Lady of Passion

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Beautiful little creature!’ he murmured, with a sympathy that touched my very soul. ‘I too have children, and can understand your very great distress.’

  He sat and wept with me, so that I was not alone in my shock and grief. Alas! I never received such solace from my husband. But then I was not as loved by Tommy as I had once believed. I do not condemn him for that, as I know we cannot command our affections, as my father had once told me.

  If he was upset at the death of his daughter, he gave little evidence of it. Like any man fearful of showing emotion he’d fled the house to drown his sorrows, such as they were, with his friends at the Pantheon or at the faro table. Wherever he might be, he stayed away for days.

  ‘You will have heard the rumours among our acquaintances that your husband is now keeping two women?’ Mama whispered, which did little to ease my distress. ‘A dancer and a prostitute, apparently, so for all we know he could be with them.’

  ‘Why would I care?’ I snapped, my patience short. I had long since decided not to investigate Tommy’s personal life too closely. I was, in any case, too sunk in my own grief.

  I regretted that he was not more discreet in his infidelities; and that while he satisfied his own needs, he chose not to consider how much he exposed me, his wife, to the most degrading mortifications. But not even the pain caused by an unfaithful husband came close to the suffering of losing a much loved child.

  The death of Sophia was so painful that I felt quite unable to appear again that season. Mr Sheridan suggested I visit Bath, to allow me time alone to grieve. From there I went on to Bristol – and it was in the place closest to my heart that I slowly began to recover. I returned to London in the autumn in time for the publication of my volume of poetry dedicated to the Duchess of Devonshire. It was well received with ‘Captivity’ and ‘Celadon and Lydia’ proving to be the favourites.

  I made no effort to contact my husband, as we were by then living largely separate lives, he with two women in one house in Maiden Lane, while I took lodgings in Leicester Square.

  Sheridan wasted no time in calling to welcome me back, and this time he was also keen for me to play comedy, which I did, playing Araminta in Congreve’s restoration comedy The Old Bachelor, Emily in The Runaway, Fanny in Joseph Andrews, which was an adaptation of Fielding’s novel of that name, and many more.

  In April of 1778 I played Lady Macbeth for my next benefit, as well as writing a musical farce The Lucky Escape for the afterpiece. I had never been so busy or so fulfilled. I felt as if I too had had a lucky escape, both from the Fleet and from my marriage. This success convinced me not to give up my hopes for a literary career alongside my acting one, so when Sheridan suggested I accept the offer of an engagement for that summer at Mr Colman’s theatre in the Haymarket, I declined.

  ‘I have no wish to tour,’ I told him. ‘I need the time between seasons to write, and have already refused several offers from provincial managers.’

  ‘I most strongly recommend that you accept Mr Colman’s offer. The Haymarket is hardly provincial, and it will be good for your reputation, Mary, to make an appearance there.’

  I sighed, but agreed, for although my heart was with Drury Lane I needed the money to tide me over until the next season commenced. ‘Very well, but on condition that I am allowed to approve the role.’

  Mr Colman agreed to this proviso and the first part he offered me was that of Nancy Lovel in the comedy The Suicide. This was a breeches role which would give me an opportunity to show off my legs, which I’ve always thought quite shapely.

  Having received the script, and impatiently waiting for rehearsals to start, I was astonished one morning while out and about to see a handbill announcing the production. Even more so when I noticed the actress Elizabeth Farren was to play the part that had been promised to me.

  I wrote at once to Mr Colman. ‘I demand an explanation for this.’

  He replied, ‘I’m afraid that I had already promised the part to Miss Farren, as she has performed a season or more at the Haymarket, and dare not take the risk of offending her.’

  I felt insulted and insisted that Mr Colman fulfil his promise according to our agreement, or release me from it entirely.

  ‘I see no good reason to sign you off, as there are plenty of other roles you can play,’ came his unfeeling response.

  Now I was the one to turn obstinate, filled as I was with that familiar sense of betrayal. Why did everything always go wrong? The summer passed without my performing once, although I was vastly relieved to find that my salary continued to be paid weekly.

  I reopened at Drury Lane on an improved salary of two guineas a week, by then residing at the Great Piazza on the corner of Russell Street, Covent Garden. Not the most salubrious neighbourhood but inexpensive and convenient enough to hear the call man who summoned actors to rehearsals. I certainly couldn’t afford to risk a fine for missing one.

  Tommy, so far as I was aware, remained in Maiden Lane, not too far away, although thankfully I rarely saw him, unless he needed to raid my purse for money.

  Several more productions followed and I was happy to expand my repertoire, taking on nine new parts over the following months, including that of Jacintha in The Suspicious Husband in May 1779. It was witty, risqué, and my first breeches role, a part I adored. A week or two later I appeared at a masked ball at Covent Garden wearing Jacintha’s scarlet costume, which shocked the fashionable ladies but amused and delighted all the gentlemen present.

  ‘My only regret is that my dear friend Garrick did not live to see this latest success,’ I said to Mama. ‘Nor to see me at last play Cordelia in King Lear for my latest benefit in April, since he died in January. His passing marks the end of an era.’

  I wrote an elegy to his memory. My mother was unimpressed.

  ‘I dare say he was a most splendid, clever man, but I shall never reconcile myself to the fact he encouraged you to follow this foolish dream.’

  ‘But I am doing well, Mama. Receipts from my benefit were £210, surely you consider that to be a good thing?’

  She looked uncomfortable at my challenge. ‘Of course, but if you make so much money, why are you constantly crying poverty?’

  ‘As you know, women have little control over their finances in marriage, particularly an unhappy one. Precious little money reaches my own purse as it is generally swallowed up by the gambling debts of my profligate husband. In addition, the bond creditors have become clamorous, and have appropriated the entire profits of my benefit.’

  ‘Oh, I should never have prevailed upon you to marry that spendthrift.’

  ‘Let us not think of it.’ I quickly changed the subject, since my own predilection for spending did not bear too close an investigation. As an actress of note I felt I had an image to maintain, and my vanity was such that I had a weakness for showing off my beauty to its best advantage. ‘At least the latest reviews are good. Even the Morning Post says “Mrs Robinson makes a prettier fellow than any of her female competitors.”’

  ‘Certainly prettier than Elizabeth Farren,’ Mama agreed. ‘She might have a sweet voice, but unflatteringly thick ankles. And so hard up she is often obliged to borrow clothes from other actresses.’

  I laughed at this, feeling it some sort of revenge for her winning the Nancy Lovel role over me. ‘She has an elegant figure and a natural grace, which makes her ideal to play the fine ladies of comedy. Fox certainly likes her well enough. They are said to have enjoyed a short affair.’

  ‘Fox?’

  ‘Charles James Fox, friend of the Duchess of Devonshire.’

  ‘Ah, well I trust your own reputation remains unsullied, dear?’

  ‘I do my utmost to protect myself from scandalous rumour, Mama, as you well know.’ I smothered a sigh, feeling I had inadvertently stepped into dangerous territory, as this question never ceased to trouble her.

  Actresses were seen as glamorous, romantic and exciting, yet it was perfectly true that the slightest glimpse of a shapely
ankle, or décolletage on stage, labelled her a prostitute rather than an actress playing a role. Even Sheridan forbade his wife, Elizabeth Linley, a talented singer, from appearing. Prejudice against women in the profession remained strong.

  ‘Nevertheless, I am constantly under attack from admirers who believe I must surely be available for purchase. Among them is the Duke of Rutland who offered me a settlement of six hundred pounds per annum if I would leave my husband and become his mistress.’

  Mama gasped. ‘How utterly shocking! What did you say?’

  ‘What do you think I said? I politely declined, of course, explaining that I wished to maintain my good reputation in the eyes of the public, and be deserving of their patronage.’

  She furiously fluttered her fan, as always when annoyed. ‘I am relieved to hear it. It remains a painful regret to me that you chose to join this immoral profession. However, your dear brother, John, who is visiting from Italy, has agreed to see you perform.’

  I clapped my hands in joy. ‘Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful. I cannot wait to see him.’

  I was excited at the prospect of seeing my dear brother again, and of enjoying some family approval. Sadly, the visit did not turn out to be quite as wonderful as I had hoped. The moment John saw me walk on stage he jumped up from his seat in the stage box, and instantly quitted the theatre. Clearly it was too much for a respectable merchant to witness such depraved behaviour on the part of a sister. I could only feel grateful that Papa was still out of the country.

  Shortly after this, Tommy again persuaded me to make a visit to Tregunter. However repugnant it might be to my feelings, I agreed to accompany him only because I hoped to assist him gain the support he craved, and help bring about a reconciliation with his alleged ‘uncle’.

  Fortunately, on this occasion I was received with a greater degree of civility, almost warmly welcomed, which was astonishing.

  ‘I dare say we must tolerate the immorality of your new profession, since it pays you such good money,’ Miss Betsy said, with a sigh of feigned tolerance.

  I did not trouble to respond.

  The squire generously arranged several parties for my amusement, or else used my presence as an excuse to show off his new mansion, in which the three of them were now happily ensconced.

  ‘You must tell us what to wear,’ Miss Betsy simpered, quite at odds to her earlier comments on my style of dress. ‘As you are now the very oracle of fashion.’

  I was certainly viewed rather differently as Mrs Robinson, the promising young actress, to the person who previously came to beg asylum. I suffered their condescension as best I could, and Tommy and I rubbed along surprisingly well, being still friends if not lovers. Thankfully, we stayed only a fortnight in Wales as Squire Harris remained obdurate in his coolness towards his illegitimate son, and Tommy finally despaired of any reconciliation. I felt a great pity for him. Did I not know how devastating it was to be abandoned by a father?

  We stopped at Bath on our way back to town, staying at the Three Tuns, one of the city’s finest inns where by chance we met George Brereton, unrelated to the William Brereton who played Hamlet to my Ophelia. This fellow was a dangerous duellist Tommy had met at Newmarket races, and to whom he had foolishly given a promissory note in lieu of a debt.

  ‘I am in no haste for payment,’ he assured my husband, and I saw how Tommy almost sagged with relief. ‘I most earnestly urge you to spend a few days in this most fashionable city.’

  ‘We are in no hurry to return to London,’ Tommy eagerly agreed, no doubt sensing an opportunity to win back some of his losses from this notorious gambler.

  From then on, George Brereton became suffocatingly attentive towards me. Tommy need only leave the card table for a moment to order more food or ale, and he would grasp me in his arms, or declare his fervent love for me.

  ‘If this is your true reason for encouraging my husband to remain in Bath, then you will be disappointed,’ I coldly informed him. ‘I am a faithful wife and honest woman, and have no intention of sullying my reputation with the likes of a reprobate like you.’

  For some reason he seemed to find my refusal amusing.

  I should, of course, have told my husband at once of these assaults upon my good name, but in view of this scoundrel’s reputation, I decided the easiest way to resolve the problem was for us to disappear for a few days until he’d left. ‘I have a fancy to visit my home town, since we are so near. Could we do that?’

  Tommy was perfectly agreeable to this suggestion, and we took the post chaise to Bristol, finding accommodation in an inn in Temple Street. The following day we were on our way to Clifton when a bailiff approached and my husband was again arrested for debt, for a sum quite beyond his power to pay.

  The writ had been issued by none other than Mr George Brereton.

  I was utterly mortified. ‘How can this be happening to us all over again? Will you never learn? Why did you ever get yourself involved with such a villain?’

  Tommy sank into that all-too familiar state of depressed resignation, not even begging the bailiff for time to pay, while a waiter quietly informed me that a lady wished to speak with me in an upstairs room.

  ‘This may be some old acquaintance offering to help,’ I told the bailiff, ‘as we are well known in these parts. Pray do not take him yet, I beg of you.’

  Eagerly I followed the waiter upstairs, but on entering the apartment found not an old friend as I had hoped, but George Brereton.

  ‘Well, madam,’ he said, with a caustic smile. ‘You have involved your husband in a pretty embarrassment! Had you not been so cold towards me, not only this paltry debt would have been cancelled, but any sum that I could command would have been at his service. He must now either pay up, fight me, or go to prison, and all because you treat me with contempt.’

  ‘You well know that he cannot pay you, but I beg you to reflect before you do anything you might regret.’

  ‘I would have no regrets as I am completely under your spell. If you promise to return to Bath and behave more kindly towards me, then I will this moment discharge your husband.’

  Understanding entirely what was expected from me, I burst into tears. ‘I pray you show mercy. You cannot be so inhuman as to propose such terms!’

  His eyes were devouring me even as he made to stroke away my tears. ‘The inhumanity is all on your side. I should even now be with my wife who is dangerously ill,’ he said, nuzzling into my neck.

  ‘Then for heaven’s sake release my husband!’ I sobbed, pushing him away.

  Mr Brereton only smiled as he rang the bell and ordered the waiter to fetch his carriage. I was overcome with panic. If he left now, my poor foolish husband, and possibly me along with him, would be back in the Fleet within days.

  ‘Very well!’ I cried, making it clear by the severity in my voice that I was not to be trifled with. ‘I will return to Bath.’ But then something snapped inside and I lost all control. ‘You are a dishonourable libertine who has no right to embroil me in your barbarous plans! I will inform that lovely wife of yours how treacherously you have behaved towards me. I shall proclaim to the world that you are a fornicator and a seducer.’

  He visibly paled, realising I meant every word. ‘I must insist that you be discreet.’

  ‘I will do no such thing. Not while you insult me and hold my husband in your power. Your demands are outrageous, and I swear my honour and pride will not allow me to do anything improper.’

  ‘How little does such a husband deserve you as wife! How can he prefer the very lowest and most degraded of your sex? Leave him, and fly with me. I am ready to make any sacrifice you demand. Shall I ask Mr Robinson to release you? Shall I offer him his liberty on condition that he allows you to separate yourself from him? By his ill conduct he proves that he does not love you, why then do you continue to support him?’

  I was almost frantic with despair. How to refute such arguments? How could I explain that the arrangement suited me well? Having a husband, e
ven a neglectful one, was a protection of sorts against rakes such as he. ‘I have no wish to fly with any man. I am a respectably married woman.’

  ‘Very well!’ And snatching up a sheet of paper he scribbled furiously for a moment then flung it at me. ‘Here, madam, is your husband’s release. Now I rely upon your generosity.’

  I was incapable of speaking, could do naught but take the paper from him with trembling fingers.

  ‘Compose yourself, and conceal your distress. We want no awkward questions from the innkeeper. I will return to Bath where I shall expect to see you shortly, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Having issued this threat he stormed from the room, climbed into his chaise and drove away. Only then did I hurry downstairs to present the discharge to the bailiff, and with all charges dismissed we left the inn.

  Tommy asked no questions, for which I was grateful, although I gave some garbled explanation of how I had persuaded the fellow to drop the charges, all the while worrying how I might disentangle myself from this mess. I had no wish to see Brereton engage my husband in a duel. Tommy may bluster, but he was no fighter, and whatever his faults and weaknesses, did not deserve to meet such a cruel end.

  Of necessity we were obliged to return to Bath to collect the remainder of our possessions from the Three Tuns, and were also expecting letters in the post. But I had no intention of succumbing to George Brereton’s demands.

  ‘I want you to promise me never again to place your freedom in the hands of a gamester, or a libertine,’ I sternly warned my husband.

  He readily agreed, although he seemed oblivious of the peril attending either one.

  Wishing to avoid Brereton, we collected our belongings and removed to the White Lion Inn. The next day, being a Sunday and with no post delivered, we were compelled to stay on, although we kept within doors out of sight. Then to my utter astonishment as I sat looking out the window, I saw George Brereton walking on the opposite side of the street with his beautiful wife and her equally lovely sister. So the story of her dangerous illness had been a lie!