Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) (49 page)

‘I could not face prison,’ she said. ‘It is so… impossible. How should I ever get out… and what would become of my family?’

‘Take my advice,’ said Barton. ‘Get away. I will do all I can to help. Sell up everything you have here and go. I shall be in touch. Your allowances will be paid… and in a short time you will be able to settle your debts and come back.’

She trusted Barton. There was no one else to trust.

Barton went away satisfied that he had done an excellent thing for the Duke. He would not tell him at present for the Duke was a sentimental man. But he would never regain the dignity of his rank, nor would he find a bride, while Dorothy Jordan remained in the public eye.

Dorothy frantically started to sell her furniture at ridiculous prices; she disposed of the lease of her house, and with the faithful Miss Sketchley as her company set out for France.

The order of release

THE LITTLE COTTAGE
at Marquetra was small but the surrounding country was green and reminded her poignantly of England. There were two cottages side by side and in the second lived her landlady Madame Ducamp, the widow of a gardener. Madame Ducamp’s maid Agnes also looked after Dorothy and was soon charmed by her. So beautiful although she was no longer young; so graceful although she was no longer slim; so different from anyone Agnes had ever known.

Agnes would talk of Dorothy continually to Madame Ducamp and to Miss Sketchley.

‘I have never known anyone like the dear sad English lady,’ she said. ‘I am sure Madame James has been a grand lady in England. Of course, I do not believe Madame James is her real name. Ah, I can see it is not, Mademoiselle Sketchley. I believe she is a princess… or a duchess. She has the airs of one for all that she is so kind.’

Why did she wait so eagerly for the mail which did not come to her direct but had to be collected?

‘When it is time for it to come,’ said Agnes, ‘she becomes so anxious that I am afraid she will die if she does not get what she wants. I hear her coughing at night and I fear for her. Is she very ill? How I wish that the letter she longs for would come.’

Miss Sketchley gave nothing away. Calm, discreet, she looked after Dorothy who often wondered what would have happened if this dear good woman had not come to her.

One day she was wildly happy. It was due to a letter. Agnes wondered but Miss Sketchley did not tell.

It was not the letter for which she had hoped; the letter from Barton to say that it was safe for her to come home. But it was from sixteen-year-old Frederick FitzClarence who although he did not know her address did know that she was living in France under the name of Mrs James and that he must address letters to her in this name c/o the Post Office at Boulogne.

Frederick was already in the Army and had written: ‘If you want money… take my allowance because with a little care I could live on my father’s.’

She wept over the letter, kissed it and slept with it under her pillow.

The children loved her. Dodee and Lucy were in despair because she had left home; George had always been a good son and so had Henry, but they were in India, and now dear Fred had offered his allowance.

She felt that she was not entirely forgotten.

‘I feel,’ she told Miss Sketchley, ‘that soon release will come.’

After a few months she left Marquetra for Versailles and there found rooms. She spent her time writing letters and reading, and each day she would ask herself: Will the letter come today – the order of release?

She longed to be with her family. Dodee and Lucy wrote regularly. Dodee was sad because of the disaffection of her husband. They missed her and longed for her return.

She wrote to Frederick telling him not to worry, that she understood his difficulties; she was sure he had hoped to repay her before the deficiencies were discovered; and when Mr Barton had so settled her affairs and she could return to England they would all set up house together.

Versailles did not suit her and she went to St Cloud and took rooms in the Maison du Sieur Mongis, a gloomy place with a dark overgrown garden and shabbily furnished rooms. It was ill-heated and as it was winter she felt chilled and thought longingly of the comforts of Bushy House.

She would lie on the shabby old sofa and say to Miss Sketchley: ‘Sometimes I feel that this old sofa will be my death bed. One day I shall lie down on it and never get up. Do you know, I don’t think I should greatly care.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Sketchley. ‘What of the girls? They are expecting you to go back and make a home for them.’

Yes, the girls. She must always think of the girls.

A new year had started. 1816. One weary day followed another, bringing no letter of release.

‘Have they forgotten me?’ she asked Miss Sketchley.

Her health did not improve with the coming of the spring. She
developed jaundice and her skin turned yellow. Miss Sketchley, alarmed, wrote to Dodee.

She waited for the reply.

Meanwhile Dorothy was growing worse. The coughing fits were frequent and alarming.

‘Are there any letters from England?’ she asked constantly.

Miss Sketchley could only shake her head miserably.

‘My dear, ask them to go to the Post Office… let them go now… There may be some waiting for me.’

Miss Sketchley knew it was useless, but nevertheless, to satisfy Dorothy, she sent the messenger.

She sat by Dorothy’s side at that old sofa. She thought: ‘Will her daughter come? Is none of her family – for whom she lived, and for whom she is dying – to be with her at the end?’

Someone was knocking at the door. But it was only the messenger.

‘Are there any letters?’ asked Dorothy.

‘No, Madame, nothing at all.’

In weary resignation she sank back on the sofa and turned her head to the wall.

Miss Sketchley sat still, afraid to look at Dorothy because in her heart she knew.

The July sun filtered through the window showing the dust on the furniture and Miss Sketchley sat listening as Dorothy had listened for the family to come to take her home, for the letters which would never come.

The favourite exponent of the Comic Muse had died from an inflammation of the lungs at St Cloud in France, so said the English papers.

She was buried with only Miss Sketchley and strangers to mourn her; but one of these strangers put up a granite slab to her on which he had the words inscribed:

‘Sacred to the memory of Dorothy Jordan, who for a series of years in London as well as other cities of Britain pre-eminently adorned the stage. For Comic Wit, sweetness of voice, and imitating the manners and customs of laughing maidens as well as the opposite sex, she ranked second to none in the display of that art. Neither was anyone more prompt on relieving the necessitous. She departed this life, the 5th July 1816. Remember and weep for her.’

Bibliography

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edited by A. Aspinall

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Epub ISBN: 9781448150472

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First published in Great Britain 1971 by Robert Hale & Company

© Jean Plaidy 1971

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