The Duchess of Drury Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘. . . the perfect gentleman’

  My fame seemed to be rapidly spreading. Artists would try to draw me while I was on stage. I could see them scribbling madly, which was very slightly off-putting. Romney, so popular in court circles that he normally charged eighty guineas, painted me later that year for no fee at all. He caught me quite delightfully, I think, in a pose I used as Peggy in The Country Girl.

  Everywhere I went in London there were prints of my portraits, sketches and engravings. Sheet music of the songs I sang could be found for sale in the shops, and people even offered to write songs for me. Others wished to make my hats and gowns, and flowers and gifts were constantly delivered to my dressing room. It was all quite overwhelming. I was also beginning to receive invitations to rather grand social functions. I must have passed muster at the first one I attended, or at least managed not to make a complete fool of myself, as I was then asked to further events.

  I loved every moment of my new fame, more than willing to work hard, never stopping to consider whether I was tired.

  Nor did I regret dismissing George Inchbald from my life. He’d rather avoided me while I was visiting Leeds, tending to sulk in a corner whenever I was around. But I do not believe in looking back, only in living for the day. I certainly had no intention of pining for that selfish young man. One morning I was hurrying to a rehearsal when I bumped into Sheridan.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I said, stepping back quickly.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Jordan, may I present Mr Richard Ford.’

  I glanced at the smiling young man by his side, and graciously offered him my hand. He was slim and rather elegant, with a boyish face, dark hair and eyes. His touch was gentle as he took my hand in his, making no attempt to kiss it but treating it with a delicate respect. My heart gave a little flip, almost of recognition.

  ‘I seem to know your face. Have we met you before, I wonder?’ I asked, feeling slightly flustered.

  ‘I’m quite certain that I would have remembered, although I have seen you on stage, Mrs Jordan. It is a great pleasure to meet you in person, as I so loved you as Peggy in The Country Girl.’

  ‘Thank you. It is most kind of you to say so.’ I recalled that I had seen him about the theatre from time to time, although not with the young bucks who hovered about the green room, or the stage door, hoping for a glimpse of one of the actresses.

  Sheridan explained. ‘Richard is the son of my co-proprietor, Dr James Ford of Albemarle Street, part owner of the Drury Lane, and obstetrician to Queen Charlotte.’

  ‘Ah, and are you too a doctor?’ I was sufficiently intrigued by the young man to wish to linger and engage him in conversation.

  He gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m sure that would have pleased my father, but no. I am training for the bar, and hope one day to go into Parliament.’

  I was impressed. More importantly I knew at once that I was attracted to him, and rather thought from the look in his eyes that he might be equally taken with me. He half turned, about to leave, but then again quietly addressed me. ‘Perhaps we may talk more next time.’

  ‘I should be charmed.’

  As I watched him walk away I thought what a quiet, most pleasant young man he seemed to be, well educated and rather serious. And on greater acquaintance he proved to be so. He took to calling to see me regularly at the Lane, always charming and ever polite. He was the perfect gentleman, steady, and, unlike Sheridan, not a heavy drinker or womanizer. He was that rare creature, a man with good prospects and no debts or vices.

  Most of all he appeared to understand my passion for the stage. I remarked upon this facet of his character, and he conceded it was true.

  ‘My father is only interested in the theatre as an investment, but I have always been fascinated by it. Besides which, I believe a person should be encouraged to do as they wish in life, and not what is expected of them.’

  ‘Oh, I do so agree.’

  ‘Would you walk with me a little, Mrs Jordan?’

  ‘If you would please call me Dora.’

  He beamed. ‘I would be delighted, and you must call me Richard.’

  We walked over to Covent Garden to admire the flower sellers, and he bought me a single pink rose, which he said matched the colour of my cheeks. Then one afternoon he took me for a drive in his carriage. He handed me into it, did not drive too fast, and took the utmost care of me. I felt so very grand, so precious and protected, as if nothing and no one could ever harm me, quite unlike the last time I was in a private vehicle, in Daly’s phaeton.

  These outings soon became a regular occurrence, and it was no surprise when one day he kissed me. I had so longed for him to do so, curious to know how his mouth would taste, and how it might feel to be held in his arms. I have to say it was utterly delicious. His kiss was so tender, so gentle, so unlike Daly’s that I almost could have wept with the pleasure of it. He was the sweetest, kindest man I had ever met, everything that other Richard was not.

  ‘You know that I am falling in love with you, Dora?’ he told me after only a few short weeks of walking out together. ‘I cannot seem to help myself.’

  ‘And I with you,’ I admitted, feeling oddly shy.

  ‘Were it possible I would rush you this very minute to the altar and marry you forthwith.’

  Something leapt in my breast: desire, hope, happiness? How much more joy and good fortune could a girl take? ‘You mustn’t say such things,’ I gently scolded him.

  ‘Why not, when it is true? I love you, Dora, and if you really do feel the same then I should indeed be proud to make you my wife. It may take a little while to gain my father’s approval, but I’m quite certain once he understands that my happiness depends upon it, he will come round to the idea.’

  I was so glowing with happiness, shining with it, that I could barely take in the full import of what he was saying to me. ‘In truth, I’m in no hurry to marry. I have a play to perform next week, and a busy season ahead.’ What did a few weeks matter, I thought. Besides, I was more cautious of men now. Not only Daly, but Inchbald too had taken advantage of me in their different ways. Like all girls I longed for romance and a man to love me, a respectable marriage and a father to my children, particularly little Fanny. But I had no wish to risk disappointment again.

  He peppered my cheeks and lips with his kisses. ‘I perfectly understand that your work is important, and entirely support you in it. I think you are adorable, and we can at least be together.’

  When I arrived home that afternoon, Mama noticed at once that something had occurred. ‘Has he proposed?’ she asked, excitement in her voice.

  ‘I believe that Sheridan was wrong, that I have perhaps found myself a decent, respectable man to love me. And the prospect of marriage and more children is a deliciously enticing thought.’

  ‘And what of his family?’

  I briefly explained about needing to bring his father round to the idea, and she frowned a little.

  ‘Will it take long, did he say?’

  ‘He says not when his father sees how essential I am to his happiness.’

  She was still looking concerned. ‘But he does seem a most reliable young man, not like that Inchbald fellow. And it is good to see you so happy, dearest.’

  I kissed her. ‘I knew you would approve.’

  The Sheridans had been away all summer at Weymouth, now they were back as the new season had begun. That autumn I played Queen Mathilda in Richard Coeur de Lion. As it was a musical entertainment I was disguised as a blind minstrel boy for much of the play, which allowed it to be a breeches part. Elizabeth Linley, Sheridan’s wife, had arranged the music. She was a beautiful woman, and had been a professional singer until she married. Sheridan had asked her to give up her career, as he considered it unseemly for the wife of a gentleman to perform in public. She’d gladly agreed to do so, no doubt out of love for him, but was sorely missed by the public. I felt sorry for her, as she was so very talented it seemed a waste for her not to use that marvellous voice of
hers.

  Would Richard expect me to give up my career? I worried. Surely not. I knew in my heart that he’d never ask such a thing of me. Hadn’t he made a point of saying how proud he was both of me and my profession?

  And with Elizabeth Sheridan there was a fragility about her, so perhaps it was just as well she’d largely retired. I stopped worrying about such things, too entirely wrapped up in my own happiness, and then Richard startled me by suggesting we set up home together.

  ‘That would be quite impossible,’ I demurred. ‘I have my child to think of, and I am responsible for providing a home for my mother and sister.’

  ‘Then let me provide it. I have no objections to your family. So long as I have you with me every day, and night, what more could a man wish for than to be with the woman he loves?’

  I kissed him most fervently. ‘You are so kind, I absolutely adore you. But I will not allow you to finance my mother and sister, not on the salary of a trainee lawyer.’

  In November the theatre closed for two weeks in mourning for the death of one of the King’s aunts. And it was then, at Richard’s insistence, that I moved my family out of Henrietta Street and into number five Gower Street in Bloomsbury. John Bannister, my leading man, also lived in the street, and there were neighbours’ children of an age to be playmates for Fanny. The house was new, tall and elegant, and seemed the perfect place for a family.

  ‘From now on you will be known as Mrs Ford,’ Richard said. ‘And as soon as I can bring my father round, we will make the situation legal.’

  I was so in love that I trusted him implicitly. Most people assumed that we had indeed gone through a discreet little ceremony and were in fact married already. It didn’t greatly trouble me that this was not the case, but then as Hester was fond of saying, I was far too trusting. Then again, why would I be tough and businesslike? This was not a theatre contract, it was my life, my happiness, not a part in a play. I was not negotiating a rise in salary with Sheridan, so why the need to be businesslike?

  Or perhaps I was tired of being prudent and sensible, weary of my chaste life. When Richard took me to his bed and loved me most tenderly and sweetly, all the bad memories of those other times with Daly vanished from my mind. This was what it meant to have a man make love to you. Richard caressed and kissed me with perfect gentleness, making sure I was ready for him before he entered me. This man adored me, and cared for my pleasure as much as his own. He was a most wonderful lover, and my love for him grew with each day we spent together, each night in his arms.

  Fanny was not quite so enchanted to find she was expected to knock before entering our bedroom. I couldn’t help but giggle at the outrage on her little face.

  ‘But I come into bed with you every morning, Mama,’ she cried.

  ‘I know, darling, but Richard is your new papa, and you must be polite and ask first,’ I told her.

  Oh, but I was supremely happy. And if I still had not met his father, my lover saw no reason for concern. ‘Father will soon come round. How could he not adore you, as do I?’

  ‘And since I am bringing good money into the theatre of which he is a part owner, I can’t see any problem either,’ I laughingly agreed.

  ‘You are a most valuable asset in every way,’ Richard teased me, and we would giggle and kiss, so happy to have found each other.

  Richard would escort me to the theatre each day, stand back-stage to watch as I went on, and catch me in his arms when, glowing with success, I came off again. He declared it to be intoxicating to view my performance at close hand, and if it went a little less well than I’d hoped, he would console me with his kisses, then send me back on stage radiant with happiness. To me, it was utterly intoxicating to be in love. I was convinced that I could do anything I pleased, conquer the world if needed, because this wonderful man loved me.

  In the spring of 1787, Mrs Siddons was planning a benefit. So entranced was she by the way the audience had taken to my comedic roles, that she’d made up her mind to play comedy herself. Although her choice was much more refined than mine, naturally. Her tall, beautiful figure, stunning good looks and deeply vibrant voice made her far more suited to the role of Lady Macbeth, which was her most famous role. It also suited her personality, in my opinion, as it was one where she could effortlessly display the vicious nature and passion of the woman who led Macbeth to his doom.

  ‘She is to play Rosalind in As You Like It,’ I told Mama. ‘The role you said would suit me. It’s as if she has decided that if an unimportant newcomer such as myself can make the world laugh, then she will demonstrate how it should be done.’

  Mama was dismissive. ‘None can play comedy as you, dearest.’

  Hester agreed. ‘More likely she will have the audience weeping as she declaims and struts about the stage, rather than rolling in the aisles with laughter.’

  I confess the three of us watched her failure with a secret delight. Hester was right, the great Siddons was more used to making the grand gestures. She did not have the lightness of touch, the agility or energy, the necessary art or skill in timing to play comedy, which is far more difficult than it appears. Not only that, but she was far too much the lady to step out on stage in men’s clothing, always quite revealing of the female form. She had demanded a costume be made specially for her which largely cloaked her figure. It was a disaster.

  As if wishing to rub salt into my own failure, she then played Imogen in Cymbeline, thereby making it very clear that she still wore the crown for tragedy.

  But I went on to play Rosalind in As You Like It. I was indeed the saucy woodlander, the handsome young buck of sprightly wit in my yellow breeches, ruffled shirt and feathered hat. My lively performance brought forth a storm of applause.

  If this had been a battle then Mrs Siddons was still queen of tragedy, and I had claimed the crown of comedy.

  Twelve

  ‘Mistress Ford’

  I had thought that my setting up home with Richard Ford was a private affair, of no concern to anyone but ourselves. As things turned out, that was not the case. Vicious comments were made in the press. The papers said that I had taken him as a matter of ‘prudence’, by which they meant, for money. Worse, they added that I had been ‘prudent’ in previous amours, and pictures of myself and Daly were printed, labelled as ‘Mrs Tomboy and the Irish manager’, which filled me with horror.

  ‘I never loved that man,’ I assured Richard. ‘In fact I loathe him still with all my heart and soul.’ I told him briefly of his assault upon me, without dwelling on specifics, and he was most sympathetic. But the scandalous reporting in the papers was hugely embarrassing. Even George Inchbald claimed we had been ‘close friends’ at one time. None of this would help my cause with his father one bit.

  ‘Perhaps once I am your wife in very truth, this nonsense will stop,’ I said, and Richard tenderly kissed my tears away.

  ‘I’m sure that is the case.’

  But he offered no likely date when this might come about.

  And then I discovered I was pregnant.

  Mama was more upset than I was by this news. ‘Surely now he must marry you,’ she said, wringing her hands with motherly anxiety.

  ‘I really don’t have time to worry about such matters right now, Mama, not with a tour coming up.’

  ‘You are not thinking of carrying on with the tour? Why put yourself through all of that strain and hard work. It’s not as if you need to, not like in the bad old days when you were just starting out. More than anything I want a respectable marriage for you.’

  I sighed, struggling to make her understand. ‘I have responsibilities, Mama, which I cannot simply abandon. What difference does it make whether we marry now, or at the end of the tour? I shall work till my time, as I did with Fanny.’

  My second daughter, Dorothy, or Dodee as she became known, was born in August, in Edinburgh. The press had a field day with that too.

  ‘Homeward Bound . . . The Jordan from Edinburgh – a small sprightly vessel – went
out of London harbour laden – dropt her cargo in Edinburgh.’

  I had to laugh at the wit of it, and was back on stage at Drury Lane by September. That winter I greatly added to my popularity by playing Juletta to Kemble’s Pedro in The Pilgrim. He and I had acted together before, of course, at Smock Alley, and it was always a pleasure to me, despite his sister attempting to turn him against me. I also played Roxalana in The Sultan, with an actor called Barrymore taking the part of the Grand Turk. He had such difficulty keeping a straight face at my clowning, that on quitting the stage one night he fled to the green room and collapsed on to a sofa where he laughed till the tears ran down his blubbery cheeks.

  ‘By the Holy Prophet, madam, if you continue to play after this fashion you will dispatch me in an agony of laughter to the seventh heaven.’

  ‘Not a bad way to go,’ I chortled.

  But the cast at the Lane were not always in such good humour. Kemble and King had very different ideas on management, and were constantly at loggerheads. In March my old sponsor, the great actor, Gentleman Smith, had his final benefit playing Macbeth with Mrs Siddons as his Lady, and her brother John Kemble performing Macduff. The latter was not sorry to see his great rival retire. I was most certainly sorry to see him go.

  ‘I shall keep in touch, and be a regular attendee at your performances, dearest Dora,’ he assured me.

  ‘See that you do. Friends are like gold, too precious to lose, and I shall never forget what you did for me.’

  My career seemed to be sailing along nicely, and then I discovered I was pregnant yet again. And still unmarried, which, despite my protests to Mama, was beginning, very slightly, to concern me.

  By spring I was performing little as I felt unwell, suffering rather more with this pregnancy than previous ones. Nor was Tom King quite so supportive as he’d once been, his passion for all things tragic still his chief delight. Comedy to him was walking with a mincing step, whereas I happily dressed as a boy without shame or vanity, which rather shocked him and offended his sensibilities.