Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) (37 page)

That after seven years together! He had watched her read it with an almost boyish pleasure.

‘There, you see how I speak of you when you are not present.’

He did love her – sincerely, deeply; and if he was not forced for State reasons to marry they could go on happily together for the rest of their lives, rejoicing in their children and their grandchildren.

It was a pleasant dream, to picture them on this lovely lawn – growing old together. The theatre would be a part of her past. She would not wish to go on playing when she was old. Her parts in any case were young parts.

Thinking of it she could almost wish she were old with all the tribulation behind her.

She laughed at her thoughts and said: ‘Come, George, my darling. Come, Henry, my pet. We are going in because I have to write to Papa. He will want to know what you have all been doing while he is away.’

‘Will you tell him that I jumped down four steps?’ asked George.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘And I did one,’ said Henry.

‘I shall tell him everything. So come along in now.’

So she went in and wrote to him.

‘I hope I need not say how I wish your return… The children are as well as possible. I shall wean Sophie tomorrow. George’s new boots are excellent ones. I expect the others to arrive tomorrow. Sophie has been very cross but now she is composed and easy.’

She smiled. George had come to kneel on a chair beside her.

‘Is that a letter to Papa?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

‘When is he coming to see me?’

‘As soon as he can, I am sure. Will you put a kiss in this letter for him?’

‘Yes I will,’ said George, and bending over spat on to the paper.

‘Do you call that a kiss?’

‘Yes,’ said George, ‘It is a kiss for Papa.’

She kissed him; and taking his hand guided it for him to make a cross. Then she wrote:

‘I asked George if he would put a kiss into this for you. He immediately spat in it.’

William would be amused. It would remind him while he was in London of his family; and she knew that he would be eager to return to them.

With Sophie weaned and debts mounting Dorothy could not linger in idleness at Bushy House. Her audiences were demanding that she return and reluctantly she did so, dashing home to Bushy whenever possible, sometimes arriving at midday and leaving again in the afternoon for the evening performance.

Monk Lewis had written a new play in the Gothic tradition entitled
The Castle Spectre
and Dorothy had the part of the
heroine, Angela. The play was an immediate success largely because of an unusual ghostly scene in which Angela’s mother rose from the grave to bless her daughter. The lighting effects were such as the playgoers had never seen before. They applauded madly and Sheridan was inundated with requests for more of
The Castle Spectre
. Dorothy’s portrayal of Angela pleased audiences and they would have no one else in the part.

Sheridan was delighted to have such success in the theatre again; but he was so deeply in debt that he made excuses not to pay his actors and there were often angry scenes in the theatre. He had never attempted to withhold Dorothy’s salary. He was too fearful of losing her; nor did he want the Duke to talk of his deficiencies in this respect to the Prince of Wales. More and more Dorothy thought longingly of retirement to her family in Bushy. She was once more pregnant; this always meant that she grew very tired and after a performance would sink into bed and wish that she could stay. But in the morning if it were possible she would be riding out to Bushy if only for a short glimpse of the children.

She was now often helping William financially.

In spite of the comparatively quiet life he led at Bushy he was always short of money and because of the intimacy between them he had no compunction in using hers. He had taken to reading all her contracts; he was at the theatre as often as possible to see her perform; he would criticize her performance and that of the other players, and was beginning to think of himself as a theatre critic. He was a constant visitor to the Green Room. ‘Royal patronage,’ Sheridan called it slyly; but Dorothy was delighted; it pleased her that he should take such an interest in her career, and she refused to consider the fact that the money she earned was so important not only to her but to him. Often she had to go away on tours but she made them as brief as possible. These were the most unhappy times of her life.

She would ask him whether or not she should accept certain engagements; if it was out of London he would always shake his head although he gave in later when she reminded him how much they needed the money. She would write to him ‘I received fifty-two pounds’ – or whatever the sum – ‘for tonight’s performance. Let me know whether you need it before I spend any of it.’

Sometimes she remembered the rhyme:

‘Does he keep her or she keep him?’

But she put it from her mind. There was nothing mercenary about William. It was simply that he could not keep within his income.

It was their hope that one day she would be able to leave the theatre and devote all her time to her family. It was what she longed for; and William assured her that he did, too. She might be one of the leading actresses of her day, but she was first of all a wife and mother. Her own mother had been the same, which was the reason why she had been so eager for Dorothy to marry.

It had been an exhausting day and she had been looking forward to leaving London on Friday morning and going down to Bushy House for a few days. Tomorrow night she must work and then there would be that brief respite.

As she was about to leave her dressing room a messenger came to her to say that Mr Siddons was at the theatre and asking if she would see him for a few moments.

‘
Mr
Siddons!’

That was correct, she was told.

‘Then tell him I will see him in the Green Room in five minutes.’

He was waiting there when she arrived. She was always rather sorry for poor Will Siddons. Sarah was so brilliant, so dominating, that she made him seem even more insignificant than he actually was.

‘You wished to see me, Mr Siddons?’

‘Ah, Mrs Jordan. I have come on behalf of my wife.’

What trouble now? wondered Dorothy, for she could not imagine it was not trouble between herself and the queen of tragedy.

‘We are in great distress, Mrs Jordan. Our second daughter, Maria, is dying.’

Dorothy was immediately sympathetic.

‘The doctors are with her now. They hold out no hope. She may pass from us this very night… or she may live for a few more weeks.’

‘I am so sorry. Pray convey my sympathy to Mrs Siddons. Tell her I understand her feelings.’

‘You are a mother yourself, well I know; and it is for that reason that I come to ask this favour.’ He hesitated miserably. ‘I know there has been little friendship between you and the family…’ Poor little man, thought Dorothy, it was not his fault that the Kembles had treated her so badly.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is but the usual rivalries of our profession,’ she said. ‘What favour did you wish to ask?’

‘Mrs Siddons has committed herself to play on Friday night. She cannot refuse to play unless someone will take her place. You understand that she cannot bear to leave our daughter, and in the circumstances hesitates to face an audience.’

Dorothy nodded. She was thinking that instead of driving down to Bushy she would have to stay in London to play.

‘Sarah sent me to ask… oh, I know it is asking a great deal… but if you would take her place on this occasion she would be most deeply grateful.’

‘Tell her I will do it,’ said Dorothy. ‘And give her my sympathy.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Jordan.’ There were tears in his eyes.

‘Pray think no more of it. It is the least I can do.’

When he had left and she was driving home to Somerset Street she could have wept with disappointment.

What is the matter with me? she asked herself. It was due to the fact that she was pregnant, she supposed. But she felt weary and longed poignantly for Bushy, the children and William.

Soon it will be time for my confinement, she promised herself, and then I shall go to Bushy; and when the new baby comes I shall be forced to rest awhile.

And tomorrow? Perhaps she would go down to Bushy in the morning and come back for the evening performance. And Friday would be a day of rehearsal to enable her to play that night.

The children would be disappointed; but they were accustomed to her frequent absences. William would be, too. Was she right to leave them all so often? Yet she must for the money was so important to them all.

Oh for that day when she would say goodbye to the stage and spend day after peaceful day in beloved Bushy House.

She wrote to William:

‘2 o’clock. I have just returned. You will be surprised to see me advertised to play on Friday night, but I trust not angry when you know the reason. Mrs Siddons has bound herself to play that night, but since she is in constant fear of losing her second daughter, Mr Siddons came here to request I would play otherwise Mrs Siddons would be obliged to quit her child. On such a serious occasion I thought it would not be humane to refuse and hope you will agree with me… I got fifty pounds last night… If you want this money let me know that I may not dispose of it…’

She lay on her bed and thought about the family at Bushy and the girls with Hester; and greatly she wished that she could gather them all under one roof and never leave them.

The child was born in November – another girl. This one was Mary. There were now four little FitzClarences as well as her three girls.

This was a happy time. It was no use thinking about money and the theatre. She simply must rest awhile until the baby was ready to be weaned.

‘I am growing fat,’ she thought, ‘and lazy. I shall have to give up soon. I’m too plump now for
The Romp
and
Little Pickle
.’ It was strange how audiences still demanded those parts – and her in them. It was no use trying to give them solemn characters – although they loved her Angela in
The Castle Spectre.
It was all very well for Sarah Siddons. Her roles did not demand a youthful figure. In fact Sarah was far fatter than Dorothy, only being tall she could carry her weight better. But the Tragedy Queen was finding it difficult to get out of a chair once she had sat in it and was demanding that she be helped out; and lest this should call attention to her bulk all females on the stage must be helped out of their chairs as though it was some new fashion invented by the author.

The arrogance of Sarah was supreme. But Dorothy was sorry for her at this time for she had lost her little daughter who had that October died of congestion of the lungs.

The girls came over to Bushy to see her. Fanny was now sixteen, Dodee eleven and Lucy nine. Fanny was the one who worried her – Fanny always had. Conceived in hatred, Dorothy thought. Was that the reason? If so, she must make sure that she gave more care and attention to Fanny than to any of the others. Fanny frightened her. Was it because she could never forget her father? She was quick-tempered, could not learn as easily as the others and was vain and selfish.

Four-year-old George was delighted by his half-sisters. Dodee and Lucy adored him, but Fanny of course cared for no one but
herself. Young Henry followed George in everything so he was always pleased by the girls’ visits.

What was so pleasant was that William did not resent them as much as he once had appeared to, although she sensed that he was always rather pleased when they left. It was good of him, she told herself, not to put any barrier in the way of their visiting her.

Those days would have been perfect but for Fanny.

‘Mamma,’ she would demand, ‘why can’t we live here? Why do we have to live in a little house while you and the boys have this lovely place? There’s room for us all here.’

It was difficult to explain. ‘Well, you see, Fanny, this house belongs to the boys’ Papa.’

‘Is he not our step-father?’

‘Y… yes.’

‘Well then he should look after us, too.’

‘He does.’

‘But he doesn’t let us live here.’

Oh, dear, what could one say? Then Fanny would behave towards William in a way he did not like. How could one say to her: You must be particularly careful how you treat the Duke for he is the King’s son and used to special deference.

One moment he was the King’s son and another he was their step-father.

Fanny declared that he was a selfish old beast and she hated him because it was quite clear that if Mamma could have arranged it they would all have lived at Bushy House.

There was another matter which put Fanny into a sulk.

‘Why can’t I be a famous actress?’

‘Because there is no need for you to be.’

‘Why not. You are?’

‘I had to earn money when I was a girl. You do not.’

‘Then what am I supposed to do?’

‘When you are old enough I will give a big coming-out ball for you. I hope you will love someone and marry and live happily ever after.’

Fanny was mollified – but only temporarily.

Hester said Fanny would never be satisfied. Nor it seemed would Hester. She, too, would have liked to live at Bushy House.

Now that she was getting older she asked herself – and Dorothy
– what sort of life she had had. She had been subservient to her famous sister all the time. She was perpetually being obliged to ask for more money to run the household. Dorothy was ready to provide it – if she had it. William, though, had now overcome all his scruples. She realized that as in the case of his brothers, money was merely a symbol that passed from hand to hand; whose it was did not matter as long as it was there.

The need for money was like a heavy cloud always likely to appear and overshadow the sunshine of Bushy Park.

But chiefly she was happy when she could be with the children and William in that pleasant state of domesticity enjoying a brief rest from the theatre and caring for the latest babies. They were arriving regularly, and no sooner was one weaned than another was on the way. Frederick was born in December 1799 following exactly a year and a month after Mary.