The Duke considered. ‘Would the crest of a seagull have been preferable to your proposal for an anchor, I wonder? Perhaps not,’ and I really couldn’t help but laugh out loud, which brought a fond smile to his face.
‘That’s the ticket, don’t lose that wonderful ability of yours to laugh at yourself.’
‘I won’t, my love. I just wish they would leave us alone.’
It all came to a head one night at the end of November. I had recently missed a performance of Richard Coeur de Lion, being too indisposed to appear, and Sheridan had apparently gone on stage to announce that the show would be cancelled, an alternative to be put on in its place.
‘Return the money!’ the audience had cried.
‘Why did you not put a notice on the doors?’
Then no doubt some specially placed plant in the pit cried, ‘Mrs Crouch! we will have Mrs Crouch!’
The Gazetteer joyfully reported the entire story and the ensuing disturbance, as of course Mrs Crouch eagerly took my place as Mathilda, ready with lines learned and costume in place for just such an opportunity. Pretty as she was, she had always thought well of herself and been jealous of my success, even as she consistently failed to enchant the audience. She also gave lavish parties to which she invited all those she thought might be of use to her, and would then be the worse for drink and fall about, which no doubt had an effect upon the quality of her performances.
There were further criticisms of my absence in the press in the days following. No longer were they complimenting me upon my sweet smile and frank, intelligent gaze. Rather they were seeking every bit of salacious gossip they could find to damage me, and stories of actresses studying all of Little Pickle’s parts were rife. It felt like a witch-hunt of the worst kind, and I knew the source. I suspected that Mrs Crouch was in league with Ford’s friends, and in addition to accusing me of abandoning my children, they were now attacking my career, to her benefit.
I attempted to refute these charges by writing a letter myself.
Nothing can be more cruel and unfounded than the insinuation that I absented myself from the theatre on Saturday last from any other cause than inability, from illness, to sustain my part in the entertainment . . . There can be no impropriety in my answering those who have so ungenerously attacked me, that if they could drive me from that profession they would take from me the only income I have, or mean to possess, the whole earnings of which, upon the past, and one-half for the future, I have already settled upon my children.
It felt good to fight back, although what benefit it would bring I wasn’t at all sure.
The very next time I appeared on stage I could feel the hostility of the audience like a physical presence in the auditorium. It was early December and I was to play Roxalana in The Sultan. As I went on stage, instead of the joyous, enthusiastic welcome I was used to, there was a smattering of applause mingled with boos and hisses and whistles, even some shouted profanities.
My heart felt as if it were breaking in two. As I struggled to continue, desperately attempting to carry on acting despite the noise of a baying audience, the anger and unfairness of it all began to build inside me. Ford had brought this upon me. He had robbed me of respectability and a legal status for my children. I would not allow him to destroy my career as well.
This wasn’t Hull or Leeds with Mrs Smith and her coven of witches spreading their jealous malice. This was my home territory, the theatre where I appeared regularly before my adoring audience, where people queued at the stage door to catch a glimpse of me. This hostility was the result of vilification in the press led by Ford’s friends, and Mrs Crouch, out of jealousy, had sided with them. Her moralistic judgement was entirely hypocritical as, being something of a beauty, she had herself once flirted quite outrageously with the Prince of Wales, but failed to catch him. And, of course, she’d recently written to the Duke to try to turn him against me.
Now she’d convinced the audience that I was a wicked mother who would not only sell myself, body and soul for a thousand a year, but also my children. She had fired their virtuous censure to such a point they were ready to inflict their wrath upon my head.
As the hissing continued I stopped speaking in mid-sentence, stood stock still for a moment, then walked calmly to the front of the stage. My sympathetic fellow cast members drew back, silently offering me their support.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I should conceive myself utterly unworthy of your favour if the slightest mark of public disapprobation did not affect me very sensibly. Since I have had the honour and the happiness to please you, it has been my constant endeavour by unremitting assiduity to merit your approbation. I beg leave to assure you, upon my honour, that I have never absented myself one minute from the duties of my profession but from real indisposition. Thus having invariably acted, I do consider myself under the public protection.’
The response to this heartfelt statement was a profound silence, and then came the first ripple of genuine applause which grew louder by the second, punctuated by a few cheers and hoorahs.
I knew in that moment that I had won them over, and I smiled. It was, without doubt, the most moving moment of my career.
Nineteen
‘. . . but would never have invited the Duke of Clarence had I known whom he might choose to bring with him’
The comments in the press rumbled on for a while longer, although at least one paper, The Secret History of the Green Room, put up a spirited defence for me:
No Actress has been more harassed by them (the press) than Mrs Jordan. They did all in their power to drive her from the stage on account of her connection with the Duke of C, and now that she does not perform they accuse her of ingratitude, of refusing to amuse that public which a little month ago they pretended would never suffer her again to appear before them! Can anything be more insulting to common justice, or to common sense.
I was thankful to get back to work, but the disputes over the girls sadly continued, Mr Ford demanding at one point to have Dodee, his favourite, live with him and relinquish Lucy altogether. She was but four years old and I found this most upsetting, first that he would attempt to steal my child from me, and second that he cared so little for his other daughter. The Duke finally intervened in the quarrel, insisting that Somerset Street, where I still lived when I was working, was now her true home. He meant only to help, but this infuriated Hester who fiercely objected, since she considered Brompton to be Dodee’s home now.
‘Tell the Duke from me that I will not be considered as his nurse or housekeeper, nor will I continue in a house of which he is master.’
We had given up the house at Richmond, and I’d handed over all the furniture to Hester, and the lease at Brompton to Ford, so neither of them could accuse me of neglecting their needs. But she threatened to quit Brompton and disappear without telling me where she went, if she suffered any more interference. While admiring her fiery spirit and ability to stand up to royalty so stoutly, I found it all most distressing. She refused even to see me or speak to me on the matter, which made negotiations particularly difficult. But then Hester had always been quick to take offence, with an impulsive way of jumping to the wrong conclusions, not to mention overstating her case. It took some time but I calmed her down, Ford dropped his ridiculous claim over Dodee, and gradually the press lost interest. Life settled into some degree of normality.
Actors are not known for rising early and the mornings became our time to be alone together. The Duke’s gentle teasing and kind manner soon helped me to overcome the sense of shyness I at first felt in his company. He was sweet and loveable, but also a vigorous and passionate lover, such a contrast from the bland indifference of Mr Ford, and the crude violence of Daly. We would lie abed and make love, teasing and flirting, kissing and caressing; talk endlessly about anything and everything. He was not, he readily informed me, as sharp and witty as the Prince of Wales, but I found him utterly delightful, a man of enthusiasms and interests, and one who was always ready to listen
to the views of others. In truth I had never been happier.
It had taken no more than a few days of living with him before I’d fallen headlong in love. It seemed like a miracle to find a love so rich and fulfilling after all I had been through. And that a prince of the blood should be the one to love me so devotedly and unselfishly, was utterly astounding.
At dinner he would take but a few glasses of wine, as I tactfully encouraged him not to over-imbibe. Afterwards he would walk for miles, and on occasion I would accompany him for a part of the way, though not the entire ten or twelve miles he liked to do. Then on the days I was home he would sit and read his seafaring yarns while I studied my lines. And each night before we retired he would be the one to lock up, insisting that the servants were not required to stay up late, which was so typical of his consideration for others.
We were fast becoming a most harmonious couple, if somewhat staid as we liked nothing better than spending our time quietly together at home. It felt as if we had found in each other what we had long sought.
But I was no Mrs Crouch, nor Mary Robinson. I had protected myself with the best settlement possible, which meant that even if it all came to an end, I would still receive an allowance.
And by the following March I was delighted to discover that I was pregnant.
My condition did not, of course, prevent me from working, which was in any case essential as there were many calls upon my purse, and my career was important to me. Although those mornings I was able to spend with my dear Billy at the Petersham house, and not be rushing to the theatre or staying at Somerset Street because of rehearsals, continued to be precious.
I would also call at Brompton most days to spend an hour or two with my three daughters and listen to Hester’s grumbles. She still helped me to prepare for a performance when she could, but rarely accompanied me to the theatre these days. She was utterly devoted to Fanny, Dodee and Lucy, and caring for them took up her entire time. Even so, I would have my girls come to stay with me in Petersham just as often as I could. Hester would protest that I didn’t have time.
‘They are my children, I will make time.’
These days too were precious with the Duke playing games with them, or marching them off on one of his long walks, just like a proper family.
I took my benefit on the sixteenth of April that year, 1792, in The Country Girl and a farce called The Village Coquette. It was met with general approval from an adoring public, far removed from those dreadful performances at the end of the previous year. Even the critics found a few kind words, saying ‘the new entertainment was received with loud and reiterated peals of applause.’
It was interesting to note that despite the recent furore my benefit raised £540, second only to Bannister at £545, and far more than Kemble, Mrs Siddons or the dreadful Crouch woman. There was some small satisfaction in that, certainly.
However, such success engendered no love between the Kembles and myself, and I was granted a part in a new play on only two occasions throughout the entire season. In the main I was confined to old favourites, including The Spoiled Child, The Romp and similar pieces, and given no new characters to learn. It was frustrating, even infuriating, as I was certainly not the first actress to take up with a prince. But the seeds of jealousy and moral disapproval still lingered, as if I had become a pariah overnight.
William never complained once about my working, save to remind me every now and then of my condition. ‘Put your feet up, my love. You do not take nearly enough rest. Let me bring you a chair and you can sit in the garden for a while, and later perhaps pay a call or take tea.’
I would think of the society ladies of Richmond who would spend their days paying calls and taking tea, and their evenings playing cards. I was not one of their number, never having touched a card in my life, and I rather thought that fitting in and being accepted by local society would not be easy. I tried to say as much to the Duke, but he pooh-poohed the idea.
‘Nonsense, they’ll be delighted to make the acquaintance of a famous actress such as yourself.’
I shook my head in despair. ‘You don’t think that you might be just a little prejudiced? The ladies of Richmond will be scandalized by my living here at Clarence House as your mistress.’
He frowned, not much caring for that comment. ‘Mrs Fitzherbert takes a full part in society, why shouldn’t you?’
I couldn’t help but wonder how true that was, since the lady insisted on being considered the Prince of Wales’s true wife.
When, at the end of May, William received an invitation from a neighbour to a rural breakfast, he politely requested if he might bring a lady.
‘There, you see, she has no objection,’ he assured me when his appeal was granted.
I very much doubted my darling Billy would actually have named me. Communicating detail of any sort was not one of his strengths, no doubt because he was accustomed to leaving such trivialities to his secretary, Barton. And some less trivial matters too. Barton it was who had arranged an annual payment of 100 guineas to the mother of a child whom William readily accepted to be his. Not that this was any concern of mine. We were both anxious to put the past behind us and concentrate upon our future together. There was a careless ease about him that I rather liked.
‘Who is this neighbour?’ I asked, feeling nervous at the thought of entering a room with all the moralistic society ladies of Richmond. Far worse even than Hull, I should think. They would be certain to turn their backs and snub me, no doubt consider me quite beyond the pale, a fallen woman no less.
‘She is a Mrs Hobart, dubbed by the gossips as Mrs Circumference as, not to put too fine a point on it, she is rather large.’
I couldn’t help but giggle. The Duke had a lovely way of appearing to be completely oblivious to gossip and yet being in full possession of it. ‘Ah yes, I’ve heard that she and her husband share a passion for all things connected with the theatre and acting.’
‘Indeed they do. The good lady is noted for her theatricals, as well as her faro parties when in town, and her garden parties when staying in the country. I am sure they will be most delighted to meet an actress in the flesh, as it were, if deliciously more slender than her own.’ Then he was kissing me again and we were falling into bed, eager for love.
However, on the morning of the event in question there was a downpour of rain which seemed set to last the entire day and the Duke changed his mind, adamant that we did not go. ‘Standing about in the rain all day will do you no good at all in your condition, my dear.’
With some relief I sent a polite note excusing ourselves on the grounds of a previous engagement. ‘Should Mrs Hobart’s fête be put off on account of the badness of the weather till Monday or any other day, His Royal Highness will be extremely happy to wait on her.’
The event did indeed take place, even though the heavens opened and it must surely have been spoiled. But we learned later that she had enjoyed herself at our expense, passing my letter among her guests and saying how relieved she was that she’d been spared from receiving me.
‘I am quite used to entertaining the royal princes at my functions, but would never have invited the Duke of Clarence had I known whom he might choose to bring with him.’
Her friends were naturally most eager to warn her of the impropriety of our situation and how inappropriate it would be for her ever to make the same mistake again. So it was that when Mrs Hobart held her second party in July, we were not invited. Even a prince, it seemed, could not bestow respectability upon a mistress, not if she was an actress.
Nevertheless, I continued to pursue my profession and acted at the Haymarket until the end of the season. I closed it on the seventh of June with my portrayal of Rosalind in As You Like It. Even then I was asked to perform in a benefit at the end of July. For once, my dear patient Billy did object. ‘Have you not done enough for one season, my love? It is surely time for you to put your feet up and rest.’
‘But it is only one night, and I should l
ike to perform, for it is my old friend, Mrs Bannister. She has perhaps more sense than me as she is retiring to devote herself to her family, something I cannot quite bring myself to do.’
‘I should think not. You are far too talented to rusticate. It is not my place to stop you, and as you say, my love, it is but one night.’
So I performed with my dear friend, then just a few days later in early August, I suffered a miscarriage.
I have little recollection of the event beyond the pain, and the sad expression of the Duke as I faded in and out of consciousness. The royal physician was called and for a time I seriously feared that my life was in danger. I was devastated by the loss of this child, a girl, as I had so wanted to give the Duke the family he so longed for.
Yet as I slowly recovered in the days following, returning to the theatre in September for the new season, he uttered not one word of blame. All he said to me was, ‘The doctor says you are perfectly healthy and there will be other babies, so you are not to worry.’
Come the New Year of 1793, I was again complaining to Kemble that I was never allowed to act in any new plays, only revivals, while he and Sheridan continued at loggerheads over money as well as the programme.
‘Why may I not play in anything new? I am often given no part at all, yet you still pay me at the top rate.’
‘We will let you know when there is a suitable new part for you,’ came the predictably cool reply.
Perhaps out of desperation I wrote a play myself, albeit in collaboration with a Miss Cuthbertson, which we called Anna. Kemble and I quarrelled furiously over whether or not to put it on. In the end he agreed but sadly it was not a success. It would have been better had I not pressed him.
Meanwhile, in the real world, England and France were fast moving towards war. French émigrés were constantly arriving with tales of horror. More alarming still, the French King and his Queen had been taken prisoner and were on trial. The Duke naturally offered his services to the navy, but then fell on an icy step and broke his arm, which prevented him from doing anything.
The Duchess of Drury Lane Page 17
