Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  But perhaps her family would tell her. Her brother Thomas was musical director of Drury Lane and worked closely with its manager. Thomas was a brilliant musician like all the Linley family and had composed the songs for The Duenna. Then there was sister Mary, wife of Richard Tickell, who knew almost everything that was going on and was constantly with her sister.

  But Elizabeth gave no sign and the affair went on while Mary Robinson rapidly climbed to fame. She and Elizabeth Farren were the leading actresses of the day; when they played people flocked to see them; they were favourites both of the young bucks and the more sober-minded. To the former they were the loveliest girls in town; to the latter they were ladies. It was the pleasure of both these ladies to bring a new refinement to the stage and to show that the theatre could be entertaining without vulgarity.

  What days! What triumphs! She remembered her part of Statira in Alexander the Great when she had enchanted the house with her Persian draperies of white and blue, her dark hair unpowdered; and she had played Fanny Sterling in The Clandestine Marriage, and Lady Anne in Richard III. All successes, every one. What a triumph she had scored in The Relapse and All for Love! and then Viola in Twelfth Night. Only one failure and that was not hers. Sheridan had been at his wits end for a new play and to deceive the playgoers had put on The Relapse under the title of A Trip to Scarborough. The audience had quickly detected the deception and had immediately expressed their indignation by catcalls and hissing. What a horrible moment – standing there on the stage and for the first time realizing that the audience no longer loved her.

  But even that had turned into triumph, for the Duke of Cumberland, who came often to the theatre to ogle her from his box and to see her in the Green Room afterwards, leaned over and shouted to her: ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. It’s not you they’re hissing. It’s the play.’ Then Sheridan had come to the front and told the audience they would get their money back and a riot was so averted.

  Yes, she could look back on three years of success; and now … Perdita.

  In future, she told herself, I shall always think of myself as Perdita.

  Incident at Covent Garden

  PERDITA GAZED ANXIOUSLY at herself in the mirror but lack of sleep had had no effect on her appearance. Her eyes looked brighter and there was the faintest flush in her usually pale cheeks. Well, although she had not slept she had not been tossing and turning with worry. She had been lying still and relaxed in a haze of contentment and excitement – certain that something miraculous was going to happen while she went over the events which had led up to this day.

  Mrs Armistead would soon arrive to help her dress. How wise she had been to set up this separate establishment with her mother and her child not far off so that she could see them frequently without having them living under the same roof. Of course the pay of an actress was not so great that she could afford many luxuries. Luxury could have been hers had she been prepared to pay for it. The Duke of Rutland had offered her six hundred pounds a year and a smart town house if she would become his mistress. The Duke of Cumberland had promised even greater remuneration. But she had refused them all, explaining to Sheridan: ‘What do they think I am? A superior kind of prostitute because I’m an actress?’

  Sheridan had helped her write the letters to these noblemen. ‘We won’t be too severe,’ he had told her. ‘The theatre can’t afford indignant virtue. We’ll be a little coy – perhaps hold out hope … but not yet … not yet … This should ensure their regular attendance at the theatre.’

  Sherry was a charming rogue. She was ashamed really that she had succumbed to him; but during those early days in the theatre she had needed support. But when she had known Elizabeth … Yes, that was how she saw it. It was nothing to do with his refusing her the part of Lady Teazle. It was because of her refinement of feeling over Elizabeth.

  The point was that they remained great friends although they were no longer lovers.

  Mrs Armistead was at the door – neat and discreet as ever.

  ‘Madam has rested well, I trust?’

  ‘I slept very little, Armistead.’

  ‘It is understandable. What will Madam wear today?’

  Perdita was thoughtful. What might happen today? Who could say? She must be prepared. Pink satin. Blue silk?

  Mrs Armistead had taken out a white muslin dress trimmed with blue ribbons. It was one of her simplest.

  She held it up so that above the dress her own face appeared and it was as though she were wearing it. What a handsome creature she would be … dressed! thought Perdita.

  ‘One of Madam’s simplest but most becoming,’ said Mrs Armistead.

  A simple dress for a special occasion. How did she know it would be a special occasion? It was a feeling in her bones perhaps.

  ‘I will wear it, Armistead.’

  And strangely enough Mrs Armistead seemed satisfied. As though my triumph were hers, thought Perdita, which in a way, of course, it was. For if I fell on hard times how should I be able to employ her, and if rich people come to my house she might ingratiate herself with some and find herself serving a lady in a very great household. It would be a blow to lose Armistead.

  ‘Armistead, you looked very well when you held the muslin up … as though you were wearing it. It would become you.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’

  ‘There is that other muslin … the one with the lavender coloured buttons. I caught it … and there is a little tear in the skirt.’

  ‘I saw it and mended it, Madam.’

  Oh, excellent, Armistead! It would be a great loss if she went.

  ‘With a little alteration it could be made to fit you. You may have it.’

  ‘Thank you, Madam.’ No show of pleasure. Just a cool thank you. One could never be sure what Armistead was thinking; all one knew was that she was the perfect lady’s maid.

  As soon as Perdita slipped on the white dress she knew it was right for the occasion. If there was a visitor she could play the lady surprised in this dress to perfection. A simple morning gown – and in its simplicity as becoming – perhaps more so in the cold light of morning – than satin and feathers.

  She waited for Armistead to put on her powdering wrap, but Armistead said: ‘Madam’s hair worn loosely about the shoulders unpowdered is so becoming.’

  Of course; she sat at her dressing table and Armistead dressed her hair. A curl over the left shoulder. How right she was.

  Armistead stood back to admire her handiwork and Perdita said: ‘Thank you, Armistead. Now pray bring me a dish of chocolate.’

  *

  Mrs Armistead scratched lightly on the door. Perdita knew it was a visitor because she had seen the chair arrive.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, Madam.’

  ‘A gentleman, Armistead.’ Her heart had begun to beat rapidly. She must calm herself. Could it be … Did royalty arrive in a sedan chair? Did it ask humbly to be admitted? She looked down at her hands and went on: ‘Is it someone I know, Armistead?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. The gentleman was here last night.’

  She hoped she did not betray her disappointment to the watchful Armistead.

  ‘It is my Lord Maiden, Madam.’

  Malden! The young nobleman with whom she had talked in the wings and who had so obviously expressed his admiration for her. He was at least a friend of the Prince of Wales.

  ‘Show him in, Armistead.’

  Mrs Armistead bowed her head and retired to return in a few minutes and announce: ‘My Lord Maiden, Madam.’

  Lord Maiden entered the room and it immediately seemed the smaller for his presence – so elegantly was he dressed. His ornamented coat was frogged with gold braid, his wig curled and perfectly powdered, his heels were lavender coloured to match his breeches. He was indeed a dandy.

  His eyes were alight with admiration.

  ‘Your humble servant,’ he said, and kissed her hand.

  ‘Lord Maiden, it is good of you to call on me.’

  ‘Madam, i
t is angelic of you to receive me.’ He coughed a little as though slightly embarrassed. ‘I trust, Madam, that you will forgive … the intrusion. My er … my mission is one …’

  He looked at her as though he were at a loss for words and she prompted coolly: ‘Pray proceed, my lord.’

  ‘It is a mission which I must needs accept … having no alternative, as I trust you will believe Madam.’

  ‘But of course I believe you.’

  ‘And pardon me, Madam.’

  ‘For what, pray?’

  ‘That is what I have to explain.’

  ‘You are intriguing me mightily, my lord. I shall begin to suspect you of I know not what if you do not tell me what mission has brought you here.’

  He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and brought out a letter.

  ‘I was requested, Madam, to see that this was put into none but your own fair hands.’

  She took it. ‘Then now, my lord, your mission is completed.’

  He was still looking at her rather fearfully and glancing down she saw that ‘To Perdita’ was written on it.

  She opened it; it was brief. Just a few words to Perdita telling of admiration and a desire to see her again and it was signed Florizel.

  ‘Florizel,’ she said. ‘And who is Florizel?’

  ‘Madam, can you not guess?’

  ‘No,’ she retorted. ‘Any young gallant might sign himself so. It is not you, I hope, my lord. Did you write this letter?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘I am surprised that a noble lord should play the part of messenger.’

  ‘Madam, I beg of you do not despise me for doing so.’

  ‘Well, is it not a little undignified to run errands? Why could not the writer of this letter bring it himself? Why should he send you.’

  ‘I dared not refuse, Madam. It was a commission from His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. He is Florizel.’

  She was silent. She was unsure. This was not the manner in which she had expected to be approached. As she had pointed out, Florizel could be anyone. If the Prince of Wales wished to be her friend he could not do so under a cloak of anonymity. Prince Florizel would not do. It must be Prince George.

  She handed the letter back to Lord Maiden. ‘I do not believe it,’ she said.

  ‘Madam, I assure you. His Highness brought the letter to me himself. He commanded me to bring it to you.’

  ‘My Lord Maiden, there are men in the world who believe that because one is an actress one cannot be a lady. They stoop to all kinds of tricks to entrap an actress. I wish to know the truth. Who wrote this letter?’

  ‘I am speaking the truth, Madam. I would not dare tell you that His Royal Highness had written this letter if it were not so. You should not feel insulted. There is no insult intended. His Royal Highness merely expressed the wish that you will give him an opportunity of making your acquaintance. He was greatly affected not only by your beauty but by your acting. He admires acting, the arts, literature. He is, besides being a prince, a very cultivated gentleman.’

  ‘To meet the Prince of Wales is an honour, I am sure, but …’

  ‘You hesitate Madam? It is indeed an honour that the Prince should seek acquaintance. Will you write a note in reply? It is what His Highness hopes for.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘But surely, Madam. You cannot still be suspicious.’

  She looked at him sadly. ‘My life has made me so, I fear. If this letter was truly written by His Highness pray tell him that I am overwhelmed by the honour he does me. I can say no more than that.’

  Lord Malden considered. Such a message delivered as he would deliver it could imply success. He bowed low and left her.

  *

  In his apartments at Kew the Prince was eagerly awaiting the return of Malden. With him was Frederick, to whom he was confiding his new passion.

  ‘You have never seen beauty until you have seen her, Fred.’

  Frederick replied that he had heard of Mrs Robinson’s beauty, for rumour did seep into their quarters in spite of their parents’ efforts to keep them unsullied by the world. ‘I know she is one of the finest actresses in the theatre and one of the most beautiful women in England.’

  ‘It’s true,’ cried the Prince ecstatically. ‘I cannot wait to embrace her.’

  ‘Will she receive you at her house, do you think? You had better be careful this does not come to our father’s ears.’

  ‘You can trust me, Fred.’

  ‘It is a little difficult to get away. What if you were wanted when you were visiting? Remember Harriot Vernon.’

  ‘This is quite different.’

  ‘I know it,’ replied Frederick, ‘but you were wanted when you were meeting her, and it did become known and she was dismissed because of it.’

  ‘He could not touch her, Frederick. She is not a member of his Court.’

  ‘But you are, George. You could be forbidden to see her.’

  George’s face flushed with fury. ‘It’s true,’ he cried. ‘I’m treated like a child. It will have to stop soon.’

  ‘It will stop soon. When you’re eighteen, and that’s only a few months away.’

  ‘Yes, then I shall have an establishment of my own. Then I shall be my own master. God speed the day.’

  Frederick looked out of the window. ‘Malden has just arrived,’ he said.

  The Prince was beside his brother and was in time to see Malden entering the Palace.

  ‘Now,’ cried George, all his ill-humour vanishing. ‘I shall have her answer.’

  ‘You have no doubt what it will be?’

  George tried to look serious but he could not manage it. Of course she would be ready to fall into his arms. He was the Prince of Wales, young, handsome, popular, the most desirable lover in the country. Mary Hamilton had refused to become his mistress purely on moral grounds. He was well aware that she had had difficulty at times in holding out against him.

  How different it would be with Perdita.

  He was thinking of Florizel on the stage.

  ‘… but come; our dance, I pray:

  Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair

  That never meant to part …’

  But it was her voice that he kept hearing:

  ‘… like a bank for love to lie and play on …’

  How beautiful those words on her lips; what picture they had conjured up in his mind.

  Oh, Perdita, why waste time in love scenes on a stage!

  And here was Malden. He strode to him holding out his hand.

  ‘Her letter! Her letter! Where is it?’

  ‘She did not write, Your Highness.’

  ‘Did not write! But you took my letter to her?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘And what said she? What said she?’

  ‘She was a little inclined to disbelieve.’

  ‘Disbelieve?’

  ‘That Your Highness had written it.’

  ‘But you told her …’

  ‘I told her, but as it was signed Florizel she said she could not be sure.’

  ‘Florizel to Perdita. You assured her?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness, to the best of my power.’

  ‘And she did not answer the letter?’

  ‘She is no ordinary actress, Your Highness, to come quickly when beckoned.’ The Prince’s face had grown scarlet and Malden hurried on: ‘I think she would wish to be wooed. She is modest, Your Highness, and could not believe she was so honoured. She thought it was some gallant playing a trick.’

  ‘So she wrote no answer.’

  ‘She would not do so.’

  The Prince was baffled. Malden said: ‘I think if Your Highness wrote again … wooed the lady a little, assured her that it was indeed yourself …’

  ‘So you think then …’

  Malden was silent.

  He himself had had hopes of the lady, being half in love with her himself. It was a little hard to have to plead another man’s cause, even if that m
an were the Prince of Wales.

  Malden went on: ‘I think, Your Highness, that Mrs Robinson wishes to imply that she is a lady of high moral character and does not indulge lightly in love affairs.’

  The Prince was momentarily exasperated. He had had enough virtue from Mary Hamilton. But almost immediately he was laughing. Why of course. He would not have wished her to give in immediately. She wanted to be wooed. Well, he was capable of doing the wooing. She had had his letter; she had expressed herself honoured … if the letter had in truth come from him.

  Very well, he would begin the pursuit, and in time she would be his.

  He was smiling, thinking of future bliss.

  Oh, Mrs Robinson!

  *

  The King had come to Kew for a little respite. How much simpler life seemed at Kew. He woke early, looked at the clock and, getting out of bed, lit the fire which had been laid the night before by his servants.

  How cold it was! ‘Good for the health,’ he muttered, for he talked to himself when he was alone. ‘Nothing like fresh air, eh?’

  He lit the fire and went back to bed to watch it blaze. Soon the room would be warm enough for him to sit in … comfortably.

  Lying in bed he started to worry. Even at Kew he worried. Yet when he was with his ministers he felt capable of controlling them and the affairs of the country; sometimes when he was in the council chamber at St James’s he would hear his mother’s voice admonishing him: ‘George, be a king.’

  Yes, he would be a king. He would control them all. Nobody was going to forget who was ruling this country. He would like to see that man Fox banished from the House. There he was … popping up … always ready to make trouble. His father had been a sly one and so was his son. Sarah’s nephew, he thought. And there was Sarah mocking him, laughing at him, as clear in his mind’s eye as she had been that summer’s morning when he had seen her making hay in the gardens of Holland House as he rode by.