by Jean Plaidy
Perdita had not seen her since she had become the Prince’s mistress and was shocked by the change in her appearance. Her beautiful eyes looked enormous, her face thinner, which did not detract from its beauty, but in fact accentuated the exquisite bone structure; and the flush on her cheeks.
Perdita rose and held out her hand uncertainly.
Elizabeth Sheridan took it and said gently: ‘Are you well?’
‘I am … distraught,’ replied Perdita.
‘I am so sorry.’ She said it as though she meant it and there was a world of understanding in the musical tones.
Poor Elizabeth Sheridan, who had suffered no less than Perdita herself, and there in that room Perdita – which was rare for her – ceased to think of her own tragic situation in contemplating that of this woman. Elizabeth, fragile and clearly not long for this world, for the change in her appearance could only mean that she was consumptive, had suffered even more at the hands of her husband than Perdita had at those of her lover.
I might have expected it; I broke the rules; I loved a feckless boy and expected fidelity; I was extravagant and vain. But this woman was a saint … and she had married a man of genius and had looked forward to a life with him which could have been perfect.
But Sheridan was ambitious. Not only did he wish to write immortal plays, he must be a statesman, friend of the Prince of Wales, lover of many women … And because he believed these glittering prizes to be more valuable than the love of his wife he had thrust her aside to reach them.
Ambition, thought Perdita. By that sin fell the angels.
‘I must see Richard,’ said Perdita.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘He will shortly be with you. I am so glad that you have found him at home. He is rarely here now.’
‘You have a magnificent home,’ said Perdita.
Elizabeth looked about the room sadly.
Perdita understood. Debts, she thought. Living beyond their means. But then he always had. And Elizabeth was not the woman to thrust the bills into a drawer and forget them. She imagined her brooding over them. I am not the only one to suffer.
And then Richard Sheridan came into the room.
How he had changed from the handsome man whom she had known when she first went into the theatre! It was not such a long time ago. Four years … five years. He had coarsened, grown fat, and his face was an unhealthy red. Too much drink; too many late nights. Would the Prince grow like this in time?
She could see at once that he knew why she had come. He had been a good friend to her even after they had ceased to be lovers, and she felt an uneasy twinge of conscience. How much did Elizabeth know of that episode which she, Perdita, would rather forget?
‘I will leave you together,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You will have business to discuss.’
She took Perdita’s hand and pressed it. ‘May God go with you,’ she whispered.
Perdita faced Sheridan; was she right and did she detect a faint impatience in his expression.
‘Sherry,’ she said, ‘I had to come and see you. You know what has happened?’
‘The whole of London knows,’ he said. ‘The whole of the Court.’
‘Does the news travel so fast?’
‘It is some time since he left you. He has other mistresses now.’
She winced and he smiled a little sardonically. So, after all her adventures she still could not bear to hear the word spoken. It was ironical to him that an act should be less repulsive than the words which described it. He thought there was an idea there for a bon mot. He should make a note of it and use it some time … but like all his ideas they came to nothing and he lost them because he would never put himself out to record them.
But the theatre took second place now. The future stretched out brilliantly before him as the politician, friend of Fox and the Prince of Wales.
‘I have debts, Sherry.’
‘You are – as always – in the fashion, Perdita.’
‘But I cannot pay them.’
‘Still in the fashion.’
‘Because of all this … they will not wait. I must earn money quickly. My creditors must be made to understand that although I cannot pay them immediately I intend to do so … in due course.’
‘And how will you convince them of these noble intentions?’
‘By going back to work. I want to come back to the theatre.’
He looked at her blankly. ‘You couldn’t do it, Perdita.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded shrilly.
‘They would never let you.’
‘Who … Who? Do you mean you would not?’
‘I have to consider my audiences. They would jeer you off the stage.’
‘Why, why?’
‘Because of the past. They would crowd the theatre for the first night and like as not there would be a riot. I could not risk it.’
‘How can you be sure if you will not give me a chance?’
‘I tell you I know it. It is not the way. I warned you. Remember? Do you remember?’
She nodded sombrely.
‘Did I not tell you that you should never have become his mistress?’
She was too shaken to wince now. Poor Perdita, denuded of her mask. She was herself now, and that was a desperate and frightened woman.
She nodded. ‘Yes, you warned me.’
‘And I told you then that afterwards you could never return to the theatre.’
‘You mean you won’t have me?’
‘Willingly would I, if it were possible. But it is not possible. You must find some other way.’
‘How? How can I pay my debts?’
‘I wish I could answer that one. Most willingly would I use the information.’
‘I owe seven thousand pounds.’
‘I wish I owed as little.’
‘But I have no means of paying it.’
‘I too am living beyond my means.’
Did she imagine it or was he bored? Oh, God, she thought, this is how people will be towards me in future. I am no longer of any consequence.
Then she said: ‘There is no help for it. I have his bond.’
‘What bond is this?’
‘The Prince’s bond for twenty thousand pounds. He gave it to me and I have kept it. I shall need this money … badly. I had hoped not to touch it.’
Sheridan was silent. A bond for £20 000! The Prince would never honour it. He happened to know that His Highness had a mound of debts of his own which would make his, Sheridan’s, let alone Perdita’s, seem paltry.
‘It has his signature and seal,’ she said. ‘He would have to honour it.’
‘You mean … you would insist?’
‘Please tell me how else I can pay my debts.’
Sheridan was silent.
Then she said wearily: ‘I will go. I see that you cannot help me.’
‘If I could …’
‘Yes, if you could you would. But you cannot give me this chance in the theatre.’
‘Perdita, if it were possible …’
‘Is it not possible to give it a test?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘No.’
She hesitated. ‘You are the Prince’s friend. Perhaps you could make him aware of my plight. I did not wish to ask him for money, but in the circumstances, what else can I do?’
Sheridan was alarmed. He did not wish to be the man who conveyed to the Prince the information that his discarded mistress was demanding the money he had promised her. That was not the sort of entertainment the Prince looked for from Sheridan. He wanted to be amused, not disturbed.
She laid her hand on his arm. ‘You will do this for me?’
What could he say but: ‘You may rely on me to do what I consider best for your welfare.’
Yet … &7000! How could she produce that sum of money
And Sheridan nodded and conducted her to her carriage.
*
He called on Fox in St James’s, and without preamble came straight to the point.
‘Perdita Robinson has b
een to see me.’
Fox nodded. He knew how the affair had ended. His good friend Mrs Armistead visited him now and then and let him know the Prince’s attitude to various matters not excluding that towards his old mistress. He was well aware of the meeting between the two women in the Magpie and how the Prince’s own relationship with Mrs Armistead progressed.
‘She is in a desperate situation. Her debts amount to some seven thousand pounds and the creditors are making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘They’ve heard of course that she is now discarded.’
‘She is a desperate woman.’
‘And came to ask you to allow her to resume her career as an actress, I’ll swear.’
‘Which I have most definitely refused.’
‘Naturally, naturally. The poor improvident creature!’
‘Well, Charles, we are two fine ones to talk of improvidence.’
‘We are not the Prince’s mistresses, my good fellow. Perdita should have made herself very comfortable on the gifts she received.’
He thought of his friend Mrs Armistead who was fast becoming a woman of some substance, with a house of her own most tastefully furnished, and she was now building up a pleasant little fortune. But Perdita was of course no Mrs Armistead. Such excellent creatures were rarely met with. All Perdita had accumulated were debts.
‘He gave her a bond for twenty thousand pounds and she is talking of claiming it.’
Fox was alert at once.
‘She will never get it.’
‘No, I daresay it’s completely invalid.’
‘She’ll put herself into an unfortunate position if there is a scandal over this. Does she realize this?’
‘The poor woman is too frantic to realize anything but that she has debts of seven thousand pounds and it seems her only possession is this bond for twenty thousand pounds. She has asked me to convey to HH that she intends to claim the money as her due.’
‘And what was your answer?’
‘I prevaricated. I was vague. I should certainly not like to be the one to pass such an item of news to the Prince.’
‘It would scarcely make him jump for joy. Imagine the news reaching the Hall of Purity. It would be as bad as the Grosvenor affair. Worse! This is not a mere duke but the Prince of Wales.’
‘That is why I came to see you immediately.’
‘I think,’ said Fox, ‘that I must, immediately, go and see Mrs Perdita.’
Sheridan was relieved. If anyone could handle this situation it was Fox; and Fox’s great attraction for his most ardent admirers – among them the Prince of Wales – was that he never sought to curry favour with anyone. He stated his views frankly. The Prince had accepted this and had the intelligence to know its worth. Other men might fit their words to suit a royal mood. Fox never did. It was his strength and his dignity.
*
Frantic with grief Perdita was going through the latest bills to arrive accompanied by demanding letters – insolent letters – when Mr Fox was announced.
She thrust the bills out of sight, hurried to a mirror and hastened to compose herself when he came in.
How gross he was! He was growing more so each week; his swarthiness was not attractive and his chins rested on his soiled cravat. One would never have thought that he was the great Mr Fox, who was received with delight in all the noblest Whig houses, until he bowed and began to speak. Then the regality and charm which he had no doubt inherited from his ancestor King Charles II was obvious.
‘My dear Mrs Robinson.’
What a comfort to be treated so respectfully by Mr Fox after the veiled insolence of servants and the truculent manners of creditors.
‘Mr Fox, welcome.’
He was holding her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go. She flushed a little. Everyone knew Mr Fox’s manners with women. He was as fond of them as he was of wine and gambling. And in spite of her misfortunes she was a very beautiful woman. ‘Pray be seated,’ she said.
He sat down heavily, legs apart, surveying her.
‘It is good of you to call, Mr Fox. People do not call so frequently now.’ Her lips trembled.
He said: ‘Had you asked me to call, Madam, I should have been here at once.’
‘How kind you are, sir.’
‘Who would not be kind to a beautiful woman? But let us speak frankly. I do not care to see beauty in distress. Sheridan has talked to me.’
She flushed. ‘If he could be persuaded to give me another chance …’
‘If those beautiful eyes could not entreat him, the case is hopeless.’
‘Mr Fox, I am desperate. I owe a great deal of money.’
Fox nodded lugubriously. ‘A situation with which I can heartily sympathize. I am in such a one myself at this time … in fact I have rarely been out of it. But you spoke of a bond.’
She hesitated and Fox went on: ‘Madam, I have come here to help you. I can only do this if you trust me.’ He rose and coming to her chair laid his hands on the arms and brought his face close to hers. ‘Shall I tell you this. I have long admired your beauty.’ He kissed her on the lips. She gasped and drew back and he thought: Not called Propriety Prue for nothing! He laughed. ‘Forgive the impertinence, Mrs Robinson, I wished to show you that admiring you as I do, I am ready to do what is within my power to help you. The kiss was a bond. Perhaps as significant as that of His Royal Highness. Would you let me see this bond so that I can assess its value.’
‘I cannot understand, Mr Fox, why you who are His Highness’s friend should wish to help me.’
‘Madam, I am the friend of you both. And I see this: I may best serve you both by helping to bring this little matter to a satisfactory conclusion. If you will show me the bond I promise you … on this new understanding which is between us two … that I will do all in my power to help you.’
Perdita said: ‘I will get it. I will be back with it shortly.’
In her bedroom she went first to her mirror. Her eyes were brilliant and there was a faint colour in her cheeks. She had not had time to paint her face but perhaps it looked more attractive without rouge and white lead. It certainly did with that faint rose-like flush. And the gown she was wearing … it was not one of her best but quite becoming. And Mr Fox? He was repulsive. How different from the Prince. And yet he was so clever. If anyone could help her he could. And what had he meant by that kiss? Was it a suggestion? She knew of his reputation. She was trembling as she opened the box and took out the bond.
When she returned Mr Fox was sitting back in his chair as though deep in thought. He took the bond from her without a word and studied it.
‘He won’t honour it,’ he said.
She cried in horror, ‘But what can I do? I must have money. All these debts … Do you think I should have incurred them but for entertaining him and his friends?’
‘My dear lady, creditors alas are never interested in why debts are incurred … only that they are.’
‘But, Mr Fox … what am I to do?’
Mr Fox said nothing for a few moments; Perdita began to pace up and down the room wringing her hands like a tragedienne on a stage. Fox watched her and thought: She acts naturally without knowing she is doing it. Poor creature, she will be demented if she goes on like this. And so pretty. He thought of all the jackals who would be waiting to step into the Prince’s place. There would be many of them. That old reprobate Cumberland was one. He only had to set her up and the creditors would be ready to wait. The jackals could wait. Meanwhile the Fox would step in. He had always thought that it would be rather amusing to share her with the Prince of Wales. Such beauty was rare and he never liked to miss anything. But although as the mistress of Mr Fox she would be able to hold her head up again in some circles – for he flattered himself that it was in fact no step down from the Prince to Mr Fox, her creditors would view the move with disfavour. Whereas Cumberland – royal Duke that he was – would not displease them.
A piquant situation.
‘Madam,’ he s
aid, ‘I pray you do not distress yourself. We will put our heads together …’ He smiled at her. He was giving her hints enough. Did she grasp them? She must. However innocent she was of financial matters she was well versed in dealing with the advances of men.
‘But Mr Fox, I am a desperate woman. I did not wish to take this bond, but the Prince insisted. I gave up a lucrative career for his sake. He insisted that I accept this recompense. I must pay my debts. Mr Fox, I have lived in a debtors’ prison. I will never go back to such a place. I will die first … I will do anything. Why should he not honour his bond? Everyone knows of the relationship which existed between us. Everyone knows what I gave up for him. If they do not … I have his letters to prove it. I would publish those letters. I would …’
Mr Fox sat up very straight. ‘Letters, you say, Madam? Letters? Ah, now that might be a very different matter. You have these letters … here?’
‘Indeed I have them and I must pay these debts. I will never again …’
Mr Fox interrupted. ‘Madam, show me these letters.’
She was not a fool. She had noticed the change in the atmosphere, the change in Mr Fox. The letters made all the difference. The letters were more important than the bond.
She hesitated. Fox was after all the friend of the Prince. What if the Prince had sent him to get the letters?
‘I cannot help you,’ said Mr Fox gently, ‘if you will not show me the letters.’
She went to her bedroom. She unlocked the box and took out the letters tied up with lavender coloured ribbon. How many times had she read them and treasured them … and wept over them. She hesitated. What if he took them away. What if he took them to the Prince. She could no longer trust the Prince.
No, she would not give Fox the letters. She would select one and that would be a good sample.
She untied the ribbon. There was one in which he had referred to his father in the most disparaging terms, also of his great devotion to herself. She glanced through it, remembering every word. Oh, he would regret he had ever humiliated her in the Park!
She was elated. These letters were the answer. Let him throw the bond in her face. There were still these most valuable letters.
Mr Fox read the letter she gave him and even he could not hide the fact that he was deeply impressed.
