It is from Daly, I know his hand well.’

My heart seemed to stop beating. But she was correct. Daly had discovered our whereabouts, no doubt thanks to the excellent press reviews I’d received while playing in York. He was ordering me to return upon the instant of receiving this letter, or he would have me arrested for debt. He was also claiming a full penalty of £250 for breach of contract, plus repayment of the original debt, with interest. Fear overwhelmed me and I burst into tears.

‘Oh, Mama, what are we to do? I can no more pay such a debt now than I could before we left, and the sum has grown worse. I shall be incarcerated in a debtor’s prison after all!’ It was too much for a young girl to cope with.

‘Dear me, what is this?’ Our new friend had arrived for my next lesson, and seeing me in such distress he insisted on hearing the whole sorry tale. I spared him few details, and his jaw tightened in angry disapproval as the true reason for my condition was finally revealed. When I was done, he leapt to his feet in a rage.

‘The man is a scoundrel and shall be dealt with most forcefully. He must not be allowed to destroy either your career or your life. I will settle the debt myself.’

I gasped. ‘Oh, but I could never ask such a thing.’

‘You have not asked it of me, I offer the service most willingly. I am a man of means and can easily afford such a trifling sum. You have become like an adopted daughter to me and if by this small service you can be free of that charlatan, it would be a small price to pay.’

And so my debts were generously settled by my new friend, with no return favours attached, and I was at last free of Richard Daly.

As we progressed across Yorkshire, putting on our productions in venues large and small, I continued to study hard, to observe my fellow actors closely. I was eager to learn from their greater skills. It was, of course, the same old story. They did not welcome the presence of a new rival in their midst, competing for the best parts. I soon recognized that the other women were wary and resentful of me, in case I should prove to be more successful than themselves.

‘Who is this Mrs Jordan?’ they would whisper to each other behind their hands. ‘Where did she come from, and why has she risen so quickly to be granted such excellent parts?’

They would scrutinize my every performance, and be quick to point out any perceived mistakes.

My greatest rival and sternest critic was a Mrs Smith (no relation to Gentleman Smith). Until my arrival she had played all the comedy leads. For this reason, and because she was well connected, the lady thought rather well of herself. And she too was pregnant. The difference between us being that her circumstances were somewhat more comfortable than my own, since she was in the happy position of having a husband.

There was precious little in the way of privacy in the claustrophobic little village halls, old barns and inns in which we often performed, and changing behind a blanket strung up on a washing line was often the best we could manage. Mrs Smith would frequently take the opportunity to express her opinions to her friends in strident tones, knowing I could hear every word, as, with Hester’s help, I prepared to go on.

‘Are we ever to be graced with the presence of Mr Jordan, I wonder?’ she would loudly proclaim to fellow cast members, who quietly tittered at her daring. ‘Does he in fact even exist, or is the Mrs merely a courtesy title?’ Her caustic laugh rang out. ‘I doubt that is a courtesy baby she carries in her belly. More likely a bastard.’

‘Enough gossip, ladies. Five minutes to opening,’ I heard Wilkinson say as I froze, mortified with embarrassment. He was ever coming to my rescue.

Once on stage, of course, I easily put the jealous mutterings of my fellow cast members out of my head and concentrated on the character I was playing. It was of vital importance that I become that person, that she, or he, appear real to the audience. That only worked if I believed I was that character too.

This was my big opportunity, and I meant to make the most of it.

I certainly had no intention of being upset by the Mrs Smiths of this world. Hadn’t I endured far worse than malicious gossip in my short life? And no matter what I had suffered in the past I was determined to love this baby I carried below my heart, whether it be a bastard or no.

‘Pay her no heed,’ he assured me later. ‘I’ve made it clear that your marital status is none of her business.’

As always I was grateful for his protection, but rather feared his intervention may have made matters worse, not better.

We next toured Wakefield and Doncaster, planning to go on to Sheffield, but the undercurrent of jealousy continued to fester. The dreadful Mrs Smith was so anxious for me not to steal her roles of Lady Teazle and others, that as summer turned into autumn and she came close to her time, she clung on looking anything but a virginal heroine. Eventually, for the sake of propriety, she was ordered by Wilkinson to retire. Even so, some ten or eleven days following the birth of her child in September, and stubbornly determined to play the part of Fanny in The Clandestine Marriage, she attempted to walk the eighteen-mile journey from Doncaster to Sheffield. Sadly, she injured her hip as a result of this foolishness, and was again forced to retire.

As I am able to learn a part in twenty-four hours, it was I who played the role. It’s a convoluted comedy about arranged marriage, and I gave a spirited performance which went down well with audiences. But my success only added to the lady’s bitter dislike of me.

In October matters took a turn for the worse when a huge wooden roller, that held up the scenery, fell within inches of myself and Mr Knight while we were seated at a table as chambermaid and footman in The Fair American. We could easily have been killed outright. Somehow I kept my nerve, believing the show must go on no matter what. But I did wonder if there was some mischief afoot.

We left Sheffield at the beginning of November, moving on to Hull for Christmas where we stayed at Mr Dunn’s in Myton Gate, in rooms above a shop. And it was here that I gave birth to my daughter Frances just before I turned twenty-one. Mama was there to help, but it was a straightforward birth and all went well. Despite my little Fanny being Daly’s child I loved her on sight, perhaps even more so, since she had no father.

‘Now do not make Mrs Smith’s mistake of rushing back to work too soon,’ Wilkinson urged me. ‘You stay safely in the straw until you are fully recovered. I always insist upon it with my own dear wife.’

He was ever kind in his treatment of me, as with all his cast. But unbeknown to me, Mrs Smith took advantage of my absence to spread her malicious gossip.

The play chosen for my return, The Fair Penitent, was, as it turned out, somewhat unfortunate. Calista is in love with the disreputable Lothario despite having been seduced by him, and not in the least penitent. He refuses to marry her, and in the end she is desperate to salvage her lost reputation, only it is too late.

As the play was performed on Boxing Day the house was a good one, but the audience received it with cold disapproval. It seemed that the good wives of Hull had been regaled with the story of the birth of little Fanny, and with no husband in sight I was seen to be re-enacting my own shocking tale. This naturally affected my performance, which I confess was indifferent and uninspired. I do not do well when I feel no warmth radiating from an audience. Not only that, but I could hear loud whispers being exchanged, see fingers pointing at me. It was utterly humiliating. When I went on to sing ‘The Greenwood Laddie’, I was actually hissed. As always Wilkinson came to my aid. ‘Bear up, dear girl. Do not allow them to unnerve you. This is all down to the Scandal Club.’

I did not need to ask who the instigator of that cabal was.

He put out a more benevolent explanation for my situation, painting me as a victim rather than a strumpet by pointing out I was not parading a lover but rather living with my mother and caring for my siblings. Following his intervention I gradually won over the ladies of Hull and was forgiven, but it was an unsettling experience.

‘We seem to be caught up in an endless spiral. Why did Wilkinson not put an end to this peevish jealousy when it first began?’ I asked of Mama.

‘Because Tate is not against a little competition between players. He believes it makes them strive all the harder to give of their best.’

‘That seems to me an odd way of viewing the matter.’

Mama laughed. ‘That is because you are conscientious, my dear, and Mrs Smith and her cronies are not.’

The company then returned to York where, properly recovered from childbirth, I donned male attire once more to sing the part of William in a rustic operetta, Rosina. The theatre was sold out.

The Scandal Club, as Wilkinson called it, was once again in action at Sheffield a year later in 1783. By this time Mrs Smith had a new ally in a Mrs Ward, who had recently joined the company, her husband being in the orchestra. There was also a Mrs Robinson who loved to show off her neat and graceful figure, resenting the fact that I captured all the breeches parts, that rare opportunity for an actress to reveal her legs. The venom of those three women soon spread, and they would huddle together at the open stage door, or in the wings like the witches in Macbeth, chattering in loud voices in an attempt to disconcert me and put me off my lines.

Sometimes I would play them at their own game, and creep on stage with an air of great distress, as if bravely battling against tears. At this sad sight the audience would exclaim in horror, wondering what on earth might be the matter. Was I hurt, had something dreadful happened to my child? But my friends would send round a whisper explaining the mischief being done to me by my fellow actresses, and they would sigh crossly, and warm to me in sympathy.

I am not called a good actress for nothing.

In the end, Wilkinson grew so irritated by their behaviour that he had all the doors locked to confine the coven in their proper place, which put an end to the ploy, or so I hoped.

That winter Mrs Smith and her husband held a benefit, and I made what I thought to be a kind offer. ‘Is it not time that we ended this foolish vendetta? I am more than willing to offer my services in your benefit, if it would help.’

‘I’m sure we can manage well enough without digging in the gutter,’ Mrs Smith snapped.

‘Ladies, ladies,’ said Wilkinson, quietly attempting to placate everyone. ‘I’m sure Mrs Jordan means well, and you must have some other actor on stage with you, so let it be she. It can do no harm.’

The house was a good one, and I believed my own part in the production helped to contribute to the large sum pocketed by the Smiths.

The lady herself was less grateful. ‘I’m sure we did well enough, although I’m certain we’d have done better had Mrs Jordan not been the fly in the ointment.’

Fortunately, not everyone behaved in this manner towards me. There was in the company a fine young man by the name of George, who was the stepson of Elizabeth Inchbald, an actress of note. And to him, I tremble to admit, I gave my heart.