Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) (12 page)

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.