by Jean Plaidy
Now to Mary Robinson. He imagined himself telling her the news.
*
When he had gone Elizabeth returned to the harpsichord, but instead of singing sat silent, thinking of her romantic elopement, of the transcending joy of those days when she had believed that when she and Richard were married they would live happily ever after. At least, she could console herself, she would never be happy without him.
Yet before he had come into her life she had lived serenely in her father’s house where everything was subservient to music. All day long the sounds of music had filled the house. Bath was such a gracious city; often here in London she dreamed of Bath. But Richard must be in London, naturally, for London was necessary to him. Here he had his theatre and he was in the centre of the gay life; here were the gaming houses, the clubs which he could not resist; here were the brilliant men like Charles James Fox whose company he so enjoyed.
But the old days had been sweet. She smiled to remember singing with her sister Mary; and her brother Tom’s playing of the violin when he was in the nursery had been declared nothing short of genius.
And how proud her father had been of his brilliant children – perhaps particularly of her! His ‘song bird’, he had called her, and she remembered well the day when he had said to her: ‘Elizabeth, I believe there never has been a sweeter voice than yours.’ How happy that had made her! And she had become famous – or almost – when she had sung in an oratorio before the King. Everyone had been talking of her voice then. And her sister Mary who had a beautiful voice of her own had said it was only a pale echo of Elizabeth’s.
Those were happy days when they had all been together in the big house in Bath and their father had taught singing. Then had come that fateful day when Mrs Sheridan, wife of a teacher of elocution, had come to the house for singing lessons; the friendship between the two families had begun and Richard was a constant visitor to the singing master’s house.
She had often thought of going into a convent and when the odious Major Matthews had pursued her and would not be repulsed she had felt the need for the sequestered life more than ever. She had a beauty which almost rivalled her musical talents and she knew that she would be pursued by men. Some in high places had their eyes on her. Horace Walpole had written in one of those letters which so many people seemed to read that the King had been unable to take his eyes from her when she had sung in the oratorio and had ogled her as much as he dared in so holy a place.
A convent promised a blissful retreat in which she could sing holy music for the comfort of its inmates. But Richard was there – the good friend, the gay young man with ambitions of which he talked to her and to whom she was able to confide her desire for the retired life. He was entirely sympathetic and she had wondered how this was possible since his ambitions lay in such a different direction.
When Sir Joshua Reynolds painted her as St Cecilia she was famous. None of the angels among whom he had placed her, so it was said, had a sweeter and more angelic face than hers. She was fragile, unworldly; and the desire to go into a convent was greater than ever; and then the doubts had come. Who had planted them in her mind but the young and virile companion of her childhood? What was the attraction between her and Richard? Why should one so worldly find such delight in the company of a woman whose ideal was a convent life?
Major Matthews had come into her life and even now she shuddered to recall him. How she loathed that man! He was coarse; he was sensuous; and her very remoteness from all that he was made him desire her the more. He was a man of means, and persistent, and she feared her father would want to make a match for her.
‘I must go into a convent,’ she told Richard. She knew of a convent in France, and if she could reach it she was certain she would be given sanctuary there.
Dear Richard. How chivalrous he was! She knew now that he was fighting against his own emotions. He realized the incongruity of a match between themselves; how would such a delicate creature fit in with his ambitions? But he could not allow her heart to be broken, her spirit quenched by the hateful Major Matthews. He must save her from that so he had conceived the plan for conducting her to her convent and with only her maid for company and as chaperone they had fled from Bath. It was a mad adventure; and before they had reached London Richard had declared his love for her. At that time it had seemed more important than ambition. And herself? She had made a discovery too. It was not life in a convent she wanted but life with Richard.
‘We must marry,’ said Richard, ‘for even if we did not wish to, now that we have eloped together there is no other course open to us.’
She smiled recalling it; that hasty marriage; the solemn words said before the priest, and no sooner was the ceremony over and they returned to the lodgings Richard had found for them than her father arrived in a great state of agitation, threatened to horsewhip Richard and carried his daughter back to Bath.
‘But we are married,’ she had insisted.
‘Doubtless a mock marriage,’ growled her father. ‘I know these scoundrels.’
But this was not a scoundrel. This was Richard, the friend of her childhood. Her father must realize this. He did and was somewhat mollified to recall it. He cared so much for me, she thought tenderly. He wanted my happiness above all things. He would never have forced me into marriage with Major Matthews. If she had not been so young and impetuous she would have known that. But perhaps she had deceived herself then. Perhaps at heart she had wanted to elope with Richard, had wanted to marry him all along. Could it be that she had always seen the prospect of life in a convent as an impossible dream?
Richard would always be surrounded by drama. She caught her breath with horror even now as she remembered hearing the news that Major Matthews had challenged him to a duel, that Richard had accepted the challenge and had been wounded. She had wanted to go to him at once but her father had restrained her and Richard had written to her – impassioned letters with that touch of brilliance which playgoers were finding so much to their taste.
And her father … her dear father had relented. ‘Since you feel as you do, there’d better be a proper ceremony and you can set up house together.’
And so they were married in a manner fitting her father’s position in Bath; and they went to live in the little cottage at East Burnham.
How many times during the years that followed had she thought of that little cottage and the happiness she had had there! Far more so than in this luxurious house in Great Queen Street. There had been no debts then, no knowledge of what the future with a brilliant man could be like. Romantically innocent she had believed that life would be one long round of bliss.
But he had soon begun to talk of London – wistfully at first. It was his Mecca; it was the centre of the literary world. There was no intellectual life at East Burnham. One must be in London.
‘And, Elizabeth my love, there is money. It has to be earned you know.’ London where the streets are paved with gold, the great city which was waiting to acclaim Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the only place where he could give free play to his talents.
And so … goodbye to the cottage where she had been so happy, and to Orchard Street where she learned about debts and witty men who took her husband from his own fireside to clubs where they gambled. To chocolate and coffee houses where men congregated to talk of the events of the day, to read the lampoons which were handed round about the famous and notorious, to laugh at the cartoons. ‘To live,’ said Richard.
It was to her that he read The Rivals. She was the first to sit entranced, her hands clasped together, and to call him a genius.
He accepted her verdict. He knew he had genius.
And the people accepted him. They saw The Rivals and decided they wanted more of Sheridan. Success came quickly, for he was only in his twenties, and the most talked of playwright and soon … manager of Drury Lane.
But oh the debts! The eternal demands for money! Why was it that as he grew more successful his debts increased and the more
money he earned the more he needed?
‘The company we keep is too grand for us, Richard,’ she expostulated.
‘Too grand for the Sheridans!’
‘We cannot afford to entertain them, Richard. If they need such entertainment shouldn’t we tell them it is beyond our means.’
He had laughed at her, lifted her and held her above his head.
‘Now you look like an angel … looking down on a poor weak mortal. An avenging angel! My dearest St Cecilia, we cannot reach our rightful place in society unless we mingle with the ton. If we did not mingle with the rich and the noble we should soon be relegated to a back seat.’
‘It is your plays surely that have made you famous – not your acquaintances.’
But he had laughed at her and said she was his angel; she lived in the rarefied atmosphere far, far above him, so far that she could not see what life was like among ordinary mortals.
And the bills continued to come in and her dowry of three thousand pounds which had once seemed so considerable was quickly swallowed up; and she had asked her father to help them out of their pecuniary embarrassments so many times that she could not bring herself to ask again. She was ashamed to ask, for Richard earned far more money than her father ever had and it seemed so wrong to take his money. When she told Richard this he laughed at her. ‘But it is not what one earns that is important, my love. It’s what one spends.’
How true … how sadly true!
And they could have been so comfortable. She had never wanted luxury … luxury that was unpaid for and a reproach to her every time she was aware of it. If she told him that she had been happier in the little cottage in East Burnham he would have laughed that mocking laugh of his. St Cecilia! he called her. His angel who was too good for ordinary mortal men.
If he would be reasonable … if he would give up the worldly life … if he would be content to live simply and write his plays …
But that was to hope for the impossible. Why had they fallen in love? Why had they not seen that they were so different, that each had their eyes fixed on a different ideal? He was gay, handsome, witty and brilliant – a man of the world. And she asked for nothing from life but her music and his love.
She sighed and turned to the harpsichord.
Yet I would not change him, she told herself. As if I could! For if I changed him he would not be Richard Sheridan – and it is Richard Sheridan whom I love.
*
Sheridan did not go to the theatre. None of the players would be there at this hour. Instead he directed the chairman to the house of Mrs Mary Robinson, where the lady’s maid, Mrs Armistead, received him, for Mary Robinson’s hired footman had not yet appeared for duty.
His eyes followed Mrs Armistead as she took him to a small drawing room where he could wait while she went to tell her mistress of his arrival. Mrs Armistead was so quiet, so discreet, yet one could not help but be aware of her. She was handsome, but in a way which was by no means flamboyant; neatly dressed in her maid’s uniform, yet she did not look like a maid. Sheridan had noticed more than once that she walked with unusual grace; and it suddenly struck him that it was her dignity which drew attention to her.
In a short time Mrs Armistead returned to tell Mr Sheridan that her mistress would be with him very soon.
‘Thank you,’ said Sheridan. He was on the point of detaining the woman, but she seemed to sense this and with unhurried dignity left him.
No nonsense, thought Sheridan with a smirk. No flirting with the lady’s maid behind the lady’s back.
Then he forgot the maid because Mary had come in. He had to admit that every time he saw her she took his breath away. Her beauty burst upon the eye as the sunlight would after coming out of the dark. Mary was a dazzling beauty. Different from the handsome maid – whose looks were of a more subtle nature and had to be discovered gradually; Mary’s were so brilliantly obvious that their impact was immediate.
Conscious of the effect she had on people Mary always dressed for the part. Today she wore a pink satin gown, fashionably hooped and ornamented by a silver pattern. Her hair was dressed in loose curls and lightly powdered, her exquisite neck and bosom rather freely exposed.
Sheridan opened his eyes to express the wonder she expected to see in the eyes of any man; then taking her hand humbly kissed it.
Mary smiled; she was satisfied.
‘Sherry, my dear, dear friend.’
‘My angel!’
He would have embraced her but she lifted a hand. Mary gave herself airs now that she was a well-known actress.
‘What an unexpected pleasure to see you at this hour! What will you take? Coffee? Chocolate? Tea? Wine?’
He would take nothing, he told her; it was enough for him to drink in her charms.
She laughed – a little refined laugh. Mary was always anxious that she should be treated as a lady. She liked to think that she had brought refinement to the stage and as a good business manager he was ready to humour an actress who had the gift of bringing in the people. It was enough for them to look at Mary Robinson, irrespective of the play. And there was no doubt that she had brought in the nobility too. The Duke of Cumberland was an admirer, though Mary – wisely perhaps – had resisted all his offers.
‘What brings you, truly? You are not going to tell me that you could not wait for a glimpse of me at the theatre today?’
‘If I told you that it would be true too.’
‘Oh, come, come.’
Yes, she was a little imperious. Well, with beauty such as hers perhaps it was forgivable. Her dark hair was luxuriantly abundant; her brow was a little high and the deeply set eyes under the level brows, the straight nose, the perfectly formed lips, were touched with an air of haunting melancholy which made her face unforgettable. This was no mere pretty girl. This was beauty. The contours of her face were perfect; her body was beautifully proportioned; she moved with the utmost grace; she was conscious, Sheridan was sure, every minute of the day, of her beauty.
‘Well, my beautiful Mary, there is something else. I was determined to tell you first.’
‘A new play?’
He shook his head. A faint irritation had passed across her face. She had not really forgiven him for not giving her the part of Lady Teazle. ‘Mrs Abington is so … vulgar,’ she had declared. Always eager that her refinement should be acknowledged, she invariably called attention to the vulgarity of others. ‘Precisely so,’ he had retorted. ‘That’s why it’s Abington’s part. Don’t forget Lady Teazle was not of the ton. You, my dearest Mary, have only to walk on a stage and everyone knows you are a lady. And, bless you, you are not a good enough actress to hide it.’ Careful, he had thought. A backhanded compliment. But one thing he had been determined on: Abington was going to play Lady Teazle – and not even for beautiful Mary would he allow his play to have anything but the best. She had not been reconciled and continued to believe that she had been slighted.
Now he said quickly: ‘No, no. Guess again.’
‘You are deliberately keeping me in suspense.’ She moved to a sofa and holding out her hand bade him sit beside her.
‘Then I will do so no longer. His Majesty sent for me to tell me that there is to be a command performance.’
‘I see.’ She was pleased, and tapped lightly with long tapering fingers. A habit, he had noticed, to call attention to them. They were as perfectly formed as the rest of her. ‘And I am to play before the King and Queen?’
‘Of course. How could it be otherwise? And there is something else. The Prince will accompany them.’
There was no sign of melancholy in her face now. Her eyes sparkled. ‘What play?’ A terrible fear showed itself. It would be The School. Trust Sheridan to put on his own play. And Abington would have the better part!
‘Shakespeare, of course. His Majesty thinks the “fellow” wrote “sad stuff” but the people seem to think it’s all that’s suitable for royal consumption.’
‘Romeo and Juliet?’ Juliet had been he
r first part. He remembered how beautiful she had looked.
‘The Winter’s Tale. You will be Perdita.’
‘Perdita!’ She was not displeased, but she was apt to think Juliet would have been better.
Sheridan disillusioned her. ‘Young love in defiance of parental authority is a sore point with HM at the moment. You know the Prince is apt to give Papa anxious moments on that account.’
She laughed. Perdita. Innocent, wistful, beautiful Perdita. She was growing more and more excited every moment.
‘I have seen him now and then,’ she said. ‘He’s a pretty boy.’
‘I feel sure he will be delighted to see you.’
Her mind immediately went to costumes. She saw herself in pink … her favourite colour because it became her most. But blue, perhaps. Satin? Velvet?
‘We should go into rehearsal immediately,’ said Sheridan.
He was looking at her appraisingly. She was even lovelier animated than melancholy, and the most susceptible young man in the country was the Prince of Wales. Surely he would not be able to look on all this beauty unmoved?
Was that what Mary was thinking? She had refused the protection of many rich and notorious men. Suppose … But that was looking too far ahead.
He leaned towards her and kissed her lightly.
‘Well, think about it, and be at the theatre early. We’ll go into rehearsal right away. I want perfection. You must please their Majesties … and the Prince … Perdita.’
He rose to go and Mrs Armistead, who had been listening at the door, walked out of sight unhurriedly and with dignity just as he came out of the room.
*
‘Armistead,’ said Mrs Robinson, ‘Come here. I’m to play Perdita in The Winter’s Tale.’
‘Is that so, Madam?’
‘It’s not a bad part.’
‘No, Madam.’
‘There’s something special about this performance though. The King and Queen will be there with the Prince of Wales.’
‘That will be a triumph, Madam.’
