‘You would do well to seriously consider Mr Robinson as a husband,’ Mama said, all sign of her former disapproval now dispelled. ‘Few young men would take such a risk with their own health. He must care for you very deeply.’
I did not answer, finding it far too emotional a time to even consider my own future when my brother lay sick in his bed. Besides, my heart was still set on a career in the theatre, and I thought myself far too young even to be considering marriage.
Fortunately, the smallpox turned out to be a mild strain, but as George began to show signs of recovery, it was my turn then to fall sick. I was utterly devastated, terrified that the pox would scar and disfigure my beauty.
‘My would-be suitor will soon flee now,’ I mourned to my mother. ‘As will every other.’
But he did not. Mr Robinson was most assiduous in his attentions, forever at my bedside as if resolved to prove the depth of his affection for me.
‘He cares nothing for his own safety, wanting only to see you well again,’ Mama assured me when I protested. ‘He has made his feelings quite plain, and has asked for your hand in marriage no matter what the outcome of your illness, even if you are scarred. What more can he do to prove the strength of his ardour? And I confess I should adore him as a son-in-law. Will you accept?’
I stifled a sigh, my head aching far too much for me even to think clearly. ‘I cannot deny that his devotion has made a deep impression upon me, Mama, but my affections for him are more that of a sister, rather than a wife. I have no wish even to flirt with him now.’
‘But that is only because you are ill, dearest. Once you are quite yourself again, and I feel sure your beauty will be unimpaired as we are taking every care, I am quite certain your feelings for him will be stronger than ever.’
‘Mama, please desist. I have no wish to think of marriage when I am about to embark upon a career in acting.’
‘If you do take to the stage, then it will be quite against your father’s wishes, and my own,’ she sternly reminded me.
‘Why do you blow so hot and cold, one minute weeping with pride at my success, the next doing everything in your power to prevent my debut happening?’ I cried, rubbing my aching brow with tense fingers.
‘Because, as your mother, I can see a better future for you in the care of a good husband than acting the trollop on stage. Think what your father will do to you, and to me, for allowing such a plan to go ahead. In his eyes you will be dishonoured.’
‘I will not be dishonoured. I am merely to act in a play with Mr Garrick.’
‘Can you name one honourable actress who has not had her character besmirched by rumour and gossip, one who has gone on to marry a respectable husband?’
I thought hard, anxious to produce at least one name, but my silence spoke volumes. Actresses were indeed viewed in the light of the roles they played, as harlots and whores, as women of low morals who cheat upon their husbands, and very few gained respectability.
She kissed my cheek, as if my lack of response settled the matter. ‘Then promise me that once you are fully recovered, you will accept this young man. Was he not prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to win you?’
‘Oh, Mama, you ask too much!’
‘His uncle, a Mr Harris from Carmarthenshire, is extremely wealthy, and young Thomas the old gentleman’s sole heir. I ask you, dearest, to exercise more common sense in making practical provision for your own future. And do not deny that you are fond of him. Did you not go against my wishes in the first place by opening the shutters to encourage him?’
I could not deny it. But was this how it felt to be in love? Excited, flattered and confused all at the same time? I supposed that it must be, and there were certain attractions in marrying a pleasant young man with expectations. Nor did I have any wish for my father to blame my dear mother for any failing on my part. The emotional blackmail she exerted upon me was enormous, and in view of the fact she had almost lost two more of her children, even if we were both on the road to recovery, how could I deny her some peace of mind at last? Having been abandoned by a husband, did she not deserve some tranquillity in her life? I was young and impressionable, and undoubtedly intrigued by Mr Robinson’s ardent devotion, so that as the days passed and Mama continued to cajole and gently bully me, almost hourly reminding me of her vow to my father, my resistance began to crumble.
When Thomas Robinson came and asked for my hand, I was still in a most vulnerable state. ‘I can bring you no dowry,’ I asserted.
‘I do not ask for one. I shall have plenty of money for us both, once I come of age.’
‘I might have seriously considered your offer, Mr Robinson, but …’
‘Call me Tommy, or Tom, if you prefer.’
Either name seemed far too familiar and I blushed, rather prettily judging by the way his gaze focused so intently upon my face. ‘I am far too young to take on the duties of a wife. Perhaps in a year or two.’
‘I can afford to employ servants, and provide you with every comfort. My expectations are good. In addition to my salary I have an allowance from my uncle of £500 a year.’
Mama and I had enjoyed few comforts in recent years. I tried another tack, one which was very much of concern to me. ‘But what would happen to my mother? She has suffered enough in her life, I couldn’t abandon her.’
‘There would be no need. I’m very fond of Hester too, and perfectly agreeable to her coming to live with us when we are wed. She could perhaps oversee the domestic arrangements.’
I was deeply touched. Few young men would relish sharing their home with their mother-in-law, let alone making the offer voluntarily. I was convinced, in that moment, that he must genuinely be in love with me. He certainly had much to offer. Consequently, despite my misgivings I found myself casting him a shy smile. ‘Very well, then I accept,’ I said, surprising even myself.
The banns were called even as I lay on my sickbed, published on three successive Sundays at St Martin’s Church, and the day for our marriage was arranged.
Two
Reluctant Bride
When the dull hours no joy could bring,
No bliss my weary fancy prove;
I mark’d thy leaden, pond’rous wing,
With tardy pace, unkindly move.
Mary Darby Robinson
‘Stanzas to Time’
As I lay in bed fretting in my sickened state, others were busily making plans to turn my world upside down. Fortunately, both George and I made a full recovery, but by then all arrangements for the wedding had been made.
‘I am delighted to say that the ceremony will take place within weeks,’ Mr Robinson – as I still thought of him – informed me. ‘Although I must ask you to keep our union secret for a little while.’
I was stunned by this request, doubts again bubbling to the surface. ‘Goodness, you cannot expect me to embark upon an engagement, let alone a marriage, and tell no one. That would be quite untenable.’
‘I know it is a great deal to ask, Mary, but it is only for a short time.’
‘Why must it be kept a secret? Are you ashamed of me?’
‘Far from it. The reason is that I still have three months to serve before my articles expire. Also, before I met you, there was a young lady forming an attachment to me who had every hope of a matrimonial union between us.’
‘Then perhaps you should wed her instead,’ I icily responded. ‘I shall play second fiddle to no one.’
His face now a bright crimson, he hastened to reassure me. ‘The affection was cherished only on the lady’s part. Once I come of age I shall be free to control my own life and put an end to her hopes.’
This sounded reasonable enough, while at the same time warning bells were sounding in all this talk of secrecy and I quickly saw a way out of my dilemma. ‘In light of this news, perhaps we should delay the date of our wedding until you do come of age. I still feel far too young for marriage, in any case. Moreover, I shrink from the idea of anything remotely cland
estine. I can see no benefit in secrecy, quite the opposite, in fact.’
‘I assure you, beloved, that I am filled with impatience for the ceremony to take place which will make you mine for ever.’
I fell into a fit of sulks, not much caring for the idea of being in the possession of any man. This was not at all what I had planned to do with my life. I was a woman of passion, for theatre and verse, and one of pride and independence. My father had provided me with an excellent education, in which I’d become something of a blue stocking always with my nose in a book, or happily composing my poetry. I thought how, throughout my childhood, I had only to say I desired something and my wish would be granted. Somehow, that facility had been lost in the misfortunes that had overwhelmed our little family in recent years.
I began to weep and, hearing my distress, Mama bustled in and began to scold me and mop up my tears. ‘Think of the disapprobation which your father would not fail to evince if you should choose to adopt the theatrical life in preference to an honourable and prosperous alliance. Remember that it is a most demanding profession. Your health would suffer, I am sure of it.’
‘My health is strong, Mama, pray do not fuss so.’
‘You surely haven’t taken a fancy to that libertine officer?’ she said, ever watchful for my safety.
‘Of course not!’ I was appalled at the very idea, although he still persisted in writing to me, and as I began to get out and about again I discovered to my horror that the impertinent fellow continued to follow me, which was most alarming.
‘You see what dangers you put yourself in by insisting on the stage as a career,’ Mama warned.
The subject was returned to day after day, my mother rebutting every argument I put forward. ‘But I feel so guilty towards Mr Garrick who gave so generously of his time, believing entirely in my talent. Let me at least postpone the wedding until after my debut.’
Mr Robinson took my hand and kissed it most tenderly. ‘You must allow that your parents have every reason to fear for your good name and safety. Your beauty, your very youth, make you vulnerable to the unwelcome attentions of the lecherous rakes who frequent Drury Lane. Have you not experienced that already with this notorious officer? Your honour would be jeopardised the moment you set foot upon a public stage.’
Mama agreed. ‘You might find yourself obliged to marry some man far less amiable and well-placed than Mr Robinson here, simply for protection. One who would not approve of my forming a part in your domestic establishment.’
The bond with my mother was strong, as was my sense of responsibility and pity for her, so I found this line of argument hard to refute. Yet I retained an instinctive repugnance at the prospect of a clandestine marriage.
It was no surprise when I received a letter from Garrick expressing his impatience, demanding that my mother allow me to fix the date of my debut.
‘You must write and relinquish the project at once,’ Mama insisted. ‘You cannot keep him dangling any longer.’
‘I will write soon,’ I agreed, still shying away from burning this particular bridge. My passion for the theatre might have been born out of my love for verse and recitation, but it would undoubtedly have provided me with the independence for which I craved. Mr Robinson and my mother were, however, united in their opposition to my pursuing this dream. I spent my days in torment, and my nights tossing and turning over the decision I had made. Why had I permitted the banns to be published? Did I even love Mr Robinson?
But the arguments and pressure applied were too strong for me to resist, my desire to protect my mother paramount in my mind, and finally I gave in.
The wedding took place on the twelfth of April, 1773, with the venerable vicar of St Martin’s, Dr Erasmus Saunders, officiating.
‘Never have I performed this office for so young a bride,’ he said at the conclusion of the ceremony.
I merely smiled, choosing not to mention I was but fifteen, as innocent as the simple Quaker-like gown I wore for the occasion. This was not at all how I had imagined my wedding would be. I had dreamed of a love match, of meeting my soul mate. Yet I knew not the sensation of any sentiment beyond that of esteem for Thomas Robinson, all flirtation quite gone between us. Love was still a stranger to my bosom. But no matter what my misgivings, I was now a married woman: no longer Miss Mary Darby but Mrs Robinson. The prospect alarmed me and I felt deeply thankful that, once the honeymoon was over, I would be able to continue living with Mama, while my new husband resided elsewhere. At least for the present until he came of age and our marriage could be made public.
The wedding breakfast took place at a friend’s house where I changed into a dress of white muslin, and a chip hat adorned with white ribbons, a white sarsenet scarf cloak, and slippers of white satin embroidered with silver.
Mama, and Hanway Balack, a friend of Mr Robinson, were to accompany us on our wedding journey. I was relieved about this too as I was not yet ready to be alone with my new husband. That night we drove to an inn at Maidenhead Bridge, Mr Robinson and myself in a phaeton, my mother and Balack in a post-chaise behind.
‘Goodness me, you look like a bride,’ said the inn keeper the moment he saw me walk in, unaware of the secret ceremony that had just been performed.
I was startled, and in a panic began to wonder how I might escape, horrified to realise it was far too late. The deed was done. I might give every appearance of being a happy, beautiful bride dressed in the height of fashion, but in my heart I nursed a deep regret at the opportunity I had lost for an independent future.
Later that evening while my husband and Hanway amused themselves in cheerful good humour with ale and wine over a game of cards, I took a stroll with my mother in the gardens. I wept a little, unable to control the emotional turmoil churning inside me. ‘Oh, Mama, I confess I am the most wretched of mortals!’
She looked at me askance. ‘But why, dearest? You have nothing to fear. Have I not explained sufficient of what will be required of you on this, your wedding night? Tommy adores you, I am sure he will be most gentle.’
I brushed these trifles aside. ‘That is not what I meant. I might respect Mr Robinson, but there is no powerful joining of our souls. In short, I do not love him.’
‘I think you are simply confused and overwhelmed by events, dearest. In any case, love will come, once you stop pining after a lost dream.’ And she briskly set about mopping up my tears.
Thankfully, my husband was too far gone in his cups to trouble me that night, for which I was vastly relieved, since I was both exhausted and melancholic. The next day we went on to Henley where we enjoyed, if that is the word, a ten-day honeymoon. Tommy, as I was obliged to call him from then on, proved to be affable enough, easy-going, likeable and good-natured. And when it came to losing my maidenhead, Mama had been quite right. He was indeed most gentle with me.
But where was the passion I had so longed for, the sensation of two bodies melding as one? Nothing of that sort occurred in our bed, not the first time intimacy took place, nor the nights following. I honestly wondered what all the fuss was about. In the romantic verses I had read, nowhere had I seen mentioned a bored indifference on the part of the bride. It wasn’t that I found his kisses unpleasant, nor did I ever protest when he made love to me. But while he went about the business, I stifled a despondent sigh and stared at the ceiling, hoping it wouldn’t take long.
On our return to London, Mama and I rented a house in Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The property belonged to a friend of my mother, and while being handsomely furnished, with many valuable works of art, it was somewhat large and old-fashioned. In its favour, it was convenient to Chancery Lane where my new husband would continue to reside at the house of his employers, Vernon and Elderton, in Southampton Buildings.
My most painful task was to write to Mr Garrick to inform him that not only was I married, but would not now be taking up his offer of a career upon the stage. I felt I owed it to him to tell him the truth, despite my promise to keep our u
nion secret. Tears spilled out on to the page as I wrote, and when, a few weeks later, I met Mr Garrick himself in the street, I hesitated to approach him. But on seeing me, he hurried over to congratulate me, expressing the warmest wishes for my future happiness.
‘That is most kind of you, sir, and I beg your forgiveness for having let you down so badly after all your time and effort, not least for your faith in me.’
‘I bear you no ill will, Mary. Love must come first, and the decision was yours entirely.’
‘Indeed it was not. To my infinite sorrow I was compelled to put the needs of my family: my mother and younger brother, before my own. This way they have the security Mama craves.’
‘Without the threatened loss of your reputation? I do understand. I was aware your mother never entirely approved of your becoming an actress.’
I felt myself blushing. ‘If there were any way I could change her attitude, I would do so. I deeply regret the sacrifice I’ve been asked to make, and the loss of a career I would have loved.’
‘The loss is entirely ours, that your beauty and charm will not, after all, grace our stage. But should you ever change your mind, then you know where to find me.’
His words rang in my head for days afterwards, and quite a few tears dribbled sorrowfully down my cheeks as I dwelled on this lost opportunity. The chances of it ever coming again seemed remote indeed.
With too much time on my hands I grew bored and restless, and took to visiting places of historic interest, such as Westminster Abbey, with a new female friend with whom I had recently become acquainted. The dim light of the Gothic windows, the hollow sound of my footsteps echoing in the lofty aisles, and the nostalgic memories that the scene inspired, offered a soothing sense of meditation. I needed these moments of solace as I was beginning to dread the prospect of an early pregnancy. The last thing I wanted was to appear to be a fallen woman when I was in truth respectably married. Three months had slipped by and my situation had not improved.
Lady of Passion Page 4
