The Duchess of Drury Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘. . . a most injured woman’

  I was seated in my dressing room at the Bath theatre when a note was brought to me. I stared at it, dumbfounded, hardly able to believe my eyes. I recognized George’s handwriting instantly, and was so overcome I could not bring myself to open it. The thought which at once came into my head was that it had been sent to me as his last letter, and I should prepare myself for the worst.

  And then the door burst open and there he was before me, tall and strong, healthy and very much alive! Oh, and so good looking that all the girls in the dressing room began to giggle and cluster around. But I did not let them near, not until I had gathered him in my arms first.

  ‘Darling George, why did you not warn me you were coming? My heart is beating twenty to the dozen. I fear I may be about to have a heart attack from shock.’

  He laughed. ‘Then sit down, Mama, quickly, before you collapse,’ and giving me a big bear hug in return he led me to a couch where we sat together grinning at each other like silly fools.

  ‘You seem in high spirits, and good health.’

  ‘I am indeed, and have been given leave although I must return to Portugal soon. General Stewart has told me he would rather have me than any other for his aide-de-camp.’

  ‘Oh George, it is excellent to know you are so well regarded. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you. You have made a mother very happy.’

  The young girls in the dressing room were also looking very happy to have this handsome young soldier in their midst, and while I went on stage I laughingly left my son in their tender care.

  The next day we went shopping and he bought a whole cargo of toys for his brothers and sisters. Then, while I sat and watched, he swam in the medicinal baths, a straw bonnet on his head, which made me laugh all the more. We had the most gloriously happy time together, and I tried not to lecture him too much about the dangers of smoking and drinking, gaming or falling into debt.

  We discussed family matters, naturally, and he brought me news that Lucy was pregnant, but as she was still in Portugal, caught up the Peninsular war, she would have her baby before she could return to England. Henry, who had come so to detest the navy that his father had finally allowed him to leave, was now going to Marlow to prepare for the army instead.

  ‘Will he be any happier?’ I wondered aloud, to which George had no ready answer.

  ‘We must hope so.’

  He naturally asked after Papa and I urged him to pay a call. ‘More than likely you will find him at St James’s. Your father has been in town very nearly ever since you left us, with the exception of coming down on Sundays.’ And sometimes not even then, I thought.

  Oh, but what a joy it was to have my son to myself for two whole days. He quite restored my spirits. After he had gone on his way, promising to write more regularly, as boys always do their mothers, I set off on my travels once again, this time heading for Worcester and Coventry. I was greatly looking forward to meeting the Duke en route at Maidenhead, where I would tell him all about this wonderful surprise visit from our son.

  But on arrival I received word that William would be unable to meet me due to a prior engagement. My disappointment was keen. Where is it that he goes, I wondered, that is so much more important than spending time with me? I was sensing a distance growing between us and my heart ached with loneliness, his letters no longer filled with love as they were in those early days.

  I shook off my disappointment as best I could, and instead spent a most happy night with dear Freddles, who was granted time out of school to be with his mother. He wanted to stay in my room at the inn, and I did not feel inclined to refuse so gallant an offer.

  In Worcester I wrote to tell William of the latest excellent offer I’d received, which would regretfully keep me a little longer from home. ‘It would add £200 to my other profits. I know I am trespassing on your patience but trust you will forgive me.’

  I did not, on this occasion, ask for his permission. I gave him a short account of my success, sent him money as always, and mentioned that as my lodgings were indifferent I was obliged to buy my meat and pastry from an inn.

  I slept very ill in the weeks following, would rise early to take a long walk before I began rehearsals at ten. But as I did not have the company of either dear Lucy or the troublesome Fanny, I often felt out of spirits. ‘The servants are very attentive and kind to me, but servants are not friends or children,’ I wrote to the Duke.

  There was a stubbornness settling around my heart as I felt an increasing need to protect myself, although I was not sure from what. My life seemed to be unravelling about me, spinning out of control. But my anxiety to enable myself to stay at home ultimately urged me to do as much as I could in the little time that was left to me before my retirement.

  I seemed to be suffering from an ambiguity of emotions: I longed to be free of the travelling, the discomfort, the cold and the loneliness, and yet I relished every moment on stage. I was loved and applauded wherever I went, except by the one person whose opinion counted the most. Did he punish me with his neglect because of his disapproval of my touring, or was there some other factor at play, of which I was ignorant?

  Sophy stood in the reception hall beside her father, together with his royal siblings, greeting guests as they arrived. It was the nineteenth of June, 1811, and the Prince of Wales was holding a great fête at Carlton House, ostensibly to welcome members of the French royal family to England, and to celebrate the King’s birthday. But since His Majesty was in such a state of madness that he was unaware he even had a birthday, let alone fit enough to celebrate it, the true purpose of the event was to mark the start of the regency.

  Two thousand had been invited, several lines stretching through the hall and out into the gardens and Pall Mall beyond, where a stream of carriages blocked all other traffic. Matting had been spread upon the lawns to protect the ladies’ shoes. There were covered walkways, lined with painted trellises and decorated with flowers and mirrors, along which the guests could promenade. The band of the Scots Guards played beneath the Corinthian portico, entertaining them with appropriate music while they chatted and waited.

  The Queen had chosen not to attend, as she considered it inappropriate to celebrate anything while the King was so ill. The Regent’s wife, Caroline of Brunswick, had not even been invited, nor was his fifteen-year-old daughter Charlotte present.

  Sophy, to her great delight, had been fortunate enough to receive an invitation, the Prince of Wales even gifting her an elegant gown to wear upon this special occasion.

  ‘I wish Mama were here to see this,’ she whispered, as she watched the Princess Mary go by looking as beautiful as ever in an extravagant gown of radiant blue watered silk. ‘At least the princesses have been let out of the “nunnery”, as they call it, for the day,’ she said with a giggle, referring to the name they used for their cloistered state. ‘And there is Lady Hertford; is she not the Regent’s latest mistress? Mrs Fitzherbert does not seem to be present.’

  Her father ignored her comments, seeming distracted, but Sophy had heard from the gossip-mongers that the Regent’s long-term mistress had refused her own invitation when she’d learned she was not to be permitted to sit at the top table with the Prince.

  ‘Why wasn’t Mama invited? She does not go on tour to Yorkshire until the end of July.’ Sophy was having difficulty coming to terms not only with royal etiquette but the many puzzling rules of society. Not least the status of her own parent.

  ‘Hush, child. You ask too many questions.’

  She could see that he was longing to escape from this tiresome business of meeting and greeting, and that his eyes were searching the crowd, as if looking for someone.

  The most honoured guests, numbering about two hundred, were seated at a long table which filled almost the entire length of the gothic conservatory. This room, designed by Thomas Hopper, was lit by lanterns and an illuminated crown with the letters GR that hung above the
Regent’s mahogany chair. Sophy was deeply impressed by its regal splendour.

  Behind the Prince’s cushioned seat were numerous tables covered with crimson drapery, upon which was set a display of exquisitely wrought silver-gilt plate, tripods, epergnes, dishes and other ornaments, all filled with a wonderful array of food. Down the centre of the table a canal had been constructed on a raised plinth, its banks covered with green moss and aquatic flowers. Water flowed along it from a silver fountain, and gold and silver fish swam within. Never had she seen the like in her life before.

  Her uncle, the forty-eight-year-old Prince Regent, well corseted and smartly attired in his new field marshal’s uniform with the star of the Order of the Garter on his chest, an honour he had granted himself, sat at the head of the table above the fountain. The Duchesse d’Angoulême sat on the Regent’s right, the Duchess of York on his left. She had prised all these details out of her father earlier, but he was again ignoring her, his attention elsewhere.

  He settled himself on the seat allotted to him, and even as he began a conversation with the Comte d’Artois, his gaze was roaming the length of the two-hundred-foot table. Sophy wondered who he might be looking for, then saw his gaze fix upon a certain young lady.

  A few delicate enquiries of her neighbour and Sophy discovered her identity. She was Catherine Tylney-Long, the daughter of Lady Catherine Sydney Windsor and Sir James Tylney-Long, Seventh Baronet of Draycot, who had recently come into possession of a large fortune. Seated beside her aunt and chaperon, Lady de Crespigny, she was attracting considerable attention, which Sophy didn’t wonder at. Some claimed her annual income to be in the region of £40,000, others said it was but £25,000, but who would quibble over such a sum?

  She was delicately formed, charmingly elegant, a veritable beauty indeed, but younger than her father by twenty years or more, so why would he be interested in her? Not that age appeared to be any bar to old men, who seemed rather to like young women. Colonel Hawker had not balked at carrying off Lucy. It made Sophy shudder to suspect that her father might be thinking along similar lines. Did not Papa love Mama? Sophy frowned, thinking things through as she covertly watched him.

  She had heard the Prince of Wales constantly advise her father that the only way to settle his debts was through marriage. Sophy disliked such conversations between them with a passion, but always made a point of keeping quiet so that the royal brothers would not realize she was listening. And she was intelligent enough to understand the implications. Apparently there was also increasing pressure from the Queen for her sons to produce more legitimate heirs, of which the royal family were in sore need.

  ‘Men die in war, women in the lying-in chamber,’ was Her Majesty’s caustic response whenever her father reminded her that Charlotte was a healthy young woman.

  And everything would change now with the regency. Permission to override the Royal Marriages Act would easily be obtained. Marriage to such a woman would resolve all her father’s financial difficulties. What then would happen to Mama?

  It was the most sumptuous feast Sophy had ever seen. The Regent’s servants in their dark blue livery trimmed with gold lace, patiently and graciously served hot and cold soups, roasts, venison, game, cheese, jellies, custards and puddings to the guests upon silver plate. There was iced champagne and fine wines, and fruits including peaches, grapes and pineapples.

  At last the meal was over and Sophy watched with a sinking heart as her father hurried straight to the young woman’s side, then was actually dancing the quadrille with her. Sophy felt she might vomit right there and then on the ballroom floor. Steeling her nerves she edged closer, secreting herself behind a pillar so that she could engage in her favourite pursuit of watching and listening.

  The dance ended and he escorted Miss Tylney-Long back to her seat. ‘Perhaps I may sign your card for another dance later?’ Papa was saying.

  Catherine Tylney-Long flicked it open, giving it a brief glance. ‘I’m afraid there is not a space left upon it,’ she told him with an apologetic little smile, which Sophy thought entirely false.

  ‘Then perhaps we can at least talk a little, between dances.’ He looked so disappointed that Sophy’s heart plummeted with misery. Had he no pride?

  ‘But of course, Your Grace.’

  ‘Do call me William, no need to stand on formalities.’

  Miss Tylney-Long merely inclined her head, but before he had the opportunity to say anything more, she was being led on to the floor by another gentleman.

  ‘And who may he be?’ the Duke demanded of his neighbour, a sour note in his voice.

  ‘William Wellesley-Pole, the twenty-four-year-old nephew of the Duke of Wellington. They say she is quite smitten with him.’

  The Duke scowled. ‘Do they indeed?’

  ‘He is not her only suitor by any means. There are any number, I believe.’

  Sophy sighed with relief and slipped quietly away to seek a dance partner of her own. If the lady was being pursued by many gentlemen there was nothing to fear. Surely her foolish ancient father would have little chance of winning such a prize?

  ‘Why did you make such an exhibition of yourself, Papa?’ Sophy challenged her father as they drove home together in the early hours. ‘I did not care to see you fawning over that woman. What of Mama?’

  His answer was cautious. ‘I’m sure your mother would understand. She is a most sensible woman.’

  Sophy could hardly believe her own ears. ‘But you love Mama.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You have enjoyed almost twenty years of contentment together, as long as any marriage, brought up ten children, shared the joys and trials of parenthood. She has been your helpmeet, your wife in all but name. You surely would not betray her?’

  ‘Yet she is not my wife, and never can be. You are too young to understand, dear child.’

  ‘I understand well enough!’ A bitter anger against her father, and strangely against her mother too, was beginning to fester and grow inside her. Why could they not have married like normal people? Why could they not at least be content together? Why was her mother always taking herself off on tour instead of staying with her husband and children? Was it any wonder if people looked down their noses and refused to be friends with her? She was a nobody, a bastard!

  ‘You can be sure, dearest, that were it not for other factors I must consider, I would not change her for the world.’

  ‘Change her?’ spluttered Sophy. ‘You surely aren’t thinking of offering for Miss Tylney-Long?’ She was stunned, appalled by such a prospect.

  William looked at his daughter, as if shocked by her presumption in asking such a question. ‘I really do not think it is any of your business—’

  ‘It is very much my business,’ Sophy snapped. ‘As your daughter, your illegitimate daughter.’

  ‘Do not use that word.’

  ‘Why not, when it is the true one? It wouldn’t be right for you to involve yourself in a dalliance with a woman half your age, not when you are still living with my mother.’

  The Duke flushed with annoyance and embarrassment at this apparent lecture on morality from his own daughter. ‘Hold your tongue, girl.’

  ‘I will not!’ Sophy was her mother’s daughter and knew how to stand up for what she perceived to be right. ‘Think of Mama’s sweetness, her generosity and liveliness which you have always loved. How often have you spoken of her practical good sense and excellent judgement, related to us the excitement of those early years together? I have heard the tale of how you pursued her, your love letters, the thrill of settling into Bushy House. How can you suddenly forget all that?’

  ‘The King is seventy-three years old, suffering from terrifying hallucinations, considerable pain, sometimes talking non-stop for hours, entirely incoherent and often obscene, rarely aware of what is going on around him. Your Uncle George is carrying the heavy mantle of the regency upon his shoulders, and in twelve months the full power of that office will come into effect. But
he has only one daughter to succeed him. Although he is fond of your mother, he too has urged me to consider marriage. It is my duty.’

  Sophy considered this statement in furious silence for some long minutes as the carriage drew up at St James’s. ‘So will you keep Mama as your mistress, even if you do take a wife?’

  William cleared his throat, taking a moment before answering. ‘I have considered that option, but feel it would be unfair after our long association. A clean break would be best, I think.’

  She gave a little sob, unable to hold her emotions in check any longer. ‘You will break her heart!’ And without waiting to be handed down from the carriage, Sophy jumped out and ran to her room.

  ‘I will break it to her gently,’ he called after her, but Sophy was long gone.

  A letter from the Duke was handed to me just before I went on stage. It was October, and I should have finished this engagement at Cheltenham by now but had agreed to play an extra night. I tore open the envelope, as I always did when I saw the Duke’s handwriting, eager to read his news, to hear his voice in my head. But the words blurred before my eyes. He wished us to meet at Maidenhead – ‘for one last time before we part’.

  I couldn’t take it in. What did he mean? There had been no word of our parting. Yet there it was in black and white: for one last time before we part. Was this then the moment I had so long dreaded?

  ‘Starters please. Three minutes to curtain,’ a voice called.

  I pushed the letter into my box, out of sight, my heart pounding. I must have been in shock, for a kind of paralysis had come over me. I dabbed my nose with the powder puff, more by instinct than necessity. I was about to play Nell in The Devil to Pay, and the show, as they say, must go on.

  Giving every appearance of calm I left the dressing room to go on stage, not feeling the least calm inside. There was a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, a hollow sensation that seemed to be affecting my limbs; they felt weak and shivery, out of my control. Yet I did indeed go on and must have performed reasonably well at first. But in the scene where I was supposed to laugh out loud at some incident, and my fellow actor playing the role of Jobling would accuse me of being laughing drunk, I looked into his face and instead burst into tears.