by Jean Plaidy
The Queen understood perfectly and was implying that he should come without her.
The Prince of Wales was also affable to his father and the King to him, but the Queen could not help wondering what her son’s real feelings were. She had a notion that his fingers were itching to take the crown. And the poor King’s mental state was not improved by incidents like that of last night, however bravely he might stand up to them.
William was thoughtful as he left Buckingham House. He would go to some functions; he owed it to his parents and to his position. As long as it did not interfere too much with life at Bushy. George was happily reunited with Mrs Fitzherbert and was enjoying one of those honeymoon periods during which he was promising himself that they would never be parted again.
He was not very good company at such times.
William left his brothers and went down to the House of Lords where Lord Auckland’s bill on divorce was being discussed. He made one of the long boring speeches for which he was becoming notorious, full of allusions and quotations which made him feel he was indeed a statesman.
He spoke against divorce and everyone listened to him in amazement for they knew that when he left the House of Lords he would drive down to Bushy to live in comfortable domesticity with the kind of woman to whom he referred in his speech as ‘lapsed’.
It was scarcely likely that this would pass unnoticed. His speech on that day gave rise to a fresh spate of lampoons which once more called attention to his irregular union and the affairs of all the brothers, so that the popularity which had risen through the incidents in Hyde Park and Drury Lane was forgotten.
The royal family was making itself ridiculous again.
On the road to Canterbury
DOROTHY WAS WORRIED about Fanny, and William was a little irritated because of her preoccupation over the girl.
‘I declare,’ he said petulantly, ‘that in your eyes Madam Fanny is more important than the rest of us put together.’
She assured him that it was not true. But he was often sullen about Fanny.
She had to think of Fanny’s dowry and when he needed money she became, as he said, almost a usurer, making a bond with him, so that she might be sure that the money was paid back by him when Fanny would need her dowry.
‘It’s simply that I feel I must do the best for poor Fanny,’ she said.
‘Poor Fanny!’ grumbled William. ‘I’d call her rich Fanny.’
How could she make him see that Fanny had always been the outsider? Richard Ford had loved his two little girls – not enough to marry their mother but still he had cared for them. As for the FitzClarence family they were petted by everyone. Their father concerned himself with them; their uncles came to see them; and the Prince of Wales himself was particularly fond of young George, his namesake. The point was, she tried to make William understand, Fanny did not get the attention that the rest of them did.
‘I always feel I have to make it up to poor Fanny.’
Fanny had taken a great fancy to Gyfford Lodge, a house on Twickenham Common, which stood in pleasant gardens surrounded by a high wall. It had belonged to the Marchioness of Tweedale before her death and it was now empty and to let. The rent was fifty pounds a year. Not a large sum. And how pleasant for Fanny to have a house which she could call her own!
She should choose her own decorations and they would select the furniture by degrees. It should be Fanny’s own house and she should live there with a servant or two; Dorothy guessed that she would want to invite her sisters to stay with her now and then, but the invitation would come from her.
Fanny was enchanted with the idea and for a while she was happy with Gyfford Lodge.
William did not like it, though.
‘Damned unnecessary expense,’ he said, and a quarrel flared up before Dorothy realized it.
‘It happens to be my money.’
William was angry because he had lapsed with the allowance he had pledged himself to pay her.
She was talking like some low scribbler, he said. He’d be damned if he’d ever ask her to lend him another penny, even though he was prepared to pay back anything he had from her. Did she ever consider what she’d had from him? What he’d given up for her? Why he was cut off in a way from his own family. He ought to be going to court; he ought to be serving with the Navy. Why did she think he was denied a place in the Navy? Because he was out of favour with his father. And why? Because he had upset them all by living with an actress who displayed herself on a stage in breeches for anyone who had the price of a ticket to gloat over.
This was too much for Dorothy.
‘Did I want to go on acting? I should have been happy to give it all up. Why do I have to go on? Because we’d be in debt… more than we are already… if I didn’t. You may be a royal Prince but you still need money… my money!’
It was too much. The Duke walked out to the stables, took his horse and rode off in a rage, while Dorothy sat down and wept. Her head was aching, her eyes ablaze with anger. And when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she said: ‘I’m growing old and fat. He no longer cares for me.’
She lay on her bed and wept until he came in and found her.
He saw the traces of tears on her cheeks; she saw those on his. Like all the brothers he shed tears when disturbed, though not as readily – nor as elegantly – as the Prince of Wales.
She rose from the bed and went to stand close to him. He put his arms round her.
‘We must not quarrel, Dora,’ he said.
‘It was my Irish temper.’
‘It was my arrogance.’
‘Oh, my love. What is there for me without you and the little ones?’
‘And for me? There would be nothing in my life without you.’
‘You are a King’s son. You could be at court. There could be a great future for you.’
‘My future is here. You are a successful actress. Without us you could be rich, feted. You need not work so hard.’
‘I would throw it all away – all the success and applause – if I might live here in peace for the rest of my life.’
They laughed and clung to each other.
‘I could not believe that we were really quarrelling. It was like the end of the world.’
‘It would be the end of my world if we could not mend our quarrels.’
‘What was it all about? Something silly… something of no importance.’
‘So it is over.’
‘It is over.’
And afterwards she thought: It was money. It’s always money… money and Fanny.
She was back to the old routine. Working at Drury Lane, snatching what time she could to go down to Bushy. Now and then doing provincial tours because they were profitable and they needed the money.
She was soon pregnant again.
‘I must be the most fertile woman on Earth!’ she told the Duke.
‘I know one to equal you – the Queen!’
‘She had fifteen, I believe.’
‘Elizabeth was your sixth.’
‘You’re forgetting Fanny, Dodee and Lucy. Nine with them.’
It was often that he forgot those three, she thought a little resentfully and then chided herself inwardly. It was natural. It was his own little FitzClarences who counted with him.
‘And this new one will make ten. Not a bad tally.’
‘It’s time I stopped having children. It’s time I gave up the theatre.’
‘It won’t be long now. We’ll work towards it. I look forward to it, too. How pleasant it will be when you’re not constantly running away from us.’
‘I long to be home more. Just think, little George is eight now. I feel they are growing up a great deal of the time without me.’
But when the time of birth grew near it meant an enforced rest and how happy she was to drive down to Bushy and say to herself: Now for a few months I shall be with the family.
She came down in January of that year to await the birth of the child and on a bleak Feb
ruary day the seventh little FitzClarence was born – another boy to delight his father. They called him Adolphus and caring for him, having the others about her, with frequent visits from the girls, Dorothy was happy again.
But she could not enjoy the peaceful existence for long. There were more engagements to be filled; and two incidents in the next months made her wonder whether she and William should not try to make some arrangement whereby their expenses could be cut by half and to save her from having to work so hard and continuously.
He was deeply in debt, she knew. He was going more often to Windsor and appearing in court circles as his mother wished. He visited the Prince of Wales in Brighton and he as the Prince’s brother must be as fashionably dressed as others. There were fetes at Carlton House. To these Dorothy would be invited for the Prince of Wales never treated her as anything but the Duchess of Clarence.
It always came back to a question of money.
I will give myself another year, Dorothy would say to herself. I will complete this contract. Then we must cut expenses. Fanny was now twenty, most certainly of a marriageable age; Dodee seventeen and Lucy sixteen. It could not be long now before they were married; and then once their dowries were paid she would be relieved of great expense and anxiety. This would be the turning point – when the girls married.
One of the most profitable engagements she was getting was to play in the theatre at Margate – a pleasant seaside resort which though small was becoming more and more fashionable. Like all such towns it sought to emulate Brighton but without the personality of the Prince of Wales that was not possible. Yet Margate was growing more populated every year; houses were being built and rapidly sold; and its great advantage was that if it lacked the high fashion of Brighton it was less costly. It had a good theatre and Dorothy had had several successful visits there.
William was always uneasy when she went on what she called her ‘cruises’ and he had prevailed on her to take with her as companion the Reverend Thomas Lloyd, one of the chaplains he had taken into his employ when he moved into Bushy House.
Dorothy was paying the Reverend Thomas four hundred pounds a year to teach the children but now that the girls were growing up she felt that he could well be spared – and they left to their governesses and tutors – and could act as companion to her. The chaplain was an interesting and amusing companion and Dorothy was always glad of his company.
This was particularly so when she received the first of her frights.
The journey to Margate was taken in easy stages; she was to play in Canterbury for a few nights before going on to Margate. They had changed horses at Sittingbourne and were within a few miles of Canterbury when Lloyd looked out of the window and said: ‘I think we are being followed.’
Robbery and violence were commonplace on lonely roads; and as dusk was falling it was very alarming to be followed. She looked out of the window. She had seen the two black-clad figures gradually gaining on the carriage; there was no other vehicle on this lonely road but hers – and she was here with the chaplain, the post boys and one man, Turner.
‘Speed the horses,’ she said.
‘I fancy I see lights ahead. It could be Canterbury,’ said Lloyd.
One of the men had ridden on ahead of his companion and was now level with the carriage. He glanced in. Dorothy shivered; she thought: This could be the end. Did he know who she was? Did he expect that she would be carrying large sums of money? If they had waited until she was on her way home she would certainly have been carrying a great deal.
The man in black had ridden up to Turner and struck him. Turner’s horse reared and threw him. The carriage had come to an abrupt halt which threw Dorothy and the chaplain out of their seats.
‘Are you hurt, Mrs Jordan?’ cried Lloyd.
The man in black was looking into the window and staring at Dorothy. For a few seconds she believed she was looking into the face of death for he carried a blunderbuss.
It was strange how in such a moment she could think of nothing but Bushy House and the children who would now be in the nursery, the younger ones in bed, George protesting that it was not his time to go and leading Henry and Sophie into rebellion. She pictured their receiving the news… and the girls… would they get their dowries? All this in the space of a terrifying second.
She had closed her eyes, and when she opened them the man in black was still staring at her.
Then he acted very strangely. He bowed to her and said: ‘I am a gentleman.’ And turning he went to his companion who had now come up and whispered something.
Then they both rode off in the direction from which they had come.
Turner had picked himself up and was rubbing his head.
‘Are you hurt, Turner?’
‘No, Madam. Just a few bruises, I expect. He got me before I saw it coming.’
‘Then get up and we’ll go with all speed to Canterbury.’
She lay back in the carriage. Lloyd looked at her anxiously.
‘A close thing,’ he said. ‘It was lucky they recognized you.’
‘You think that’s what it was?’
‘I can’t imagine anything else. They were all set for robbery… perhaps murder. And then they suddenly changed their minds. How do you feel?’
‘Very shaken. And you?’
‘The same,’ he said. ‘There was a desperate look about them.’
‘We must never travel after dark again.’
‘I do agree it is most unwise.’
They came into Canterbury and while she was washing off the grime of the journey before going down to eat the meal she could smell being prepared – ‘something special in honour of Mrs Jordan,’ said the host – it occurred to her that the post boys and Turner would be talking of their adventure and that news would reach London and in the nature of such news it would doubtless be greatly exaggerated. It would probably be rumoured that she had been murdered – or at least so mutilated that she would never walk again.
So before anything she must write to William and tell him exactly what had happened and that she was alive, well and only suffering from the shock of it all.
‘Canterbury, half past ten.
… We got here about half an hour ago safe after a very narrow escape of being robbed…’
She tried to describe it all – the lonely road, the growing darkness, the moment when the Rev. Thomas had first been aware that they were being followed.
‘I feel the effects of the fright now more than I did at the time. My hand shakes and I can scarcely hold the pen. It has determined me to stay here the night and never travel after dark. Lloyd and Turner behaved very well. God bless you all. Kiss the dear children for me. I would not have mentioned this but I feared you might have heard it with additions. Be so good as to write to the girls for the same reason. They may be alarmed. I’m afraid you will hardly be able to read this – but I am a good deal agitated – but this a good night will remove.
‘I set out tomorrow at seven for Margate. Once more God bless you all.’
She played for two nights in Margate to appreciative audiences but the weather was hot and the theatre stifling and she was glad when a violent thunderstorm broke up the heat wave. From Margate she made the short journey to Canterbury to do The Belle’s Stratagem there and return the next day for another brief spell in Margate.
These journeys were tiring but so very profitable; and it was necessary to work when there was no London season.
She played to a house so full in Canterbury that she knew it was going to be more than usually profitable and she thought gleefully of telling William how much she had earned on this ‘cruise’. Half the proceeds of the house were to be hers and part of the pit had been turned into boxes to bring in higher prices. There was no doubt that the theatre-goers of Canterbury were delighted to have Mrs Jordan with them.
To play before such an audience, to step on to the stage and sense the thrill of excitement that ran through the audience, to throw oneself into the part, t
o take the audience into one’s confidence, as it were, and know that one was in theirs, was a thrilling experience and one for which she would always be grateful. But she wanted to know how the children were. She could not help imagining all sorts of accidents that might have befallen them. George and Henry were far too adventurous and Adolphus too young to be left.
But while she was paid so highly for her work she knew she must go on. There were so many – too many – purposes for which the money could be used.
Before leaving Canterbury that morning she had a happy hour buying presents for the children: a writing case for George, a lanthorn for Henry and a very pretty work-box for Sophie.
It would not be long, she kept reminding herself, before she was back with them.
Had Death determined to catch her? It seemed so.
She was playing Peggy in The Country Girl in the Margate Theatre when a draught blew the train of her dress over one of the lamps. The flimsy material caught fire immediately and one side of her dress was in flames.
There was uproar in the audience and several people rushed on to the stage. In a matter of seconds the flames were extinguished.
She was shaken; she knew that she might easily have been burned to death. But there was only one thing to do since she was unharmed apart from the shock and that was to go on playing.
When the play ended she was given an ovation such as she had never had before. But she was trembling, and as soon as the curtain finally fell felt ready to collapse.
Back in her lodgings she lay in bed and thought of the night’s misadventure. It was only two weeks earlier that she had faced the highwayman on the Canterbury Road.
It was strange – twice in such a short time to have come close to disaster.
It seemed like a warning.
Enjoy life while it is left to you. Time is running out.
The brief intrusion of Master Betty
EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the Delicate Investigation, that inquiry which the Prince of Wales had set in motion in the hope of proving that his wife Caroline had had an illegitimate child. Sir John and Lady Douglas, her neighbours, had brought this accusation against her and since Caroline had a child, William Austin, living with her, on whom she doted and treated as her own, the Prince had hoped he would find reason for divorce.
