The Duchess of Drury Lane (7 page)

I was overwhelmed, and thanked him profusely, while privately recognizing the irony of such a role.

Mama was casting me telling glances, urging me to keep my secret a while longer, until I had proved myself. ‘And may she sing too?’ my mother pressed. ‘She does a wonderful rendition of “The Greenwood Laddie”.’

Wilkinson looked somewhat surprised by this request. ‘How can Calista die pathetically and then come on all alive and singing a pretty ballad?’

I hastened to assure him there would be a slight pause, and that I’d make a complete distinction between the two performances.

He still looked unconvinced. ‘I shall consider the suggestion, but are you quite certain you can handle comedy as well as tragedy?’

I fully understood his reservations, as he’d seen little sign of the merry side of my nature in my miserable, bedraggled appearance at the inn. In addition, he was well respected, not only in the local community but nationwide, and had a reputation to maintain. As Calista was a role usually given to a serious actress of note, not a young newcomer, I again expressed my gratitude. ‘I will not let you down.’

‘Then the matter is settled. I shall expect you at the theatre first thing.’

The rehearsals were long and much tougher than I had ever experienced before, though this was no bad thing. I wanted to work, to learn and improve. I spared no effort to attain a high standard, and fortunately I still cut a reasonably slender figure, not showing much at all, as yet. The slight swell of my stomach could easily be disguised with a full-skirted gown. And I loved every moment of it.
The Fair Penitent
, a Restoration drama in blank verse, was very popular with audiences and I gave of my very best, wishing to do the power of the words justice.

To be fair, Wilkinson stood by his agreement to allow me to sing at the end of the performance, and changed the programme accordingly.

When the first night arrived I was, as usual, terribly beset with nerves, which thankfully vanished the moment I went on. The play was reasonably well received, although it was a small house since folk don’t turn out for a newcomer, and the Yorkshire cotton workers in the audience were not an easy public to please. At the end I jumped back on stage, dressed in my frock, with my mob cap atop my mop of brown curls, and sang ‘The Greenwood Laddie’ without accompaniment.

To my complete delight, the Leeds audience loved it. Not only that, they leapt to their feet and applauded. The reviewers the next day said that I possessed the necessary vivacity, confidence and natural stage presence required, and that my voice was strong and clear and true.

Mama was jubilant at my success and I was duly granted a benefit by way of a launch, playing to a packed house early in August. Following this success, Tate Wilkinson offered me a contract.

‘Before I sign I should tell you, sir, that I am with child.’ I flushed with humiliation at having to reveal my loss of innocence, but the moment for honesty had come.

I saw the disappointment in his eyes, the way his mouth tightened as if he had heard this too many times in the past, and had not wished to hear it from me.

‘It did not happen of her own free choice. She was ill-used,’ Mama hastily put in, unable to restrain herself.

He gave Grace a quizzical look, but asked for no further explanation. Then just as I expected at any moment to be given my marching orders, he asked, ‘Are you fit to work?’

‘I am, and will continue right to my time.’

‘Then sign. I want you in my company.’

I gladly did so, too overcome with gratitude to find any words to express it.

Six

‘. . . the horse and foot’

The season being over the company set out for York. According to Mama, Tate Wilkinson was lessee of theatres at York, Leeds and Hull, as well as touring the company around Yorkshire and earning himself the title of The Wandering Patentee.

The company walked around Yorkshire on foot like strolling players. Actors, of course, were accustomed to living on the road and not having a settled home, carrying everything they owned with them. But having only ever worked in town, at one or other theatre in Dublin, this way of life was new to me, and came as something of a challenge.

Wagons carried the scenery and props, as well as some of the children, who found it all rather exciting. Occasionally the women too would ask for a lift if they were tired, or beg rides from passing farm carts. I managed to do this on several occasions, if only for the sake of Mama. Hester, of course, was always quick to complain if she grew weary. My sister is kind and helpful at heart, but not the most patient soul, and with a quick temper. The men rode on horseback, assuming they were rich enough to own or hire such an animal, and sometimes allowed my young brother a ride now and then, if they felt like a walk.

So off we went, bag and baggage, trudging across country, over hill and dale. Beautiful as they undoubtedly are, the Yorkshire moors are bleak and windswept, rough, rock-strewn and boggy. A remote part of the country indeed, with nothing more to guide our way than sheep trods, and the well-worn paths of previous years. A stout pair of boots was essential, not to mention good health and strength.

It was a far from ideal situation for a pregnant woman, but fortunately I was fit and healthy, my spell of morning sickness long past. I did, however, worry about Mama, who was less robust, and barely recovered from our earlier trek from Liverpool.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked, coming alongside as we plodded along, equally concerned about me.

‘I am very well, Mama, really quite enjoying the warm summer sunshine.’

‘You aren’t worrying about Daly, are you?’

‘I try not to, but it isn’t easy,’ I confessed. ‘I wonder sometimes what his reaction was when he discovered I’d escaped his clutches. More than likely he would be angry. Nor will he easily let me go. Were he ever to discover where we are he would most certainly demand recompense for his loss, penalties on breaking my contract, and the repayment of my debt.’

She thought about this for a moment. ‘One advantage of this peripatetic life is that it makes it harder for Daly to find us.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘The theatre world is a small one, so not impossible.’

Wilkinson joined us at this point to ask how we were faring, and I smilingly thanked him for his concern. He was ever a kind, generous-hearted man. ‘I am well, thank you, kind sir.’

‘You look sprightly enough, praise be, but it is not easy for you, I know from my own wife’s labours. The horse and foot travels over one hundred and fifty miles a year,’ he blithely informed us.

I rather liked this description of us, as if we were a military troop rather than a troupe of strolling players, proud to be living and working together.

‘Are you hungry, dear ladies? We’ll be stopping in Tadcaster shortly where I know of a good inn.’

Fortunately, our rather rotund manager was fond of his food, and arranged regular stops at inns where he made sure ‘the horse and foot’ was well fed.

Those who could afford it would stay at the inn, while the rest would find cheap lodgings as close to the theatre as possible, hoping food would be provided and that the beds would be bug free, which I have to say was not always the case. Whenever we stopped to rest, or to prepare for the next production, I spent every free moment copying out or learning lines, making or mending costumes. Although I greatly depended upon Hester in this respect as she was far better with a needle than I. She would scour market stalls in every town we passed through.

‘See, I could trim a gown and bonnet with this,’ she would say, pouncing on a length of tatty looking gauze curtain. ‘And if I cut the sleeves off this old jacket it would make an excellent waistcoat for your part in
The Romp
.’

Whether I needed a hat and breeches for a page boy, mob cap or fancy gown, my talented sister could turn the most inauspicious looking garment into one that could easily have graced the great Sarah Siddons of Drury Lane.

‘What would I do without you?’ I told her. ‘I am so proud of you.’

‘And I of you,’ she answered, in a rare moment of sibling affection. As sisters we were fond but not overly sentimental.

My main task was to learn, as quickly and efficiently as I could, all the standard parts in our repertoire, from Shakespeare to Fletcher, Steele, Dryden and Cibber, as well as the regular farces we used. One day I might be playing Phoebe, the next Calista, or perhaps Maria in an extract from
The School for Scandal
. I might even perform in both main play and farce on the same night, sing a ballad or do a recitation during the interval. Just writing out the lines took an age, although Mama helped with this chore, as she had schooled me in my letters as a small child.

‘I’ve finished writing out the part of Rosalind for you,’ she told me, as we went to our beds after an excellent supper at the Sun Inn. ‘Which I’m sure you will play before too long. It is entirely suited to you.’ That was another thing about Mama. Her complete and utter faith in my talent and ultimate success.

I was so grateful to have my mother and sister with me for support. Surely we were now far enough away from Dublin to feel ourselves safe from Daly’s reach.

The company moved on to York for the races. The Yorkshire circuit was carefully planned to coincide with race meetings, assize weeks, fairs and markets. This was because the town in question would be buzzing with people who’d come in from the countryside around to enjoy the great event. The military, sailors, even fishermen also proved to be a loyal audience, and they too were taken into account when we chose our stopping places.

But it was hard work, our performances carried out in less than perfect conditions, often in rooms behind inns, or in stables and barns. The rare occasion when we acted in a real theatre was a treat indeed.

Once we were settled, there would be rehearsals every morning, and often in the afternoons too. Doors opened at four, allowing ample time for the audience to gather, and performances often lasted from six until midnight. It was an exhausting schedule but not for a moment did I complain. Wilkinson was paying me one pound, eleven shillings and sixpence a week, which I greatly valued.

My first stage appearance in York was with a part at which I excelled, and I soon had the audience shrieking with laughter at my favourite role of Priscilla Tomboy in
The Romp.
They loved her cheeky audacity, and the vitality I put into the part. It was exhausting but I always came off stage in high spirits.

I next played Arionelli in
The
Son-in-Law
, a part normally played by a man, which greatly offended a Mr Tyler, the actor who had played him before. He had acted opposite me in
The Fair Penitent
and when he objected to my being cast in this role, Wilkinson told him that if he had any complaints then he should try some profession other than acting. The poor man left, but a sense of ill will against me lingered long afterwards, as if I were in some way responsible for his dismissal.

While in York we took the opportunity to pay a call upon dear Aunt Maria. Sadly we found her sick in bed, a jaundiced look upon her face, and clearly close to death. Mama whispered to me that she thought the cause to be either drink or laudanum, or possibly both.

As if to echo these private comments, my aunt regarded me with a feverish gaze. ‘I did not deal well with the strains and stresses of theatre life, nor the disappointment of my lack of stardom in the capital. Other than that I believe I did rather well for myself. But I hope that you, dear niece, will do better, and learn from my mistakes.’

She was delighted that I was to follow her in the profession, and bequeathed her entire wardrobe to me.

‘That is most generous of you, Aunt,’ I cried, excited by the prospect of new costumes to replace the ones I’d been forced to abandon in Ireland.

‘Sadly, I’ve been obliged to pawn most of them, but I still possess some of my favourites, which may be of use to you.’

‘I’m sure they will.’

‘And I can alter them to fit,’ put in Hester.

She was distressed to hear our tale of Daly and learn of my condition. ‘I urge you most strongly to use the title Mrs, not only for the sake of your reputation but as a means of protecting yourself against unwelcome advances from would-be suitors.’

‘I will indeed.’

‘Nor do I care for the stage name of Francis, as I never had much time for your father. He let my dear sister down badly.’ Aunt Maria was equally adamant that I should not use her own name of Phillips. There was much more advice she gave me, to which I avidly listened, eager to soak up everything I could in order to build a good career for myself. And sadly, a week later she died, but true to her wishes we discussed with Wilkinson a change of name.

‘It cannot be Bland because of family problems,’ Mama pointed out. ‘Nor Phillips. My sister made her objections very clear on the use of our maiden name, as it may cause confusion, or detract from her own place in posterity.’

‘Then what shall it be?’ Wilkinson wondered, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the tip of one finger. ‘Dora we have, much better than Dolly or Dorothy, but we must come up with a new surname.’ He thought about this for some moments, as did we all. But then his face broke into a smile. ‘I have it, the perfect name for a new beginning. As the son of a clergyman it occurs to me that dear Dora here has in effect crossed the water. She has been rescued from her days as a slave and reached the promised land. So we will call her Jordan. Dora Jordan. How would that suit?’

‘Perfect,’ I agreed, smiling happily. My new career had begun.

Seven

‘the fly in the ointment’

The entire company was humming with excitement. Mr William Smith, an actor with the Drury Lane Theatre, was coming on a visit. Wilkinson had opened the new Theatre Royal in York in 1770, and its reputation had grown since those early days. It was very often a place London impresarios such as Richard Brinsley Sheridan, or their agents, would come to seek out new talent. Gentleman Smith, as he was known, was in York because it was race week, but naturally everyone hoped to be noticed, perhaps even offered a contract. An opportunity to star at such a famous London theatre was every actor’s dream.