by Jean Plaidy
‘William… but your two brothers come before you.’
‘George will refuse and so will Fred. That leaves me.’
‘Why should you not refuse?’
‘Because… one of us will have to…’
‘You mean that if there is no child…’
‘It would be my duty. I should have to do it… for George.’
‘What about Frederick?’
‘They believe the Duchess of York to be barren.’
‘But the Prince must live with his wife. It’s what he married her for.’
‘He won’t. He will expect me to make the sacrifice… My parents expect it. It was what my mother wished to say to me.’
‘And us…’ she asked blankly. ‘Our children, George, and little Henry…’
He began to kiss her frantically. ‘I would always care for you,’ he said. ‘But it won’t happen. Caroline must bear a child.’
‘And if she fails…’
Dorothy thought: It would be the end. I know it. He wants me to know it. He wants to prepare me. And yet not so long ago he said that nothing would induce him to marry. If they cannot let me marry whom I wish, he said, at least they cannot force me to marry if I don’t want to.
He had changed. She could see that if pressure were brought to bear on him by his parents and his brothers he would give way.
She was sad; he had changed. He was no longer the passionate lover to whom she had meant everything; he was devoted to her and the children; he would be a good husband and father if he were allowed to be. It was not quite the same.
She was afraid. The pattern was changing. Just a little here, just a little there – and by and by everything would be different.
My children, she thought – my three little girls, my two little boys. I must care for them and particularly the girls for surely he will always provide for his own.
She must continue to work. She must never lose touch with her audiences. She must build up a fortune so that her girls would never want.
She thought of that life of ease and comfort of which she had sometimes dreamed: living at home in the heart of her family, far from the smell of greasepaint and the candles, the triumphs and disasters, the applause and the catcalls, the compliments and the jealousies. Would it ever be hers?
She must be careful over money; she must bargain that she was paid the highest prices, and she must never give up; for how could she be sure when she would be without a protector and her girls in need.
William was a boy of nature. A little naïve and wanting to be honest, he had reasoned with himself that it was only fair to warn her; and having done so he now wished to dismiss the subject.
‘There is nothing to worry about. Caroline’s pregnancy is going just as it should. There’ll be a healthy boy, you’ll see.’
Perhaps, she wanted to say; but that will not alter the fact that you could contemplate a marriage of State. And if you did, what would become of us?
He wanted to forget the unpleasant subject. He had done his duty; that was the end of it. She refused to dwell on it. He did not wish to be depressed; he had been upset enough by his mother’s implications.
It was better to pretend to forget it, to pretend all was well.
On a cold January day the Princess of Wales gave birth to her child. It was a girl and they called her Charlotte.
They had hoped for a boy, of course; but there was no Salic law in England and girls could inherit the throne as easily as boys. There had been two great queens to prove that women rulers were no bar to a country’s greatness; under Elizabeth and Anne the country had expanded as never before. Charlotte was the heir-presumptive to the throne. If her parents had no more children one day she would be Queen.
She was a lusty young creature right from the start. The Princess of Wales was almost hysterical with joy to have a baby of her own; the Prince was delighted because he had done his duty; the country rejoiced for it had no prejudices against girls, and in fact preferred their rulers to be feminine.
Dorothy breathed more easily. There would be no plan to marry William off now. Strange to think that she owed her peace of mind to that infant at Carlton House who lay in her cradle all oblivious of her importance.
It was fortunate that the child was healthy for when she was three months old the Prince wrote a letter to his wife in which he suggested that they part amicably for he had no intention of living with her again.
There was one ominous phrase in the letter:
‘Even in the event of any accident happening to my daughter, which I trust Providence in its mercy will avert, I shall not infringe the terms of the restriction by proposing, at any period, a connection of a more particular nature.’
William was aware of this clause in the letter which his brother had sent to his wife. He told Dorothy of it. They both understood what it meant. If any accident befell the baby Princess Charlotte and she were to die, William would be obliged to marry.
It was an uneasy thought; but Dorothy knew that the period of complete happiness was over, that they had passed through the honeymoon and now the harsh realities of life had to be faced. How right her mother had been when she had warned her daughter to marry. Security was very necessary to peace of mind.
I shall never have it, thought Dorothy. But I must see that my daughters do.
Theatrical conflicts
MONEY! SHE MUST earn it; she must save it; it must be there for the girls when they married. They would need a bigger dowry than most to offset their illegitimacy.
She had a benefit night coming along and hoping to do well out of it decided that she would play Ophelia. This was a departure from her comedy roles, but she was sure she could do justice to the part; and made her announcement that she had chosen it.
She was unprepared for the storm this decision aroused.
When she arrived at the theatre it was to find John Kemble raging in Sheridan’s office. As she had received a message to go along there as soon as she came in she knew that something was wrong.
Kemble was shouting. ‘Ophelia! It is ridiculous! It’s quite out of her range.’
She cried: ‘Are you afraid I shall take attention from your Hamlet?’
Kemble drew himself to his full height and struck a pose which might have been Hamlet’s own. ‘Such fear has not occurred to me, Madam. I have not yet come to terms with the absurdity.’
‘And why should it be absurd? I am an actress. I believe there are few parts which would daunt me.’
‘One could not introduce comedy into Hamlet, nor could Ophelia rise from her watery grave to sing a ditty and do an Irish jig.’
‘I have no intention of doing either on my benefit night, as you will see.’
‘I shall not see, for you will not play Ophelia on your benefit night.’
‘And why not, pray, since I have chosen it? Is it not the custom for players to choose the plays for their own benefits? Mr Sheridan, I beg of you, explain this custom to Mr Kemble.’
Sheridan, who remained aloof from the quarrels of his actors and actresses, sat glumly, his arms folded; his mind was far from the theatre where he feared he would never make his fortune. He wondered what would happen if there was another attack on the King’s life and this time it was successful. A change in government, with the Whigs coming into their own and high place in that government for Mr Sheridan?
‘Eh?’ he said, rousing himself.
‘Mr Kemble is of the opinion that since he has chosen to play Hamlet for his benefit, I cannot play Ophelia for mine.’
Sheridan stood up. ‘I have work to do,’ he said. ‘This is a matter for you two to settle between yourselves.’
The antagonists glared at each other.
‘I am determined to play Hamlet,’ said Kemble.
‘I am determined to play Ophelia,’ retorted Dorothy.
When the two Hamlets were announced the public was interested and very soon news of the dispute between the leading actor and actress was well known. As u
sual sides were taken, but as Dorothy was more popular than Kemble the majority was with her.
Kemble dramatically threatened to resign and there was uproar throughout the theatre. Mrs Siddons supported her brother and declared there would be trouble if Dorothy insisted on playing Ophelia.
Sheridan could no longer close his ears to the dispute. He was after all the manager. It was absurd to play two benefit Hamlets; and he called the antagonists to his office and told them that they must both choose another play.
‘I must play Hamlet,’ declared Kemble.
‘My dear sir,’ replied Sheridan. ‘This dispute is over. You will not play Hamlet in my theatre. And if you are wise you will go away at once and make up your mind what you will play, for it will do you no good to resign as you well know. As for Mrs Jordan, she will go away and choose her play. Anything I say… anything you like… as long as you don’t both choose the same play.’
They were glad of his compromise. Kemble chose Coriolanus and Dorothy, rather unwisely, Romeo and Juliet. Whereas Ophelia would have been less demanding and she could have adapted her talents to the fey half-crazy girl, the young innocent Juliet was not suitable to an ageing woman who was the mother of five children.
But the benefit was profitable and if her Juliet was not highly praised by the press – it commented that she was not young enough nor was her figure, which had widened with the years of childbearing, quite suitable – she was actress enough to give a good performance.
But the public wanted Dorothy as The Romp. With Little Pickle it was the name she was known by. They wanted her to go on being just that.
It was not easy for a woman of thirty-five.
So the passing of the years was another anxiety.
Dorothy had received an offer to play in Dublin; as soon as she saw it she knew from whom it had come and she was as uneasy as the very thought of that man could always make her.
How dared he! she thought. Would she never be free of him?
She slit the envelope and read his terms. He would pay her more than she had ever been paid before if she would pay a return visit to Dublin.
Never, she thought. Not for all the money in the world.
She did not tell William of the communication but went to see Hester.
Fanny was fourteen now and she had a look of her father. She was wayward, vivacious but far from handsome. She had a talent for acting and was longing to go on the stage. It was not the life Dorothy had wanted for her. She had dreamed of her living quietly, the step-daughter of a lawyer, meeting others of that stratum – barristers, doctors or even army officers. Desperately she wanted for Fanny a good steady man who would marry her.
Every time she saw her daughter she doubted whether this would be achieved; and in any case it was well known that she was Daly’s daughter; there had been so much gossip about them all.
If Richard had married her and Fanny had taken the name of Ford it would all have been forgotten. But she was glad he had not now, for she had her happiness at Petersham.
‘I’ve had an offer from Daly,’ she told Hester.
Hester looked at it and whistled.
‘Are you taking it?’
‘Hester, what do you think!’
‘I know – but such an offer! The children all need new shoes and prices are rising. I think I’ll have to ask you for a bigger allowance.’
‘You shall have it.’
‘I daresay Daly would like to see Fan.’
‘I should never allow it.’
‘I hear he is doing very badly in Dublin. Philip Astley has opened at the Amphitheatre and is taking all his business.’
‘Serve him right.’
‘I daresay he thinks that you would set him on his feet again.’
‘He can think again.’
‘But all this money…’
‘It doesn’t tempt me at all. And William would never allow it.’
Hester grimaced. She was not very fond of William. She would have liked to live at Petersham Lodge with the girls; and it seemed to her that by keeping them in a separate establishment they were being slighted.
‘He might be interested in the money,’ she suggested.
‘What nonsense!’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘He would never consider it for a moment.’
Was that true? wondered Hester. Her sister with her vast earnings was a good proposition for any man – even a royal Duke, for like all royalty William was in debt.
Dorothy saw the children and listened to Fanny’s complaints. When was she going on the stage? Shouldn’t she begin soon? Did her mother remember that she was fourteen? Dodee and Lucy wanted to hear about George’s latest exploits and little Henry. And after an hour with them she left.
Daly wrote again begging her to reconsider, but she tore up his letter.
If I were starving, she thought, I would never go back to that man.
The Duke was excited. He had decided to move from Petersham Lodge which was hardly large enough for his growing family, and Dorothy was once more pregnant.
He had sold Petersham Lodge some time before – being in need of money – but had continued to rent the place and now that his father had offered him Bushy House he decided to leave the Lodge.
Dorothy must come with him and see the new place, he said, and this she was delighted to do. These pleasant domestic touches were the greatest happiness he could give her; and when she saw Bushy House she was charmed by it.
It was close to Hampton Court and situated in Bushy Park; it had magnificent gardens which would be ideal for the children to play in. Young George was such a strong little fellow; he was into everything.
‘George needs plenty of space,’ said Dorothy laughingly.
It was the perfect house. Gracious, red brick, it had been built in the reign of William and Mary, and the main central building was flanked by lower wings on either side.
‘Come, I want to show you,’ William said, excited as a boy and reminding her of young George in that moment as he drew her along.
She was enchanted by the gracious drawing room with its beautifully moulded ceiling and the pillars which supported it.
He took her over the main house and then they explored the two pavilions on either side – one of which consisted of a spacious ball-room, the other the chapel.
This was their new home, he told her. He hoped that they would be as happy in it as they had been in Petersham Lodge.
‘My father has presented me with this house because he has made me Ranger of Bushy Park – and as I’m also Chief Steward of the Honour of Hampton this place will be ideal. I shall be right on the spot.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ cried Dorothy. ‘The sort of house I’ve always dreamed of.’ Then she said: ‘It will need a fortune spent on the furnishings.’
‘Oh, I’m taking care of that,’ he told her easily.
She was momentarily alarmed. He had no idea of the value of money. She had her house in Somerset Street which was necessary for when she was working; he had his rooms in St James’s Palace; there was the separate establishment she must maintain for Hester and the girls – and now Bushy House. The cost would be great.
But this was not the day to worry about such matters.
Bushy House with its rural situation, its spacious rooms, its charm and grandeur was the ideal family home. The children would love it.
She said: ‘I know I am going to be happy here.’
Mrs Siddons in distress
AND SHE WAS happy at Bushy House.
Almost immediately she settled in to prepare for the birth of her child, and this time she had a little girl, Sophia.
How pleasant it was to rest after her confinement; to sit in the garden with the baby on her lap and the little boys playing on the lawns. Young George was getting remarkably like his uncle, the Prince of Wales. He swaggered about, sure of the approval of nurses, parents and younger brother.
‘You’ll have to watch young George,’ was the constant admonition. ‘He has the str
ength of two boys of his age, and the mischief.’
When his father came he would clamber all over him and fight him with his fists because the Duke wanted to make a fighter of him. William delightedly declared that he did indeed have to defend himself.
Young Henry stood by watching with admiration.
If only we could go on like this for ever! thought Dorothy.
But there was always anxiety about money and the fact that William did not greatly concern himself tended to make her more anxious.
Her brother George was not happy in his marriage. His wife Maria, who was so much more successful in the profession than he was, bullied him and was unfaithful to him. He was constantly short of money and naturally turned to Dorothy. Her brother Francis who was in the Army, and whom she had believed to be happily settled, had also run into debt. He wrote to his sister, knowing her strong family feeling, and when he had heard of the vast sums of money she was paid merely for appearing a few hours on a stage, he had been sure he could rely on her to help him.
What could she do? How explain? She could say: I do earn large sums of money but I have so many dependent on me.
Even William was embarrassed now and then.
‘A fellow demanding payment of a paltry four hundred pounds or so. I can’t lay my hands on it for the moment.’
So she must provide it. And all the time she was thinking of the girls and the dowry she must have ready for them. She had set her heart on ten thousand pounds apiece. It was expected of her. She was a famous actress and the mistress of a prince. She could never make them understand how difficult it was to keep the money she earned – although she spent so little on her own needs.
But she was happy at Bushy House. Happier, she kept telling herself, than she had ever been. If it could only go on like this for the rest of my life, she thought. Living here in this gracious house, with the children gradually growing up around me, I would ask nothing more.
