Lady of Passion

by Freda Lightfoot

  Fortunately, he hadn’t seen me, or so I thought. But then just as we sat down to dinner that afternoon, the waiter announced him. He coolly bowed to me, then turned to my husband. ‘You may consider the promissory note paid off. I offer a thousand apologies that I harassed you for the money, and that I arrived too late to prevent your arrest.’

  ‘It is of no matter,’ Tommy said, the slightest note of scepticism in his tone.

  ‘I hope I shall have the honour of seeing you both later this evening,’ he said, and casting a meaningful glance across at me, bowed and took his leave.

  We did not linger another hour. Immediately after dinner we set out at once for London.

  I continued to be pursued by admirers including a royal duke, a lofty marquis, and a city merchant of considerable fortune. Every rake in town conveyed their esteem by showering me with gifts from milliners, mantua-makers and jewellers. The Duke of Rutland renewed his solicitations, and Sir John Lade, a pleasant young baronet, was a constant visitor backstage. He often came to the races as well as the theatre with Tommy and me. He was a good friend, no more than that, but I was in sore need of protection.

  For this reason, and because relations between us had improved considerably, my husband and I again set up home together, renting a spacious and elegant house situated in the heart of Covent Garden. It was convenient in every respect, being close to Drury Lane, and our circle of friends increased almost hourly.

  We would hold regular supper and card parties, the house thronged with visitors. My morning levees were so crowded I would happily while away the hours in gossip and chatter, when not required to learn a new part. In fact I was so enjoying myself I could scarcely find time for study. Mr Robinson played more deeply than was perhaps wise, but then for once in his life he enjoyed a huge win.

  As a consequence of his good fortune we acquired horses, a new phaeton and I purchased several new gowns, my style followed with flattering avidity.

  Mr Sheridan called one morning when I chanced to be alone. ‘You know, Mary, that I am your most esteemed friend. I hold you in fond regard and with every respect, so I advise you now with all due courtesy, the dangers of running into debt. You are spending too freely, with such extravagance it could easily damage your reputation as an upcoming actress. Do not allow your new-found celebrity to lead you astray.’

  ‘I am but enjoying the fruits of my success,’ I responded, feeling slightly piqued by his criticism.

  ‘And those of your husband’s wins at the faro table, I understand. But you well know those will not last, and I lament that you are surrounded by too much temptation.’

  His sensitivity was touching, every word he uttered beautifully sympathetic, making me blush with embarrassment. His warning seemed to indicate that he possessed some prescient knowledge, as if he knew that I was destined to be deceived yet again.

  At that time I had been married more than four years, and Maria was nearly three years old. I’d been out in society from the age of fifteen, yet still there remained in me a vulnerable tendency to trust everyone around me. I believed every woman to be friendly, every man sincere, unless it was proved otherwise. Such faith in human nature was ever my downfall. But my life was about to change more than I could ever have envisaged.

  Six

  A Prince’s Mistress

  The prince gazed on the fair who caused his care,

  And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d and sigh’d again:

  At length the vanquish’d victor sunk upon her breast.

  Morning Chronicle

  misquoting from John Dryden, 1780.

  1779

  The season was launched with me again playing Ophelia on 18 September, 1779. I followed this success with Viola, in Twelfth Night; Nancy, in The Camp; Fidelia, in The Plain Dealer; Rosalind, in As You Like It; Oriana, in The Inconstant; and several other favourite parts. Then in November, Sheridan decided to stage The Winter’s Tale.

  ‘The production will be in memory of our dear departed friend, Garrick, and I would like you, Mary, to play Perdita.’

  I was stunned and deeply flattered, if sensing envious vibes from Elizabeth Farren. ‘I would be honoured.’

  This was to be Garrick’s own version which told the story of Perdita and Prince Florizel. By rights, I dare say that is what it should have been called. Perdita has been brought up as a shepherd’s daughter but is in truth a princess. In Shakespeare’s version, because of her rural upbringing, she is aware of the facts of life, yet she is sweet and good, ‘the queen of curds and cream’. In Garrick’s adaptation she has no knowledge of intimate love, which he considered inappropriate for a young lady.

  Some might find this dull, but to me it seemed the perfect opportunity to show myself as a more serious and sensitive actress. My gown was becomingly simple with a tightly-fitted jacket that showed off my figure, my crook suitably ornamented with a milkmaid’s red ribbons. I sang a sheep-shearing song, and danced with the other shepherds and shepherdesses, and the reviews in the Morning Post hailed me a success, even if they expressed dislike of my costume.

  On the second night, a week later, we had a full house and I was honoured by the presence of my patroness, the Duchess of Devonshire, who declared herself enchanted, as did the duke. Other notables included the Lords Melbourne, Spencer, Cranbourne and Onslow, each accompanied by their lady. I was deeply flattered.

  Further accolades came my way when the Morning Post printed my poem ‘Celadon and Lydia’. I could hardly contain my joy.

  And then came the greatest surprise of all.

  ‘You will be aware that King George and Queen Charlotte both love the theatre,’ Sheridan announced a day or so later. ‘However, their natural preference is for Covent Garden, particularly since I took over the Lane, as they disapprove of my political leanings. I am a Whig, as is their son the Prince of Wales, while the king himself favours the Tories …’

  At which point he became engrossed in a convoluted explanation of how it had become a tradition among the Hanoverians for the son to pit himself against the father ever since George I. I listened with scant attention as I was not greatly interested in politics.

  My friend and patron the Duchess of Devonshire was a highly regarded member of the Whig party, although I did wonder if perhaps this obsession acted as a distraction for her failure to produce an heir, the poor lady having suffered more than one miscarriage. Charles James Fox had apparently awakened this particular passion in her, which she saw as her life’s calling. Why she thought so highly of the man I could not imagine, as he was known for his dissolute behaviour, marked particularly by drink and heavy gambling. Marshalling my straying thoughts, I made a valiant attempt to sound interested in Sheridan’s rambling tale.

  ‘I have certainly heard that the king does not care for Shakespeare.’

  ‘Unless it be comedy,’ Sheridan agreed. ‘Which is why their majesties have commanded a performance of The Winter’s Tale to take place on the third of December. They have no doubt heard of your success, Mary, and wish to see you for themselves.’

  I put my hands to my flushed cheeks. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Never had I imagined performing before the royal family, and was instantly filled with fear at the prospect. ‘I am not worthy of such an honour,’ I cried, but Sheridan only laughed.

  ‘You are more than worthy. Have you not played Perdita many times already. You will do splendidly.’

  As soon as my fellow actors heard the news they gathered about me in the Green Room, eager to offer their congratulations. All except for Elizabeth Farren, of course, who pouted rather childishly. She and I remained rivals for parts. ‘Their majesties are not coming to see you, Mrs Robinson. It is the afterpiece, The Critic, the new satire Sheridan has written that they wish to see, not your milk-and-water rendition of Perdita.’

  I paid her no heed, although when the night of the command performance arrived I was a bundle of nerves, almost too tangled in stage fright to go on. Even the scent of the grease paint,
which I normally love, made me feel quite ill.

  William ‘Gentleman’ Smith, who performed the part of Leontes, King of Sicilia, and one of the sweetest and kindest men I know, kissed my hand and smilingly exclaimed, ‘By Jove, Mrs Robinson, you will make a conquest of the prince tonight, for you look handsomer than ever.’

  ‘I hope only not to disgrace myself, sir.’ I drew in a shaky breath, deeply touched by this uncalled-for compliment.

  The royal boxes were adjacent to the stage, and could, in fact, be accessed by it. In one sat the king and queen, their attendants standing behind them, while directly opposite in full view of all that was going on backstage, was one occupied by the Prince of Wales and his brother Frederick. From where I stood in the wings, waiting to go on, I could see him quite clearly. He was seventeen, younger than myself by some five years, but apparently already skilled at fencing and boxing, also passionate about the arts and music, or so members of the Green Room had informed me. I thought he looked rather handsome, and didn’t doubt he was a great favourite with the ladies.

  I was wondering if perhaps his predilection for wine and women at so young an age was a reaction to the demands placed upon him by duty when Mr Richard Ford, the manager’s son who was training to be a lawyer, suddenly appeared at my side.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my friend George Capel, Lord Viscount Malden, to you, Mrs Robinson.’

  ‘Good day to you, sir.’ I dipped a curtsy, although meeting a stranger at the point of going on stage was a distraction I could have done without.

  The gentleman appeared to be about my age and something of a dandy, as he was extravagantly attired in a suit of unlikely pink satin with silver trim, and matching pink heels. But he was pleasant enough and I talked to him for a few moments, privately wishing he would leave me in peace and take his seat in the theatre. I became aware, during our conversation, of the Prince of Wales observing us most intently from the royal box, which only served to unnerve me further.

  It was almost a relief when finally the play began and I went on stage. Even then I was conscious of the prince’s gaze fixed upon me, and of his making flattering remarks about me to his brother and equerries. My anxiety was such that I spoke rather too quickly and hurried through the first scene.

  As the play proceeded I almost shivered as I spoke some of my lines, as if a goose had walked over my grave.

  Oh, but sir, your resolution cannot hold, when ‘tis

  Opposed, as it must be, by the power of the king:

  The prince’s interest in me attracted attention from the audience, and from the king, but on the last curtsy the royal family condescended to return a bow to the performers. Then as the curtain came down, my eyes met those of the prince with a look that I never shall forget. He gently inclined his head and I blushed with delight and gratitude.

  Whenever I was off-stage, Lord Malden had remained at my side throughout, was waiting for me even now as I made my way to the dressing rooms. ‘Did you note how particular the prince applauded you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am delighted His Highness bestowed such kindness upon my performance.’

  ‘It was at the suggestion of his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, that he attended the play, and see for himself the new beauty who graces the stage of Drury Lane.’

  I found it difficult to envisage royal princes talking about me, let alone admiring my beauty. ‘I am flattered,’ I said, unable to think of any more fitting remark.

  ‘Prince George is a fine fellow, most amiable and cultured. His childhood was quite austere, you understand, yet he is charm personified, intelligent, elegant, cheerful and with a most affectionate disposition. Quite handsome too, do you not think?’

  Lord Malden sounded very like a merchant expounding the virtues of his stock. But try as I might to escape, he kept me talking throughout the afterpiece until the evening’s performance was over. By this time I was weary and anxious to get home to my darling Maria. I was hurrying to my chair, taking a short cut across the stage when I met the royal family coming from their box. Once again the Prince of Wales honoured me with a very low bow. Blushing with embarrassment, I quickly curtsied then fled.

  I longed to be alone, to think on what had just occurred, to examine in my mind whether the prince had intended such marked attention. But as Mr Robinson had invited several guests to supper, and I was eager to relax and enjoy myself, I set the matter aside with a careless shrug. No doubt Prince George was as flattering with all the ladies. But the entire conversation that night was filled with talk about the accomplishments of the heir apparent.

  Days later I was taken by surprise when Lord Malden paid me a morning visit. I received the gentleman with some degree of awkwardness as my husband was not at home, but then he seldom was. His lordship’s embarrassment, however, seemed to far exceed my own. He started to speak – paused, hesitated, apologised, then started all over again.

  ‘I hope you will pardon me, that I might rely upon your discretion not to repeat what I must communicate to you. My situation is a delicate one, and I beg you to act as you think proper.’

  I could not begin to comprehend his meaning. ‘Pray, sir, you must be more explicit.’

  After several moments of hesitation and indecision, he drew a letter from his pocket. It was addressed to Perdita. I smiled somewhat wryly and opened what was clearly a billet-doux. It contained only a few words, but they were expressive of more than common civility. The letter was signed Florizel. So here was the reason he had monopolised me at the theatre the other night. Lord Malden was yet another admirer attempting to persuade me into his bed. ‘Well, my lord, and what does this mean?’ I sounded as annoyed as I felt.

  ‘Can you not guess the writer?’

  ‘Could it be yourself, my lord?’ I drily remarked, already weary of this game and wishing the foolish man would leave me in peace.

  ‘Upon my honour, no. I should not have dared to address you on so short an acquaintance.’

  I did not believe him for a moment. Was I not hounded by arrogant men who thought they had but to wink an eye and I would fall into their arms? ‘Then pray tell me from whom the letter comes?’

  He again hesitated, seeming confused, as if regretting he had revealed himself in this fashion, or that he had undertaken to deliver the letter. ‘I hope that I shall not forfeit your good opinion, but …’

  ‘But what, my lord?’

  ‘I could not refuse. The letter is from the Prince of Wales.’

  I stared at him in open astonishment. What tale was this? Did he think me a complete fool? ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Then I beg you to read the missive again, for I swear it is so.’ And to my great astonishment his lordship quietly took his leave.

  If I read the letter once I read it a thousand times, yet still I could not bring myself to believe that it was written by the hand of our illustrious Prince George. Was this some trick by Lord Malden, meant to appeal to my vanity or test the propriety of my conduct? I tossed the missive aside, resolving not to think of it further.

  But the following evening the viscount came again. My husband and I were holding a card party for half a dozen or so friends, so naturally Tommy invited Malden to join us. No doubt he saw the dandified lord as a means of winning back some of his previous losses. And as they played, yet again the Prince of Wales was the hot topic of conversation.

  ‘His Royal Highness’s manners are impeccable, his temper most engaging, and his mind replete with every amiable sentiment.’

  Malden continued to sing the prince’s praises with obstinate persistence, failing to concentrate on the game of faro even as my husband did indeed strip him of a fair sum. But the words resonated in my mind even as my heart beat with conscious pride. Could it be true that this paragon, this royal prince, wished to count himself among my admirers?

  More letters followed in the ensuing days and I could no longer deny that they came from the prince. Lord Malden assured me His Royal Highness was concerned that I not f
eel offended by such intrusion upon my privacy.

  I replied to each and every one of them, Lord Malden acting as messenger. But I was far too busy over the Christmas season to allow myself to consider the implications of such correspondence too deeply. I treated it as a mild flirtation, giving my full attention to playing Juliet and Viola in Twelfth Night over the New Year holiday, not to mention several cross-dressed roles. The prince was on occasion present, and I could not resist returning his languishing glances. Without doubt, an attraction, however light and flirtatious, was growing between us.

  In February, Lord Malden persuaded me to attend an oratorio to be performed at the Lane, which I did, taking my seat in the balcony box. When the prince arrived with his brother, Prince Frederick, he saw me at once, and smiled. He held up a playbill, acknowledging me with small gestures, his gaze fixed upon me in that intense way he had. I knew not how to respond, not wishing my husband to notice the glances passing between us. But the prince continued to make signs, moving his hand across the edge of the box as if miming that he would write more letters. He whispered something to his brother, who also glanced across at me with particular attention. And when an equerry handed the Prince of Wales a glass of water, he raised it to his lips by way of salute.

  So marked was His Royal Highness’s conduct that many in the audience could not help but notice. A veritable buzz of curiosity seemed to be growing. Fortunately, my husband was too far gone in his cups to notice, but several of the bucks in the pit were highly entertained as they watched with avid attention the little scene playing out before them. To my acute embarrassment, their majesties likewise became curious as to what was going on, and when a note was delivered to my box asking me to withdraw, I was utterly mortified.