The Duchess of Drury Lane (23 page)

‘I should think not. You are far too talented to rusticate. It is not my place to stop you, and as you say, my love, it is but one night.’

So I performed with my dear friend, then just a few days later in early August, I suffered a miscarriage.

I have little recollection of the event beyond the pain, and the sad expression of the Duke as I faded in and out of consciousness. The royal physician was called and for a time I seriously feared that my life was in danger. I was devastated by the loss of this child, a girl, as I had so wanted to give the Duke the family he so longed for.

Yet as I slowly recovered in the days following, returning to the theatre in September for the new season, he uttered not one word of blame. All he said to me was, ‘The doctor says you are perfectly healthy and there will be other babies, so you are not to worry.’

Come the New Year of 1793, I was again complaining to Kemble that I was never allowed to act in any new plays, only revivals, while he and Sheridan continued at loggerheads over money as well as the programme.

‘Why may I not play in anything new? I am often given no part at all, yet you still pay me at the top rate.’

‘We will let you know when there is a suitable new part for you,’ came the predictably cool reply.

Perhaps out of desperation I wrote a play myself, albeit in collaboration with a Miss Cuthbertson, which we called
Anna
. Kemble and I quarrelled furiously over whether or not to put it on. In the end he agreed but sadly it was not a success. It would have been better had I not pressed him.

Meanwhile, in the real world, England and France were fast moving towards war. French émigrés were constantly arriving with tales of horror. More alarming still, the French King and his Queen had been taken prisoner and were on trial. The Duke naturally offered his services to the navy, but then fell on an icy step and broke his arm, which prevented him from doing anything.

‘Now it is you who must rest, my darling,’ I told him, enjoying fussing over him for a change.

Pitt, however, was firmly against the Duke taking part, even after he was fit, and despite the fact that several of his brothers were given roles. William was incensed.

‘The Prime Minister has objected to the criticisms I made about the war in the House of Lords, simply because I said we should negotiate peace at the earliest opportunity. I strongly believe that the war effort should be confined as far as possible to naval operations. In response Pitt said that he could not have a political admiral. Yet I wish to serve my country. What is so wrong in that?’

I looked at his outraged expression, thinking how well meaning he was, how passionate and caring, yet also perhaps a little naïve. ‘But as you don’t agree with the war, you can surely see Pitt’s point of view.’

‘I do see his point of view, but I distrust Pitt’s policy of military intervention on the Continent. Events will prove me right, I’m sure of it. I tell you, Dora, if ever, unfortunately for this country, I should by providence be commanded to wear the crown, my greatest desire would be to be considered a peaceful monarch, and to study the true interests of Great Britain by attending to the extension of its commerce and consequently to the increase of the navy.’

I made no response to this comment, for were that occasion ever to arise, it would be the end of our relationship. Mistresses did not become queens, even if they were not an actress with three children by two different fathers.

I was also pregnant again, but he gave no thought either to the implication of that outcome for his unborn child.

Events did, however, as William had predicted, prove him right when the British army under the leadership of the Duke of York were defeated at Hondschoote, and a few weeks later the allied army was beaten at Wattignies. Worse news came when we received word that the French King and his Queen, Marie Antoinette, had both been executed, their heads cut from their bodies.

I was quite beside myself with horror. ‘I never imagined such a thing could happen,’ I cried.

‘It is indeed a barbarous and inhuman murder, but it could not possibly happen here, my love.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘The British are not like the French, we are far too pragmatic to start a revolution. Fate, I am sorry to say, seems unfavourable to us on the Continent, and every day convinces me more and more of the propriety of my objections to the war in that quarter.’

Out of respect for the French royal family, Kemble closed the Haymarket for the day, but Sheridan reacted badly to the gesture. ‘Am I not struggling enough over financing the building of the new theatre at Drury Lane? It’s costing me a small fortune. I cannot afford to miss a single day’s trade, and certainly not for the French.’

Their disputes rumbled on, as always, but I was too busy with rehearsals, and taking extreme care over the child I was carrying, to concern myself too much with theatre politics. I was, however, aware that Sheridan was heavily involved in calls for parliamentary reform, determined to avoid a similar threat here to that in France. And, like William, hard-pressed as he was for cash, yet he could not resist putting on a bet that reform would pass into law within two years. I feared he would lose his money.

His long face with its downward sloping eyes and small pinched mouth looked more mournful than ever, and I did feel most dreadfully sorry for him as Elizabeth, his wife, had recently died of consumption. To everyone’s astonishment this much-betrayed and once innocent woman had given birth to a daughter that was not her husband’s, only shortly before her death. Nevertheless, the guilt-ridden, grief-stricken Sheridan had taken the child to his heart, only to lose her too within a twelvemonth. He did find himself a new love, but she flagrantly married his late wife’s ex-lover.

Poor Sheridan, finally being paid in kind for all his own adulterous betrayals in the past. A lesson to us all.

The war continued but William took no part in it. The King would not permit him to go to sea, and the government refused to give him a job at the Admiralty, for which I was deeply thankful, despite his very real sense of frustration. But I wept for those two lost souls. Whatever the French King and Queen’s faults and flaws, they surely did not deserve such an end.

And looking at my own royal prince, I silently prayed nothing of the sort would happen here, should he ever wear the crown, whether or not I was at his side.

Twenty

‘. . . a young Admiral or a Pickle Duchess’

In January of 1794 I at last gave the Duke the son he craved. We named him George FitzClarence, and had him baptized in May. The birth was long drawn out but he was a fine healthy baby. As always I recovered quite quickly and fed him myself, which I’m quite sure the society ladies of Richmond would never do. I also took some much-needed rest from the theatre, enjoying a few months’ peace to devote myself entirely to my child. I loved to walk out through the park pushing the perambulator, calling at the shops in Richmond, one of my favourites being a milliner’s shop. I liked to remember the days when I had worked in one myself as a girl of fourteen. I loved to try on hats, and they would laugh when, having done a fair imitation of a society lady admiring myself before the looking glass, I would then put baby George on my lap and change his linen.

‘I have never seen the like,’ marvelled the proprietor. ‘You are a mother to those children in the truest sense of the word.’

Mother, mistress, actress, manager, sister, financier, supporter and help-meet. All things to all people, except a wife. I stifled a sigh of nostalgia for what might have been. Perhaps Sheridan had been right after all, respectable marriage for an actress was never on the cards, but I loved my Billy and had no regrets.

In April he was made a vice-admiral, more by way of compensation as it was but an honorary position with no role attached to it. He seemed reasonably content and was often at the House of Lords, and visited his brother for hard duty drinking sessions perhaps a mite too often. He seemed content, yet I worried about his lack of purpose in life.

‘Are you sure you won’t grow bored when I return to work?’ I asked him.

‘I shall find plenty to amuse myself. Do not fret, dearest.’

‘Perhaps you will grow tired of my frequent absences in the end?’

He drew me into his arms and kissed me. ‘I would never grow tired of you. So long as you come home every weekend, I am content.’

Later that summer we enjoyed a short holiday in Brighton at Mrs Fitzherbert’s house with William and baby George, and it was here that I was privy to a conversation between the brothers.

‘I fear if I don’t do something, I may well lose Petersham,’ William confessed to the Prince of Wales. ‘As you know, I have it on a mortgage and I never know from one month to the next whether I can continue to maintain it.’

‘The King will surely never allow that to happen,’ the Prince replied, somewhat dismissively.

‘I think it highly likely that he will, since he refuses to settle my debts.’

Possibly out of a sense of guilt for helping to create those debts, George later went to the King and suggested that His Majesty might ask Parliament to purchase the property, and allow William to remain as tenant. Apparently Pitt did not approve of the plan, pointing out that there were far more important matters upon which to spend the public purse.

The King also declined to relieve his son of the mortgage, and my Billy was obliged to seek a loan elsewhere to help pay off at least some of his debts.

‘Robbing Peter to pay Paul, that’s all I seem to do these days,’ he mourned. ‘I’ve written to Coutts stating that seven thousand pounds will settle my difficulties, and then by economy I hope to be once more free.’

Coutts was sympathetic if not particularly optimistic, but then William had given no indication of any real understanding of the word economy, bless his dear heart.

I returned to the stage in September when baby George was eight months old, thinking it important to keep some money coming in. I signed a new contract to appear at the new Drury Lane Theatre, which was at last open. It was utterly magnificent, if with a vast auditorium that was far too high, with poor sight-lines and difficulties with sound. Sheridan was still struggling over finances and wages were not being paid, resulting in strikes by dissatisfied staff and actors alike.

In the time-honoured fashion of all actors I took my baby with me, sending his devoted father constant little notes that ‘your dear little boy is perfectly well. He is now very much a theatre baby.’

By then I was already pregnant again. The Duke was, as I say, a most vigorous and passionate lover.

The
Bon Ton Magazine
announced:

Mrs Jordan is shortly expecting to produce something, whether a young Admiral or a Pickle Duchess it is impossible yet to tell
.

I continued with my career as before, staying at Somerset Street during the week and going home to Richmond every Saturday. Sheridan arranged for Elizabeth Inchbald to write a play for me. It was entitled
The Wedding Day
and was a great success.

The one that followed, however, was a most dreadful flop. This was a satirical play about gambling, titled
Nobody
. It was written by Mary Robinson, who was most condemnatory on the subject of the nation’s favourite pastime. She had begged me to persuade Sheridan to put it on, and, perhaps foolishly, I did so, not only because she had once been mistress to the Prince of Wales, but was also a writer of some renown.

It was a bad mistake and most of the cast cried off. Bannister and I struggled through as best we could, despite the society ladies hissing behind their fans, and the young bucks in the pits blowing their cat-calls. It was also slated by the critics and finally Mrs Robinson had the good sense to withdraw the play. It was particularly sad considering the many literary achievements this fine lady had to her credit, most of which commented on the shortcomings of high society.

But seeing how pitiful this one-time adored and beautiful mistress of royalty had become, now suffering ridicule, ill health and neglect, brought a shiver to my spine almost as if someone had walked on my grave.

Such worries had little time to linger, as I soon had concerns of a more personal nature when Hester sent me a frantic message to say that Fanny was ill. She was twelve by this time, and normally such a healthy child, but I went at once to Brompton to nurse her. I found her fretful and feverish, but glad to have her mother there.

‘I will stay with her,’ I told Hester. ‘You keep the other children away so that they don’t catch whatever it is.’

‘I can cope perfectly well,’ my sister snapped, in that impatient way she had. ‘Are you not in a production? We cannot risk you catching it either.’

‘She is
my
daughter. Do as I ask without argument for once, please, Hester.’

But our efforts were in vain as Dodee did catch it. Both my girls were soon very ill indeed, although thankfully Lucy was spared, having been kept well clear. Doctor Turton, one of the royal physicians, quickly arrived on the scene, the Duke having kindly called him out.

‘I would say it is either putrid or scarlet fever. Either one can be extremely dangerous.’

I felt weak with fear. ‘What must I do to make her better? Is there something you can give her?’

‘If she can take this bark, and keep it down, there is hope.’

He very generously stayed with me all through that first night, which seemed endless, one which Hester and I spent wringing out cold cloths in an effort to bring down the girls’ fever. I stayed for a further three nights, so fearful for my daughters that I grew quite demented. The Duke wrote regularly, asking to meet me, but I was nervous of using the coach in case I should infect it. I offered to walk out to meet him, although not too far as I was utterly exhausted. But then I was advised by Doctor Turton not to do even that in case of spreading the contagion.

‘I should never forgive myself,’ I wrote to him, ‘if I was the cause of giving you any pain either of body or mind. Poor Fanny is very ill – her life depends on her being able to keep the bark on her stomach. Love and kiss my dear little boy . . . Yours ever, Dora.’