Goddess of the Green Room

Comedy in Crow Street

IN A LITTLE room in South Great George Street in the city of Dublin two girls were discussing a matter of great importance to them. The elder, handsome and elegant in spite of the poverty of her clothes, was clearly in a state of tense anxiety; the other with the piquant face and the lively expression, was trying to calm her.

‘You will do it, Hester,’ she was saying. ‘Why, it’s in the blood. You inherited it all from Mamma.’

‘I know,’ said Hester, ‘but you can’t imagine what it’s like, Doll, to face an audience for the first time.’

Dorothy was on her feet. ‘Oh yes, I can,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen enough of it, Heaven knows. I remember when Mamma and Papa were playing their parts and we all had to listen to them. I can smell those tallow candles now. I always used to wonder what would happen if they toppled over and set the boards alight or perhaps caught the curtains.’

‘I wish,’ said Hester, ‘that Papa had not died, and that we had more money.’

‘People always wish for more money,’ put in Dorothy quickly. ‘And don’t forget Papa deserted us before he died.’

‘But he was kind. He always sent our allowance.’

‘I’d rather have done without it, when I remind myself that he had to marry a rich woman to provide it. I’d rather earn my own money.’

‘And that won’t be much in your milliner’s shop.’

‘I dare say not to that famous actress, Miss Hester Bland.’

‘Don’t,’ cried Hester. ‘It’s tempting the fates.’

‘Nonsense,’ retorted her sister. ‘Of course you’re going to be a success. Mr Ryder thinks so. Oh, he has great hopes of you. I heard him telling Mamma so. He thinks you are going to bring business to his Crow Street Theatre. Hester, it’s a wonderful life, playing parts on a stage. And they have benefit nights which can bring in as much as thirty pounds. One day a manager from London may see you. How would you like to play at Drury Lane or Covent Garden?’

‘Stop!’ cried Hester. ‘I can’t bear it. I know I’m going to be a failure.’

‘You are not, Hester Bland. The family fortunes are on the rise. No more skimping and screwing.’

‘What expressions you use, Dolly!’

‘Call me Dorothea, because that is what I am going to call myself when our fortunes are made. When I have a famous sister I shall boast to all the ladies who come into the shop. Try on this confection, Madam. The finest tulle I do assure you and the flowers are made of the best velvet as worn in royal circles. And you are being attended to, Madam, by the sister of the famous actress Miss Hester Bland. You will soon be obliged to travel to London to see her, for Dublin will not be good enough for Miss Hester Bland. Did you know that the King himself has sent for her to play before him in Covent Garden?’

‘Oh, Doll, I’m so… scared.’

‘Everyone is at first. Mamma says you should be if you are going to give a good performance. Do you know, Hester, I don’t think I should be scared. I don’t think I should care.’ She laughed and, rising to her feet, she bowed before an imaginary audience:

‘Dead shepherd; now I find thy saw of might

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’

‘You’d make a tolerable Phoebe.’

‘If I were to be a famous actress I’d like a singing part. Well…

“Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me

And tune his merry note

Until the sweet bird’s throat…” ’

‘I’m in no mood for songs, Dolly, though I must admit you sing them sweetly enough. But your stockings are falling down and there’s a rent in your gown.’

‘I know. But as long as I am neat for the shop what matters it? Allow me to be as untidy as I please at home.’

‘You’ll be in the theatre tonight?’

‘Of course. With the whole family. I expect even little George will be there. You can count on the family’s support, Hester.’

‘Oh, Dolly, suppose I forget my lines.’

‘Let me hear them. Come on.’ Dorothy was beginning to act the part Hester was to play that night when their mother came in. Grace Bland had clearly been a beauty in her youth, but that beauty was much faded by years of struggle. There was a perpetual frown between her eyes which always moved Dorothy deeply; she wished that she could earn a great deal of money so that they need not be always wondering how to feed the family. But Hester was going to make their fortunes; and it did not matter which member of the family did it as long as it was done.

‘I’m hearing Hester’s lines, Mamma,’ said Dorothy.

‘That’s right, dear. She must be word perfect. I remember my first part. Oh, that was years and years ago. But I recall going through agonies.’

‘As I am now,’ said Hester grimly.

‘Never mind. It’s all part of the life. When you’ve played through to the end and the audience applaud… then you forget all your qualms and you’ll say to yourself: “This is the life for me.” ’

‘Did you say that, Mamma?’ asked Dorothy.

‘I did. And I’ve never regretted it.’

Was it true? wondered Dorothy. Did she ever, during the difficult years, think of her father’s parsonage where life must have been very different from this one for which she had forsaken it. Perhaps there would have been poverty in the parsonage though, for country parsons were often poor. Grace often talked of her girlhood and of life in a small Welsh village and the three girls – Grace and her sisters – deciding that it was no life for them and they were going to seek fame and fortune on the stage. ‘Our father was horrified, as you can imagine,’ Grace told her daughters. ‘He called us “strolling players”, but we didn’t care. He said that if we went on the stage we could fend for ourselves… and we did.’ They were courageous, Dorothy decided – three girls from the country coming to London to try their luck on the stage; and they had not done badly. Aunt Blanche, though, had tired of it and gone back to Wales where she had married and settled down in the village of Trelethyn; but the other two had stayed on. Aunt Mary now and then played in London, and their own Mamma had acted while she was raising a family; and now that they were deserted and there was no money coming in, they were looking to the stage again, and this time it was Hester who was to make their fortunes, for the little she and Dorothy had been bringing in from the milliner’s shop would not keep them, and something would have to be done. So now that Mr Ryder had offered Hester her chance – because she was Mamma’s daughter of course – they must look to her.

Grace said: ‘Dorothy, do go and tidy yourself. What if Mr Ryder should call. Now, Hester, I’ll take you through your part.’

Grace studied her daughter. She has talent, she thought. This will be the beginning of better things, for she is young and there’s no doubt that audiences like their players young… only great performers are allowed to grow old, and these are rare.

She could hear Dorothy, laughing with the boys. They were jumping on the stairs and Dorothy was shouting that she could jump more stairs than any of them. Grace smiled indulgently. Dorothy was a tomboy, not nearly as serious as Hester. It was amazing how lightly she seemed to take all their troubles. It was not as though she did not love them; she was ready to give up every penny she earned for them; it was simply that she could not accept the fact that all was not going well.

Perhaps it was for the best. It had been a hard life but a happy one until Francis had failed her. Until then everything had been worthwhile. Why had he done it? she wondered. But of course he had always been weak. In a way that had attracted her. She was thinking now of the day she had first seen him. He had sat in the theatre watching her and the next day he was there again and so it went on until she could not but be aware that the young army captain was interested in more than the play. And they had become lovers; Francis, fearing his father’s anger, dared not marry her. He was after all under age, and he came of a family which did not approve of actresses. So they would have to wait until he was older. Like Francis, Grace had no wish to wait until then before they took lodgings together and very soon Hester was about to be born. Grace had not called herself Mrs Bland but Mrs Francis. Poor Francis, he was so much in awe of his father that he was afraid of offending him, which he would most certainly have done if he had given the family’s name to an actress.

But it was impossible always to be known as Francis and sometimes she was called Bland and when Judge Bland, Francis’s irate father, discovered that his son was living with an actress he let him know that any marriage would mean that Francis would be cut off without a penny.

Poor Francis, what could he do! And Dorothy was on the way by that time.

So they had lived happily enough though Francis had had to resign from the Army. He had little money of his own so it was Grace who provided their main source of income because by that time she was a considerable actress. The children came regularly and Dorothy was followed by Nathaniel and Francis and George.

And so they would have gone on. How many children would they have had by now? But there were troubles in Ireland and the theatre had closed. Grace was once more pregnant and Blanche in Wales invited the family to stay with her for a while until everything returned to normal in Dublin. Francis had not been well and his mother, who had kept in touch with him, wished him to take a trip to the South of France with her in the hope that this would restore him to health. Grace, who was also anxious for his health, advised him to take the opportunity offered; she and the children would be well taken care of in Wales. And to think, she mused now, that I was never to see Francis again! It was the biggest blow of her life. But she had known he was always weak. She should never have consented to his going. She could not believe it when she had received his letter, full of remorse, full of apologies; but that would not keep her and her children – and the new baby had now arrived to swell their numbers.

Francis was penitent, but with him and his mother had travelled a young heiress named Catherine Mahoney; and his mother, with the help of Catherine, had impressed upon him what an excellent match this young heiress would be. Grace knew that he had been disappointed of his inheritance and in view of this he had allowed himself to be persuaded.

Thus was Grace with six children to keep – and there would have been seven but little Lucy had died in Wales – deserted.

Francis was not a callous man – only weak. He had continued to send them an allowance; and what they would have done without it, Grace could not have imagined. They had stayed on in Wales until, with Francis’s death, the allowance had stopped. Grace was informed of this by his wife Catherine who told her at the same time that she had no intention of continuing the allowance.

So they had returned to Dublin and Grace now being well into middle-age and not having won that fame, which would have made audiences regard her as ageless, was seeking to launch her eldest daughter on the stage.

It had been disastrous. Even Dorothy must realize this. They would never – any of them – forget that long-awaited moment when they had sat on the edge of their seats and waited in the old Crow Street Theatre for Hester to appear. Her name had been on the bills: Mr Ryder’s great discovery – the young, beautiful, talented Hester Bland.

Hester came on to the stage; the audience waited, indulgent because she was young and not uncomely; but when she opened her mouth no words came.

‘It can’t be,’ prayed Dorothy. ‘Oh, God, let her speak.’

But Hester’s fear had overcome her talents. She was suffering from acute stage fright and had completely forgotten the words she must say. Dorothy was repeating them under her breath, but how could she shout them to Hester in a crowded theatre. ‘Please, please,’ she prayed. ‘Let her remember.’

There was a titter in the audience.

Mr Ryder came on to the stage. He waved Hester aside and she ran into the wings. Grace looked as though she would faint.

A little hitch, explained Mr Ryder. His new actress was unwell. He craved the audience’s indulgence. Another actress would play her part.

Dorothy was sure she would never forget those moments: the hiss of conversation, the giggle here and there, the comments on young Miss who thought she could act; it wasn’t often they had the chance (the pleasure, thought Dorothy angrily) of seeing such a stage tragedy. She was angry herself; she wanted to go up on that stage and play the part. She could remember most of the lines because she had heard Hester say them so often and she would make up what she did not know.

The family rose and went back stage to collect a numbed and tragic Hester.

She wept all night; she had disgraced them all; she was useless; why had she thought she could act?

Grace said: ‘You can act. It was just stage fright. We all feel it but somehow we manage to overcome it in the nick of time. You didn’t. You’ll be better next time.’

‘Next time,’ cried Hester. ‘I’d rather die.’

Then she wept afresh. She would never forget the disgrace; that moment would live with her for the rest of her life.

There was no way of comforting her. The whole family tried; and Grace was wondering whether Hester could get back the job she had had in the milliner’s shop which she had left to go on the stage.

It was a morning of gloom. Mr Ryder, who was a kindly man and who knew the poverty of the family and knew also that what had happened to Hester did not mean that she was not an actress, called to see them.

He was immediately aware of the deep depression although he did not see Hester; Grace’s eyes, however, were red-rimmed with tears and sleeplessness.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was a bad business, Grace.’

‘I can’t think how it happened.’

‘Easy enough. She’s never faced an audience before. What are you going to do!’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Now look here, Grace, there might be some parts for you. You must be a bit out of practice but you could get that back… say a small part to begin with. And what about that other girl of yours?’

‘Dorothy?’

‘I’ve noticed her. There’s something about her.’

‘She’s a bit of a tomboy.’

‘She’ll grow up.’

‘She’s not as good-looking as Hester.’

‘By God, are you telling me you’re not going to let me try the girl in my theatre?’

‘Try her in your theatre! Why, she has never shown any inclination for the stage.’

‘Call her in.’

‘Good gracious me, I doubt she’s fit to be seen.’

‘Fit for me to see. I’m not looking for a tidy Miss but an actress.’

‘Dorothy an actress!’

‘Please may I see her?’

‘Dorothy,’ called Grace, ‘come here.’

She came. Ryder studied her. She had something. What was it? A gamin quality. She might have been an untidy schoolboy except for the fact that she was so dainty. Yes, there was some quality – latent perhaps, but he was sure it was there.

‘Hello, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you play a part. Do you know any?’

Her imperturbability delighted him.

‘Phoebe,’ she said, ‘from As You Like It.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’ll do.’

To see her strut before him like that was amazing, thought Grace. She did not declaim as an actress would. She played it naturally as though Dorothy Bland was a shepherdess, and for a moment one felt that the shabby room was the forest of Arden. It wouldn’t do. It wasn’t acting. It was being natural.

Ryder felt differently. Her voice was most unusual. It was almost as though she sang the words. She seemed to give them a music of her own.

‘Look here, Dorothy Bland,’ he said, ‘how would you like to take your sister’s place? H’m? I’d pay you what I’ve been paying her. I don’t think you’ll suffer from stage fright.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Dorothy as though she were promising to wash the china or make a dish of tea.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ryder. ‘I can give you a part in The Virgin Unmasked. It’s not much, but it’ll be a good way of making your stage début. Be at the theatre tomorrow morning.’

He left them and Grace looked in astonishment at her daughter. Dorothy was smiling. Everything had turned out for the best. The only difference was that she, not Hester, had to make the family’s fortune.

So Dorothy became an actress. She played in The Virgin Unmasked without causing a great stir in Dublin theatrical circles; and after that she was Phoebe in As You Like It.

Thomas Ryder was not displeased; he might not have a star performer, he told himself, but at least he had a tolerable actress.

Dorothy was delighted. It was more fun than making and selling hats; moreover, she had prevailed on Hester to accept a small part and once Hester had done this successfully, she was ready to undertake bigger parts and so overcome the terrible fear of appearing on the stage.

Life was easier; there was more money. Ryder often talked to Dorothy in whom he felt a special interest because he had selected her to play in his theatre before she had realized she was an actress.

‘We have to do better business,’ he said, ‘or we’ll be running at a bigger loss than I can afford. Did you know the house was half empty last night?’

‘I was aware of it,’ Dorothy told him.

‘And I have Smock Alley standing empty. There’s not room for two theatres in Dublin. If it goes on like this I’ll have to get rid of my lease of Smock Alley – and who’s going to take it, eh? If Dublin can’t support one theatre, how can anyone open up in Smock Alley?’

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders; she was thinking of her newest part.

‘If you would let me sing a song,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that would bring them in.’

‘There’s no place for a song in the play.’

‘We could make a place,’ she wheedled.

‘Rubbish,’ said Thomas; and went on to brood on a new means of luring people into Crow Street.

Shortly afterwards he came up with an idea. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a play with men playing the women’s parts and women the men’s.’

It seemed a crazy notion. To what purpose? But when some of the women appeared in breeches the purpose was obvious, and this was particularly so in the case of Dorothy. Her figure was enchanting, her legs long, slim and beautifully shaped.

Yes, said Thomas Ryder, this could well give them the opportunity they were looking for.

The play, Ryder announced, would be The Governess – a pirated version of Sheridan’s The Duenna. He had not intended such an inexperienced player as Dorothy to have a big part, but when he saw her in breeches he decided she should have that of Lopez.

Dorothy was delighted. She would make something of the part. How pleased she would be if she could sing!

‘Sing!’ cried Ryder in exasperation. ‘Now why should Lopez sing?’

‘Because,’ replied Dorothy, ‘Dorothy Bland would like to sing and the audience would like to hear her.’

‘Nonsense,’ retorted Ryder. ‘You play your part, my girl. That’s all the audience ask of you.’

‘Don’t forget the theatre has been half empty these last weeks.’

‘The Governess will pull them in.’

Dorothy posed before the mirror in her breeches. Grace said: ‘I don’t know. It’s not modest somehow.’ Dorothy kissed her. ‘Don’t you worry, Mamma. I’ll take care not only of myself but of the whole family.’

Poor Mamma, she was terrified that Hester or Dorothy – and more likely Dorothy – would get into some entanglement and, always having longed for the blessing of clergy on her union, was fearful that one of the girls should find herself in a similar position. She was constantly saying that if their father had married her they would not now be wondering where the next penny was coming from, for Judge Bland would surely have relented when he saw his grandchildren. But because she lacked marriage lines she lacked security. Security! It was an obsession. She wanted it for her girls.

So she was constantly warning. And she was right, said Dorothy to Hester. But she need have no fear.

At rehearsal Dorothy swaggering on the stage in her male costume designed to show off her figure so amused Thomas Ryder that in a weak moment he gave way to her pleading to let her sing.

The first night of The Governess arrived. The theatre was full, as it had not been for some nights, because people had come to see the women in male costumes and they were not disappointed. Particularly admired was the young actress who took the part of Lopez; her figure was trim and yet voluptuous; she was so completely feminine that her masquerading in male attire was an absurd delight. The audience was intrigued. They were beginning to notice Dorothy Bland.

When at the end of the play she came to the front of the stage and sang for them they were spellbound. There was an unusual quality in her voice; though it was untrained it was sweet and true, but so were many other voices. Dorothy’s had a quality purely her own which touched them; it had a haunting charm, warm, full of feeling, tender and sincere.

The song she had chosen to sing was one they all knew about an Irish colleen who came to Milltown, a district of Dublin, to ply her trade as an oyster seller. They had heard it many times before but never as sung that night.

They called for her to sing again, which she did; and it was clear from that night that Dorothy Bland was no ordinary actress.

Grace read the letter to her daughters. It was formal and from a lawyer who represented Francis’s relations. The family resented the fact that Miss Grace Phillips allowed her actress daughter to use their name and to have it appearing on play bills. As she had no right to this, they must ask her to stop doing so.

Dorothy could not restrain her feelings. She had a temper, as the family well knew; but it did not greatly worry them because although it would flare up suddenly it was quickly over.

‘Impudence!’ she cried. ‘They have done nothing for us and now they are telling us what we should do.’

‘Take no notice of them,’ advised Hester more calmly. ‘You’ve made something of a stir as Dorothy Bland, are you going to throw it away because Papa’s family are ashamed of us?’

‘I am not,’ Dorothy assured her. ‘And I may well make it known that I am connected with the high and mighty Blands of Dublin’s fair city – yes, and that they will have nothing to do with us although it is their plain and bounden duty to keep us from starvation.’

‘You’re not on the boards now, Dolly,’ Hester reminded her sister.

‘Now, girls,’ put in Grace, ‘I’ve been thinking about this; and it’s not wise to go against your Papa’s family. It’s always been my hope that one day they would do something for us. Now that your grandfather, the Judge, is dead, it may be that the rest of the family will feel differently.’

‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ retorted Dorothy. ‘And why do you imagine they should suddenly turn so virtuous?’

‘You never know,’ insisted Grace; ‘and it’s always wise to be on the safe side.’

Dorothy laughed suddenly. Dear Mamma, who had been so badly treated by life, who had really believed that Papa was going to marry her one day – how she always wanted to be on the Safe Side.

Dorothy kissed her suddenly. ‘All right, Mamma. We’ll be onthe safe side. We’ll compromise. I’m not going to give up Papa’s name altogether. But we’ll meet the high and mighty Blands half way. I’ll be Dorothy Francis. They couldn’t object to that.’

They all thought this was a good idea; and from that day Dorothy became Miss Francis.

Miss Francis was a considerable actress. She could dance prettily; her singing voice was unusually appealing and when she sang on a stage the audience were always loth to let her go. If the play was not going well it was always advisable to bring in Dorothy Francis to sing or do some sort of a jig on the stage and the audience could usually be put into a good humour. In addition her speaking voice had a soothing effect and when she spoke a prologue the noisiest audience grew quiet. It was not so much that she was a good actress as that she was Dorothy Bland – or Francis as she had now become – with a carefree diffidence, a gaiety, an insouciance… who could say what it was? But whatever the description it was Dorothy – and the people liked it.

Is it those shapely legs? wondered Thomas Ryder, determined to get her into breeches parts as much as possible. Is it her singing voice? Her speaking voice? Her way of romping through a part as though she enjoyed it? Even a tragic role seemed less tragic in her hands. There was something about Dorothy which assured him that the day he had decided to let the young sister try where the elder one had failed had not been an unlucky one for him.

Dorothy – with Hester and the rest of the company – went to Waterford and Cork to play under Ryder’s management while Grace stayed behind in Dublin with the young children because her two daughters were earning enough to make this possible.

By the time she was back in Crow Street Dorothy had come to regard herself as a professional actress. The smell of tallow candles, the draught that blew in from the wings, the excitement of facing an audience and the gratifying ring of applause were a part of her life; and she asked for no other.

She had her friends – and enemies – in the company. Ryder was one of the best of the former; the latter were made up of those actors and actresses who were jealous of her popularity with audiences, those who declared that the young upstart took more than her share of the applause.

There were many ways in which they could make life burden-some; they could try to distract the audience’s attention from her; they could discuss her disparagingly in the Green Room; they could talk of her in the taverns as a girl who had achieved success through a fine pair of legs and hint at the reason for her favouritism with Ryder.

Dorothy could take these taunts better than Hester. In truth she enjoyed a fight, and the attitude of some of her fellow players increased her determination to succeed. She could retaliate by displaying her superior talents on the stage, by singing with more and more feeling, dancing with more and more verve. In those early days life was a battle – a gay and exciting one which seemed to offer certain success.

There was one man in the company who gave her a few twinges of fear. His name was Richard Daly and he was a swaggering braggart of a man – not a great actor but the opinion he had of himself made up for a lack of acting ability. There was a quality in him which made it impossible for anyone to be unaware of him. He was tall and well made; in fact he would have been extremely handsome but for the fact that he squinted. This squint added a diabolical touch which many declared to be entirely fascinating. He was constantly boasting of his successes with women and it was obvious that this was no idle boast. He was a real dandy – the most elegant man in the theatre and any casual observer would have thought he was the manager rather than Ryder. He was a great duellist, adept with sword and pistol; and he wore a diamond brooch in his coat with great pride because it had once saved his life. It seemed he had challenged a college acquaintance, Sir Jonah Barrington, to a duel – for what reason no one seemed sure – and Sir Jonah had fired first. The bullet would have gone through his heart but for the diamond brooch; in fact some of the gems had become embedded in his chest. He had had the brooch reset and wore it always that everyone might remember how ready he was to make a challenge and that he was Devil-May-Care Daly.

Daly was a gambler, and if his acting was not of the highest standard, having graduated from Trinity College, he was educated and could quickly memorize a part; moreover he had an excellent wardrobe of his own which was useful in business. Daly had no sooner joined the company than he began to dominate it.

He was a deeply sensual man and greater than his interest in gambling and duelling was his interest in women. There was not a woman in the company on whom he did not cast his speculative eye, and it was scarcely likely that Dorothy would escape.

He would waylay her on the way to her dressing room; he would bar her way almost playfully but she was aware of his brute strength and he wished her to be.

‘Dear Miss Francis, why in such a hurry?’

‘Dear Mr Daly, what concern is that of yours?’

‘All Miss Francis’s actions are a concern of mine.’

‘Then it’s more than Mr Daly’s are of mine.’

‘A kiss for a free passage.’

‘These passages are already free,’ she told him. ‘Or so I believe. I must verify this with Mr Ryder.’

A threat of course. Ryder had it in his power to dismiss Daly.

‘I am in no mood to take orders,’ he told her.

‘I know. You solve your problems with bullets. But don’t spoil that nice diamond brooch again.’

She would dodge past him with a derisive laugh; and he would laugh with her, but his eyes, as far as the squint would allow her to see, were smouldering.

He was the sort of man whom her mother would wish her to avoid. And I am in complete agreement with her, thought Dorothy.

But for the existence of Mrs Lyster, the leading female player in Ryder’s company, Dorothy might have been uneasy, for she sensed something evil in the man.

Mrs Lyster was a fine comic actress. Dorothy liked to stand in the wings and watch her perform for she had great talent and there was much to be learned from her. She had been a Miss Barsanti before her marriage to Mr Lyster who had recently died leaving her a comfortable income. Dorothy admired Mrs Lyster not only for her acting ability but for her poise and that comfortable and apparent sense of security which having an income apart from her theatrical earnings gave her.

There was someone else who admired Mrs Lyster and that was Richard Daly; and Mrs Lyster like so many women seemed to be completely fascinated by the man and not in the least revolted by his squint; on the contrary to find it an added attraction.

Daly’s interest in the widow did impede to some extent his pursuit of Dorothy, but in spite of the fact that everyone knew his intentions towards Mrs Lyster were serious and honourable (Dorothy, laughed at the word because it was clearly Mrs Lyster’s income which made her so overwhelmingly attractive) he still turned that smouldering gaze on Dorothy.

She was repelled by it and yet excited. She had welcomed the opportunity to let him know that although most women found him irresistible, she did not. She was relieved however when Daly announced to the company his intention to marry Mrs Lyster.

The wedding was celebrated by a party back stage, which Dorothy attended with the rest of the company. Mrs Daly was very proud of her swaggering squinting husband and, thought Dorothy, welcome to him.

The bridegroom had a word or two with her.

‘I’m disappointed in you,’ he told her. ‘I’d hoped to find you heart-broken.’

‘Although I condole with the bride,’ retorted Dorothy, ‘I can hardly be expected to break my heart for her.’

‘And what of the bridegroom?’

‘He’s a man who will know how to look after himself, I don’t doubt.’

‘True, Miss Francis. I know a wise woman like you would recognize in him a man who won’t be denied what he wants.’

‘I am sure Mrs Daly will be able to satisfy all his needs.’

With that Dorothy turned away. In spite of her mockery, he disturbed her.

Shortly after the wedding Ryder told her that he had had to relinquish the lease of the Smock Alley theatre.

‘What will that mean?’ asked Dorothy. ‘If someone else takes it they’ll set up in opposition to Crow Street.’

‘It means exactly that. But I can’t pay the rent just to stop someone else opening up.’

‘But two theatres can’t be filled. You know how hard it is to fill one.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m in debt to the tune of thousands of pounds and the owners have offered to waive the debt if I give up the lease. There’s nothing I can do but give it up. It may be that they’ll use the building for something other than the theatre. I can tell you this, it will be a great weight off my mind and off my pocket to be rid of the place.’

The deal went through and Ryder was more at ease than he had been for a long time. Richard Daly was strutting about the theatre as though he were premier actor, manager and owner of the place. He was clearly delighted with his marriage.

Dorothy heard the news through Ryder.

‘Who do you think has taken over Smock Alley? Richard Daly! And he’s going to open up in opposition.’

In the stalls every night sat a young soldier. There were many soldiers in Dublin who came regularly to the theatre but there was something persistent about this one and very soon the company was referring to him as Francis’s admirer.

He was very young – scarcely good-looking, but extremely earnest; and there was no doubt that he was in love.

Flowers and gifts were arriving back-stage for Dorothy and at length she consented to see the young man. She could not help being touched by his naîvety. On the first meeting he proposed marriage.

Very soon Dorothy took him to the family’s lodgings where Grace eagerly studied him. Dorothy was amused because her mother’s dearest wish to see her married was becoming more of an obsession. ‘You are doing well now,’ she would say, ‘but never forget that the life of an actress is a precarious one. The public can drop you as quickly as it takes you up. Look what a private income did for Mrs Lyster.’

‘It bought Richard Daly,’ mocked Dorothy.

‘I don’t mean that. He’ll doubtless run through her fortune for her.’

‘Not he. She’s too good a business woman and he too good a business man for that to happen.’

‘Dorothy, you must learn to be a business woman.’

‘Very well. I’ll start taking lessons.’

‘But best of all is a rich husband to take care of you,’ affirmed Grace. ‘We must find out more about Charles Doyne.’

Dear Charles, he was so young and so much in love! She was sure she could be quite happy married to him. He would never interfere with her career, and it would be pleasant to have a constant admirer. She had to admit that she was not deeply in love with the young man though she liked him well enough, and the more she compared him with Richard Daly the more she liked him. Though why she could compare him with that man seemed irrelevant. What was important was that he would be a docile husband, and there would be children. She had discovered in herself a great desire to have children. It was not that she was so fond of other people’s children; it was those of her own which she wanted. And one of her mother’s most constant fears was that – as in her own case – there might be children without marriage.

Grace was making inquiries. A cornet in the Second Regiment of Horse. A cornet! What did Dorothy think they were paid? The young man was of good family though, his father being Dean of Leighlin, but Grace knew how such families viewed the marriages of their sons with actresses. She must consider with extreme caution.

It was Grace who discovered that Doyne’s income was of the smallest and so was his pay; his family might be good but they were not wealthy and it was clear that the couple would get no support from them.

‘I can continue acting,’ pointed out Dorothy, ‘and we shall be much in the same position as before.’

‘There is the family to be supported and what if you started a family of your own? No, my dear, I see nothing but a life of drudgery. Consider this very carefully. Fortunately you are not in love with the young man.’

No, conceded Dorothy, that was true. And a rising actress did not accept marriage from an impecunious young man merely because she wanted legitimate children. Hester joined her voice to Grace’s and since Charles Doyne was too meek to be a persistent suitor and Dorothy herself could view the relationship from the most practical of viewpoints, she quietly told him that she could not accept his proposal.

Young Charles was desolate and when the company went on tour he made the most of his leave to follow it to Waterford in the hope that Dorothy would change her mind. But she was firm in her resolve and this was strengthened by the fact that the opening of Smock Alley had taken so much business from Ryder that he was forced to cut salaries.

‘Business,’ he said mournfully, ‘is bad. We’re playing to empty houses. Most of it’s going to Smock Alley.’

Ryder grudgingly accepted the fact that Daly was a good business man and with his wife’s money behind him a formidable rival.

It was clearly no time for an insecure actress with family responsibilities to consider marrying a young man who had little beyond his pay as a comet in a regiment of horse.

Dorothy was firm, and accepting defeat Charles Doyne began to look elsewhere for a wife.

Another cut in salary. Dorothy was getting worried. Grace said: ‘I don’t know how we’ll manage. The public is deserting Crow Street for Smock Alley every night. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before. People like something new. And they say that Daly has engaged John Kemble.’

‘How will he be able to pay his salary?’ pondered Hester.

‘Daly was wise,’ replied Grace. ‘He married a woman who could not only help to fill his theatre by her own performances but could pay for those of others. He’s a very clever gentleman. He’ll go up and the more he rises the lower will Tom Ryder fall.’

‘It’s a gloomy prospect,’ agreed Dorothy. She hated playing to half empty houses almost as much as receiving a small salary, but it was no use complaining to Tom Ryder, for what could he do?

While they were discussing the state of affairs a young boy arrived with a note for Miss Dorothy Francis.

Grace, recognizing whence the boy came, could scarcely suppress her excitement.

Dorothy opened it and read that Richard Daly requested the favour of a visit from Miss Dorothy Francis to his office at the Smock Alley Theatre that afternoon as he had a proposition to put before her.

Grace and Hester could not hide their delight which was mostly relief. Here was a way out of their troubles for there could be no doubt what that note meant. One of the remaining draws at Crow Street was Dorothy Francis and Daly wanted her at Smock Alley.

Dorothy hesitated while her mother and sister looked at her in astonishment.

‘Don’t you know what it means?’ demanded Hester.

‘Of course I know what it means.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

‘Tom Ryder gave me my chance.’

‘He would be the first to say Go. Besides we can’t live on what he’s paying you.’

‘And then…’

‘Then what for Heaven’s sake?’

‘With Mrs Daly in the company what parts should I get?’

‘Nonsense. They’re in business. They’re going to give the parts to the actress the public wants to see in them. You’ve got to go and see him.’

‘I’ll see Tom first.’

Grace lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Sometimes she thought Dorothy’s heart would rule her head; but Hester thought Dorothy would make the right decision because always she considered her duty to her family before anything else.

Tom Ryder regarded her sadly.

‘You’ve got to go, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Crow Street will be closing down if we go on like this. I said there wasn’t room for the two of us, didn’t I?’

‘I shall never forget what you did for me.’

‘All in a matter of business, my dear. And that’s what you must consider. If you don’t accept this offer now, there might not be another. The profession was never a bed of roses.’

So she saw that she must go. She had been hoping all the time that they would persuade her against this.

Daly! She could not get that sly lecherous face out of her mind. She had in a way enjoyed their encounters in Crow Street; it would be different in Smock Alley where he would be something more than a fellow performer.

In Smock Alley she would be to some extent in his power. On him she would depend for parts and salary.

It was a challenge, but a disturbing one.

Moreover, there was the family to consider.

Tragedy in Smock Alley

DALY RECEIVED HER with a mixture of effusiveness and mockery.

So she wanted to come to Smock Alley. He had thought she would. He would pay her three pounds a week as he was paying Kemble only five. What did she think of that?

‘It is what I expect,’ she told him.

‘Then I am delighted to satisfy your expectations. I hope you will satisfy mine.’

‘I have not quite decided whether I wish to come.’

‘Not for a chance to play opposite Kemble for three pounds a week?’

‘Ryder gave me my first chance.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, girl. This is the serious business of the theatre. There’s no room for sentiment.’

‘I happen not to agree.’

‘That’s what I like about you, Dorothy. You always make me convince you.’

‘You have never yet succeeded in convincing me on anything.’

‘That’s to come,’ he promised.

Mrs Daly appeared. He said: ‘My dear, Miss Francis wants to come to Smock Alley.’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Daly. ‘Crow Street can’t hold out much longer.’

Mrs Daly was a satisfying presence. Daly was not so much in awe of her as of her money and she was wise enough to keep a firm hold on the purse strings which was the only way of keeping a firm hold on Daly.

It will be all right, Dorothy assured herself. There’s always Mrs Daly.

Grace was delighted. What a good move it had been over to Smock Alley! Dorothy was now getting her chance and her reputation had grown considerably.

True to his word Daly had given her some good parts.

Walpole’s successful Gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto, had been dramatized under the title of The Count of Narbonne and it was played with Kemble in the main part and Dorothy as Adelaide, Dublin flocked to see it and theatregoers were all talking of the brilliant young Miss Francis.

One evening when she came offstage flushed with triumph Daly sent for her to come to his office where she found him alone.

‘Well,’ he demanded. ‘Ryder didn’t know how to treat his actresses. It’s not the same with Daly. Grateful?’

‘Grateful indeed for a chance of a good part.’

He put a hand on her shoulder; it was a habit of his to lay his hands on female members of his company when he was near them. Dorothy tried to shrug him off without appearing to do so; but he smiled fully aware of her intentions.

‘You don’t show your gratitude,’ he complained.

‘I have thanked you. What more do you expect?’

‘A great deal more.’

‘What more can an actress give than to play a part well.’

‘There are many parts to be played, Dorothy my dear; and if you wish to succeed you must play them all with skill.’

‘I hope you have some good ones for me,’ she said lightly.

‘Excellent ones, my love. And because you are wise as well as devilishly attractive you will play them magnificently.’

‘I shall do my best; and now I will say good night.’

She had turned, but he was between her and the door.

‘I did not send for you to receive a mild “Thank you for giving me a good part, sir.” ’

‘Then what?’ she said.

He seized her by the shoulders. The strength of the man alarmed her.

‘Kiss me to start with,’ he said.

She turned her face away. ‘The prospect does not enchant me.’

She was bent backwards so violently that she cried out in pain. He laughed and forcibly kissed her lips.

She struggled and tried to grip his hair but she was powerless against him.

She gasped: ‘I hear footsteps. They sound like Mrs Daly’s.’

He held her, listening. Indeed there were footsteps. She was not sure that they were Mrs Daly’s; nor was he; and he could not afford to be unsure. She took her opportunity to throw him off and in a moment she had opened the door and was gone.

She was shaken. It was not unexpected. If it were not for the presence of Mrs Daly in the theatre she would be in real danger.

Her great chance to show her talents had come. Only in Smock Alley could she do so. If she left where could she go? There was nowhere else. To England? Could an actress – unknown in that country – hope to get a chance? She saw penury ahead; the entire family in acute poverty.

She was between that and the unwelcome attentions of Richard Daly. Never had her prospects as an actress been brighter; never had her reputation been in greater danger. In Smock Alley she could be seen by English managers, perhaps even London managers. She must stay in Smock Alley until she had enough fame to carry her elsewhere. And she could only do this if Daly permitted it. But what did keeping his good will entail?

She wanted to discuss this with Grace and Hester, but what was there to discuss? Grace would be terrified; it was the sort of situation which she had always feared, and what advice could she give? It was either leave and start again in the hope of getting employment – and where? – or remain and fight Daly.

There was no point in discussing it. It was a clear-cut case.

The brightest aspect of the affair was the presence of Mrs Daly. Dorothy staked her chances of victory on that lady.

In the office at the Smock Alley Theatre Mr and Mrs Daly were quarrelling.

‘I’ll not have you seducing every female member of the company,’ she declared.

‘Now, my dear, that is an exaggeration.’

‘All right. I’ll not have you seducing one member of the company.’

‘It is nothing. I must keep on friendly terms with the actresses. You know how temperamental they are. One has to flatter them all the time.’

‘You leave the flattering to me.’

‘My dearest, you are the cleverest woman in the world, but you are wrong in this case. I never give a thought to any woman but you.’

‘You’d do well to keep like that.’

He sighed. Without Mrs Daly he could really enjoy life. Business was tolerably good; Kemble was bringing them in and so was Dorothy. He had some good female parts to dispose of and, good business woman that Mrs Daly was, she had not always objected to their going to Dorothy, providing she herself had a better one – or at least as good. She had not put money into this venture to remain out of sight. The Smock Alley Theatre was to make money for them both and fame for herself. It was not asking too much, for even her greatest enemy would agree that she was a good actress.

She had continually to watch Richard; he simply could not leave women alone. Only the other day she had heard the mother of a young Italian Jewess demanding that he stop pressing his attentions on her daughter. ‘What do you want with my daughter?’ she had asked. ‘You have a fine wife of your own.’

It was humiliating and embarrassing; but in her opinion Richard was so attractive that most of the actresses must find him irresistible.

His power to dismiss them was certainly proving effective and it was whispered in the Green Room that there was scarcely a woman in the company who had not yielded to him. There was one, however, who constantly evaded his advances and this exasperated him beyond endurance. Did she think she was such a draw that she could afford to flout him? He was determined to show her that he would not be flouted; and as the days passed he could think of little but Dorothy and was determined to make her his mistress sooner or later.

He pretended to change his tactics, laughingly accepting her refusal to become his secret mistress. The relationship between them was to be manager and actress; and he hoped, he implied, one of friendship. He appreciated her talents, and whenever he could without alienating Mrs Daly he would give her the best parts.

Kemble was one of the greatest actors she had known and it was an education to play with him; it was not that she wanted spectacular parts as much as a chance to learn; Kemble was a good teacher. Delightedly she played Anne to his Richard Ill; she was given Maria in The School for Scandal – not as important a part as Lady Teazle but a good one nevertheless; she was Katharine in The Taming of the Shrew with Kemble a stimulating Petruchio. And she was happier than she had been for some time because she believed that Daly had at last accepted her persistent refusal to accept his advances. She was constantly hearing of the seduction of this and that small player and Mrs Daly’s jealousy. Let them, she thought. It has nothing to do with me. I’m becoming a great actress and one day I shall play comedy all the time and shall succeed in convincing managers that what the public like from me is a song and a dance.

She was certain now that she had done the right thing in coming over to Smock Alley.

One day life changed dramatically. It was after the performance and she was about to return to her lodgings; as she came out into one of the corridors of that warren which was Smock Alley Theatre she heard her name called faintly. She paused. She did not recognize the voice but it sounded like one of the young girl players.

‘Miss Francis… oh… come quickly… up in the attic…’

She hurried up the narrow stairs to the top of the building.

‘Miss Francis…’

She opened the door of the attic; it was dark inside.

She called. ‘Who is it? Where are you? Wait… I’ll get a candle.’

She heard the sound of a key turning in a lock; and there was a chuckle from behind; she was seized in a powerful pair of arms.

She knew immediately. What a fool! she thought. Of course he could imitate one of the girls. He was enough of an actor for that.

‘Dorothy, you idiot,’ said Daly. ‘How long did you think you could say No to me?’

‘Let me go immediately.’

‘All in good time.’

‘Mrs Daly…’

‘Is not in the theatre tonight.’

‘You’re a devil.’

‘I don’t deny it.’

He was laughing as she hit out at him. She shouted and screamed, but he laughed. ‘No one can hear.’

‘I… I’ll kill you.’

‘You can try. Most of them want to smother me with their caresses.’

‘I will never, never do that.’

‘In time you will. Go on. Kick… scream. I like it. It’s a novelty… and it’s all useless.’

She fought until she was exhausted, but he was the stronger. Crying with rage, frustration and shame she was forced to submit to rape.

She crept into her bedroom. Thank God she did not have to share with Hester or Grace for if she had, how could she have kept this hideous secret? Her clothes were torn, her body bruised and battered, and she herself was bitterly humiliated.

She should have known. All that care she had taken in the beginning and then to be lulled into security, and caught like that. She would never forget; she would go on remembering every nauseating second.

And he had laughed triumphantly, knowing all the time that he would win.

What could she do?

Her impulse was to pack and leave. But how could she explain the reason to her mother? She pictured Grace’s terror. It was what she feared would happen to her daughters – only even she had not thought of rape.

I hate him, she thought. He’s a devil.

She wished she could stop thinking of it. The darkness of the attic, the losing battle virtue and decency had fought against brutal and bestial strength.

What chance had she had?

She could not stop thinking of him, brooding on him, hating him and yet… she would not admit it. She was not fascinated by him. She was not one of those silly little girls who were ready to run when he beckoned.

‘I hate him,’ she said aloud.

But what could she do? She took off her clothes and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. She could go into her mother’s room now and say, ‘We are leaving in the morning. I shall never go into Daly’s theatre again.’ She thought of the parts he had given her, playing opposite Kemble, and giving all that up. For what? To start again in England? Where? And who would give her a chance?

Time was what she needed. Time to think about the right course of action.

I have not only myself to consider, she reminded herself.

She saw him the next day and scornfully turned her head away.

‘Don’t be despondent, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange another little rape for you very very soon.’

‘You’re loathsome,’ she cried.

‘I know.’

‘I wish I’d never seen you.’

‘My dear Dorothy hates me so vehemently that it’s almost love.’ he said.

She turned away, suppressing a great inclination to burst into tears.

She was careful never to be alone with him; but he was constantly in her thoughts. It must be so, she told herself, because she must be continually on the alert against him.

Once or twice when by some mischance he encountered her alone he would ask her to step up once more to their attic.

‘Never,’ she retorted, ‘and I am in a mind to tell Mrs Daly what has happened.’

‘She would believe you were very willing – in fact that you lured me there, for in common with every other woman in this theatre – including Miss Francis – she has a high opinion of my prowess in love.’

Dorothy turned away. There might be something in that, she had long decided. To have reported what had happened to Mrs Daly could well have meant her dismissal.

He was secretly amused because she had told no one of what had happened. That fact gave him confidence to proceed with his plans.

He ceased to pursue her. In fact he told her that he was sorry he had behaved as he had and he hoped the incident might not impair their friendship.

‘That which never existed could naturally not be impaired,’ she retorted.

And from that day she was no longer offered the best parts. She was not well known enough to insist; she was entirely in his hands; and naturally since she was not playing important parts she could not expect to continue with her salary of three guineas a week. It was promptly cut to two and, she was told ominously, even that was more than the parts warranted.

Grace was bewildered. What had happened? Dorothy had been doing so well. Why had it suddenly been decided that she should be given such silly little parts? Grace began to worry. Were the Dalys displeased? It was difficult to balance the household accounts. Worrying made her ill and it was necessary to incur doctors’ bills. They were in debt.

‘You’re looking scarcely yourself, my dear,’ said Daly one day when she saw him alone. ‘I’m getting concerned about you. Mustn’t lose your bloom, you know. The audiences won’t like it.’

She tried to push past him but he detained her and said gently: ‘I hear that your mother has been ill. Is it doctors’ bills and invalid’s fare?’

‘My mother has been ill,’ she admitted.

‘In debt?’

‘It’s my affair.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. My actresses’ good looks are my affair. And I feel guilty. You haven’t been the same since our little adventure. You worry too much. I’m sorry. I was under the impression it was what you wanted. I didn’t understand that you really meant what you said. Dorothy, will you accept a loan?’

She hesitated. She must find the money. And after all why shouldn’t he help?

‘I’d rather have my old parts back with my old salary.’

‘Have the loan first, settle your affairs… and then you’ll be able to concentrate on work.’

‘You owe it to me in any case,’ she said.

‘That’s the spirit. More like the old Dorothy. I’ll lend you a hundred pounds. You can pay me back when you’ve got it. Come to my office tomorrow and I’ll get it all signed and sealed.’

So she did and she paid the bills and she told Grace how kind Mr Daly had been. That cheered Grace considerably. ‘He must think highly of you, Dolly,’ she said. ‘I expect that wife of his is jealous.’

‘Jealous?’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘Why should she be jealous?’

‘Of your success, of course.’

Dorothy sighed. Grace must never know about that frightful scene in the attic.

A few weeks passed. True to his word Daly offered her a better part; her spirits rose. It was going to take a long time to pay off her debt but that would come.

Wherever she went she seemed to see Daly’s eyes upon her. She became alarmed because she knew that it was not true that he had lost his interest in her.

When the ultimatum came she was not unprepared for it. The kind Mr Daly disappeared and there was the rogue, whom she had learned so tragically how to distrust, with another proposition. He wanted her to come to him willingly this time; he had no intention of using physical force.

‘An anti-climax,’ he told her. ‘The first time… that was exhilarating. But we don’t want a repeat performance. I have rented a place for us; we will go there whenever I say and you will be pleased to come, my dear, I promise you.’

‘And I promise you that you can keep your little places for others.’

‘I’ve had a surfeit of others – by no means enough of Dorothy.’

‘You are insufferable.’

‘I know it. And you are fascinating. That is why I must go to such lengths to win you. For you are too cold, my dear. I could never abide frigid women. That’s something we must change – and I think we shall. I have a notion that that experience we shared was not as repulsive to you as you would like to delude me and yourself into believing.’

She turned away, but he caught her arm. ‘Don’t forget you owe me money. I can have you sent to the debtors’ prison.’

The debtors’ prison! The shadow which overhung the poor of every class! The descent into despair from which so often it was impossible to escape. He laughed to see her turn pale.

‘No need to be afraid, my dear. Be kind instead. It’s all I ask.’

‘You promised that you would allow me to pay you back by degrees.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘But…’

‘I want the money now. Don’t be a fool, Dorothy. You don’t have to pay your debt in cash.’

‘Oh… you are…’

‘Insufferable! You’ve already said it. Don’t repeat yourself, my dear. Shall we say after the theatre tonight? I’ll give you the address. It’s close by. Stop being Miss Prude. It doesn’t become you because you’re not, you know. You were meant to enjoy life and by God you shall. You be there tonight, kind and loving, and I promise you you’ll have no fear of either debtors’ prisons or small parts. You’ll come well out of this, Dorothy, my dear. All you have to remember is that it does not pay to flout the manager.’

He gave her an affectionate little push. He was sure of success.

Dorothy walked away blankly.

What could she do? Run away with the family. Where to? Grace was not fully recovered. This would kill her.

Whereas if she gave way Grace would know nothing… She would get her big parts back…

What can I do? she asked herself.

From that day she became Daly’s mistress.

There was a clever likely lass,

Just come to town from Glo’ster;

And she did get her livelihood

By crying Melton Oysters.

She bore her basket on her head

In the genteelest posture.

And every day and every night

She cried her Melton Oysters.

And now she is a lady gay,

For Billingsgate has lost her

She goes to masquerades and Play,

No more cries Melton Oysters.

So sang Dorothy on the stage at Smock Alley and the audience roared its applause. It was not the banal words of the song nor the simple melody; it was Dorothy Francis, small, dainty, provocative, looking for all the world as though she might have carried a basket of oysters on her head at one time and now was the lady who went to masquerades and plays.

Now that she was getting better parts her fame was growing and on the nights when she appeared the theatre was full; when she sang one of her songs the audience would not let her go immediately after but insisted on several repeats.

There was no doubt of Dorothy’s popularity. Mrs Daly grumbled a little. ‘Must that young woman have all the best parts, Richard?’ ‘No, my dear, only those that wouldn’t become you. Dorothy’s a comedy actress. She lacks your dignity. Let her have the light-weight parts. You have the real drama.’ And Mrs Daly was not discontented with that. She had given up being jealous of Richard. It was well known that he was the lover of almost every personable young woman in the company, and she had grown tired of protesting about that. What she cared about was that the best parts should be reserved for her – and if that were so and the money came in, let Richard amuse himself.

The winter and spring had been a trying time for Dorothy. She despised herself and the position into which she had fallen; and her hatred of Daly, who had put her into it, was growing so intense that she felt she could not accept her position at Smock Alley for much longer.

As she lay in her bed in the room next to her mother’s and Hester’s she examined the possibility of departure. She had acquired some fame, but was it enough? Would they ever have heard of her across the Irish Channel?

Extreme poverty was something she could not face. Daly had refused to accept small payments for the loan and she knew that he intended to hold it over her. It was no generosity on his part; he liked to have women in his power particularly when they were good actresses as well as physically attractive to him.

So far she had managed to keep the affair secret from the others but could she hope to continue to do this? From a carefree tomboy she had become a woman of responsibilities. Had she had only herself to fend for everything would have been different. She thought longingly of the old days at Crow Street, and the more she thought the greater her hatred of Daly grew.

She had always been aware that something would have to be done. The question was what.

She knew that fate had decided for her when she made the alarming discovery that she was pregnant.

It could not remain hidden for much longer and Grace, ever watchful, made the discovery. She could not believe it – except that it was something she had always feared for her daughters.

Never had Dorothy’s hatred of Daly been so intense as it was when she saw the anguish in her mother’s face.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have a child. It’s Daly’s. He forced me in the first place and after that threatened me with the debtors’ prison.’

Grace wept bitterly. ‘You did it for us,’ she said. ‘For me and for the family.’

‘I could see no other way out and after that first occasion…’

She shuddered and Grace cried out: ‘Don’t go on. I understand, my dearest child. But this must stop. I can’t have you treated in this way.’

‘But what can we do? Where can we go? Don’t forget that now… there will be the child.’

Grace threw off her invalidism and became the courageous woman who had run away from a parsonage to seek her fortune on the stage. This was her daughter whose very devotion to the family had put her into this terrible position. Grace had always feared it but now that it had come she would face it boldly.

‘We must leave here at once,’ she said.

‘But where could we go?’

‘To Leeds,’ replied Grace promptly. ‘I was reading not long ago of Tate Wilkinson’s company. I once played Desdemona to his Othello. He couldn’t refuse help to an old friend.’

Dorothy was relieved. At last she was sharing her hideous secret; and her mother knew too much of theatrical life not to understand how it had happened.

She felt happier than she had for months.

Tate Wilkinson’s company

THERE WAS ENOUGH money to buy passages to Liverpool for the family and during the next few days they secretly made their preparations to leave. When the time of departure arrived they quietly slipped out of their lodgings and took ship to Liverpool; and from thence made their way to Leeds.

It was easy to discover the whereabouts of Tate Wilkinson for most people knew the manager of the theatrical company who had not long ago inherited theatres in York, Newcastle and Hull when his partner had died. He lodged at an inn near the theatre and Grace said they must lose no time in seeing him, for they had scarcely any money left and had not been able to bring all their clothes with them for fear of someone’s seeing them and reporting to Daly, who would legally have been able to stop them since Dorothy not only owed him money but was under contract to him.

When Tate Wilkinson heard that Mrs Grace Bland recently come from Dublin was asking to see him he remembered who she was at once. He would never forget that Othello in Dublin in the days when he had been a young and struggling actor.

He was kindly and as sentimental as most theatre folk so he received Grace warmly but was unprepared for the rest of the family.

He bade them be seated and when Grace told him that they had come from Dublin and that her daughter who had made a name in Ireland wanted to give her talents to the English, Wilkinson was dubious. He was like any other theatrical manager, always looking for talent; but if the young woman had been doing as well as her mother said why had they left Dublin? He was constantly being approached by impecunious actors and actresses for a chance, and he was after all a business man.

‘My daughter Dorothy is a first rate comedienne,’ declared Grace. ‘You should have seen her filling houses in Ireland. It was the same wherever she went…’

Wilkinson looked at the dejected and weary young woman, who did not look exactly like a comedienne.

He wanted to say he could do nothing, but there was the past connection with Grace and something about Dorothy, in spite of her listlessness, appealed to him. Perhaps she would recite something for him, he said. She replied that she was too tired and would prefer an audition actually on the stage in a few days’ time.

The mother was anxious; there was some mystery here, Wilkinson decided.

He sent for a bottle of Madeira wine and some food. The family, he noticed, ate heartily and while they did so he talked of the old days at the Dublin theatre; and of Grace’s sister, Miss Phillips, who was now playing with his York company.

He was studying Dorothy all the time and he mentioned that her aunt, Miss Phillips, had made an excellent job of the part of Callista in The Fair Penitent. Dorothy said she knew the part well and when, of her own accord, she started to recite some of the lines, Wilkinson was immediately aware of the quality of her melodious yet resonant voice and that she was undoubtedly an actress.

‘What is your particular line?’ he asked. ‘Tragedy, comedy or opera?’

‘All,’ she answered, to his astonishment.

Before they left the inn Wilkinson had agreed to sign Dorothy up and that her first part should be Callista in The Fair Penitent.

It had been an excellent idea to come to Leeds. Grace congratulated herself and in fact felt better than she had for a long time. The family needed her. When Dorothy was in trouble she turned to her mother and it was Grace who had found the solution to their troubles.

Wilkinson could only offer Dorothy fifteen shillings a week to start. It was a fair salary for an unknown actress and she had her way to make in England, but it was very different from the three guineas she had received with Daly. But peace of mind goes with it, said Dorothy with her usual optimism.

Peace of mind, yes, thought Grace. Provided Daly did not discover where they were and sue for breach of contract, which Grace would be the first to admit he had a perfect right to do, the scoundrel.

Remembering that it was her singing which had brought her the warm appreciation of audiences in Dublin, Dorothy was eager to introduce a song at the end of the play.

Wilkinson was dubious. ‘Callista is dead. How can she spring forth and sing?’

‘It won’t be Callista. It will be Dorothy Francis. You’ll see. Please, I beg of you, give me a chance to do this. If it isn’t a success immediately I’ll stop it.’

‘Sing for me now,’ said Wilkinson, expecting a moderately good voice, for had it not been so she would not have wished to use it.

But when she sang Melton Oysters she won his instant approval. This young woman had all the gifts an actress needed for success – an exciting personality which was entirely individual; a trim figure, neat yet voluptuous; a face that while not beautiful was piquant, jaunty and irresistible when she smiled; a voice that made her rendering of her lines a joy to listen to; and in addition she could sing with such feeling, charm and sweetness that she must enchant all who heard her. He was beginning to be glad her mother had brought her to the inn that day. But why had they left Dublin? Why hadn’t some manager there determined to keep such a talented creature?

He had billed her as Dorothy Bland and she told him that that must be changed. She was Dorothy Francis. She was talking of this to Grace when she suddenly realized that if she made a success of a part it was not unlikely that Daly would hear of it; and he would then know where she was.

‘I must change my name at once,’ she declared. ‘Dorothy Francis must not appear on a play-bill that could fall into Daly’s hands.’

Grace agreed that this was so and Dorothy who had in this short time found that she could talk over her problems with Wilkinson went to see him.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘I am to have a child.’

His face fell. Actresses constantly became pregnant and usually did not manage to lose much working time because of this event, but he had not considered this would happen to Dorothy and that it was already about to was a shock. On the other hand it might explain her flight from Dublin, and if it were an emotional entanglement that was not so disturbing to him as a theatrical upheaval.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘In six months’ time.’

‘Six months… well, that gives us a little time.’

She was relieved. ‘I shall work up to the last minute. But I wish to change my name.’

He nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be a great difficulty.’

‘In the circumstances I prefer to be known as Mrs.’

‘Naturally. You don’t want Bland?’

‘No, my father’s people object to that.’

‘And you can’t be Phillips because of your aunt. We don’t want two actresses of that name. It could be confusing. I might call you Jordan because you’ve just crossed the river.’

He had spoken jocularly, but she said: ‘Mrs Jordan. Dorothy Jordan. That’s as good as any other.’

So from then she was known as Mrs Dorothy Jordan.

She was a success. No sooner had she appeared in a simple muslin dress and a mobcap and had sung The Greenwood Laddie than she knew she had made an excellent start. What did it matter that the tragic Callista had died? She was resurrected in the enchanting form of Dorothy Jordan, and she sang for them so delightfully that they would not let her stop in a hurry.

She stood accepting their acclaim. One of these days, she thought, I’ll play comedy; I’ll sing and dance; and I’ll refuse to play parts like Callista.

For the time, though, she would be glad of what she could get; and she could not believe that it was a short while ago that she had been planning her escape from the villainous Daly.

If that man did not exist, if she did not carry the fruit of his lechery within her, she could be completely happy. But she would be happy. Although the child had been forced on her she would love it when it came. As for her contract with Daly, she would do her best to forget it. Tate Wilkinson was pleased with her.

Life in the theatre had taught her not to expect too much, and while her success pleased the family and Mr Wilkinson it was not received so enthusiastically by some members of the company. Who is this Dorothy Jordan? some of the female members of the company wanted to know. Why should she appear from nowhere and suddenly take the best parts? How had she managed to win public approval? Wilkinson has done more for her than he ever did for us.

The old envies were beginning to rise.

‘The devil take them!’ cried Dorothy. ‘They’ll get as good as they give.’

‘Mrs Jordan,’ said Mrs Smith, one of the leading ladies who had not only a following with the public but a husband to substantiate her right to the title of Mrs. ‘Where is Mr Jordan then – for I’ll swear the woman’s pregnant!’

Mrs Smith herself was in that condition and, as she said, proud of it. One did wonder about Mrs Jordan who had appeared suddenly in their midst with her faintly Irish accent which some people seemed to find so fascinating, and her forward ways. And if she were pregnant that might account for her sudden appearance. She was running away from the scene of her shame with some tale of having recently become a widow. Or at least if she had not deigned to tell such a tale, it was what she implied.

Mrs Smith would stand in the wings while Dorothy was on stage and criticize her acting audibly. Dorothy laughed. She could always do the same for Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith imitated Dorothy and went round singing Melton Oysters and Greenwood Laddie; but her singing voice was not of the same calibre as Dorothy’s and this attempt was a failure. She talked to her friends of the poverty of Dorothy’s acting. Grace was furious and joined in the battle on behalf of her daughter. She would come to the theatre and groan whenever Mrs Smith appeared, demanding of all within earshot what the theatre was coming to when people like that were allowed to perform. Tate Wilkinson turned away from these battles, which were familiar enough in the theatre.

Meanwhile Dorothy had scored her greatest success to that time as Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. There was no doubt that this was the kind of part in which she excelled. Small and dainty with great vitality and a rare ability to clown she had the house shrieking with laughter. She followed that with Arionelli in The Son-in-Law; and the fact that she wore breeches and took this male part enhanced her reputation. Audiences wanted to laugh and Dorothy Jordan could make them do so. They wanted to see a fine pair of legs and she could offer these as well. No member of Tate Wilkinson’s company looked quite so well in male costume as Dorothy Jordan.

‘In a few months it will be different,’ said Mrs Smith gleefully. She was delighted because though Dorothy might be able to get ahead of her during her enforced absence Dorothy would have one of her own to follow, when she could be reduced to her proper place.

Wilkinson was not entirely displeased with this jealous bickering; he remarked to Cornelius Swan, the theatre critic, that he believed it kept the company on the alert. Mrs Smith was so eager to excel Mrs Jordan’s performance that she gave of her best – and the same thing applied to Mrs Jordan.

‘Mrs Jordan is a great little actress,’ said Cornelius Swan. ‘She wants a little coaching here and there; but I think if she had it she might make London.’

‘I prefer to keep her up North.’

‘Ah, but you can’t stand in her way, my good fellow. Give me an introduction to the lady. I want to tell her how I enjoyed her performance.’

‘And suggest a few improvements?’

‘There is usually room for improvement in any performance – even Mrs Jordan’s; and I think you may well agree that I am qualified to suggest where.’

So Wilkinson introduced Cornelius Swan to Dorothy and she found him entertaining. He told her that he had even criticized Garrick and advised him how he might improve his roles. Would she listen to him?

Dorothy replied that she would with pleasure for she felt she had much to learn; and although she might not always feel that she could take his advice she would always be pleased to listen to it.

This reply delighted the old man, who came constantly to the theatre and watched Dorothy’s progress with great interest and his notices of her performance were eulogistic with just the right flavouring of criticism to dispel any accusation of favouritism.

The friendship meant a great deal to Dorothy during those months. Her pregnancy was becoming irksome; she blamed herself for not confessing to her mother earlier and leaving Dublin before this happened. If after that humiliating experience she had left she would have been able to pursue her career without this added encumbrance, but by remaining and submitting to his blackmail she had not only burdened herself with his child but had destroyed her own self respect.

But it was not in her nature to look back and she must not do so now. Her excuse was that she had been young and inexperienced; and she had paid dearly for that inexperience.

The company was to play in York and when they arrived in that town a message awaited Grace from her sister Mary.

‘I trust, dear sister,’ wrote Mary, ‘that you will come in time. I long to see Dorothy. I have heard reports of her acting and she is going to be a credit to us.’

Grace and Dorothy and Hester went to Mary’s lodgings and when they arrived there were horrified to find that she was on her death bed.

Grace embraced her sister and wept, thinking of that day long ago when they had run away from their father’s parsonage, of all their ambitious dreams which had come to nothing… or very little.

Mary understood her thoughts. She grimaced. ‘Well, Grace, this is the end of me,’ she said. ‘But it was a good life and I’ve no regrets.’

Her eyes were on Dorothy. She held out a trembling hand to her. ‘See,’ she said. ‘It’s the drink. Don’t let it get the better of you, dear, I’ve heard of your performances. They’re shaking up some of the dear ladies, I can tell you. Never mind, my dear. You go in and beat the lot of them. She’s going to make it worthwhile, Grace. One day you’ll say you were glad you ran away because if you hadn’t there wouldn’t have been a Dorothy Jordan.’

‘You’re tiring yourself,’ said Grace.

‘What does it matter? I haven’t much longer in any case.’

Mary talked rapidly and excitedly of past triumphs, failures and her love of what she called the bottle which had been her downfall. ‘We all have our weaknesses. Don’t let yours interfere with your career, Dorothy. I ought to have worked harder. I might have done it then. But you’ll do it, Dorothy, I know it.’

She was like a grim prophetess lying back on her pillows, her feverish eyes fixed on her niece.

She died a few days after; but it was said that she seemed contented after she had seen Grace and her daughter. She left all she possessed to her niece Dorothy Jordan. It was mostly clothes and many of these were in pawn; but she had some fine costumes.

They were getting better off now. Dorothy had her fixed salary which Wilkinson had raised to twenty-three shillings. This was not riches, of course, but Dorothy was careful; and with the little Aunt Mary had left her she felt that she would be ready to give the coming child a good start in the world.

Cornelius Swan had followed the company to York because he was eager to see all of Dorothy’s performances. When Dorothy was feeling ill, which she was more and more frequently now, he would come to see her and sit by her bed going over some of her parts with her.

This passed the hours of enforced rest pleasantly enough; and they were a delight to the old man.

He said that she was like his adopted daughter and he had great plans for her future.

With her aunt’s prophecies and Cornelius’ interest Dorothy felt more and more ready to face the ordeal ahead. Mrs Smith’s unpleasantness could be borne, even when she tried to wreck Dorothy’s benefit.

All appeared to be going well but it seemed impossible to have too much good fortune; and it was her very success which was proving her downfall.

Daly’s letter reached her in York.

He had heard of her recent successes and knew where she was playing. She had deserted his company and so broken her contract and for this he demanded the immediate payment of £250. There was also a matter of an outstanding debt. He offered her three courses of action: she must return to Dublin and complete her contract with him; she must pay up what she owed; or she would be arrested at once and committed to a debtors’ prison.

Grace found her staring at the letter and taking it up read its contents with horror.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is the end of everything. We cannot fight this. We are trapped.’

Cornelius called at the lodgings. He was excited.

‘I have persuaded Wilkinson to revive Zara so that you can have the title role. You’ll need some coaching but I am prepared… But what’s wrong?’

Dorothy held out Daly’s letter. ‘I don’t think I shall be playing Zara or anything else,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought of running away. But where to? If I go on acting and make any sort of name he will find me. If I don’t, how can I live?’

‘Well, what are you planning to do?’ he asked.

‘I’m trying to make some plan.’

‘And didn’t it occur to you to consult me?’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘There is nothing to be done. I see it all clearly. From the day I set eyes on that man there was no hope for me.’

Cornelius laughed. ‘You forget, my dear, that I am not a poor man. You forget too my interest in you as my adopted daughter and one of our finest actresses. Daly shall have his money at once and that will be an end of the villain as far as you are concerned. I will send off the money without delay then we can continue with the serious business of rehearsing for Zara.’

It was like a great weight which had burdened her for a long time suddenly dropping from her. She was free. She need never wake in the night from a dream of a dark attic, and lecherous tentacles stretching out for her across the sea.

Her dear friend Cornelius Swan had severed the chains which bound her to that evil man.

She was free… almost, but not entirely.

She still had to bear his child.

One night when Dorothy was playing Priscilla Tomboy there was great excitement in the theatre because an actor from London had arrived in York to see the play.

It was stimulating to know he was there and Dorothy, free from menace for the first time for more than a year, gave a sparkling performance, after which Mr Smith – who was no relation to the envious actress of the same name – came back-stage to congratulate the performers and in particular Dorothy.

‘You have a genius for comedy, Mrs Jordan,’ he said. ‘By Gad, I never saw Tomboy better played.’

This was great praise indeed coming from an actor who played in Drury Lane and had won the approval of London audiences.

Mr Smith was known as ‘The Gentleman’ because of his exquisite manners – he followed the Prince of Wales in his dress, they said; and he certainly had an exquisite way of taking his snuff. He bowed with elegance and flattered most of the players, but Dorothy sensed that there was a certain sincerity in his praise for her. Why else should he be in the theatre every night she played? She was excited to know he was there, and was fully aware that when he was she played her best.

There were rumours throughout the theatre. Mr Sheridan had sent him up to look for talent. There was a chance that some of them would be invited to play in London. Covent Garden and Drury Lane were not an impossibility.

Wilkinson was a little dismayed. He did not want his big draws lured to London; he was particularly afraid of losing Mrs Jordan, for he had seen how interested The Gentleman was in her.

He raised Dorothy’s salary and said she should have another Benefit. Dorothy was delighted, but when Gentleman Smith returned to London and no offers came, he was forgotten.

While Mrs Smith was obliged to leave the theatre temporarily to give birth to her child, her parts fell to Dorothy who played them with a special verve and won great applause. She could not repress a certain malicious delight in picturing the incapacitated actress grinding her teeth wondering how much progress the Jordan was making during her absence. ‘Hers will come,’ declared Mrs Smith delightedly.

And in due course Dorothy retired from the stage to give birth to her child. It was a healthy girl and she called her Frances.

Mrs Smith had been working hard during Dorothy’s absence – both in the theatre and out. The company had gone to Hull where Dorothy would play her first part since her confinement. ‘Return of Mrs Jordan after a six weeks’ absence,’ ran the play bills, but Mrs Smith was determined that her rival was to have a cool reception.

Through friends in Hull she made the acquaintance of some of the leading citizens, and in the seclusion of their houses to which the famous actress was asked as a welcome guest she spoke of ‘that creature Jordan. A loose woman if ever there was one.’ She did not think that gentlemen of Hull would wish their wives and daughters to see her perform if they knew the whole story. It was nauseating. The creature had been absent to give birth to a bastard – father unknown. Such was their Mrs Jordan!

The ladies were duly shocked and declared their intention of staying away from The Fair Penitent in which Mrs Jordan was playing the part she had made famous – that of Callista.

Some, however, were determined to make their disapproval known.

Dorothy, who during her enforced absence had been longing to return to the stage, was immediately aware of the attitude of her audience. They were hostile. She had never before played before such a house.

They seemed to have come to the theatre for anything but to see the play and when they should have been spellbound they chatted and laughed together. What has happened? wondered Dorothy. Can it be that I have lost the gift of holding an audience?

The play was a disaster. When she died they applauded derisively. She caught sight of Mrs Smith’s delighted face in the wings and guessed she had helped to bring about this fiasco. Could she have carried her enmity to this degree? Yes, because people had crowded into the theatre to see Dorothy in those roles which Mrs Smith had reckoned to be entirely hers.

Mortified, she changed into her simple gown and mob cap. Greenwood Laddie had never failed to charm them, yet it did on that night, and her voice could not be heard above the hissing and boos.

The curtain came down. It was disaster. For the first time Dorothy Jordan had failed to please an audience.

There was a knock on the door. It was one of the male actors.

‘Oh,’ he stammered. ‘I thought I’d look in.’

‘Why?’ demanded Dorothy.

‘Tonight… You shouldn’t let it worry you. You know who’s responsible, don’t you? It’s that confounded jealous woman. I could wring her neck.’

He was moderately good-looking and a moderately good actor. She had always liked George Inchbald. He had shown her little acts of kindness often but tonight she felt drawn towards him because after her recent humiliation she was in need of comfort.

‘You don’t want to take any notice of it, Dorothy. It was arranged… deliberately.’

‘Do you think so, George?’

‘I know it. Why, she has been talking of nothing else for days. I’ve heard all the whispering in corners.’

‘How can she be so malicious?’

‘Because you’re a better actress than she is and because she’s jealous.’

She knew it, but it was comforting to hear George say it.

‘Ignore it,’ advised George. ‘Go on playing as though you don’t notice it.’

‘Don’t notice what happened tonight!’

‘Well, go on playing then. She can’t go on turning them against you. They come to see a play well played and nobody can play better than you.’

‘Oh, George…’ She held out her hand and he took it suddenly and kissed it.

She felt then that something good had come out of this unhappy night.

George Inchbald was right. That night had been an isolated incident. The citizens of Hull wanted to see Dorothy Jordan in her parts and when she wore male attire no one was going to boo her off the stage. They liked to hear her sing; and in fact preferred her performances to those of Mrs Smith.

Tate Wilkinson sighed over the tantrums of his company and deplored the fall in takings which had resulted from the absences from the stage of his two chief female players; but there was no doubt that Dorothy was a draw and all Mrs Smith’s malice could not alter that.

As for Dorothy she was more light-hearted than she had been for a long time. Every morning when she awoke she remembered that Daly no longer had any power to harm her; that in itself was the greatest blessing she could think of. Young Frances was well and Grace enjoyed looking after her. Hester was playing small parts and growing into a tolerably good actress. There was an occasional part for Francis, the eldest of the boys. At last she was no longer worried about money; and she had given the clothes her baby had worn to a hospital for the use of some poor mother. In her desire to show her gratitude for her changed position she added several layettes to the one she had used and gave these too, for she would never forget her fears when she had believed herself to be in debt to Richard Daly. It was a sort of thanks offering for deliverance.

So she was light-hearted and George Inchbald was an attractive young man. They fell in love.

Grace was pleased; there was nothing she wanted so much as to see her daughter settled with a man to look after her and help shoulder responsibilities. She could have hoped that Dorothy might have made a brilliant match but as she said to Hester, it was not marriage rich men were after; and she thought Dorothy ought to be married. Little Frances wanted a father, and George Inchbald would do well enough.

George’s stepmother, Mrs Elizabeth Inchbald, a novelist, playwright and herself an actress, believed that it would be a good match for she had a high opinion of Dorothy and thought her singing and speaking voices charming, though, she had pointed out, she had a faint Irish accent but that would disappear in time. So there would be no difficulty between the families.

Marriage, thought Dorothy. Yes, she did want it. Sometimes she asked herself, Was it George she wanted as much as marriage? She longed for her mother to be satisfied; she wanted no more anxiety, and she was still smarting under the rumours Mrs Smith had spread of the immoral life she led.

Dorothy wanted respectability and she saw it in George Inchbald.

Gentleman Smith came again to the theatre, bringing with him an air of elegance from London. He talked knowledgeably of what was going on there. Names like Sarah Siddons and Richard Sheridan crept into the conversation. He spoke knowingly of the affair between the Prince of Wales and Mrs Robinson which had ended in such a burst of scandal. The whole of the company could not hear enough of gay London society and there was not one member of the company who did not hope that Gentleman Smith would go back to London and report that he – or she – deserved to play in Drury Lane or Covent Garden.

But everyone knew that Gentleman Smith was more interested in Mrs Jordan than in anyone else.

‘She has the quality,’ he had been heard to say. ‘It’s indefinable… but it’s there.’

The envy of the women players was as evident as ever, but as Dorothy’s position grew stronger it had less effect on her.

George Inchbald would call at the lodgings and talk for hours to the whole family of what would happen if Dorothy was invited to play in London. It would make all the difference, he said. To continue to play in the provinces was death to an actor or actress. There was no chance really; and they had to be noticed before they were too old.

‘He is on the point of proposing,’ said Grace after he had left. ‘He thinks you’re going to London, Dorothy, and he’s afraid that he’s going to lose you.’

‘And he always speaks as though when you go he’ll be with you,’ pointed out Hester.

‘He’d be a good husband,’ put in Grace almost pleadingly. ‘Quite serious… and reliable.’

Yes, thought Dorothy, serious and reliable; a good husband for her and a father for Frances.

Gentleman Smith went back to London. Almost daily Dorothy waited for a message, but none came.

If I were going to be asked, she thought, I should have been by now.

It was some time before she noticed that George’s visits to the lodgings were less frequent. She saw him often in the theatre as a matter of course, but he did not seem to be waiting for her when she came off to give her the usual congratulations.

Grace invited him to supper and he accepted with pleasure; and during that evening Dorothy realized what his devotion had been worth, for he talked of the precarious existence of stage folk, who could never be sure of financial security. He hinted that he believed it would be folly for impecunious actors and actresses to marry. How could they be sure when their playing would not separate them? But chiefly how could they be sure that they would keep a roof over their heads? It did not seem to him wise to bring children into such an uneasy existence.

Dorothy understood.

He was telling her that while he had considered marrying an actress who had a chance of a London success, he did not want to unite himself with one who was a provincial player.

When he had gone she gave vent to her temper.

‘That is an end of Mr George Inchbald!’ she cried. ‘Reliable… oh, very! Reliable in his desire for a wife who can bring home a good salary. Serious in his intentions! Oh, yes. In his intentions to marry a woman with money! Men!’ she went on: ‘They are all alike. I have not linked myself with one so far. That has been wise of me. I shall go on in that way.’

And she was not sorry, for she had never had more than an affection for him.

‘I shall have to be besottedly in love,’ she told Grace, ‘before I consider sharing my life with a man.’

It was Grace who was heart-broken. The longing to see Dorothy respectably married was the dearest wish of her life.

The next three years passed quickly. Dorothy devoted herself absolutely to the theatre, Cornelius Swan coached her and she was never too sure of her own ability not to learn from others. Her spontaneous generosity brought her the friendship of beginners; her talents brought her the envy of her rivals; she was careless of their enmity and devoted herself to her family.

Then one day the letter arrived. Dorothy could scarcely believe that she was being offered a chance to go to London and appear at Drury Lane that autumn.

She called to her mother and Hester. ‘Read this,’ she cried. ‘Read this. Tell me that I’m not dreaming.’

Grace snatched the letter from Hester; they read it, their cheeks flushed, their eyes round.

At last – the great chance. Gentleman Smith had not failed them.

The news spread rapidly through the theatre. Dorothy Jordan is going to Drury Lane. Those jealous actresses, Mrs Smith and Robinson, ground their teeth in fury, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were sure Mr Sheridan would be unmoved if they tried to pass on to him news of Dorothy’s scandalous life. What scandals could a provincial actress hope to create to compare with those which circulated about him? Dorothy was going. In spite of them she was the one who had been given the great chance. She was to act in the same theatre as the great Sarah Siddons.

It was unfair; it was favouritism; it was intolerable; but there was nothing they could do about it.

Tate Wilkinson grumbled. ‘No sooner do I train an actress and make her of some use to me than I lose her.’

Grace tried to put a sympathetic façade over her elation.

‘She’ll never forget what you did for her,’ she soothed. She believed that Tate Wilkinson’s reward would be posterity’s gratitude to the man who had helped Dorothy Jordan when she most needed it.

Dorothy could think of nothing but her London début; she played indifferently; she even forgot her lines.

‘My God,’ cried Mrs Smith. ‘Is this our London actress?’

George Inchbald came to offer his congratulations, his eyes alight with speculation. Dorothy received him coldly. ‘When I’m in London, George,’ she said, ‘I shall think of you playing in Leeds and Hull and York.’

He flinched; but he told himself an offer to play in London did not necessarily mean an actress’s fortune was made.

Dorothy dismissed him from her mind. She could not wait for the summer to be over.

She was in her dressing room preparing to play Patrick in The Poor Soldier when Tate Wilkinson came in.

‘There’s a distinguished visitor in the theatre tonight,’ he told her,

‘Oh?’

‘The great Siddons herself.’

Dorothy felt as she had never felt in the theatre before: nervous. The great Sarah had surely come to see her because she would know that in a short time they would be playing together in Drury Lane. It couldn’t be that Sarah would regard her as a rival – scarcely that – but all actresses were uneasy when someone younger and reputed to be very talented was about to share their audiences.

‘You’ll be all right,’ said Wilkinson.

When he left her she studied her reflection in the glass. She looked really scared. She would be all right once she trod the boards. She was actress enough for that.

But she could not forget that everything depended on what happened at Drury Lane. And Sarah Siddons, at this moment, was seated regally in her balcony box over the stage, come to pass judgement.

Dorothy played for the statuesque woman in the box which was poised above the stage – a place of honour for Sarah – but it was not one of her best performances. It was not the way to play. One did not act to impress. One forgot an audience when on the stage; one became the part which was the only way to play it. But who could forget Sarah? Sarah herself had no intention that anyone should.

The eldest daughter of Robert Kemble had acting in her blood. She was the Queen of the Drama and she intended to keep the crown until she died.

She was some thirty years old and had appeared at Drury Lane when she was seventeen and David Garrick had been the actor-manager, so she was not going to be easily impressed by the performance of a provincial player. And she made it quite clear that she was not.

When the performance was over she was escorted back-stage with the ceremony of royalty – for the part she played off-stage was that of a queen – and asked for her opinion of Mrs Jordan’s performance.

‘Since it is asked,’ said Mrs Siddons, pronouncing her words clearly as though to reach the back of the house, and striking the pose of a seer, ‘I will give my considered opinion.’ She never used one word when six would fit the same purpose. ‘I have come to a conclusion while watching this performance and it is this: Mrs Jordan would be well advised to remain in the provinces rather than to venture on to the London stage at Drury Lane.’

It was what Dorothy’s enemies had wanted to hear.

Dorothy herself laughed. Nothing Mrs Siddons could say could stop her. She was under contract now. It had been signed by Richard Brinsley Sheridan himself together with his business partners Thomas Linley and Dr James Ford. With such a contract in her pocket should she care for the attempts of any actress – even Sarah Siddons herself – to undermine her?

‘The woman’s jealous!’ declared Grace.

And although it seemed incredible that the Queen of Drury Lane could be envious of a little provincial actress as yet untried, Dorothy liked to believe this was so. After all she was some seven or eight years younger than the great tragedienne; and although Sarah was one of the most handsome women she had ever seen there was something forbidding about her.

In any case, what was the use of brooding?

She was going to Drury Lane to seek her fortune.

And that September she left the North for London, taking with her her mother, Hester, her daughter Frances and brother Francis. The rest of the children went to Aunt Blanche in Wales; but Dorothy would support the whole family on the wages she was to receive in her new position.

Début at Drury Lane

LONDON DELIGHTED AND fascinated. Dorothy knew as soon as she set eyes on it that it was here she wanted to stay. The bustling streets with their noisy people who shouted and laughed and seemed bent on enjoyment were full of life; and the carriages, the sedans with their exquisitely dressed occupants, powdered and patched, their faces made charming and sometimes grotesque with rouge and white lead were in great contrast to the beggars who whined in the alleys and the street traders calling their wares. Here was the lavender seller thrusting the sweet-smelling branches under the noses of passers by; the piemen offering to toss for a pie; the shoe black; the ballad sellers singing their latest offerings often to thin reedy voices; the crossing sweepers ready for a penny to run under the horses to sweep a passage across the muddy roads. It was life as she had never seen it before.

Dorothy was determined that she had come to stay.

They took lodgings in Henrietta Street, which was not very grand, for Dorothy was going to have many calls on her purse; but the whole family was enchanted with London and to be in those streets, Grace declared, just did you good. You knew that this was the only place worth being in.

The theatre was different from anything Dorothy had played in before. Royalty came here quite often, she understood. The Prince of Wales was a frequent visitor and came with his friends, his brothers and his uncles. Sometimes the King and Queen came; then of course it had to be a most moral play. They accepted Shakespeare because everybody accepted Shakespeare, although the King did not think much of it and had been known to refer to it as ‘sad stuff’, but the people expected the King and Queen to see Shakespeare so they saw it.

It was different with the Princes – those gay young men – who were always satisfied by the appearance of pretty actresses, especially in breeches parts.

Then every actor and actress must be thrilled to meet Richard Brinsley Sheridan, for the author of The School for Scandal, The Rivals and The Duenna, the notorious wit and friend of the Prince of Wales was the biggest name in the theatre. And now that he was going into politics and had become Secretary to the Treasury in the Coalition Government and had allied himself with that great statesman Charles James Fox, one could not even compare him with managers like Daly and Wilkinson. Sheridan was as different from them as London was from the provinces.

No sooner had Dorothy arrived in London than she was completely convinced that this was the great opportunity and that she needed all her special gifts, everything she had learned since she had begun, to hold her place there.

She talked over her affairs with Grace and Hester. Her great anxiety was Sarah Siddons.

‘I think I know,’ she said, ‘why they have brought me here. They want a rival for Sarah Siddons, and what worries me is that I can never be that.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Grace indignantly.

‘Because we are not the same type. She has all that dignity; and you must agree, Mamma, that my dignity is more often off-stage than on. She wrings their hearts: I make them laugh. She’s Lady Macbeth; I’m the Romp. There’s room for us both, I’m sure, but I have to make them see this.’

‘You are going to make Mr Sheridan see?’

‘I have to, Mamma. I can never rival Sarah. How could I! She’s already there. They accept her. She’s the Queen of tragedy and nobody is going to jostle her off her throne. As well try to take the King’s crown from him. I’m not going to let them put me into tragedy. I’m going to insist that I choose the play for my début – and it’s going to be comedy.’

Hester said: ‘She’s right, Mamma. Absolutely right.’

‘Do you think they’ll allow you to choose?’ asked Grace fearfully.

‘Surely it’s the right of any actress to choose her first play.’ Dorothy laughed. ‘Don’t be frightened, Mamma. Leave it to me. I’ll make them understand. There’s one thing I’m determined on. This is the great opportunity. It may come only once in a lifetime. I’m not going to miss it.’

It was easier to persuade Mr Sheridan than she had anticipated. With his manager, Tom King, he received her in his office and listened courteously to what she had to say. She was earnest and very appealing, he thought, and he was quick to recognize that quality in her which was rare and yet so essential to an actress. It was not beauty – in fact when she was not animated she was not even pretty – but when her face lit up and that inner vitality was visible she had a fascination which he guessed would be irresistible to an audience.

‘You see, Mr Sheridan,’ she said, ‘it is no use my trying to rival Mrs Siddons. The public has made her its Tragedy Queen. They’d accept no other, however good. Miss Elizabeth Farren plays like a perfect lady and the public accept her for that. I have to be different. They love Mrs Siddons for her dignity, Miss Farren for her elegance; I have to win them through laughter. I must play comedy, Mr Sheridan. It’s necessary if I am going to succeed.’

She was vehement. Sheridan looked at Tom King and knew what he was thinking. An actress must have the chance of choosing how she would make her début. And she was right when she said she could not take over Siddons’ role. It was hardly likely that she could out-tragedy the Tragedy Queen and if she did there would be trouble.

‘All right,’ said Sheridan. ‘Comedy. What do you say to The Country Girl?’

She smiled delightedly. ‘I’d say yes please.’

‘Good. The Country Girl it is.’

‘Well, Tom,’ said Sheridan when she had left them. ‘What do you think of our actress?’

‘I’ll reserve my judgement till after the play.’

‘Coward. I wasn’t asking for the judgement of the audience. I was asking but yours.’

‘I don’t know. She’s small.’

‘You’re thinking in terms of Siddons. We don’t want another Juno striding across the boards.’

‘Her voice is good but it doesn’t boom…’

‘Like Sarah’s. I tell you this, Tom: One Siddons is enough in any company.’

‘I thought you were looking for another Siddons.’

‘Then you haven’t been thinking enough. Consider all we suffer from our divine Sarah. Do you think I want to double trouble. Do you?’

‘She’s a draw.’

‘Sarah’s a draw. No one denies it. But she does condescend somewhat, eh, Tom? I feel I should bow from the waist every time I approach and walk out backwards after being received.’

‘You would know how to behave in the presence of royalty better than I.’

‘Sarah’s more royal than any of their Royal Highnesses. As for Their Majesties there’s little royalty in the Hall of Purity at Kew, I do assure you. I’d sooner ask a favour of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, than of Our Majesty Queen Sarah. I pin. my hopes on little Mrs Jordan. I want Sarah to have a rival… here in the theatre. I want the carriages to cram the streets on the way to the Lane to see Dorothy Jordan just as they do to see Sarah Siddons.’

‘And you think you’re going to bring about this miracle, Sherry?’

‘My dear Tom, didn’t you know I was a worker of miracles? We need a miracle or Harris over at the Garden will be taking our business away. You’ll consider yourself lucky that I brought Jordan to the Lane before Harris got her for the Garden.’

‘I sense that you feel some confidence in this young woman.’

‘I do – and you know that – theatrically – I am invariably right.’

King looked dubious and Sheridan burst out laughing.

‘I’ll persuade the Prince to patronize the show.’

‘He won’t want to be caught by another pretty actress just yet.’

‘He’s always interested in pretty actresses and he’s forgotten poor Perdita by now. We’ll see what she’s like on her first night and if she’s good enough she shall play before His Highness.’

King continued to shake his head, but Sheridan only laughed. His unerring theatrical sense insisted to him that he had done right to bring Mrs Jordan to London.

She was nervous. How could she help it – her first night at Drury Lane! Grace and Hester were anxious as she was – more so. She could assure herself that she knew the part backwards, and she did know that as soon as she got on to the boards and started to act all her fears would disappear. But poor Hester would be recalling the fiasco of that night in Dublin. Grace would be trembling, too.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’ll do it. I couldn’t have better than The Country Girl.’

‘It’s somewhat bawdy,’ said Grace timidly.

‘That’s what they like about it, Mamma.’

‘At least Mr Garrick adapted it,’ Hester reminded them. ‘So if he thought it was good…’

‘I believe you could have outdone that Siddons woman, Dolly.’

Dorothy began to play Lady Macbeth in an exaggerated manner reminiscent of Sarah Siddons.

‘You’ll be the death of me, Doll,’ laughed Hester.

‘Only hope they’ll be as easily amused tonight,’ prayed Dorothy. ‘Peggy is just my part. As good as the Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp really. I think Peggy will go down better in Drury Lane than Priscilla would have done. Stop worrying, you two, or you’ll make me nervous.’

She was rehearsing the part, remembering how she had watched Mrs Brown play it up in York, saying to herself: This is just the part for me. She would play it as no one had ever played it before. She would have that sophisticated London audience laughing or if she did not she would give up the boards altogether.

‘Stop fretting,’ she cried. ‘I’m not worried… if you are.’

It was not a full house. Had she been foolish to hope for it? Why should the fashionable people of London come out to see a little provincial actress who had not yet proved what she could do?

She wondered what it was like over at Covent Garden. Was there a full house there tonight?

Although she was as yet of no importance the critics would be there in full force. She could almost hear their comments: ‘Is this Sheridan’s newest venture? Does he hope this little girl is going to pay his debts?’

I’m going to prove to him and to them that his trust in me is not misplaced, she told herself.

Gentleman Smith was in the audience. She must not disappoint him either for she owed her presence here to him. She had to play as never before. And she was going to.

The joy of being on the stage was to forget all anxieties; she was Peggy and those who had come to see her recognized an actress when they came face to face with one. She had the true comic quality and there was something indefinable but definitely there, a charm which Siddons lacked. Dorothy wanted to make them laugh; Siddons wanted them to do homage to the muse and to Siddons. There was a difference. Sheridan recognized this quality at once; he grinned at Gentleman Smith who lightly flicked a fly from the lace ruffles at his wrist and looked, as Sheridan pointed out to him, ‘smug’ – and with reason.

‘You like the little Jordan, Sherry?’ asked Smith.

‘We might well keep her,’ was the reply.

‘I saw Harris of the Garden in the house.’

‘Ha! Worried about my little Jordan, no doubt.’

‘He has need to be.’

‘We’ll see.’ The applause at the end of the play was moderate. Dorothy, who had been used to northern audiences who expressed their appreciation or scorn with more abandon was a little disturbed; but Mr Sheridan came to her dressing room and kissed her warmly.

‘Well done, my dear,’ he said.

Grace could not wait to read what the critics had to say. They were not enthusiastic, but at the same time not all unkind.

The Morning Herald was the best. It commented on her delightful figure, pointing out that though small it was neat and elegant and shown to advantage when she appeared dressed as a boy in the third act. Her face might not be beautiful but was pretty and intelligent. Her voice if not peculiarly sweet was not harsh, if not strong was clear and equal to the demands of the theatre. She was active and brought out best in the comic aspects of the play and the conclusion was that she would be a valuable asset to the stage.

No one could have said more than that. Dorothy was a success.

This satisfactory début was not in the least impaired when Harris of the Garden tried to denigrate her. She was a vulgar little piece, he said, and might do for Filch in The Beggar’s Opera.

Some wit standing by, laughed at Harris’ envy of Sheridan’s find.

‘Certainly she would,’ was his reply, ‘for she filches our hearts away.’

So the world of the theatre after one performance of The Country Girl was sure that Dorothy Jordan had come to stay.

It was disappointing after that initial success not to be able to play for a week, but Mrs Siddons who was expecting a child was anxious to appear as often as possible before her enforced retirement and Dorothy quickly learned that every other actress and actor was expected to stand aside for the Queen of the Theatre.

But in due course Dorothy’s chance came and this time her fame had spread and it was a full house.

How right she had been to insist on comedy! She knew there was no one at Drury Lane to equal her in that sphere and she had always believed that although they might thrill to Sarah’s drama, audiences liked above all things to laugh. She had that god-given gift – to amuse while she entertained. She was going to use it whenever she had an opportunity.

There came the wonderful occasion when she had her first glimpse of royalty. The rumour ran through the theatre: Tonight the Prince of Wales is coming with his uncle the Duke of Cumberland.

There was a great deal of chatter about the royal family. The Prince was at loggerheads with his father. It was an old Hanoverian custom for fathers to quarrel with their sons. The puritanical old King who had remained faithful to his ugly wife for years and whose joint efforts had been to give the nation fifteen royal children to provide for, was estranged from his brilliant, clever and wild son, the Prince of Wales, who had already shocked his family and delighted the scandalmongers by his affair with an actress, Mrs Robinson, who had produced his letters and threatened to publish them if she were not amply rewarded.

The Prince’s friend, that wily politician Charles James Fox, had arranged the deal to the satisfaction of all parties and had himself become the lover of Mrs Robinson for a while which apparently seemed to the Prince a satisfactory conclusion, for his friendship with Fox was greater after the affair than before; and Fox and Sheridan were close friends, which meant that the manager of Drury Lane was on terms of intimacy not only with Mr Fox but with the Prince of Wales. Now there were rumours of his love affair with Mrs Fitzherbert and some went so far as to say he was married to her.

Harris was furious that royalty should patronize the Lane more than the Garden and there was little that delighted Sheridan more than Harris’ jealous rage.

Mrs Siddons believed that she should perform on the occasion.

His Highness would surely wish to see the very best the Lane had to offer.

‘Tonight, my divine Sarah,’ Sheridan told her, ‘the Prince does not wish to be greatly moved. And how could he look on one of your performances and not be? He wants a light evening’s entertainment. He will come later to see real theatre.’

Sarah was mollified and graciously inclined her head. She thought it was wrong to put on the Jordan woman; it was said that she was unmarried, and whose child was that Frances in that case? And did it not let down the tone of the theatre to give prominence to people like Jordan?

‘I fear the tone of the theatre is so low, Sarah my dear, that Jordan could not bring it lower. It is respectable married ladies like yourself who lift it – with your acting and your exemplary private life. You are an example to us all.’

‘Well, you must do what you wish.’

Indeed that is one thing you can be sure of, thought Sheridan.

‘But I think you are wrong to bring that creature to the notice of His Highness.’

‘My virtuous Sarah is thinking that His Highness might wish to repeat the Robinson adventure?’

‘I do not, Jordan is vulgar. Mrs Robinson tried always to be… refined.’

How hard she tried! he thought. Poor Perdita! ‘You have taken a weight off my mind, Sarah my dear. Now I shall feel happier. Our little Jordan’s shortcomings will save her from Perdita’s fate. And you should rest. Moreover, His Highness’s affections are firmly held elsewhere. William will be angry with you if you forget your condition and tire yourself.’

He smiled, thinking of poor Will Siddons who scarcely dared raise his voice in Sarah’s presence.

Sheridan went on: ‘It is because of your condition, Sarah, that I have to offer His Highness second rate fare tonight. I could not allow William to reproach me for putting you through an ordeal which at the time is too much for you.’

She was placated.

It was time, Sheridan told himself, that he had an actress with the ability to draw as full a house as Sarah. It was the only way of controlling her.

His hopes were fixed on Jordan.

So this was Royalty. This good-looking young man with the plump freshly coloured face, the pert nose which gave a friendly touch to his face, the alert blue eyes and the elegant person. The diamond star on his velvet coat was dazzling – but not more so than he. He was elegant in the extreme; and the manner in which he bowed to the audience was quite exquisite. His box on the stage was so close to her that she could see him clearly and his eyes followed her and were particularly appreciative when in the third act she appeared in male costume.

With him was a less attractive member of the royal family: his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, glittering and royal, but debauched and completely lacking the Prince’s fresh good looks.

Cumberland was in disgrace and not received at court because he had married without the consent of his brother, the King, a lady who had had many amatory adventures before she had captivated Cumberland and who, Horace Walpole had said, was possessed of the most marvellous eyelashes he had ever seen; they were ‘about a yard long’. Because of this marriage the King had introduced the Royal Marriage Act which forbade any member of the royal family to marry before he reached the age of twenty-five without the consent of the King.

Cumberland might not be received by his brother but he had become the constant companion of his nephew, the Prince of Wales, and now the Prince was growing up – he must be about her own age, Dorothy thought – he had his own little court and it was becoming like a repetition of previous reigns when there had been a King’s and a Prince’s court in opposition to each other. The Prince’s friends were Whigs; the King’s Tories. The Prince’s friends and mentors in politics were Mr Charles James Fox and Sheridan, and the King was relying more and more on young Mr William Pitt, who two years before, at the age of twenty-five, had become his Prime Minister.

In the new world into which she had come Dorothy learned of these matters. Royalty was closer. How could it be otherwise when it came to the theatre and sat in a box a few yards away. Here in London she could see the important members of the government in their carriages on their way to Parliament. One day she would catch a glimpse of the King and Queen, the Princes and the Princesses who made up that large family.

Here in London, in Drury Lane, was the centre of affairs.

And now she was playing before the Prince of Wales.

She heard his laughter. It stimulated her. He leaned over the box and applauded her. When at the end of the play she turned to his box and curtsied, he rose and bowed in such an elegant manner that she might have been royalty. The applause was thunderous.

A successful evening. The approval of royalty! What more could an actress eager to make her name desire?

‘His Royal Highness is impressed with Mrs Jordan,’ said Sheridan to Tom King. ‘But for the disaster with Mrs Perdita Robinson and the fact that his love is dedicated to Mrs Fitzherbert we might have a royal romance on our hands.’

Dorothy followed Peggy in The Country Girl with Viola in Twelfth Night and then Miss Prue in Love for Love.

There were many appearances for Dorothy that autumn for Sheridan wished to get her known to audiences as quickly as possible.

He need not have been concerned. Audiences had taken her to their hearts. Her daintiness, her extreme femininity, which was accentuated by her breeches parts, delighted them. They had begun to associate Dorothy Jordan with laughter.

Mrs Siddons, as her confinement grew nearer and nearer, ground her teeth with annoyance. Much as she wanted the child and her children meant more to her than her ineffectual William, she deplored the ill timing of the child’s arrival. ‘A little later, William,’ she declared, ‘and I could most certainly have put the Jordan back where she belonged.’

William agreed but secretly thought with everyone else that the Jordan had come to stay and there was something likeable about her friendly attitude which was completely lacking in Sarah’s. Loyally he supposed that actors and actresses should be grateful for the opportunity of working with Sarah and audiences of the chance to see her, but even apart from the usual theatrical jealousies, Dorothy Jordan did seem to be more liked than Sarah by both the company and management.

The carriages which stopped outside Drury Lane on the night when Dorothy was playing were as numerous as those which came for Sarah Siddons.

‘Wait until I am ready to come back,’ said Sarah.

In the meantime Dorothy enjoyed her success. She was fully aware of her value. Sheridan had offered her four pounds a week to start and that had been affluence when compared with the thirty shillings Wilkinson had paid her; but after that first performance he had of his own free will offered her eight because he was afraid that Harris would come over with a bigger offer; and greatly daring, for living was dearer in London and she had the whole family to think of, she asked for a further four pounds a week and to her astonishment Sheridan said that he would consider it.

This was success.

A delighted Grace declared that it was nothing more than she had anticipated and she only wished that Aunt Mary had lived to see this day. She wished, too, that Dorothy’s father had seen it – and his family; perhaps they might have been eager then to link themselves with such a famous and respected figure as Dorothy Jordan.

‘Oh that’s all over and done with,’ said Dorothy.

‘I only want one thing to complete my happiness,’ said Grace, ‘and that is to see you nicely settled and respectably married.’

‘Do you think I should have time for a husband with all the new parts that are coming along for me?’ demanded Dorothy.

‘A woman always has time for a husband. And I want a nice steady one for you.’

‘Someone mild as milk like Will Siddons?’

‘Ah, she has done very well. Fame and respectability. What more could an actress ask for?’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Dorothy with a laugh. ‘I have to make the most of it while Sarah gets her respectable child respectably brought into the world. I’m to have the part of Matilda in that odd play Richard Cœur de Lion. I think I can make something of that.’

Dorothy lured the talk back to the theatre and her future parts which was so much more comfortable than the subject of marriage. She could never think of it without recalling that nightmare with Daly and the rather humiliating position in which George Inchbald had put her.

She would leave men alone. Parts pleased her more.

In December of that year, two months after Dorothy’s first appearance at Drury Lane, the great comedy actress Kitty Clive died. It seemed significant; a star had set and a new one had arisen to take her place; that new one was Dorothy Jordan, for so had Dorothy’s fame grown that people had already begun to compare her with Kitty Clive and Peg Woffington.

And by that time she had met Richard Ford.

Her meeting with this young man was momentous for in a very short time he had made her change her opinions about his sex. He was different from any man she had hitherto known – young, eager and passionate; he wanted above everything else, he declared, to please her, to make her happy; and that would from henceforth be his main purpose in life. Shortly after their first meeting he told her he had made up his mind to marry her.

She reminded him of her career. It was not easy for an actress to lead a married life. Why not? he wanted to know. So many of them did. Look at the great Siddons herself.

‘And see how she had to leave the theatre to a rival while she retires to have her babies.’

‘She’ll come back as popular as ever.’

But she was not really arguing against marriage. She only wanted to be sure of Richard. Her experiences with Daly and George Inchbald had made her very wary. And as Richard broke down all her arguments against it she gave herself up to the luxury of contemplating it. She thought of him as a father to Frances – who could be a better? He was gentle and kind, all that Frances’s own father was not. She thought of other children she would have, for she knew that once she had made her family financially secure she would love to add to it. Frances born in such bitter circumstances was very dear to her; how joyful she would be to have children of a happy union! There was her mother, who longed for one thing to complete her contentment: Dorothy’s marriage.

Yet she wished to wait for a while. I must be absolutely sure, she told herself. Moreover, in spite of her recent success did she stand firmly enough in her new position? The people were flocking to see her, but she had formidable rivals and once Sarah came back the battle to hold her place would begin in earnest.

They would wait for a little while and in the meantime tell no one. There was too much gossip in the theatre already; she had many enemies who would seek to blacken her character; and if her mother knew of Richard’s intentions she would undoubtedly attempt to hustle them into marriage.

Richard was the son of Dr James Ford, a co-shareholder in Drury Lane Theatre with Richard Sheridan, though he took no part in the running of the theatre; for him it was purely a business adventure. He was rich, a court physician and on friendly terms with the royal family, and he had invested a large sum of money in the theatre to help the ever-impecunious Sheridan. Because of his father’s position Richard came and went as he pleased while he himself trained for the bar.

Whenever Dorothy played he was at the theatre and as when she was on stage he never took his eyes from her, it was soon common knowledge that he was mightily taken with her. Then so were many others. Even the Duke of Norfolk came to see her play and showed his appreciation.

But Dorothy refused to dally with any. She was an actress, she reminded them; she needed to devote herself to her work. Life was a constant round of rehearsals and learning new parts.

Not yet, was her continual excuse. ‘First I must make sure that I’ve come to stay.’

She was to play Miss Hoyden in A Trip to Scarborough, a version of Vanburgh’s The Relapse which Sheridan had arranged for his theatre. This part was the sort at which she could excel – the bouncing young woman just out of the nursery, without social graces, wayward, full of high spirits. It was a similar part to that of Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp.

She expected to enhance her reputation in this role and put everything else from her mind.

As soon as she stepped on the stage in her scanty costume, purposely not fitting and falling from her shoulders, and her hair in very charming disorder under a rakish cap, she was hailed with delight.

Sheridan watching from the back of the theatre was certain in that moment – although he assured King that he had never had a doubt before – that Dorothy was going to be one of the biggest draws they had ever had.

It was not the tradition of the London theatre to play comedy all the time. Tragedy had been more acceptable and the great Sarah herself was a confirmation of this. ‘Ask anyone,’ said Tom King to Sheridan, ‘who is the greatest actress on the boards today and the answer is Sarah Siddons. People will always come to see Sarah throw herself about in her agony and declaim disaster in that magnificent voice of hers. It’ll go on when they’re sick to death of a young hoyden romping round the stage.’

King was not as enamoured as Sheridan with the newcomer. He thought her rise had been far too rapid. She was young and had an appeal, he knew; but an actress must act. She couldn’t rely on her youth because it was a stuff that did not endure, as the bard told them; as for her beauty that was equally perishable. If the Jordan was going to prove her worth she would have to act tragedy as well as comedy.

Sheridan was persuaded and Dorothy was dismayed when she was told she must play Imogen in Cymbeline.

She could not say she would not. She was not in the position to do that. She could not declare her inability to play the part, for that was something an actress must never do.

She would do Imogen, but, she pleaded with Sheridan, could she not do Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp afterwards? The public would be in a serious mood and there was nothing it liked better than to go home in a merry one. When the curtain had fallen on Cymbeline, let it rise again on The Romp, which would give them good measure for money.

Sheridan knew his actress and applauded her energy. He had given way to King on this matter of Cymbeline and now he was going to give way to Dorothy. So The Romp followed Cymbeline – and what a stroke of luck that it did! Her performance as Imogen was indifferent. How could it be otherwise when her heart was not in it; she was not made for tragedy. She was a comedienne. She knew it. The audience must know it and accept her as such.

The audience, a little depressed to see their new idol scarcely at her best, were soon laughing at the antics of Miss Tomboy who threw herself into the part with even more verve than usual. Desperately she had to eradicate the impression of Imogen with Priscilla Tomboy; and she did. Next morning the papers were full of the performance of Mrs Jordan in The Romp.

‘In the farce Mrs Jordan made amends for her deficiency in the play,’ the Morning Chronicle announced. ‘The audience were in a continued roar of laughter. The managers of Drury Lane have a most valuable acquisition in this actress.’

‘Saved!’ cried Dorothy when she read the papers in the company of Grace and Hester. ‘I’ll have to fight off these tragic parts with all my might. The fact is I could never compete with Siddons. I should burst out laughing if I beat my breast and cried out in agony as she does. The point is that no one ever behaved in real life as Sarah Siddons does on the stage.’

‘And they call that acting!’ cried the loyal Grace.

‘Which, dearest Mamma, is exactly what it is.’

So all was well for the time being; but how could she think of marrying just now when there was so much to be done? She was in love. She was aware of that now. She believed that if she married Richard she would want to give all her thoughts to pleasing him, to building the foundations of a happy marriage. She would neglect her career; and how easy it would be to let slip all that she had so far grasped. The recent experience with Imogen had shown her that very clearly.

Mrs Siddons returned to the stage after the birth of her child – an avenging angel of the Tragic Muse ready to do battle against the enemy Comedy.

‘What will happen to the theatre if this persists?’ she demanded of King and Sheridan, striking one of the poses which had held an audience spellbound. ‘It will sink to the level of a peep show.’

King was inclined to agree with her; Sheridan shrugged his shoulders.

‘Now you’ve returned, Sarah my dear,’ he said, ‘you can lead them back to tragedy and show them how much they prefer you to little Jordan.’

‘They will not need much leading.’

But they were not to be led. They showed clearly that it was laughter not tears they wanted.

‘If they want laughter,’ said Sarah, ‘I will play some of my lighter roles. I’ll give them Portia. They have always responded to her.’

But brilliant as Sarah was, beautiful as was her face – though her figure had suffered from childbearing and she had always been Junoesque – and magical her voice, she lacked the gamin quality of Dorothy Jordan and it was to Dorothy’s performances that the people were flocking.

Even King must see the importance of bringing in the money and The Romp had become a recognized afterpiece. The Prince of Wales came to see it twice in a week. Mrs Fitzherbert accompanied him and they sat laughing and applauding in their box.

‘The success of The Romp rests almost exclusively on the spirited performance of Mrs Jordan,’ wrote a critic in the Morning Post, ‘and it must be confessed that there has not been seen a more finished acting of its kind. It is not to be doubted therefore that this ludicrous little afterpiece will become a favourite not-withstanding the fastidious taste of certain critics who seem ashamed of being so vulgar as to indulge in a hearty laugh.’

No, her power was too great for anyone to break. She had what the people wanted and were ready to pay for and no carping critic, no jealous actress, could stop her.

‘This will show Madam Sarah that she is not the only pebble on the beach nor the only actress in the world,’ commented Grace triumphantly.

Dorothy smiled at her indulgently. How lucky she was to have a mother who cared so passionately for her welfare!

One morning when Dorothy was sleeping late after a late night at the theatre Grace came into her room, her eyes shining with excitement.

She sat on the bed and cried: ‘What do you think? George Inchbald is in London. He arrived last night. You can be sure he’ll be calling today.’

Dorothy yawned. ‘Well, what of that?’

‘What of it! He’s come to see you. You can depend upon it.’

‘Well, I’m not all that eager to see him.’

Grace laughed knowingly. ‘He wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing.’ She was a little arch. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a proposition to make.’

‘I can’t see that he would have any proposition to make to me which I should want to act on. He’s not a theatre manager and what could be better than Drury Lane unless it’s Covent Garden. And talking of Covent Garden I heard that Harris is going to bring Mrs Brown down to play in The Country Girl.’

‘That old hag!’ cried Grace. ‘London would never accept her. She’s too old.’

‘She’s a fine actress. And you’ll remember how I used to stand in the wings when she was on stage and watch how she played Peggy.’

‘She’ll be a fool if she comes. Harris is a fool to ask her. What chance would she have against you! But do get up and put on a pretty gown and Hester can do your hair, for I do believe that George will be calling soon.’

‘I’ll be ready for George when he comes,’ said Dorothy.

Grace nodded. Good Heavens, thought Dorothy, she believes he has come to ask me to marry him and that I’m going to accept him! Does she think I have no pride. But I do believe dear Mamma thinks it is wise to sink everything for honourable marriage. Honourable indeed! He’d be marrying twelve pounds a week and an almost certain brilliant theatrical future whereas thirty shillings and uncertainty was not good enough for him.

Hester came in. ‘Can I help you dress, Doll?’

‘Thank you. I feel grand with my lady’s maid.’

‘So you should. What should we do without you! I’m happy to be your lady’s maid, as you know.’

‘Dear old Hester. I was just thinking how fortunate I am in my family. And being so why should I think of adding a fortune-hunter to it.’

‘George was always cautious, you know.’

‘And Mamma cares so much about my marrying that she would want me to accept him.’

‘Oh, you know what she is. She worries. She’s haunted by insecurity. Which dress will you have?’

‘The blue. You can be just as insecure married as unmarried – more so, if there are children to feed.’

‘You’ll never get Mamma to see that. Besides, it’s respectability she’s after.’

‘It’s strange, Hester, but I hanker for it myself. I think that Daly business did something to me.’

‘Don’t think of it.’

‘I don’t often. But when Siddons sweeps into the theatre so assured, so certain of her genius, the greatest tragic actress on the boards, with a nice meek little husband, children and a reputation beyond reproach, I confess I find something rather enviable about that.’

‘For Heaven’s sake don’t you start being envious. There’s enough envy about this place already.’

‘But you see I’ve got Frances… and she’s illegitimate. It’s a handicap for the child. Oh, yes, I might like a little respectability.’

‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept George Inchbald.’

Dorothy laughed scornfully.

‘I didn’t think you would,’ said Hester with significance.

I believe she knows about Richard, thought Dorothy. Well, they would all have to know soon because she was fast making up her mind that she was quite capable of managing her career and marrying.

George cried: ‘Why, Dorothy, you’ve become even more beautiful!’

‘Thank you. It’s the London air.’

‘Success!’ murmured George. ‘I always knew you would achieve it. There was a quality about you, Dorothy.’

‘Did you always know it, George? I remember a time when you talked so earnestly about the insecurity of a stage career.’

‘That’s for most people, Dorothy. Not for you.’

‘But I have always been ambitious.’

‘It must be wonderful to know that London is talking of you, and to play before royalty. Oh, wonderful indeed. But don’t forget there is another side to life. Love, marriage.’

‘I don’t forget it, George,’ she said softly.

He would have taken her hand, but she eluded him.

‘I knew you would be the same Dorothy who played with Wilkinson’s.’

‘You’re wrong, George. I’ve changed. We all change. You’ve changed too, you know. I have a fancy that you don’t feel quite the same about certain matters as you once did.’

‘We grow wiser.’

‘You were always wise, George. I trust I have learned to see those about me more clearly. It’s a great help, you know.’

‘Dorothy, I was most unhappy when you left. The only brightness was hearing about your triumphs. My stepmother says you’ll be a great actress.’

‘Earning twelve pounds a week,’ put in Dorothy. ‘That’s a little better than thirty shillings, eh?’

‘And it’s not the end. You’ll be rich as well as famous.’

‘I have my family to care for.’

‘And you would always care for those who depended on you, Dorothy.’

She smiled at him almost fondly. She wanted to lure him on so that he would suffer fully the extent of her scorn.

He told her how he had followed her career; how excited he had been; how he had feared for her – though not really for he knew she would succeed, but as one member of the profession to another they knew what it meant to face an audience on whom one’s future could depend.

‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘when you had gone I knew what I missed. I should never have let you go.’

‘Then I shouldn’t have come to London and started out on the road to fortune.’

‘You had to come. You’re a great actress, but you need someone to look after you. How happy I should be if you would decide I was the one—’

‘You have changed your mind in these last months.’

‘I want you to marry me, Dorothy. Being away from you made me realize that.’

‘Not so much my being away from you as my twelve pounds a week and prospects. That’s what made you change your mind. George Inchbald, do you think I’m a fool! Do you think I don’t see through your feeble efforts. I’ll tell you one thing. You will never succeed on the stage if you can’t play a part better than you’re playing it now. Enter ambitious suitor who has learned the penniless actress of the past is now rich and famous. He pleads with her. George, you’re a fool. I’d never marry a fool. I’d almost sooner marry a mercenary gutless schemer.’

‘Dorothy!’

‘Curtain,’ she said. ‘This little drama is over. Go back to York or Hull or Leeds, wherever you’re playing. Your proposal has been most definitely refused.”

George would have protested, but she laughed at him; and since he did not leave she went out and left him.

She had made up her mind. The next time Richard asked her to marry him she would accept him. He was not long in doing so and she gave her promise.

He was the happiest man in London, he told her. He would love her for ever; his life would be subjected to hers for he knew that she would never be happy away from the theatre.

‘I want my mother to be the first to hear,’ she told him. ‘I know she will be delighted.’

‘And after that,’ he said, ‘I will tell my father. Until these two know, it must be a secret.’

So they went to Henrietta Street and when Grace heard the news she was overcome with joy. No wonder Dorothy had sent George Inchbald about his business. And all the time she had been in love with Richard Ford and had kept it secret!

When was the wedding to be? Clearly it could not be too soon for Grace.

‘I think after I come back from my northern tour,’ said Dorothy.

‘So long!’

‘Oh, Mamma, that is not really very long.’

Richard said fondly that he agreed with Dorothy’s Mamma and it was far too long.

Grace brought out wine and they drank to the future.

That was a happy evening.

Richard left Henrietta Street in an uneasy mood. He loved Dorothy; he sincerely wished to marry her; but he was not looking forward to telling his father that he had proposed and been accepted.

His father was a wealthy and ambitious man, and Richard knew that it had always been a desire of his that his son should make a good marriage. He had excellent prospects; all he had to do was qualify at the Bar and with his father’s money and connections at court that could lead anywhere. And as he had so often impressed on his son the first step towards advancement had often been the right marriage. There were several wealthy and influential families into which Richard could marry.

Richard was not very courageous. He was devoted to Dorothy; he thought her the finest actress in the world; he was happy watching her perform all her parts; he was content to talk to her, be with her; and he longed to be her husband. If only his father were not so ambitious.

But now he had been accepted and he had to tell his father. He had definitely promised to marry Dorothy and nothing, he told himself boldly, would make him go back on his word. Dorothy was the only woman in the world he would have for his wife.

When he dined with his father that night it was obvious that Richard had something on his mind. His appetite was poor; he played nervously with his glass and every now and then opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind.

Dr Ford had a very good notion of what this might be for Sheridan had told him that young Richard had haunted the theatre for some months past and was almost always in one of the balcony boxes when Dorothy Jordan was playing. It was Sheridan’s belief that young Richard harboured very tender feelings towards his little actress and Sheridan was not surprised; she was a dainty piece, a clever little piece, full of charm; and it amazed Sheridan that a Duke or an Earl or at very least a baronet had not installed her in some charming little love-nest by now.

In fact it was Sheridan’s view that but for H.R.H.’s preoccupation with Mrs Fitz, there might have been a royal offer. But his little actress was by no means promiscuous; she was indeed a very virtuous lady. There had been one slip with young Miss Frances and ‘never again’, said Mrs Jordan. Sheridan fancied that she was holding out for marriage lines.

‘Our divine Sarah sets a very moral tone at Drury Lane,’ he added.

Dr Ford was remembering this as he noticed his son’s uneasiness. If Richard had made a fool of himself that must be stopped without delay.

‘As soon as you’ve qualified, Richard,’ he said, ‘I can put you into the way of making a fortune for yourself. Your future is rosy, my son. There’s no doubt about it. Of course you’ll have to work. Can’t be hanging around the theatre every night. Who was it was talking to me the other day… Son got a fancy for some actress. Married her on the sly. Married her. That was the end of him. A nobody if you please. The fellow’s prospects ruined. Imagine what it’ll be like for them. Love’s young dream at the moment, but how long will that last when the babies come and the money’s short, for you can be sure the silly fellow will be cut off from his inheritance. I understand he’ll get nothing. I’d be the same myself. Why, if you came along and told me that you’d made such an idiot of yourself, I’d do exactly the same. Well, no fear of that. More sense, eh?’

Richard grinned feebly.

How could he tell his father that he was engaged to marry Dorothy Jordan after that?

He tried to explain to Dorothy.

‘You see it would break his heart. He’d never accept it. He was talking about a fellow who had married and been cut off by his father. He said he’d be the same.’

‘It seems,’ said Dorothy, ‘that someone warned him about us.’

‘I don’t know who. We told no one. I can’t tell him yet… and yet… how can we wait like this? You love me, Dorothy. You love me enough not to give me up because of this. As soon as I’m making money at the Bar we’ll be married. As soon as I don’t depend on him.’

He looked so young, so helpless that she was so sorry for him.

She was not the sort of woman to make bargains; and yet she longed for a respectable ceremony, for a father for Frances, for children who would be born without the slur of illegitimacy.

She told him all this; he wept and entreated her. He understood. They would take a house together; she should be Mrs Ford; it would be the same as though they were married. No difference at all, except that they wouldn’t go through the ceremony. In time he would persuade his father, but as yet the old man would not listen. He considered his son too young. In a few months’ time it would all be different. But he could not wait those months. He wanted Dorothy; he needed Dorothy… now.

Dorothy could not bargain when it was a matter of love; and she loved him. Only when she had seen George Inchbald again had she realized how much.

They would wait no longer. She had his solemn promise that as soon as it was possible he would marry her. In the meantime they could live comfortably enough on his private income and her salary.

It was not what they had planned but the next best thing.

So Dorothy and Richard Ford became lovers.

Grace was bitterly disappointed, for it seemed as though her greatest wish would never be realized.

‘They are in love, though, Mamma,’ pointed out Hester, ‘and it is time Dorothy had a little happiness. I began to fear that her terrible experiences with Daly had made her turn from men for ever. I think she needs to love and be loved.’

‘Well, she is earning well now and I daresay will always be in a position to keep herself.’

‘And us all,’ said Hester with a grimace.

‘And, Richard is not a pauper.’

‘I’m sure that when he can do so he will marry her,’ added Hester, ‘for he truly loves her and she loves him.’ So they had to be contented with that.

A royal command and a battle

THAT SUMMER DOROTHY went on tour visiting the old theatres at which she had played in the past; and she could not help but enjoy returning to the old haunts and remembering her early struggles; some of the actors and actresses who had played with her in the past were still there.

She played The Country Girl and The Romp to overflowing houses in Leeds; she saw the envious looks and heard the references to her ‘luck’ and she smiled on them all, pitying these poor provincial players and understanding their envies.

She went to Edinburgh where she was received with some reserve. The inhabitants of Edinburgh did not care for frivolity and their idea of acting was that portrayed so admirably by Mrs Siddons. It was different in Glasgow. Here she was an immediate success and before she left she was presented with a gold medal.

When she returned to London it was to receive a letter from her brother George who longed to go on to the stage; he was asking if he might now join the family and try his luck.

In the autumn George arrived in London and Dorothy and Richard took number five Gower Street where they set up house together and Dorothy was known as Mrs Ford. It was understood that in a few years they would be married and because of their devotion to each other and the domestic atmosphere which they created at Gower Street she was accepted as Richard’s wife by their circle of acquaintances.

Grace referred to Richard as her dear son and refused to think of Dorothy’s position as anything but the desired married state.

Her eldest son Francis had joined the army but here was George in his place; and the aim of the family now – greatly assisted by Dorothy – was to get him parts in the theatre.

They were comfortably off – Dorothy’s salary seemed like near affluence; Hester’s occasional appearances and Richard’s private income added to the exchequer; and they were all content to wait for the day when Dorothy would become Mrs Ford in truth.

Dorothy was happier than she had ever been before. She had success in her profession and she loved and was loved.

What more could any woman ask? But there was always the echo to come back to her: Marriage.

The inevitable happened. Dorothy was pregnant.

Grace was inclined to be alarmed, remembering the lack of marriage lines, but Dorothy was serene.

‘I shall play till the last month. It’ll make little difference,’ she assured them.

‘There’s the tour,’ cried Grace aghast.

‘Never mind the tour. I shall go.’

‘But what if…’

‘Do stop fretting, Mamma,’ said Dorothy. ‘Babies are born in Leeds and Hull and York, you know.’

‘I don’t know. I wish…’

But Dorothy would not let her voice her wish. She knew that what she wanted was Dorothy to be respectably married and received by Dr Ford and allowed to have her confinement in luxury.

Dorothy set off and was in Edinburgh when she gave birth to her child – a daughter. She named her Dorothy but she was soon known as Dodee which avoided confusion. Dorothy loved her child from the moment she held her in her arms and she realized that although she had believed she had loved Frances in the same way, it was a fact that she could not forget the child’s father and the manner in which she had been conceived. How different was little Dodee’s coming.

She wanted lots of children. She imagined herself far away from the theatre, the thrills and depressions, the spite, the envy and the malice, the smell of guttering candles, the callousness of audiences with their boos and catcalls and their wild applause. Peace, she thought, with her children growing up round her. Perhaps a house in the country with lovely gardens and the children playing and Richard beside her. It was a pleasant dream, but not for her. And did she really want it? Could a woman, born to strut the boards, ever really do without the clamour and glamour, the glittering tinsel existence?

She laughed at herself. Why, I’d be aching to be back in less than a month. Having a baby made one sentimental.

The press was far from sentimental. It chortled over the adventures of its darling comedienne.

An advertisement in the Public Advertiser ran:

‘The Jordan from Edinburgh – a small sprightly vessel – went out from London harbour

laden

– dropped cargo in Edinburgh.’

The theatrical world was well aware that Dorothy Jordan had borne Richard Ford a child.

That spring rumour concerning the royal family was discussed in Drury Lane almost as much as theatrical events. There was always the relationship of the Prince of Wales and Mrs Fitzherbert, and the question: Was he married or was he not? was on everyone’s lips. Mrs Fitzherbert behaved as Princess of Wales and when the Prince came to the theatre it was always in her company. Sheridan received her with the utmost homage which she accepted with as much dignity as visiting royalty; and the Prince was clearly delighted with her.

Then a more extraordinary rumour arose which put that of the Prince’s marriage temporarily in the shade. It was the state of the King’s health. Stories of his extraordinary conduct leaked out from the royal household. He had tried to strangle the Prince of Wales; he had talked gibberish to the Prime Minister; he had shaken the branch of a tree under the impression that it was the King of Prussia.

Was it true? Was the King going mad?

There would be a Regency, said some. There were quarrels between the Queen and the Prince of Wales. The Whigs wanted the Prince to have the Regency; the Tories wanted the Queen. Mr Fox who had left England after his estrangement with the Prince – for the statesman had denied the Prince’s marriage to Mrs Fitzherbert in the House of Commons and by so doing had incensed Mrs Fitzherbert to such a degree that she had left the Prince, who had great difficulty in winning her back – returned to England to be beside the Prince should he become Regent.

There was a tension everywhere; people talked of the King’s illness in the theatre; they talked during the play itself if the players failed to hold their attention.

As for Sheridan, he seemed aloof from theatrical affairs. It was clear that he saw great things for himself through a Regency. The Prince was his friend and if the Prince became the King in all but name, that would be a good augury for those who had been his friends when he had scarcely any power against his antagonistic parents.

Sheridan had always preferred drinking and gambling to work; he squandered his genius in conversational quips instead of preserving them for posterity. He had written brilliant plays but that was years ago; he was too intent on carousing with the living to work for posterity.

Who knew what Sheridan might become? Who was there to stand in his way since Fox was out of favour and some said could never come back completely, for all his sly genius, while Mrs Fitzherbert reigned with the Prince, for Fox had offended her mortally when he had denied her marriage. ‘Rolled her in a kennel as though she were a streetwalker,’ she had said. She would never forgive him; and although it was really the Prince’s lack of courage which was to blame and Mr Fox had acted in the only way to save the Prince’s hope of the crown, Mr Fox must be the scapegoat. But Mr Fox was coming home. Great events were in the air. Life was stimulating, full of excitement; and no one knew what would happen from one day to the next.

A young woman whom Dorothy had known in Dublin came to play at Drury Lane. This was Maria Theresa Romanzini. She was an Italian Jewess, small, inclined to plumpness with magnificent black eyes and hair which offset her heavy features. She had a beautiful voice and this it was which had secured her engagement.

She was delighted to see Dorothy and together they recalled some of the old Dublin days.

Maria shivered. ‘I was terrified of Richard Daly,’ she said.

‘You too?’ said Dorothy.

‘Were not all of us? I tremble to think of what would have happened to me if my mother had not been with me. He was always trying to seduce me and I told my mother. She knew we should very likely be turned out of the theatre but she said that she would rather that than that I should fall into his hands.’

Dorothy nodded. Mrs Romanzini had been more watchful of her daughter than Grace had been of hers. That was not fair. Maria had been younger – only a child; and she Dorothy had been seventeen, old enough, one would think, for an actress to take care of herself.

‘Mamma shrieked at him once in Mrs Daly’s hearing,’ said Maria with a little laugh. ‘I shall never forget it. Mamma was so angry. “You have a fine wife of your own,” she said. “Leave my daughter alone.” And he did., He dared do no other. And we were not turned out of the theatre and it made no difference to my career. But I am glad to be free of him.’

Dorothy took Maria under her care and praised her to King and Sheridan; but Maria was ambitious enough to look after herself and because of her very fine voice quickly became quite a favourite with the audience. Her personality did not match that of Dorothy, Sarah Siddons and Elizabeth Farren, who were clearly destined to remain the three queens of the stage, but young Maria was an asset to the theatre.

When George arrived he and Maria took an immediate liking to each other which meant that Maria was frequently invited to Henrietta Street as well as to the Ford household in Gower Street.

Dorothy was winning praise in many roles. People flocked to see her Sir Harry Wildair in The Constant Couple – one of those ever popular breeches parts.

In the summer when Drury Lane closed and the more famous actors and actresses went on tour she hoped to play in Edinburgh again but learned that Mrs Siddons had accepted an offer to play there which would mean that the Queen of Tragedy would be in direct rivalry; and it was hardly likely that good business would result from it. The dour people of Edinburgh did not care for the laughter-makers; tragedy was more to their taste; and in their view pert little tomboys – whose private life Mrs Siddons and her adherents would not hesitate to inform them was not all to be desired, unlike that of the great tragedienne herself which was without reproach – could not be accorded respect in a town like Edinburgh.

‘They wouldn’t be able to stand out long against you,’ said Grace. ‘You’d soon have them laughing their heads off.’

‘Not in Edinburgh,’ replied Dorothy glumly.

She had an increasingly large family to support. There was now little Dodee, and George was getting only the smallest walk-on parts; Hester was home most of the time taking care of the children and Richard’s income was not large. She could not view a long rest from the theatre with any complacence – much as she would have liked to have more time for her family.

An unusual piece of good luck occurred then. The King, whose illness had given rise to so much gossip, recovered and the Queen decided that it would be an excellent idea for him to recuperate somewhere right away from London and his royal duties. Brighton would have been ideal, but the Prince of Wales had made that delightful town his own, and relations between the royal parents and their son were strained, so definitely it could not be Brighton.

Cheltenham was little known but it was recommended to the Queen as a very healthful spa where the waters were most beneficial, so she decided that she, the King, the Princesses and their suites should spend a few weeks there while they nursed the King back to health.

Cheltenham for the first time in its life was on the map. There happened to be a theatre in the town, and since there was to be a royal visit that meant that the place would be full not only of the royal entourage but of many visitors.

A full town needed good players in its theatre.

Mrs Siddons was going to Edinburgh; clearly Mrs Jordan must come to Cheltenham.

Cheltenham was pleasant although Dorothy always preferred London audiences to those of the provinces. At this time, though, the town had three times its usual population and it was said that if royalty made a habit of visiting it, it would soon resemble Brighton. She heard that sixty-seven hairdressers had followed the King and Queen to the town because where the Court was there was the ton; and constant hairdressing was essential to the fashionable world.

The theatre was a converted barn but a royal box had been erected, all sorts of comforts added and the inhabitants were all prepared to enjoy the amenities induced by elegant society.

They even had Mrs Jordan.

She was greeted wherever she went with great enthusiasm. People stopped her in the streets and told her how much they were looking forward to seeing her act and how amused they were that they had filched her from London.

The manager told her that he thought it wise for her not to play breeches parts before their Majesties.

‘This is not for His Highness the Prince of Wales, Mrs Jordan,’ he said. ‘His Majesty believes in stern propriety so these are the plays in which I think it would be wise for you to appear.’

Dorothy looked at them: The Country Girl, The Maid of the Oaks, The Sultan, The Poor Soldier and The Virgin Unmasked.

She would have enjoyed playing Sir Harry Wildair.

‘You should have had Mrs Siddons,’ she told him.

‘Oh, no. Her Majesty the Queen thinks that a little light entertainment would be better for His Majesty. If you can amuse him, Mrs Jordan, you will please Her Majesty.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Dorothy. ‘But I’m sure a breeches part would have been more likely to.’

But the manager did not agree.

It was not until Dorothy arrived in Cheltenham that the King and Queen honoured the playhouse with their presence and from their royal box they looked down with approval at the actors, and Dorothy had the satisfaction of hearing the King laugh at her antics.

This pleased the Queen and when Dorothy made her final bow they expressed their pleasure by inclining their heads for her alone.

It was not the gracious acknowledgement she had had from the Prince of Wales, but this was the King and his bulbous eyes which still looked a little wild were kindly, and so was his smile.

‘Very good,’ Dorothy heard him say. ‘A pleasant little actress, eh, what?’

And the Queen replied that Mrs Jordan’s performance had given her great pleasure.

That was triumph and Dorothy was delighted to have contributed to the King’s pleasure.

The people of Cheltenham were pleased too. The famous London actress had brought a change to their town. They were grateful to her and almost as pleased that she was with them as they were to have royal visitors.

All the same she was glad when the time came to return to London.

She came back to change.

Dr Ford – who should have been her father-in-law – had made his decision to retire and leave London. He had bought a house in Wales and since he would be far from the metropolis he had no further interest in the theatre. He was therefore going to sell his share in Drury Lane.

For some time there had been a certain amount of friction between Sheridan and Tom King; they could not agree on policy and their tastes differed widely. Sheridan had done his best to curtail King’s power and at the same time had himself shown a greater interest in affairs outside the theatre. This was understandable in view of the King’s illness and what had seemed a few months earlier a certain Regency. But King resented Sheridan’s attitude. If he wanted to be a politician and a man about town he insisted he should give up his theatrical commitments.

When he knew that Dr Ford wanted to sell out, King had hoped to buy his shares and thus gain a stronger influence at the theatre; unfortunately in attempting to raise money for this he gambled and lost heavily so that he was worse off than he had been in the first place. He went to see Dr Ford and told him that although he could not produce cash he had some securities and if Dr Ford would accept these he was eager to buy.

King’s hope was that the ever impecunious Sheridan would certainly not be able to raise the necessary capital, but he had reckoned without Sheridan’s friends. The Duke of Norfolk came to the rescue and lent Sheridan the necessary cash with the result that, with his father-in-law Thomas Linley, he became the proprietor of Drury Lane, and as Linley had nothing but a monetary interest this gave Sheridan complete control.

King declared his intention to leave and go to Dublin and work there. He had had enough of Sheridan and Drury Lane.

This was the state of affairs when Dorothy returned from Cheltenham.

It did not greatly perturb her that King was going. He had been fair to her but she knew that he, being an old man, did not care for her style of acting. He did not see comedy as the romp she made of it. He believed it should be more refined; and for that reason he had never held the high opinion of her that Sheridan had held, while at the same time, as manager, he must respect her ability to fill the theatre.

It was when King’s successor was appointed that she began to feel uneasy. For Sheridan had chosen none other than John Kemble to act as manager; and Kemble, as the brother of Sarah Siddons, could scarcely be a partisan of Dorothy Jordan.

No sooner had Kemble taken over than trouble began. He made it clear that in his opinion the greatest draw at Drury Lane was Sarah Siddons and every other actress must be subordinate to her.

Sarah immediately suggested that her salary was not enough and Kemble arranged to pay her thirty pounds for each performance. This meant that if she only played once a fortnight she would be more highly paid than Dorothy who might be playing every night, for she was still getting only her twelve pounds a week.

This rankled and Dorothy had made up her mind not to accept it.

Since the birth of Dodee she had suffered from minor indispositions and there had been occasions when she had found it impossible to appear. Kemble always made the most of this and set a rumour about that Mrs Jordan was becoming so autocratic that she would only appear when she felt in the mood to do so and made the excuse of illness.

This was accepted by the public who had been disappointed once or twice, hoping to see Mrs Jordan and being fobbed off with some lesser light.

Kemble was determined to show Dorothy in what little esteem he held her and that although he was prepared to accept that she had a certain following he regarded her as in no way the equal of his great sister.

One night when she was playing, her brother George went behind the scenes and Kemble, finding him there, demanded to know what he was doing. Was he playing? George was not. Then what right had he to go behind the scenes while the play was in progress?

‘You’ve forgotten my sister Mrs Jordan is playing.’

‘I had not forgotten and that does not give you a right to be there. You are fined five shillings.’

Kemble strode off and George was discomfited to hear the titters of Sarah’s adherents. The incident would be talked of in the Green Room that night and be all over Town by tomorrow. It was an insult to Dorothy. It was hinting that she was of no more importance than the humblest player, and her friends and family had no right to be anywhere but in the front of the stage and in a seat for which they had paid.

Dorothy paid the five shillings but the matter became an issue in the press which was forming itself into factions for and against one or the other side in the Jordan–Kemble dispute, and it was becoming quite clear to Dorothy that she would have to make a stand or leave Drury Lane. Harris of Covent Garden, who had done his best to denigrate her, would doubtless change his tune if she showed her willingness to work for him; but she had no desire to do so. She could not forget the insults he had flung at her and was certainly not going to forgive him for the sake of expediency if she could help it.

She could of course appeal to Sheridan who was her partisan, but he was so little in the theatre and so completely absorbed with his own affairs and his grand friends – and it must be admitted very often a little bemused by too much wine and spirits.

She would fight her own battles. And they were arising on all sides. Most important was her relationship with Richard, who was so content in their present circumstances he made no effort to change them. His father had retired from the theatre to his comfortable country establishment with a fortune – so rumour had it – of £100,000, and surely now was the time to tell him of their desire to marry.

‘No,’ cried Richard vehemently. ‘He’d be so incensed he would cut me right out of his will.’

‘Let him.’

‘My dearest, do you understand what this would mean? He would cut off my allowance and what I get from my briefs wouldn’t go far.’

‘You must get more briefs and I must get a higher salary. I’m a bigger draw than Siddons. I’ll not endure this much longer.’

Richard tried to evade the question at issue by going on at length about the injustice Dorothy suffered at the theatre, but she would not allow this.

‘It’s true,’ she said, ‘and I shall not endure it much longer. But there is no reason why we shouldn’t marry. The Kemble set are starting rumours about the immoral life I lead and that might harm me with audiences.’

‘Not a bit of it. They like their idols to have a bit of excitement in their lives.’

‘You call this exciting! I have all the responsibilities of marriage without the standing that goes with it.’

‘I’ve been happy. I couldn’t have been happier.’

‘I could have been… if I had been married.’

‘My poor darling, as soon as the old man agrees…’

‘Which he never will.’

‘He can’t live for ever, Dorothy. Then I shall have all his money… providing I don’t displease him in the meantime.’

‘To hell with his money,’ cried Dorothy. ‘We’d manage.’

Richard shook his head. She looked at him and tried to see him afresh – not as the man she had loved and still did love, though in a different way from that in which she had at first. She saw him now in all his weaknesses. Weak! that was the word that best described Richard. He was weak – content for her to be humiliated; content for her to provide the bulk of their income – anything rather than that he should face an irate parent and possibly incur the loss of his father’s money.

She was nervous and touchy and she gave way to her disappointment in him, her anger against circumstances. She had to fight her way through life and the man she had chosen to stand beside her was a weakling.

There were tears and reconciliations, but that did not alter her opinion of him.

‘It’s these Kembles,’ she said. ‘They’re determined to plague me.’

‘They can’t harm you,’ he soothed. ‘It’s you the people come to see. You’re twice as popular as Siddons.’

‘It’s true,’ she admitted. ‘But they feel they ought to like Siddons and there are many people who will insist they like what they ought to like. To weep and moan is somehow intellectual; to laugh is vulgar. They’ve got this fixed in their silly heads and Kemble and his crowd are going to see that it sticks there.’

‘We’ll fight it, Dorothy,’ he said, stroking her hair.

He’d fight it! she thought. When had he ever fought for anything? Even in his own profession he couldn’t make his mark.

But she did not want friction; she was still deluding herself that one day they would marry.

‘And I’m worried about Mamma,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t looked well lately.’

Yes, that was a period of great uneasiness.

Dorothy decided that she could no longer accept the position into which Kemble was thrusting her when it was suggested that she appear in The Romp on the same evening as Mrs Siddons played in Macbeth.

Dorothy laughed aloud when she heard.

‘I understand,’ she cried. ‘The people come to see me and it will be said that they have come for Mrs Siddons. Oh, no, no. She’ll play one night and I’ll play on another – but I’ll not draw the people in for her to get the praise for doing it.’

‘You over-estimate yourself,’ said Kemble.

‘Then it’ll make up a little for your under-estimation.’

‘So you refuse to play in The Romp.’

‘On the same night as your sister plays her tragedy, yes.’

‘What is it going to be this time – indisposition?’

‘By no means. It’s simply that I won’t be the draw for her to get the praise… and the money.’

The last word was ominous but Kemble shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

The next day a paragraph appeared in the Morning Post which ran:

‘Mrs Jordan and Kemble, according to Green Room reports, are not on the most amicable footing. It is supposed that the lady takes advantage of her popularity to be ill when she pleases and has refused to perform in a farce when Mrs Siddons performs in a play and for this modest reason “that she will not fill the house and let Mrs Siddons run away with the reputation of it”. If this be true it is proper to tell this lady that this higher province of the drama will prevail when dowdies and hoydens are forgotten or despised.’

When Dorothy read this she had no alternative but to see Sheridan, and as soon as she had an opportunity she presented herself to him.

He was a little absent-minded. His thoughts were outside the theatre. The Prince of Wales was now relegated to a position without great influence; and although he continued in affection for his dear Sherry, there was no great political advantage on the horizon. Sheridan’s dreams had been too rosy; he had thought longingly of the Great Seal; and he knew that there came a moment in a man’s life when it was possible to seize the coveted prize and that if that moment passed without bringing the reward it might never come again. The King could not last for ever; the Prince must come to the throne; but where would Sheridan be then?

It was a sobering thought.

And here was Dorothy Jordan – dissatisfied, as all actresses always were. Not getting her dues. When did they ever believe they were? She was not being treated fairly. Was it not the perpetual cry?

‘I won’t endure it,’ she was saying. ‘Kemble is a fool. I know Sarah Siddons is his sister and a little bias is natural, but in his efforts to ruin me he’s ruining the theatre. He’s going to turn away people to Covent Garden if he’s not careful.’

‘Eh!’ cried Sheridan, coming out of his reverie at the mention of his rivals. Whatever his dreams of grandeur he had to face reality now and then – and the theatre was his reality. So were the bills which came every day with wearisome regularity. He had his debt to Norfolk. He had to make the theatre pay. And one of the people he depended on in this was this little actress.

Quarrels between manager and performer were common. He’d had them himself although less than most. He was adept at flattery and thought how skilfully he’d handled the troublesome Perdita Robinson. But Dorothy was not like her. She had a real grievance.

‘You saw the paragraph in the Morning Post? “The drama will prevail when dowdies and hoydens are forgotten.” What a fool your manager is. He’s decrying the stuff he is trying to sell.’

‘You think he’s responsible for this!’

‘I know he is.’

‘You have disappointed the public on several occasions.’

‘Only when I was too ill to appear. Would you have me go on and collapse on the stage?’

‘It might not have been bad publicity. And you’ve refused to play the same night as Siddons.’

‘I certainly have. I am not going to bring them in and let her get the credit for it. What! At her thirty pounds a performance against my twelve pounds a week.’

‘Ah, money. It all comes back to money. The love of money is the root of all evil, my dear.’

‘You should tell Sarah that. There’s no doubt she loves it dearly.’

‘And you?’

‘I love it to the extent of thirty pounds a week. That is what I want and that is what I intend to have. If not…’

‘If not?’

‘I’ll say good-bye to Drury Lane.’

Sheridan looked at her obliquely. Did it mean an offer from the Garden? Kemble was a fool! They couldn’t afford to let Dorothy Jordan go. True, his sister had a reputation. The greatest actress of the day and that was generally accepted as a fact. But it did not mean that although the public liked to talk of the Divine Sarah they didn’t prefer to laugh with Dorothy Jordan.

Sheridan thought of those mounting bills, of disappointed hopes. God in Heaven, he thought, we mustn’t lose Dorothy Jordan.

‘You have a case, my dear,’ he said. ‘I shall consider it. There’s no doubt that you should be paid more.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Dorothy. ‘And a quick decision…’

‘Will be appreciated, I know, my dear.’

‘It will be not only appreciated, Mr Sheridan,’ retorted Dorothy, ‘but necessary.’

Theatre news always interested the public and there were spies all over the theatre ready to supply it.

The quarrel between Kemble and Dorothy Jordan, her refusal to work for her present salary – all this was soon communicated to the audiences. Dorothy wanted to bring herself in line with Sarah. Dorothy Jordan – who called herself Mrs Ford – was going into battle supported by Richard Ford and her family, who depended on her, against Sarah and the Kembles.

Gleefully the public waited for what would happen and took bets on which of their favourite actresses would emerge victorious.

There were letters in the press.

‘Take Mrs Jordan – who calls herself Mrs Ford – out of hoyden rusticity and what is she? Will the public sanction her in opposing the Manager and for demanding an increase because she can at present excite a little curiosity when perhaps in a little time her attraction may be wholly exhausted?’

But those loyal members of the public who supported Dorothy were not going to allow the other side to get away with that.

‘When the salary of performers is below the rank of their talents and the advantages rising from their labours, the public should interfere.’

The battle persisted and Sheridan conferring with Kemble pointed out that all prejudice aside it was absurd that Sarah – dear, excellent, wonderful Sarah – should take thirty pounds a performance whereas Mrs Jordan, who – comic though she might be and not in the same category for one moment as the Divine Sarah – King would have to admit, had the same pulling power as Sarah – some said better – should receive so much less. This was not, he hastily added, passing judgement on the quality of the acting of either lady… yet, it was not exactly just that two actresses with equal pulling power should show such a discrepancy in the manner in which they were paid.

‘In fact, Kemble,’ he went on, ‘you should never have paid Sarah so much. Now we have no alternative but to offer Jordan thirty pounds… but we’ll make it a week, not a performance.’

‘And if she feigns illness and plays but once a week?’

‘Then, my dear fellow, she will be in line with your sister.’

‘So you’re going to pay Jordan thirty pounds a week.’

‘No alternative. It’s thirty pounds a week and Jordan or no Jordan.’

‘We can’t afford to pay her thirty pounds a week.’

‘It’s true. We can’t afford it. But the theatre is a matter of compromise, my dear fellow. We can afford still less to lose Jordan.’

So the battle was won. Dorothy must play at least three times a week; she must appear in both plays and farce; and the public applauded. They wanted more of Dorothy Jordan and providing she did not disappoint them by not appearing when she was billed to do so they were on her side.

The first night she played after the news was out that she was to be paid thirty pounds a week, all seats were filled and people stood in the gangways.

They cheered so loudly that Sheridan declared he was afraid the roof would fall in.

‘You see, my dear Kemble,’ he said, ‘one must always please the public however much, in doing so, one displeases oneself.’

Kemble accepted his defeat as gracefully as he could. He had to admit that whatever he thought of Dorothy Jordan as an actress, the public had a very high opinion of her and she could fill a house as no other actress could.

Dorothy was not vindictive and Kemble realized his mistakes and seemed ready now to advance her career.

There was one concession she did ask of him; this was to take on her brother George and rather to her surprise he did so. So George started at Drury Lane with a salary of five pounds a week, which caused great rejoicing in the family.

Grace had watched the battle with indignation and delight; and when Dorothy received the large salary of thirty pounds a week she could not contain her joy.

Dorothy remarked to Hester that she looked almost her old self; and that was an admission that Grace was ill.

George was delighted and eager to prove himself. He accepted the smallest parts with enthusiasm – and they were small and usually consisted of walking on and perhaps saying a line or two. But he could do this with an air and was already beginning to be noticed, but perhaps that was because he was Dorothy Jordan’s brother.

Not long after her battle with Kemble, Dorothy found that she was pregnant again.

Royal visit

THE COMPANY WAS doing Love for Love and Dorothy on this occasion was not playing, so she took the opportunity to have a night at home in Gower Street where the rest of the family had moved in with her and Richard. It made it so much easier for Hester to look after the children. Young Frances was giving them some cause for concern; she was a naughty child and jealous of little Dodee. Dorothy could not look at her without remembering the child’s father and wondering whether she had inherited his characteristics. Hester, however, was an excellent guardian and with Dorothy so much at the theatre this had become a full-time occupation.

Hester declared that she had never felt the urge to act which, seeing Dorothy, she realized a true actress should feel.

‘If I had been a true actress,’ she would say, ‘I should never have dried up on that first appearance.’

‘Poor Hester. You never forgot it. You let it haunt you for ever.’

‘Some things do,’ said Hester.

And remembering her experiences with Daly, Dorothy supposed it was true.

After the show George came in full of excitement.

It had been a most interesting evening at the theatre. The Duke of Clarence had been in the audience.

‘Let’s see,’ said Dorothy. ‘He’s the third son, I believe.’

‘Yes – and jolly… a regular sailor. They said he was only home for a brief leave, and so he came to the theatre. I’m surprised he didn’t wait until you were on.’

‘Or dear Sarah,’ said Dorothy. ‘But why all the excitement? We’ve had Dukes in the audience before.’

‘He was in the Green Room, you see, and young Bannister who was playing Ben went in all ready for the stage. He was meeting some girl there and going to show himself off and who should he find in there but the Duke. The Duke said to him: “Hello, young fellow, what are you supposed to be – a sailor?” “Why, yes, Your Highness,” said Bannister, “I’m Ben the sailor.” “Then you won’t do, Ben, my boy.” He laughed a great deal, and his language is not what you’d expect from royalty, because royal he is and the brother of the Prince of Wales.’

‘Naturally,’ said Hester, ‘if he’s the son of the King. Go on.’

‘The Duke said “No sailor wears a handkerchief that colour round his neck. You want a black one. I won’t accept you as a sailor, Ben, with that colour handkerchief. Oh, no. I shall protest. If you’re going to be a sailor you must look like one.” Well, by this time several people had come into the Green Room and someone ran and fetched Kemble. You should have seen him bowing and scraping and Your Royal Highness this and Your Royal Highness that. It was something not to be missed. And then Kemble sent someone for a black handkerchief. Bannister put it on and the Duke said it was not tied as it should be. And he tied it himself… with the right sort of knot. “I ought to know,” he said. “I used to do it myself when I first went to sea as Midship-man Guelph.” And everyone laughed and he laughed with them and he said that young Bannister at least looked like a sailor now. The play was late in starting and there was nearly a riot and then Kemble came on the stage and said His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence was honouring them and told them that he’d tied Sailor Ben’s knot for him and the audience roared and cheered and there was the Duke taking the bow – not like the Prince – but jolly and friendly. And it was an evening I wouldn’t have missed.’

‘Well,’ said Dorothy, ‘I hope next time His Royal Highness, the obliging Duke, condescends to visit the theatre, I’ll be there to play for him.’

Shortly after that George played Sebastian to Dorothy’s Viola in Twelfth Night. The critics were not very kind to him. He lacked his sister’s genius, they said; and he was too much like her to play with her. But George had shown himself to be an actor.

The first one to congratulate him was Maria Romanzini. She herself was already half way up the ladder to fame and fortune, but she followed George’s progress with intense interest.

‘Was I good?’ he asked her.

‘You were very good.’

‘You wait,’ he said, ‘very soon now they’ll be crowding in to see me.’

‘It’ll be wonderful,’ she said; she knew that once he felt secure he would ask her to marry him.

With the spring it was necessary to go on tour again and Dorothy was uneasy; she did not like to leave Grace who had grown more feeble in the last weeks; Hester stayed behind to look after her and the tour began.

Now that she was pregnant once more she thought longingly of the home life. To play occasionally at Drury Lane would always be a pleasure, but the exhausting tours with all the difficulties of travel and facing provincial audiences was something she would gladly abandon.

It was necessary, though. She needed the money. It was amazing how even her salary was swallowed up. Thirty pounds a week had seemed affluence at first but with so many calls on her purse it did not go far. Richard’s briefs were infrequent; his father, in spite of his vast fortune, had not increased his allowance; and the bulk of the expenses must be met by Dorothy. She simply could not afford to give up these tours even though, as now, she was expecting a child.

She passed through Leeds and Harrogate and went on to Edinburgh playing all her roles to which she had added Nell in The Devil to Pay which had become one of the most popular. Rosalind in As You Like It, Roxalana in The Sultan, Lucy in The Virgin Unmasked, Peggy in The Country Girl were among others and of course she included the most popular of them all, Sir Harry Wildair in The Constant Couple, Miss Hoyden in A Trip to Scarborough and Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp.

She was playing to big houses in Edinburgh when news came from Hester that Grace had taken a turn for the worst and was constantly asking when Dorothy would be back. Hester thought that if she wished to see her mother alive she should return without delay.

In the middle of the season Dorothy left Edinburgh and returned to London.

The sight of her mother’s wasted frame appalled Dorothy and she was glad that she had ignored the threats of an irate manager and come home.

‘You came, then,’ said Grace, tears filling her eyes.

‘Of course I came. What did you expect?’

‘And the theatre…’

‘Can do without me for a while.’

‘So you are going to stay with me till the end.’

‘Oh, Mamma, do not say that. You are ill and will get better.’

But Grace knew differently.

‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a good girl to me, Dorothy.’

‘We belonged together. You were good to me… to us all.’

‘I tried,’ said Grace. ‘I never forgave myself for bringing you into the world without a name… but when I think of what I should have been without you I know that the best thing I ever did was to give my Dorothy to her public.’

‘Oh, Mamma, don’t think of all that now. It’s no use reproaching ourselves for what we do.’

‘I feel happy to leave them all in your hands. You’ll look after them.’

‘I would, Mamma, but they don’t need me. They can look after themselves. George is doing well. He’ll be marrying soon, I expect.’

‘Ah… marriage…’

‘I know, Mamma, and I’m sorry, but Richard says one day…’

‘It was what your father said, Dorothy. “One day, Grace,” he said, “my father won’t have the power to stop me.” But he never really did have the power, did he? And then he went away and married that woman… leaving us all.’

‘It’s long, long ago and best forgotten.’

‘He would have been proud of you, Dorothy.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Well, we came through, didn’t we? Do you remember when we heard you were to come to Drury Lane?’

‘I shall never forget it, Mamma, nor shall I forget your help and love. Throughout my life nothing has helped me more than that.’

Grace nodded, smiling. ‘I’d like to think it’s so,’ she said.

They were silent for a while.

Then she said: ‘Dorothy, you’re going to have another child.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘It’s so like… so like…’

‘Don’t fret, Mamma. Rest. I’m here with you. Hester’s near, too. We can send for all the children if you wish.’

Grace closed her eyes. ‘I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to the end… and I’m happy. Richard’s a good man. He’ll marry you, Dorothy… one day.’

‘One day,’ repeated Dorothy and her mouth curled a little cynically; but she did not allow Grace to see this.

Let her die happily believing that one day her daughter would reach that status which she had always longed for her to possess.

Dorothy was inconsolable for some months after the death of her mother. She was almost unaware of the threats of Jackson the Edinburgh manager who sued her for breaking her contract. This was one of those occasions when Richard could act for her. He dealt with Jackson to her satisfaction and although she declared that she would never perform in his theatre again the matter was settled without too much expense.

The imminent birth of her child meant an absence from the theatre and the coming of the baby – another little girl whom she named Lucy – did much to console her.

That autumn Richard Daly came to London. Naturally he was in the theatre to see Dorothy act.

Maria Romanzini came into Dorothy’s dressing room to tell her.

‘He’s here,’ she said, her lovely dark eyes round with horror. ‘He’s actually in the theatre.’

When she was told to whom Maria referred, Dorothy too felt a tremor of alarm. Foolish, she told herself. What harm can he do me now? She turned to Maria. ‘You look as though you’re afraid he’s going to carry you off,’ she said.

‘He used to terrify me,’ Maria replied, shivering.

‘You’re a big girl now, an important actress at Drury Lane Theatre, How can an Irish manager harm you?’

‘I don’t like to think of him here, Dorothy.’

‘George will protect you now as your mother did before. Not that he’d be such a fool as to attempt to harm you. Everything is changed for us both, Maria.’

That was true and yet she had to remind herself continually of it, and when one of the theatre servants came to tell her that Mr Daly from Dublin was in the Green Room and was requesting her to meet him there she said sharply: ‘Pray tell Mr Daly that I cannot see him.’

She had never thought for a moment that that would silence him. He called at Gower Street but she had guessed this would happen and her servants had been warned that she was not and never would be at home to Mr Daly.

He wrote to her. He wished to see little Frances. She could not deny him a sight of his own daughter.

She was terrified. She gave instructions that Frances was to be closely guarded. The doors were to be kept bolted all day and Mr Daly was never to set foot inside the house.

Now she realized how deeply he had scarred her youth. She dreamed of that horrifying experience in the attic; she would awake from nightmares of fleeing from Dublin, recalling it all – the cold of the boat, the nagging anxieties that no one would employ her in England, the humiliating experience of carrying a child of a man she hated.

All this came back vividly from the past and she cried: ‘Never, never will I tolerate him near me.’

He did not give in easily. He wrote congratulating her on her success. He had always known she had a talent that was near to genius. He offered her large sums of money if she would appear in Ireland. Her answer was No. Never again will I accept Richard Daly as my manager, she kept assuring herself. Never again will I willingly speak to him.

And at last even he had to accept her answer and he went back to Dublin without having spoken to Dorothy or having had a glimpse of his daughter.

When he had left Dorothy laughed at her fears. There was no need to have been so frightened. He was the evil genius of her youth; he could not harm her now.

Another year. More parts to be played. More triumphs to be won.

She was going to play Letitia Hardy in The Belle’s Stratagem and a new piece had been offered to her – a short play to be performed after the main event. It was one of the farces which the public had come to expect from her called The Spoiled Child and the main part was Little Pickle, a schoolboy, which seemed to have been written for Dorothy. It was the sort of part the public liked best from her; in the first place it put her into breeches; in the second it allowed her to do all sorts of clowning, some of which she thought up on the spur of the moment; and there were some catchy songs – the sort she sang with such verve that in the space of a few moments she had the audience singing with her.

Dorothy threw herself wholeheartedly into rehearsals for The Spoiled Child for she knew that this was the piece which would bring in the crowds. As a play it had no merit; it was sheer knockabout farce; but in Dorothy’s hands it was a masterpiece. She knew she would have the audience shrieking with laughter over Little Pickle’s pranks, such as sewing a courting couple together with a needle and thread while they were unaware of it; and putting his aunt’s parrot on the spit in place of the roasting pheasant, and pulling chairs away when people were going to sit down. It was the sort of practical joke type of humour which could send audiences wild with delight.

Dorothy knew she had a winner here. Nor was she mistaken. The whole town was talking of Little Pickle. ‘Have you seen Pickle? You must see Pickle. It’s the most utter farce, but it makes you ache with laughing. You must see the Jordan’s Pickle.’

She was referred to in the press as Little Pickle. When the audience came to see a play they would shout for Pickle afterwards. Dorothy was at the height of her fame, and well might Mrs Siddons shudder and the whole Kemble family ask each other and their supporters what the theatre was coming to. The fact remained that the majority of London theatregoers wanted Pickle and were determined to take no other.

One night when Dorothy was to play in The Spoiled Child George came to her dressing room in a state of some excitement.

‘The Duke of Clarence is in the house,’ he said.

‘What! Come to see Pickle!’

‘It’s going to be a good night. It always helps with a bit of royalty.’

A good night. She often thought of that afterwards. She was to remember that night vividly for the rest of her life.