Being at the height of my beauty I was frequently sought by artists eager to paint my portrait, including Hoppner, Romney and Sherwin. I spent many hours in Sherwin’s painting room, and we became such good friends that I would call upon him in his studios whenever the fancy took me. We’d talk for hours on all manner of subjects. On one occasion when I called Mama was with me, as I wished to show her a drawing of myself Sherwin had made in preparation for the portrait. His young apprentice let us in, saying his master was not at home.
‘Then fetch the drawing for me, will you, as a favour?’ I gave him my most winning smile.
‘If you’ll do a favour for me,’ he cheekily remarked, and began humming a popular song: ‘I’ll reward you with a kiss.’
Laughing, I pecked a kiss on each cheek. ‘There, you little rogue, now will you do as I ask?’
Mama chided me for flirting, and frowned even more when she viewed the sketch. ‘He has certainly captured your likeness, but that is a most daring décolletage.’
‘Do not my ringlets fall provocatively to my shoulder?’
She gave me a telling look, as only a mother can. ‘If you say so, dear.’
‘Sherwin is a most serious painter, and wishes to use me as a model for a biblical subject. I suggested I be Solomon’s concubine and kneel at the feet of my master, the prince.’ I gave a rueful smile. ‘Unfortunately, he thought it would be inappropriate to ask His Highness to act as model.’
‘I should think so,’ my mother retorted, looking quite shocked.
‘He suggested we ask Malden, but I declined. Kneel to him? I would die first. I would not encourage the gossip-mongers to think he is anything more than a friend.’
‘I have long had reservations about your friendship with that man, dearest, but take care, all of this attention is rather going to your head, which I have to say was ever a flaw of yours.’
Taking the sketch I returned it to the goggle-eyed apprentice, and flounced out of the door, my mother scurrying after me. I was growing rather tired of these naysayers.
Taking no notice of my mother’s warning, I recklessly took a side box at the opera, unheard of for a woman in my situation. I could hear the ladies chattering their disapproval behind their fans whenever I took my seat. Such boxes were generally the preserve of the nobility and persons of rank, so they clearly considered it presumptuous and arrogant for a woman of my humble status to occupy one.
‘No doubt they will not dare to sit in a box close by, in case my notoriety should sully them or their daughters,’ I said to Malden, who was always delighted to escort me when Tommy or the prince were unavailable. ‘The Morning Post obviously thinks so, claiming I’m no better than an orange woman.’ I laughed. ‘They evidently see me as Nell Gwyn rather than the Duchess of Cleveland.’
‘Nell was of humble stock, and never received a title,’ Malden quietly reminded me.
I gave him a look meant to quell. ‘I am no east-end prostitute, Malden, and the equal of any woman in the land. You know me to be a respectable, warm-hearted, affectionate mother and faithful friend, do you not?’
He smiled. ‘You know full well that you can do no wrong in my eyes. Do I not adore you?’
‘What a sweet man you are. How I wish it was you that I loved,’ and I kissed his cheek, causing him to flush with pleasure.
‘Not half so much as do I.’
I laughed. ‘But am I not also serious, sensitive, thoughtful and well read?’
‘And a talented poet.’
‘Indeed,’ I agreed, although I had not written a word in some time.
The press, however, did not see me in quite that light, and there were many more scurrilous paragraphs and cartoons published in the weeks following, all of which I ignored. Let them say what they liked. I felt secure in the prince’s love.
One afternoon I called upon an old actress friend of mine, Sophia Baddeley. She had once been revered at the Lane for her beautiful singing voice, before establishing herself as a courtesan. Her lovers included Viscount Melbourne, Lord Grosvenor, George Garrick and Prince Frederick, amongst others of the nobility plus one or two fellow actors. She once apparently refused an offer by Lord Northumberland before marrying a husband who treated her very badly. Some might call her vain, a spoilt spendthrift, but for all she was ten years or so older than myself I had always found her to be friendly and great fun.
Ever popular with the public, she was sadly now in ill health and a state of near destitution. Her companion, a Miss Elizabeth Steel, let me in, her interested gaze taking in the style and richness of my equipage before showing me into a small parlour where the poor lady sat huddled in a chair.
‘Oh, the ingratitude of mankind!’ I cried, shocked by the sight of my former friend, a vision far removed from the stunning beauty she had once been when she had used to call upon me with the Countess of Tyrconnel and the Marchioness Townshend.
The place was dingy and rather unkempt, and there was the sound of a baby crying somewhere in the background. Miss Steele hurried out of the room, presumably to quieten it.
‘I come bearing the compliments of the Duke of Cumberland who humbly pays his respects and on learning of your pecuniary distress, asked me to give you this.’ Taking a seat beside her, I handed over a purse containing a few coins, ten guineas in fact, no small sum. Mrs Baddeley made no move to take it from me, although there were tears in her eyes. I gently squeezed her hand.
‘His Highness wished me to assure you that more would be forthcoming, if needed.’
‘I need no charity, thank you, Mary!’
I glanced about at the sparse furnishings, feeling the cold dampness of the room on this autumn day, at the evidence of a half drunk bottle of gin beneath a small side table. No doubt she was in need of such comfort living here in Spitalfields, after the grandeur of Clarges Street, but to sink so low … The sight of it reminded me of Meribah Lorrington, and I shuddered. Was this what became of a royal mistress once she was discarded? Surely not! Sophia had been particularly profligate, notorious, and debt-ridden, not to mention suffering an addiction to laudanum.
‘Will you allow the duke to offer you a little comfort?’ I persisted.
‘Why did you come?’
I was stunned by the coldness of her tone. ‘Because you and I were once friends, were we not? Do you not remember the card games we used to play with Mrs Parry, and the actress, Mrs Abbington? Besides which, we are of the same profession.’
‘You mean whores?’
I flushed, partly from embarrassment but also with annoyance. ‘I meant the theatre. As well as a friend, you were ever an icon to a young new actress such as myself. I even named my second child after you, although she sadly perished within weeks of her birth.’
This seemed to startle her, and a tear slid down her pale cheek. ‘Oh, Mary, I am so sorry. I too am a mother, so can appreciate the pain that must have caused.’
‘Then will you not allow me to be of service? I wish only to help.’
‘You would do better to help yourself, by not taking up with a prince. It will only lead to heartbreak. These royals will say anything to satisfy their own desires, but once sated, or they see a more desirable quarry on the horizon, they will turn away from you without a sigh of regret.’
I felt a clench of fear inside, which I strived to ignore. ‘Far better a loving prince than a straying husband who draws on my purse strings too often.’
‘I would also advise staying well clear of cheating husbands.’
I smiled. ‘The prince too would have me stay away from Tommy but he continues to seek me out when he wishes to dip in my purse. How can I refuse when I am still his wife? And we remain on friendly terms. I am sorry things have turned out badly for you, Sophia, but I am most fortunate as the prince has made me the happiest of women.’ I told her of our clandestine meetings at Kew, and how the prince would scale locked gates in his eagerness to reach me.
‘I’m glad to see you so happy, but it will not last.’
> I hastened to rebut this remark. ‘I assure you his affection for me is of no short duration.’
She gave a sad shake of her head. ‘Don’t ever give up your writing, Mary. You may need that skill one day. Now take your charity and leave, if you please. My pride is all I have left that is of any value.’
I was on my feet in a second, stunned by this dismissal even as my heart went out to her, filled with admiration for the woman’s resilience and independent spirit. But I dare not tell the duke that I had failed in my mission. ‘I will not leave you in this state, dear friend. Take the money for the sake of your child. I shall call again when we will talk some more, perhaps of happier days.’ And leaving the purse on the table I hurried out, back to my phaeton and my celebrity life. But the image of this dear lady disturbed my sleep for many nights to come.
It seems Mrs Baddeley’s warnings about staying away from a straying husband at least proved to be wise. I certainly wished Tommy had stayed well away from me when on the seventh of October I caught him making love to a young girl in one of the boxes at Covent Garden Theatre. To say I was angry is to greatly understate the depth of my emotion. I was outraged, quite beside myself with fury.
‘How could you humiliate me and be so careless of my reputation as to carry out such an act in the full public gaze?’
‘What reputation?’ he chortled.
‘You could at least consider how His Highness might react to such behaviour.’
My husband simply put back his head and roared with laughter, which caused me to completely lose my temper. Grabbing him by the hair I dragged him from the box and marched him out of the theatre, screaming at him all the while, much to the amusement of the audience.
I took him home and berated him for hours, determined to teach foolish Tommy the meaning of penitence.
Predictably, I was attacked by the press, ruthlessly accused of being ‘a ripe mine of diseases’, as if I were some cheap harlot. Malden was again heralded as one of my lovers, together with all the usual artillery of slander.
Worse was to come in November when a caricature appeared of me under the title Florizel and Perdita. In this I was dressed in a most revealing gown, a Welsh hat perched upon my head, surrounded by boxes of cosmetics labelled carmine, perfume and pomatum. The figure of my husband wearing horns stood to one side, while the prince in Roman costume stood on the other. Below it was the most offensive poem I had ever read.
Sometimes she’d play the Tragic Queen,
Sometimes the Peasant poor,
Sometimes she’d step behind the Scenes
And there she’d play the W-
It continued in this fashion, finishing with:
Her husband too, a Puny Imp,
Will often guard the door,
And humbly play Sir Peter Pimp
While she performs the W-
I was mortified, feeling myself persecuted at every turn. I was no whore or prostitute, but a prince’s mistress, an entirely different creature altogether. Determined not to reveal any weakness I appeared at a masquerade the very next day, choosing Malden again as escort, as I had no wish to be even seen in close proximity to my husband.
‘At least I still have the love of my darling Florizel,’ I insisted, head high as I faced the gossip-mongers.
Then just before Christmas I received a note from the prince. I stared at it in utter disbelief as it bore but a few words. ‘We must meet no more.’
There was no explanation. No apology. Nothing! Our beautiful affair that had begun with an avalanche of letters declaring his undying love for me was apparently at an end.
Hurt beyond words, I wrote at once to His Royal Highness, asking for an explanation. How could I believe it when only days before I’d spent hours with the prince at Kew, his love for me undiminished, or so it had seemed. I received no reply. I wrote again, needing an answer to this cruel and extraordinary mystery. When still I heard nothing I was overcome by panic and resolved to speak to him in person, whatever the cost, and embarked upon a mad enterprise.
Knowing the prince to be at Windsor I set out in a small pony phaeton, accompanied by my postilion, a mere boy. It was a foolish escapade, a crazy act on my part as dusk was already falling when we quitted Hyde Park Corner, the winter night cold and damp. With some relief we stopped to take refreshment and rest the horses at Hounslow Heath, warming ourselves by a blazing log fire as we supped oxtail soup.
‘Take care, good lady, every carriage which has crossed the heath this last ten nights has been attacked by footpads and robbed.’
Until that moment, the prospect of personal danger had not occurred to me, although I was aware that highwaymen, whether on foot or horseback, were not the romantic chivalrous beings of romance. They would violate or kill a lone woman even as they robbed her, without a moment’s hesitation, yet I shrugged these concerns away.
‘I have far greater worries on my mind,’ I told him, resolved to continue no matter what the danger.
We had scarcely reached the middle of the heath when my pony was startled by the sudden appearance of a cloaked figure who, dashing out of the darkness, made a lunge for the reins. I cried out in alarm. To his credit the boy instantly spurred the animal to a gallop. Our light vehicle bounded forward, causing the ruffian to lose his grip. We drove at full tilt, the footpad running behind, doing his utmost to overtake us. Fortunately the pony easily outran him and by the time we reached the Magpie, a small inn on the edge of the heath, my heart was racing with fear. Although I felt strangely exhilarated at my own bravery.
Only then did I realise that I was still wearing the prince’s miniature about my neck. I swear my would-be assailant could only have wrested it from me by strangling me first.
My sense of achievement was short-lived. As I sat by the fire warming my toes, a familiar figure appeared whom I recognised as none other than the bewitchingly beautiful Elizabeth Armistead. I recalled that I’d often heard the prince speak of his admiration for this woman when seeing her in plays, frequently expressing his wish to meet the lady.
She was a notorious demirep whose background was shady to say the least. She had been born into poverty, then became a hairdresser’s model before installing herself in a brothel. It was admittedly an exclusive one where the Viscount Bolingbroke, reputedly captivated by her beauty, rescued her and established her in lodgings so that she could do a trial for Covent Garden.
She was without question a beauty, tall and elegant, if now somewhat past her prime, and had ever been skilful at attracting rich protectors such as Lord Cavendish and the Duke of Dorset to name but two. Now, it seemed, she had looked higher still, for I couldn’t help but notice she was accompanied by Meynell, the prince’s man. I realised with sinking heart that she must be returning from an assignation with His Highness. I well knew the prince’s fondness for older ladies.
Here then was the reason for my Florizel’s hitherto inexplicable conduct. Had he believed all the bad press insinuating an affair between myself and Malden? Was this the reason he had looked elsewhere? I intended to shortly discover the answer to these questions.
But to my great dismay, on my arrival at Windsor, His Royal Highness refused to see me. My agonies knew no bounds. My heart was broken.
I poured out my troubles to Malden, who was deeply sympathetic. ‘My dear Mary, I am so sorry, although I have to admit that I too have lost the favour of the prince for some inexplicable reason.’
I looked at him in astonishment. This was not at all what I had wished to hear, and did little to ease my distress. ‘I do not understand why he has turned against us, unless he believes all the foul rumours put about by the press that you and I have been intimate.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘I would not mind being cast out, were that true, but I believe you must have a multitude of secret enemies, Mary. Those who are only too eager to part you from the prince, as so illustrious a lover could not fail to excite envy.’
A sickness washed over me as I recalled my own mother�
��s warning not to let my new-found fame go to my head. How I had preened and flaunted myself, inciting jealousy at every turn. Why had I not listened to her wise advice, and that of my good friend the duchess?
‘It is true that women of all descriptions are eager to attract His Highness’s attention, but I have neither the rank nor the power to oppose such adversaries. Much as I might weep, it seems there is nothing to be done. The prince has abandoned me and taken a new mistress.’
I waited for Malden to point out that he had warned me this might happen, and greatly appreciated his silence when he refrained from doing so. He merely put his arms about me and held me close. I could feel the pounding of his heart, smell the pomade he always wore secreted about his person, dandy that he was.
‘How am I to survive? I have quitted both husband and profession and my creditors are gathering like predatory wolves while the prince does not even answer my letters. My future prospects look dire!’
Malden, as always, came to my aid. ‘Allow me to help, Mary.’
‘I do not ask you for money, My Lord, knowing you are almost as poor as myself.’
He smiled kindly. ‘But with better prospects. Fear not, I mean only to act as go-between and speak on your behalf. I will make every effort to gain you the allowance owed to you. Someone must tactfully remind His Highness of the bond he signed in your favour. I’m sure the matter can be satisfactorily resolved.’
It did my heart good to hear such confidence expressed. Neglected by the prince, Malden was the friend upon whom I most relied now for assistance.
The result of his intervention on my behalf was that the prince not only sent his respects, he requested that I meet him at the house of Lord Malden in Clarges Street. I could hardly believe my good fortune.
‘Dear sweet man,’ I cried, kissing Malden full upon the lips.
‘I am a fool to myself,’ he sighed.
Lady of Passion Page 16
