by Jean Plaidy
‘They will be all right. I’ll see that they’re all right.’
‘That is a promise. As reliable, I daresay, as that you gave me when you said we’d be married.’
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it is His High and Mightiness who has put this notion into your head? You’ve been ten times more difficult to live with since you started your friendship with royalty.’
‘The Duke of Clarence is in love with me.’
‘And promised to marry you?’
‘Don’t be absurd. You know that’s impossible.’
‘And you accept that?’
‘I have accepted nothing from him because I consider myself married to you in every way except by signing my name on marriage lines.’
‘Well, of what importance is that? You and I are together for the rest of our lives. In spite of your wearying insistence on that ceremony and your rages because of it, I still want to go on as we have been.’
‘Well, I don’t. I want that ceremony – for the sake of my children. And if you won’t give it…’
‘You will go to His Highness?’
‘I have not said that. I am uncertain what I shall do. But I will not go on in this way. I want a definite answer. Will you marry me. Richard Ford? Will you marry the mother of your two little girls or not?’
‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk of it later.’
She lay at one end of the bed, he at the other. He was soon asleep, but she was not.
She knew that the moment of decision was at hand; and she thought of the advantages of living with a royal Duke. If he gave security to the children, if there need not be this continual preoccupation with money… how restful that would be. She would not be married, of course, but then she was not married to Richard – and she was beginning to wonder whether she ever would be.
William felt more hopeful than he had since Dorothy had refused to have supper with him. The Prince of Wales was right. Persistence was what was needed. He had to show her that he was determined, that he loved her completely, that he would do anything in the world for her except marry her and even that he would do if it were in his power. The Prince of Wales was on his side; and the Prince of Wales would one day be King. If she came to him she need have no more anxieties; she wanted a peaceful happy life with the knowledge that her children were secure.
He would give her that. He could give her so much more than Richard Ford could; and when he looked at that insignificant fellow he felt angry that he should have been accepted while he, Royal William, was not.
He met him one night back-stage and gave him a look of contempt. Ford did not seem to mind. Of course he did not. Dorothy shared his home – or he shared hers, for it was her money that paid for it – and she regarded him as her husband.
The Duke was jealous of the insignificant barrister.
He went to find Sheridan.
‘I say, Sherry,’ he said, ‘I don’t like that fellow prowling about back-stage.’
‘What fellow has dared offend Your Highness?’ Sheridan wanted to know.
‘That fellow Ford.’
Sheridan nodded. ‘He’s always had the run of the theatre. His father once had a very large holding of the shares.’
‘His father?’
‘Yes, rich old devil. Very careful with his money. Retired on a fortune and living in the country.’
‘And one day this fellow will inherit, I daresay.’
‘I daresay, if he behaves himself and keeps in Papa’s good books.’
‘Well, stop him going back-stage, will you, Sherry?’
‘I humbly crave Your Highness’s pardon, but I have no power to stop him.’
‘You’re the manager of this theatre.’
‘There are rules in the theatre, Sir, which have to be regarded. Tradition, they call it. Mr Ford has as much right to go back-stage as Your Royal Highness has. You see, he is… attached to one of our leading actresses. I can tell you,’ added Sheridan slyly, ‘that he comes to see Mrs Jordan. Perhaps if the lady liked him not to…’
William turned away, roused from his usual good humour.
Well, it would not go on indefinitely. He was not going to be kept from his desire by a second-rate barrister.
Dorothy was well aware that her affairs were moving towards a climax. So much depended on Richard. He had only to offer to marry her and she would accept… even at this stage. He had humiliated her by his constant refusals, but her main concern was the children. She wanted above everything else to legitimize them; and if she could not do that she wanted to make their futures secure.
She talked it over with Hester continually; and she knew that Hester believed in her heart that she should abandon Richard and accept the Duke. Richard had proved beyond doubt that he was a weakling. It was true that love-affairs with royal princes were of notoriously short duration. And yet there was something innocent about William. There was no doubt that he was sincere at this time. He believed his love would endure and because he did so whole-heartedly he had begun to make her think so too.
She was not in love with him. Sometimes she wondered whether she was capable of being in love again. Daly had disgusted her, had made her shrink from men until she met Richard, and Richard had disillusioned her. Between the brute strength of Daly and the weak indecision of Ford, she had lost the power to love passionately and exclusively.
They had between them turned her into a calculating woman; but at least she was not calculating for herself. Always her concern was for the children.
Then came the news that she was to play at Richmond.
She would stay in the little Richmond house with Hester and the children; Richard would stay in London. This, she believed, would give her the opportunity she needed to come to her decision.
William was delighted that she was to play at the Richmond Theatre. He immediately went down to Petersham Lodge, a delightful villa which he had recently bought from Lord Camel-ford. His father had helped him to do this, having had twelve thousand guineas assigned to him to be used for this purpose. ‘Must have a proper residence,’ said the King. ‘Eh? What? Good air. Pleasant. Not far from Kew.’
Residence at Petersham Lodge enabled him to be in attendance at the theatre on Richmond Green every night Dorothy played. The theatre was full but not so much to see the play as to watch Mrs Jordan and the Duke of Clarence, for his pursuit of her was now common knowledge.
Every day there was a piece in one of the papers about the progress of the Duke’s courtship. Has she submitted or has she not? It was the great question of the hour; and all were certain that it could only be a matter of time.
‘Little Pickle has been besieged at Richmond by a certain exalted youth whom at present she has managed to keep at bay.’
ran one paragraph.
‘The Duke of Clarence is in Richmond. He comes to compliment Mrs Jordan. His Highness has for some time been enamoured of Little Pickle’s playful frolics.’
‘We hear from Richmond [said one of the London papers that an illustrious youth has at length passed the Ford, yet is not likely to be pickled by a legal process.’
Dorothy read the papers and discussed them with Hester.
‘At least,’ consoled Hester, ‘it is bringing matters to a head between you and Richard.’
‘I don’t think he cares, Hester. He is too lazy to care. I’m sure if I went off with the Duke tomorrow he would let me go without a regret.’
‘He is so… timid,’ agreed Hester.
Meanwhile William was growing bold, being certain of eventual success. The Prince of Wales had suggested that he give a fête for the fashionable world of Richmond to which he should ask Mrs Jordan and show her quite clearly that she was the guest of honour.
‘Capital idea,’ cried William, and set about making preparations.
Soon there was another announcement in the paper.
‘The Duke of Clarence is to give a fête to all the Fashion. Little Pickle is to be of the party.’
Dorothy was alarmed. T
o attend a fête openly was to some extent to commit herself. She was growing more and more fond of the persuasive young man; and yet more than anything she wanted marriage with Richard, and the girls when they grew up to have a father, their own father.
A way out of her dilemma came to her in the form of an invitation to play in two benefits at the Haymarket.
Sheridan had long decided that Drury Lane was an antiquated building and not suited to modern theatrical requirements. He had planned to have it rebuilt and operations were started that summer; he had taken a temporary lease of the Haymarket Theatre while his new Drury Lane was being constructed; and it was in the Haymarket that Dorothy was to play.
When the Duke called at the theatre and told her of his plans for the fête, she said: ‘I am sure it will be a great success.’
‘If you are there it will be for me,’ he replied ardently.
She opened her eyes wide and acted surprised, for he had not formally invited her but had simply taken it for granted that she would be present.
‘I did not understand that I was to be a guest.’
‘My dearest Dora, there could be no other reason for having it.’
‘But… I shall not be here. I am playing at the Haymarket.’
His disappointment was so acute that she felt almost inclined to cancel the benefit. She must be growing fond of him.
‘But the fête was for you.’
‘How very generous you are to me! But you see, I have my career.’
‘You won’t need a career, when…’
‘I have a family to support. I shall always need a career.’
‘I am going to take care of your family.’
She closed her eyes. In that moment she was near to surrender. But she must be cautious. Men had treated her badly; she must not make another mistake.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. ‘Oh, I have learned to rely on myself.’
‘There shall be settlements on the children,’ he said. ‘It shall all be arranged. They shall go short of nothing. They shall have dowries when they marry.’
She turned away. It might be the answer, she thought. But not yet. She must wait. She must talk it over with Hester. She must give Richard another chance. Perhaps when he knew she was on the point of leaving him he would relent.
‘But you understand,’ she said, ‘that I cannot attend your fête.’
‘There will be no fête,’ he said. ‘It is all cancelled.’
‘Just because I have to be at the Haymarket?’
‘And because I have to be there, too.’
‘You, but…’
‘Where you are,’ he told her, ‘I have to be. That is how it is going to be from now on.’
Richard came driving over to Richmond. When she saw him she gave a cry of pleasure for she thought he had been reading of the Duke’s constant attendance at the theatre; but it was nothing of the sort. She might have known it. Richard had come to tell her that there was a letter from Wilkinson which was urgent and this doubtless meant an offer to play at Leeds or York.
‘Wilkinson should pay you well,’ said Richard. ‘I shouldn’t accept less than Sarah Siddons did when she was up there. I hear Elizabeth Farren had the same, too.’
Richard was very good at making arrangements for her to bring in the money; he could draw up her contracts and insist tenaciously on the best terms. Oh yes, Richard was very good at getting her to work for more and more money so that they could all live in comfort.
She was unhappy. She felt that she had treated William badly by making him cancel the fête; and yet if she could get away from him for a while she believed that she would be able to make her plans.
She read Tate Wilkinson’s letter.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s a good offer. One hundred and fifty pounds for a week’s work.’
Richard’s eyes sparkled and she gave him a contemptuous look. But she was glad of the opportunity to get away. When I come back, she thought, I shall know what I have to do.
The northern tour was the most unhappy she had ever had.
The strain of the Richmond tour and the emotional turmoil of trying to come to a decision had exhausted her. She was in no mood for work.
Moreover, it was several years since she had played in York and the audience was inclined to be critical of the smart London actress she had become. They were not going to applaud an actress just because she was popular in London. In fact they were going to be hypercritical for that very reason.
On the opening night she was to play Peggy in The Country Girl and Nell in The Devil to Pay, but she felt disinclined to play the two.
‘I can’t do both,’ she told Wilkinson, ‘I feel too ill. They’ll have to be content with Peggy.’
‘They won’t like it. They’ve been promised The Devil to Pay; and this is not a London audience, you know. The Country Girl doesn’t always go well up here. They’re inclined to think it immoral.’
She laughed.
‘You’ve forgotten them,’ said Wilkinson. ‘But they’ll love Nell.’
But she insisted and as a result the theatre was half empty and the audience unresponsive. She was fully aware of the sniggers of provincial actresses who demanded of each other, ‘Who does she think she is? It’s only luck that she’s where she is. First she got round Daly, then Richard Ford whose father almost owned Drury Lane and now the Duke of Clarence. We know how she “got her place”.’
There was nothing worse than playing to a listless house; she would almost have preferred a hostile one. When the applause for Peggy was lukewarm and she came off-stage in a fury she found Wilkinson waiting for her.
‘If you’d go on and sing for them, it might be different.’
‘Why should I? I’m tired. They’re not worth it, anyway.’
Wilkinson took her hand and said, ‘Do you remember when you all came to me in Leeds… you and your family, and I gave you the chance you wanted?’
‘I’ll never forget it.’
‘Do something for me now then. Go on and sing.’
So because she could not resist such an appeal she went back and sang some of her songs; and as Wilkinson had expected the response was immediate.
They may not have cared for her Peggy but they loved her songs. Wilkinson, smiling in the wings, heard the thunder of the applause and the cries for more.
So the situation was saved.
But York was indifferent to her acting; she was affected by this and was glad when the week was over.
John Kemble was to play the following week in York and it was arranged that during that time Dorothy should take his place in the company which John’s brother Stephen was bringing to Newcastle.
Dorothy left York for Newcastle feeling depressed, but when she arrived at Newcastle it was to run into further trouble.
Stephen Kemble’s company was not there. Richard immediately busied himself in making inquiries and a cool note was received from Stephen Kemble to the effect that as his brother John had not consulted him about substituting Dorothy Jordan for himself, he had made other plans for the company which he could not break. He could not in the circumstances bring them to New-castle.
To think that she could be so insulted infuriated her.
What were they trying to do? To tell her that in spite of her success on the London stage they cared nothing for her?
‘We shall leave at once for London,’ she told Richard.
‘There’s nothing else to be done.’
‘I have never been so humiliated in my life. It’s deliberate, I know. John Kemble knew exactly what would happen when he asked me to substitute for him.’
‘They’re jealous,’ said Richard. ‘It’s obvious.’
So back to London, her problems unsolved.
When they arrived at Somerset Street she had made up her mind that she would give Richard one last chance.
‘Richard,’ she said, ‘tell me honestly, do you intend to marry me?’
‘You are tired out with this
disastrous tour,’ he replied.
She laughed at him. ‘That tells me all I want to know,’ she retorted.
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘You will,’ she told him. ‘I am going to bed now. I am too tired to argue with you.’
And she lay in bed thinking: I will let the Duke of Clarence know that if he will provide for the children I will become his mistress.
Prince’s mistress
WILLIAM LOST NO time in bringing his schemes to fruition. Dorothy had given in. Now they could begin to plan their lives together. He wrote to the Prince of Wales:
‘Allow me now to return you my sincere thanks for your friendship and kindness on this occasion, and believe me I shall ever be grateful for your advice. You may safely congratulate me on my success. They never were married. I have all proofs requisite and even legal ones. I have as quiet, full and ample possession of the house in Somerset Street as if I had been an inhabitant for ten years. No letter could possibly contain the particulars: Suspend then judgement until we meet. On your way to Windsor come here Sunday… I am sure I am too well acquainted with your friendship to doubt for a moment you will, my dear brother, behave kindly to a woman who possesses so deservedly my heart and confidence…’
He was so happy. He brought her to Petersham Lodge. She should never have another care in the world, he promised her. Everything – yes, he meant everything – was taken care of.
He was a most appealing lover. Neither of the others had had such concern for her. He could be both passionate and tender and in every way played the husband. He acted always as though theirs was to be a permanent relationship. He did not seek the so-called gay life, he told her. Did she? His idea of bliss was to live at home, graciously it was true, in the utmost comfort, but in a home.
She told him that they were of one mind. She had been his mistress only a few days when she began to love him. It was impossible not to do so, she told Hester. He was charming and modest, but there was an inherent dignity about him – the dignity of royalty, and it was different from anything she had ever known before.
She continued to play at the theatre; he was there every time she performed, waiting to take her home in his carriage. But, he said, they must settle the tiresome legal side for he knew how she felt about the dear children.
