Lady of Passion

by Freda Lightfoot

  And in no time at all we were back in the social whirl.

  We visited Vauxhall where, as the evening progressed, we were welcomed by all our old friends and acquaintances. I almost forgot that they had so unworthily neglected me in my pleasure at being back in the merry throng. How blissful to compare this sweetly scented place of music and laughter, dancing and gossip, with the dark galleries of prison we had so recently known. After so long a seclusion from society, the joy of this moment was indescribable.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ I murmured to my husband, ‘how some people feign ignorance of our past embarrassments?’

  Tommy chuckled. ‘While others accept it with the ease of fashionable apathy.’

  Among the latter was Lord Lyttelton, who insolently remarked, ‘Notwithstanding all that has passed, I believe the child is handsomer than ever.’

  I made no reply, making it clear by my expression of scornful disdain that I still loathed the man. I certainly had no intention of allowing his flattery to go to my head. I was no longer a foolish child, but a mature woman of almost nineteen.

  ‘So how are we to subsist honourably and remain above reproach, now that we have obtained your liberty?’ I asked my husband as we took a stroll one morning, arm in arm in St James’s Park, admiring the vibrant autumn colours of the leaves as they turned. ‘We cannot risk running up more debts.’

  ‘I have written to my uncle a number of times, requesting his support until I can return to my profession.’

  ‘And what was his response?’

  Tommy heaved a sigh. ‘To date, every letter has remained unanswered.’

  I tried to quell the sick feeling growing within. ‘What hope do you have of returning to your old profession?’

  ‘It will be difficult, since I did not complete my articles of clerkship.’

  I firmed my lips against further questions. Where was the point in quarrelling with him? It was beginning to look as if I’d married a wastrel with no prospects. Instead I turned my thoughts to my own literary endeavours, which I hoped might resolve our difficulties, and made a mental resolve to speak to a printer at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘Can it be Mrs Robinson?’ I glanced up in surprise as a young man approached us. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten me, Brereton, an actor from Drury Lane.’

  I smiled in delight. ‘Of course, we met during my rehearsals with Garrick.’

  ‘We did indeed, how delightful to meet you again after all these years. And this must be Mr Robinson. Sir, you have a veritable treasure in this wife of yours.’

  Tommy laughed. ‘She frequently informs me as much.’

  I presented my husband, and the pair of them got along so well that Tommy invited Mr Brereton to dine with us that very evening.

  ‘Would you not consider a change of heart?’ he asked, as we sat chatting over the cheese and port. ‘I was so looking forward to acting with you, Mary. It would be a crime for you not to explore this promising talent of yours. You should at least take a trial.’

  I was startled by this suggestion, having long since given up on the idea. Now hope surged again.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked my husband. ‘Would you consent?’

  ‘I would, my dear, if it is what you want.’

  I kissed him on the cheek, realising he was now willing to set aside his earlier disapproval to my becoming an actress as it might prove a means of providing the income we so badly needed.

  ‘Can it be arranged?’ I asked Mr Brereton, quite unable to quench the tremor of excitement in my voice.

  ‘Garrick sold his half share of Drury Lane back in June. I shall put in a request on your behalf to Mr Sheridan, the new proprietor, and mention that you would like a trial.’

  This could change our luck, I thought, considering the heady possibility of fame and fortune. Unfortunately the timing was poor as I was once more in a delicate condition. But to my complete surprise, days later Mr Brereton paid us a second visit, this time bringing Mr Sheridan with him.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, pray forgive me, gentlemen, for my state of déshabillé. I was not expecting any callers this morning.’ Maria Elizabeth was happily playing on the rug and, as usual, there were papers strewn everywhere.

  ‘Do not trouble on my account. You look quite delightful, dear lady.’

  Not only was Richard Brinsley Sheridan charm personified, he was tall and good looking, though not in any way a dandy despite the bright red waistcoat he wore beneath a coat of blue. He declined tea and went straight to the purpose of his visit. ‘Both Garrick and Brereton wax lyrical about you, will you not recite some passages from Shakespeare for me?’

  I flushed with embarrassment, suddenly a-flutter with nerves.

  Not only was this man the new proprietor of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in conjunction with his father-in-law, Thomas Linley, and a Dr Ford; he was also the much celebrated author of The Rivals and The Duenna. I felt humbled that he should even be present in my tiny drawing room, let alone expressing an interest in any talent I might possess. But his gentle persuasion was slowly winning me over for he was a man of manners as well as intellect, both of which were strikingly and bewitchingly attractive.

  ‘Where shall it be? I cannot do it here – now – not with my child present and dressed in this careless fashion.’

  ‘A small taste of your talent will suffice.’

  My fears dissipated by his charming smile I agreed to try, and read a short extract from a speech by Juliet, as Mr Garrick had taught me. He listened with careful attention, applauding with enthusiasm when I was done.

  ‘You are right, Brereton, we should offer the dear lady a more public trial of her talents.’

  An appointment was thus made for me in the Green Room at Drury Lane. Mr Garrick, Mr Sheridan, Mr Brereton, and my husband were all invited to be present to hear me. With Mr Brereton’s assistance, I performed a short scene from Romeo and Juliet, and without hesitation, my debut in that part was arranged. Indeed, Mr Garrick himself kindly undertook to be my tutor once again, despite my having let him down four years earlier.

  ‘I am delighted to note that you recall all I taught you about being natural, of using your hands and facial expression to reveal emotion. Acting is about far more than mimicry. You have to feel the character, believe in her utterly. You need to become Juliet in very truth.’

  Mr Garrick was indefatigable in bringing me to the right standard, frequently reading Romeo himself until he was utterly exhausted. I’d forgotten what an old man he was, but so generous at sharing his passion.

  As before I was utterly entranced by him, drinking in his every word, eager to learn and to improve my skills. Perhaps this opportunity would prove to be the turning point in our fortunes, providing me with the independence I craved.

  It is impossible to describe the conflicting emotions of hope and fear that overcame me when the day of my debut arrived. I was filled with excited anticipation. I’d written to the Duchess of Devonshire at Chatsworth informing her of my coming trial, explaining that as a newcomer I was to be paid £2 a week, and received a kind letter of approval by return, wishing me every success.

  To my terrified gaze the theatre looked huge with its high domed ceiling and rows of boxes on all sides, each festooned with plaster flowers and medallions. I was overawed by its splendour. It had only recently been redecorated and refurbished by the famous Adam brothers with slender columns inlaid with coloured plate glass, gilt statuettes, and much crimson drapery and gold fringing.

  Normally, few people would venture out to see an unknown actress, yet to my dazed eyes the theatre appeared crowded with the rich and the fashionable, all chattering and laughing and viewing each other through their quizzing glasses. I had been advertised as Sheridan’s new discovery, Garrick’s protégée, and they had come out of curiosity to see if I was worth the puff I’d been given. More alarming still, the pit was packed with noisy young bucks, critics and Garrick among them, each having paid four shillings to see me make a fool of m
yself.

  ‘How can I face them?’ I cried, heart pulsating with fear as I stood waiting in the wings. The smell of the grease paint and oil from the lamps that illuminated the stage were so strong in my nostrils I could hardly breathe. ‘Oh, I am sweating so much I feel certain my make-up must be melting.’

  ‘No, you look quite lovely.’ The actress playing Juliet’s nurse gently squeezed my arm by way of reassurance. ‘Take some deep breaths and remember that the audience will be plainly in sight, because of the excellent lighting at the Lane. They are never dimmed as the spectators like to see what is happening offstage, as well as on. So remember not to look at the audience, not even a glance, simply let your gaze fall into the middle distance, taking care not to catch anyone’s eye.’

  I nodded, desperately striving to take in every word of advice she offered. ‘I am shaking in my shoes merely thinking of it,’ I said, my voice cracking with fear.

  I smoothed my skirts, having chosen to wear a pale pink satin gown, richly spangled with silver, my head ornamented with white feathers. Surely my appearance at least would make a good impression? Later in the play, for the funeral scene, I would change into plain white satin with a veil of transparent gauze that fell from the back of my head to my feet. I would wear a string of beads around my waist, to which was suspended a cross. But would I ever get that far, or would my resolution fail? I grasped the nurse’s arm in case I should faint.

  Mr Sheridan’s voice spoke softly in my ear. ‘I have every faith you can do this, Mary.’ And at length, with trembling limbs and fearful apprehension, I went on stage to face the audience.

  The applause that greeted me as I walked on reduced me to a state of paralysis, and for a moment I stood mute, frozen with terror. Again that gentle squeeze upon my arm from my colleague, Juliet’s nurse, and somehow I found my voice and began to speak. I was acutely aware of all eyes fixed upon me, among them the keen, penetrating gaze of Mr Garrick himself. But, as instructed, during the whole of that first scene, I never once ventured a glance at the audience.

  I made mistakes, of course, not speaking loud enough being the worst, my fears having palsied my voice as well as my action. And once I nearly tripped over the grooves in which the flats ran. But I did remember to curtsy at any applause, and sprang gracefully off-stage at each exit, not forgetting to glance briefly back at the pit as I did so.

  Garrick had made some changes to the play, rewriting some of Shakespeare’s lines which I very nearly forgot, but with Mr Brereton playing Romeo my confidence gradually increased as the evening progressed. By the time the final scene came I managed to die quite convincingly, even remembering to keep on the green carpet so that I did not dirty my white satin gown.

  And on my return to the Green Room I was greeted with a ripple of applause from my comrades, and complimented on all sides. But the praise I most welcomed was that from Mr Sheridan himself, for it was he whom I most wished to please.

  ‘You have more than fulfilled my belief in you, Mary,’ he murmured, tenderly kissing my hand.

  To hear one of the most fascinating and distinguished geniuses of the age honour me with such a compliment, caused me to melt with joy. And as his lips touched my hand, however chaste the intention, my heart skipped a beat. For the first time in my life I felt a temptation to break my marriage vows.

  The audience was by then being entertained by dancing and singing before the after-piece, an extravaganza with music, went on. But for me, my first night was over and if I had not actually turned into a star performer, the critics in the papers the next day declared that my looks were deemed deserving of approbation. And I had apparently shown promise, if in need of some ‘polishing’.

  The Drury Lane became like a second home to me, a dearly familiar place. But finding my way about the labyrinth of stairs and dingy passages backstage was never easy, cluttered as they were with step ladders, props and flats, and buzzing with some activity or other. People might be busy painting scenery, stitching costumes, providing sound effects, or secreted in a corner rehearsing lines before they went on.

  Dressing rooms were equally hectic with dressers rushing about perhaps searching for a pair of gloves, attempting to disguise a stain on a gown, lacing up an actress’s corset, buttoning her boots, or simply emptying a chamber pot. As with every other actress, I was allocated my own dressing table, mirror and candle, within a confined space marked out in chalk on the floor. The room stank of greasepaint, powder, false hair glue, gin, perfume and stale sweat. Some actresses, I noticed, had a baby in a basket close by, or a small dog on their lap.

  I too had a dresser who helped with my coiffure and costume, although I liked to do my own make-up, using a light mix of powder and beeswax with a touch of pigment on my face, refusing to use the more common white lead as I believed this to be bad for the skin. I plucked my eyebrows suitably thin, added a dab of rouge on my cheeks, ceruse on my lips, and lamp black on my eyelashes. I might wear a beauty patch if the part demanded it, and always powdered my décolletage to a milky whiteness. This was all I felt necessary to enhance my beauty and I would then sit back and relax while my dresser adjusted my wig or dressed my hair, whichever was appropriate for the role I was playing.

  Once I was ready to go on I would wait in the Green Room, keeping well away from the small stove where people would gather to keep warm, fearful the heat might melt my make-up.

  My first role of the season was Ophelia with John Henderson playing Hamlet. The critics were kind and the next week I played Lady Anne to his Richard III, playing the role several more times. In February 1777, despite being six months pregnant I played Statira in Alexander the Great, looking a picture in a gown of white and blue in classic Persian style, if I do say so myself. On my feet were richly ornamented sandals, and though it was an unusual costume with neither hoop nor powder, I felt both attractive and in character.

  My next role was that of Amanda in A Trip to Scarborough. The play had been adapted from Vanbrugh’s Relapse. Unfortunately, the audience had expected it to be a new piece and felt duped, disapproving of Sheridan having taken out all the spicier bits.

  As always when displeased, the ladies began to hiss behind their fans, and the bucks in the pit to loudly complain. Mrs Yates, the leading actress, obviously fearing they might rise up and commit some atrocity as has occurred in the past, at once quitted the stage, leaving me to face the tumult alone. I was vaguely aware of Mr Sheridan from the wings frantically urging me to stay put and not quit the boards. I could not have moved a muscle as I felt frozen to the spot.

  Then to my very great astonishment, the Duke of Cumberland, seated in the royal box close by, spoke directly to me. ‘It is not you, but the play, they hiss.’

  Not knowing how else to respond, I cast him a shy smile and dipped a low curtsy, which seemed to delight the house for they cheered and applauded. Thus encouraged, I felt able to speak my lines. Mrs Yates returned, and the play was allowed to continue.

  The play ran for ten nights. This was followed by my benefit when I performed the part of Fanny in The Clandestine Marriage, and for which I earned the enormous sum of £189 10s. It was well attended, the boxes filled with persons of the very highest rank and fashion. Filled with a new confidence I looked forward with delight both to celebrity and fortune.

  Mr Sheridan too was delighted, and despite having several dozen other actors demanding of his time, was most attentive of me, constantly praising my talents and taking an interest in my domestic comforts. ‘I would very much like you to perform in my new play, The School for Scandal,’ he said.

  ‘I can think of nothing I would like more. But, as you see, my increasing size makes that impossible.’

  ‘Then I must reluctantly accept your apology.’ He kissed my hand, and a tremor of emotion rippled the length of my arm, quite taking my breath away.

  ‘I am heartbroken to miss such an opportunity,’ I confessed. ‘It would have been quite a coup for my career.’

  ‘There will be other
opportunities for us to work together, I am sure,’ he said, with that certain light in his eyes that revealed so much about how he was feeling.

  I was aware there was already gossip about us, and sternly warned myself to keep a grip on my emotions. A letter had appeared in the Morning Post by someone calling themselves ‘squib’ who implied that I was being promoted by my manager in exchange for sexual favours. I was outraged by such a charge.

  Sheridan was most certainly attractive, and I respected him deeply. Never yet had I properly known love, which was an adventure still awaiting me. But he was married to Elizabeth Linley, a most charming woman, and I too had a spouse, if a neglectful one. It was impossible to avoid his society, or to deny the fact that there was indeed an attraction growing between us. But despite my undoubted youth and emotional vulnerability, I was no longer quite so naïve or foolish as I’d once been. Sheridan and I were good friends, partly because we shared Irish blood, my great-grandfather having been originally named McDermott before changing it to Darby. We also shared a dry sense of humour, and held similar views on the need for a proper education for women. But nothing intimate ever took place between us, as I would not be the one to break the sanctity of marriage.

  I wrote a strong denial to the paper. ‘Mrs Robinson presents her compliments to Squib, and desires that the next time he chooses to exercise his wit, it may not be at her expense …’

  The first night of Sheridan’s new play took place shortly before I gave birth to my darling second child, Sophia, named after my old friend Mrs Baddeley. She was baptised on 24 May, but six weeks after her birth, died in my arms of convulsions. They had come upon her exactly as they had with Maria Elizabeth, and I’d carried out the very same remedy shown to me by the kind clergyman, sadly this time without success.

  I was utterly distraught.

  We were by this time living in Southampton Street, Covent Garden, and it was here that Sheridan had chanced to call on the very night my baby died. He found me with her still lying on my lap, as I was quite unable to relinquish her. I had known this man but five months, yet had seen much evidence of his sensitivity. Now, as he looked upon my child it came again to the fore.