The Duchess of Drury Lane (10 page)

‘The great Sarah Siddons herself.’

Mrs Ward gave a bark of cynical laughter. ‘She has come to observe your performance, Jordan, and may well put an end to your dream if she does not care for what she sees.’

This was so very true I heartily wished that my dear sister had not told me. The very prospect of acting before this famous actress had me shaking in my shoes before ever I reached the stage. I felt sick, longed to turn and run as I had once before.

Sensing my panic Hester grasped my hands in hers. ‘It’s all right, Doll. You can do this. Go out there and show her just how good you are.’

I would like to say that I did exactly that. Sadly, I was so beset with nerves that at best I was mediocre. Siddons was not impressed.

‘Mrs Jordan had better remain where she is and not attempt the London boards,’ was her verdict, brought to me by Wilkinson with a wry smile on his round, homely face. As always, he attempted to console me.

‘I think it curious to note that this same advice was given to Mrs Siddons herself in her early days by William Woodfall, the critic. He thought her too weak for the large London theatres, and recommended she keep to small houses where she could be heard. But your voice is strong, my dear, and can be heard loud and clear right up in the gods.’

‘What if I should fail?’ I asked, my earlier confidence now rapidly evaporating.

Wilkinson patted my hand. ‘There is absolutely no reason why you should. I have every faith you will be a complete success, but should that not be the case, you will always be welcome in my company, Dora dear.’

Tears brimmed in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks at the thought of leaving the safe haven this dear man had offered me in my greatest hour of need. ‘You have been like a second father to me, kindness itself. I do so wish I had performed better tonight, for your sake.’

‘There, there, do not take it to heart. The lady does tend to be somewhat scathing in her criticisms.’

Oh, but I did take it very much to heart, and I made a private vow to make sure that next time Mrs Siddons saw me act, she would come away with a very different view.

My last performance was in early September, and there were many fond farewells, and some very welcome ones. Mama wept at leaving George behind, but he loved working with Wilkinson, who promised to take good care of the boy as he was not yet ready for the capital.

Then we packed my precious costumes and books, and Mama, Hester and I, together with two-year-old Fanny, set out on our next adventure to London. I went with no degree of confidence. Many actresses had followed this same route to the capital, bearing the same hopes and dreams of fame and fortune in their hearts, and been obliged to return forever into obscurity, like my mother before me. Yet at least I had been granted the opportunity, and on double the wages that Wilkinson could offer, so what did I have to lose?

Mrs Smith stood watching me depart. ‘Make no mistake,’ she said to the coven of companions by her side. ‘The Jordan will be back within twelve months.’

Nine

‘She came to town with no report in her favour . . .’

We had thought that city life would be no surprise to us, coming from Dublin, but London was very different, so much larger and grander than our Irish equivalent, or certainly the part we had known by the quays. The sounds and smells of the capital hit us in full force: the rattle of carriage wheels, the clip of horses’ hooves, the cries of the street sellers.

‘My mop is so big, it might serve as a wig for a judge, if he had no objections,’ cried one, making us all laugh.

Lamps lighted the streets, which were properly paved. There were street sweepers so less rubbish and sewage ran in the gutters, and apparently water was piped below ground to the row of fancy tall houses. Elm trees lined every street and square, with green swathes of parkland everywhere. We’d endured two long days being bumped and jostled and squashed in a public coach, till we were bruised and bone-weary, despite regular stops at inns on the Great North Road.

‘At least we didn’t have to walk this time,’ I said in an effort to raise spirits as we trundled along.

Hester was in one of her moods, Mama weak with exhaustion and little Fanny was screaming like a banshee. But I was filled with excitement. London seemed to me a magical place, and I fell in love with it on sight.

The streets themselves were crowded with traffic: carriages, hackneys, sedan chairs hurrying by with some lady hidden inside, perhaps off on a secret tryst with her lover. There were carts and wagons and horses by the score; and fancy phaetons ‘taking the dust’, as Sheridan later described it, when the young bucks took their ladies for a drive.

‘Turn left at the top of Drury Lane, if you’re looking for somewhere cheap to stay near the theatre,’ our coach driver advised us as he stopped to allow us to alight. ‘It’s far from salubrious but where most of the Irish immigrants live.’

I shuddered at the thought but Mama soon put him right, looking quite outraged. ‘We are respectable ladies and have no intention of living in any low part of town.’

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he responded politely, doffing his cap. ‘Then I’d recommend you choose with care, as fashionable people have moved away from the area, and criminals and prostitutes are in abundance there now.’ He piled our baggage about our feet, climbed back on to his seat and with a flick of his whip drove away, far too accustomed to delivering people to the city to care greatly whether or not we ended up in a hell-hole.

But his advice indicated to me how ill-regarded the Irish were. And the closeness of the slums was an alarming reminder of where we might end up if things went wrong. I suddenly felt the pressure of responsibility for our survival weighing heavy on my young shoulders. I would shortly turn twenty-four with the burden of being the main bread winner for my family. I was fully aware that I would be but one among many, competing against the best in the business, and would need to prove myself quickly if we were not to end up in those slums.

Fortunately, thanks to Mama’s memories of Thomas Sheridan, who had lived in Henrietta Street, we managed to find decent lodgings at number eight. It was a handsome four-storey terraced house which boasted a fine staircase and wood-panelled rooms, within easy walking distance of all the major theatres including Drury Lane, and quite close to Covent Garden.

We unpacked our few possessions, save for my stage costumes which we left in the basket Hester and I had carried between us all the way from Yorkshire. Our room seemed comfortable enough with three iron beds, and Mama went in search of the kitchen, shared with the other lodgers, to warm what was left of the soup she’d brought with us. I put little Fanny down for a much-needed sleep.

‘So here we are,’ I said, hugging my sister. ‘Now what?’

She grinned at me. ‘Now you sweep on to the stage at Drury Lane and charm London with your talent. Then we all become very rich.’

‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten that part. And when we are “very rich” we shall all wear satin and lace, and gold slippers, and ride everywhere in a fine carriage of our own instead of the public stage.’

‘And parade ourselves in our fancy clothes before the nasty Mrs Smith in Yorkshire.’

‘“My, my, Dora Jordan, ’oo do you think you are lass, the Queen of Sheba?” she’ll say.’ I mimicked the woman to perfection.

Hester collapsed with laughter. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Doll, you will really.’

We were still rolling on our beds in fits of giggles when Mama returned with the hot soup and a crusty loaf she had bought from a passing baker’s boy.

‘What has got into the pair of you?’ she asked, somewhat bewildered by our merry mood.

‘Dreaming, Mama, only dreaming. Tomorrow, when I arrive at Drury Lane, I shall come face to face with reality.’

But long before I ever reached the theatre the next morning, I was filled with trepidation. ‘Why do I even imagine I could be any use? Mrs Siddons is the great name at Drury Lane. The other main actresses, a Miss Farren and a Miss Pope, I am reliably informed by Gentleman Smith, play the dainty ladies to perfection.’

‘Leave the tear-jerking tragedy to Siddons,’ Mama said, somewhat dismissively. ‘Nor are you the sort of actress to play a dainty lady. The good gentleman also said that there was no one who played farcical comedy, at which you shine.’

‘But it is not in fashion, Mama, not in London. Drury Lane prefers serious drama: Shakespeare, Molière, Voltaire. What can
I
offer to compete with the likes of Siddons?’

‘Yourself, dearest. Just be yourself.’ And she put her arms about me and hugged me in her loving, motherly way.

Drury Lane was much shabbier than I had expected, but then theatres are never the most salubrious of places. Backstage at Leeds more often than not stank of beer, grease paint and stale sweat, although somehow I had expected better from this grand London theatre. The proprietor, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a tall thin man with a rigid posture, offered me a bow that was not in the least foppish, despite his brightly coloured costume of blue coat and red waistcoat. I politely asked that my mother’s kind regards be transmitted to his father, Thomas Sheridan.

‘She has fond memories of working with him in Dublin.’

‘I do not often see him,’ came the cool response.

I was then shown around by the manager, Tom King, who told me that he in fact remembered my mother very well from his time in Dublin. ‘I knew Mrs Bland back in the 1750s. Do give her my regards.’

‘I will.’ I felt as if I had found a friend.

We sat in on a rehearsal, and I listened avidly while he told me something of the history of the theatre, first built in 1662 and rebuilt following a fire ten years later.

‘It is called the Theatre Royal because the first troupe of players was considered to be a part of the royal household, and as such entitled to wear the scarlet and gold of royal livery, rather like footmen do now.’

‘How fascinating,’ I said, smiling.

‘At that time the theatre could seat seven hundred but it is twice that size today. Mr Sheridan took it over from Garrick in 1777, although he leaves the day-to-day management entirely to me.’ He regarded me quite seriously for a moment. ‘You must not be intimidated by him. He is a charming man, if something of a contradiction, and is himself of Irish stock, although he was raised mainly by servants after his parents returned to England.’

‘Doesn’t he ever tread the boards himself?’ I asked, thinking of Ryder, Daly and Wilkinson, who all loved to be a part of the action on stage.

‘Mr Sheridan is too occupied as a Member of Parliament to have time for such trivialities these days.’ And lowering his voice, softly added, ‘He suffered rather badly from bullying as a boy at Harrow, being the son of a travelling player, so now prefers not to be too closely associated with the theatre.’

‘Then why own one?’ I asked, astounded by this private glimpse into a very public figure.

‘Money, my dear, why else? He has turned his back on both acting and writing in order to concentrate on politics, but he still has to live, and has debts to settle, so if you can pull in an audience, you will be particularly welcome here.’

I was still mulling over this information about my new employer, which seemed to add to the pressure already on me, as we returned to the office to consider how best to make my debut. Sheridan waved me to a seat with a flourish of one delicate hand.

‘Our aim,’ he began, ‘is to dedicate the Theatre Royal to the very best in drama, as well as high moral rectitude. It is a place for intellectual culture, entertainment and enjoyment, a theatre which needs to be regarded as a national treasure. We must never allow it to slide into vulgarity and immorality. Young actresses should take particular care that they do not overstep the bounds of propriety. It is commonly agreed that they create a certain excitement in the male breast, and provoke a sense of mystery since the real woman can easily be confused with the parts they play.’

‘I am aware of that,’ I said, beginning to wonder where all this was leading.

‘Sadly, it is an actress’s lot in life that she rarely finds married joy with a respectable man.’

My heart skipped a beat at this bleak prospect for my future happiness. ‘I trust you exaggerate, sir. I have every hope to marry a good man one day,’ and I smiled. Sheridan’s expression remained inscrutable.

‘I believe, Mrs Jordan, that you have a child.’

‘I do.’ If he expected me to apologize for my darling Fanny, or explain her existence, then he had mistaken me badly.

Tom King looked away, clearly embarrassed. After a slight pause in which I sat rigid, Sheridan blithely continued with his lecture. ‘You should ever remember that I have an instinctive abhorrence to the theatre being seen as a vehicle for vice. Nor have we any place here for smutty farce and coarse jokes.’

The manager hastily intervened. ‘What Mr Sheridan means is that Drury Lane is the place where the fashionable like to come to see the great Mrs Siddons act. They are content to sit and enjoy the tragedy, but whether we could persuade them to remain in their seats long enough to view the farce after it, has yet to be proved.’

This all sounded deeply disturbing. ‘Are you saying there is no room for comedy at the Lane which may be considered in the slightest risqué?’

‘No, we don’t mean that at all. We have no objection to a lively or bawdy comedy,’ Sheridan put in, himself the writer of two amusing farces,
The School for Scandal
and
The Rivals
, and generally revered as a notorious wit. ‘But the genteel will not tolerate anything too offensive or uncouth, and prefer to leave the theatre with the glow of Mrs Siddons’ performance fresh in their minds.’

‘Mrs Siddons is the great draw,’ Tom King agreed. ‘Her performances are always well attended, and she holds two benefits each season. She is very well thought of.’

‘Not least by herself,’ Sheridan added with a grim smile. ‘But we cannot afford to offend her, you understand, by puffing up a newcomer too much. Not even one who comes so highly recommended by William Smith.’