Finding Love on Drury Lane

by Charity McColl

  “Yes, I—“ Linden, hearing the sound of a knock at the front door, turned.

  “I am not at home,” St. John instructed.

  “Very well, sir.”

  Linden closed the doors to the dining room behind him.

  St. John adjusted the cutlet which was intended to mend his bruised eye. He would be obliged to remain at home until the eye had healed; to go out so marred would excite comment and speculation, past times at which Londoners excelled.

  Perhaps he should return to the country. Elizabeth had not yet begun the round of balls and outings which would require him as an escort. He could return home and put this humiliating episode behind him. When his eye was restored to its normal hue, he could return.

  Was Linden accurate in his assessment that it was because St. John spent so little time in London that he had severely miscalculated the reaction that would result from his offer? Actresses as royalty, indeed. What a ridiculous concept. He did not frequent theatres or gambling hells, those were the locations of his father’s perdition and St. John had spent his entire life determined that he would not fall prey to the weaknesses of Lord Bennington.

  He had accomplished this with some success, he thought. The estate was well managed, the Bennington finances were sound; he thought that in a year or two, he would stand for Parliament. Eventually, he would marry. One must, of course. Love was not a perquisite for marriage. A man married so that he would have children to carry on his name.

  Unbidden, the image of Nell Dorchester raising her hat to him, yesterday morning on Rotten Row, rose to his mind. The utter perfection of her features matched with the male attire, fused together by her mischievous expression and the remarkable intelligence in her countenance. She was unlike any female he had ever met. She was astute in a manner that he had never ascribed to her sex. She practiced no guile; instead, she was almost alarmingly honest. The man to whom she pledged her affection would never be bored in her company. Nor would he ever be tempted to look elsewhere, for where would he find a woman so captivating?

  If only she were suitable, St. John thought. A member of the aristocracy could not marry an actress. Yes, his father had, but his father had always bent the customs of society to suit his own proclivities. He had not lived, as St. John sought to do, within the boundaries of accepted conduct. Lord Bennington had no aspirations but to please himself. He had married an actress with not a consideration or a care of how the beau monde would respond.

  St. John did not care about the rakes and mistresses, the ambitious mammas and the coy debutantes of the ton reacted. But he did care about the broader strata of English society. He did not seek to offend the virtuous or the honorable; indeed, it had always been his aim to earn their admiration.

  To what end? Politics, that was an ambition that he sought to achieve. But what then? To pass laws and enact legislation which preserved England as it was, or to lay the foundations for a better, stronger England, an Empire which would rule its realm with justice and tolerance?

  Was he fit for such a desire when he had considered Nell Dorchester in the light of a potential mistress and not as a suitable wife?

  “Linden! Saddle my horse. I am going to my father’s house!”

  11

  An Evening’s Performance

  But no one was at his father’s house when Billings admitted him.

  “Are you sure, Billings?” St. John demanded. Perhaps Marguerite had told Billings to say that no one was at home, part of her retaliation against his words earlier.

  “Sir?” Billings inquired, clearly offended at the implication that he was lying. “You may see for yourself, if you choose. Lady Elizabeth has been invited to go to Vauxhall Gardens with Lady Merrick and her daughters. Lord Bennington is at his club. Lady Bennington and Miss Dorchester were going to the theatre.”

  “So early?”

  “I believe they are in rehearsals for a new play that will be put on when this current one has ended its run.”

  St. John was surprised that Billings spoke so equably of the household’s theatrical interests. He would have expected the stern-visaged butler to disapprove of such pursuits.

  “I see. Are they expected back before night?”

  “No, my lord.” Billings tried not to stare at St. John’s bruised eye, which was devoid of its carnivorous bandage and so entirely visible in all its rapidly expanding color. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but perhaps Dr. Mayfield—“

  “There is no cure for a black eye,” St. John interrupted. “It must mend on its own.”

  “I believe that Lord Bennington favors raw beef, my lord, or at least he did in the past.”

  “I have already endured that cure, thank you. It seems that I must find a way to pass the time until I can go to the theatre.”

  “You are certainly welcome to pass the time here, my lord. I have no doubt that your father and Lady Bennington would wish for you to do so.”

  Why not? No one was at home. He could not go to his club to be greeted by the raillery that would ensue at the sight of his eye.

  “Thank you, Billings. I shall do that. I shall go to Father’s library. I imagine that it remains virtually unused.”

  “Miss Dorchester goes there, my lord. I believe she is fond of histories.”

  “Histories? An unusual choice for a young woman. I should have thought she preferred novels.”

  “She is a most unusual young woman, my lord. I shall bring you a pot of tea.”

  The library was as he remembered it. A room filled with furniture that had not been replaced in generations. Family portraits upon the walls reacquainted him with his unsmiling ancestors. Books which had not been opened or read since, most likely, he had left the house for his own residence.

  Histories. Unusual, to be sure. He roamed along the shelves to search for them. The shelves were free of dust, indicating that even if the room itself was only used by Miss Dorchester, the contents were still cared for by the servants. He noted that books had been moved from their accustomed place. Before, the books were placed wherever there was room, but someone had sought to organize them. He found the histories on a shelf together. That would not have been the work of Elizabeth; her tastes ran to music, not literature. Marguerite? Perhaps. But he guessed that Miss Dorchester had done it. Such a task indicated a woman who valued the company of books. Where had that attribute been nurtured? Had she been educated beyond the customary skills of reading and writing?

  He knew almost nothing about her, and what he did know—her profession, the interest of the Prince Regent—did not bring him comfort. What should he do?

  He thanked Billings for the tea and sat down to read one of the histories which, by its placement amongst the others, indicated that it had been taken out. Had she been reading Herodotus? He did not know of any other woman who had done so. And, except for his late uncle, he knew of no gentlemen except himself who read the Greek historian by preference.

  Returning to the pages of Herodotus reminded him of the time he had spent in his uncle’s company. As he read, he found himself lost to time. His tea turned cold. He covered his eye with his handkerchief and read with his good eye.

  Sometime in the afternoon, Billings returned with a tray and a fresh pot of tea. Silently, he deposited the tray on the desk and left. Absently, St. John ate bread and cheese and continued reading.

  He was surprised at how quickly the time went by. He decided that he would go to the theatre from here rather than returning to his house to change. He was not dressed for the evening, but that didn’t seem to matter.

  “Sinjin!” his father greeted him when St. John entered the box. “I am delighted that you have taken me up on my invitation. You shall see Marguerite perform.”

  “Yes.”

  “My boy, what on earth has happened to your eye? You have not been brawling?”

  “No. I offended a lady without intending to and she dealt me the requisite punishment.”

  “You? Offended a lady? I find that hard to bel
ieve. You have always had the most chivalric manner when in the company of the fair sex.”

  “Apparently not always. It appears that the theatre is full. I gather the play is popular?”

  “Very. But they are already thinking of their next play. It is a historical play set in Athens. I believe it is a comedy.”

  “Oh? Aristophanes, perhaps?”

  Lord Bennington leaned closer. “It is an original play,” he whispered.

  “Who is the playwright?”

  “You must not reveal the name. Original plays by unknown playwrights are, Marguerite tells me, viewed with initial suspicion and she is most anxious that this one will be well received. The playwright is our own Nell.”

  “Miss Dorchester is a playwright?” St. John responded.

  “Shhh, it must not be announced. She is very talented. She has had a most unique life. She grew up in an orphanage but she is very well educated. Marguerite knew her since Nell’s childhood and visited her regularly.”

  Was Marguerite Nell’s mother? Had she “visited” Nell in the orphanage in order to maintain a semblance of propriety rather than allow the world to guess her secret?

  His father was continuing to talk. “And when Nell turned fifteen, Marguerite took her from the orphanage and into her own home. Is that not a marvelous thing to do—the Prince Regent!”

  “Where?”

  “Entering the royal box. As if no one would notice his arrival,” Lord Bennington said disparagingly. “He comes to the theater in disguise, but sits in the royal box. You can see that all eyes follow him, yet see how he hides behind the curtains. He is here to see Nell, you may be sure. I do not trust his intentions. Marguerite tells me that I have no reason to fear, but she is an innocent woman with no reckoning of the world in which men rule.”

  St. John doubted that Marguerite was an innocent, but he appreciated his father’s view of the Prince Regent’s intentions.

  “Perhaps we should guard Miss Dorchester from his pursuit.”

  “A capital idea, my boy. How should we do that?”

  “Why not, at the close of the play, make our way to her dressing room. The Prince Regent will not press his advances upon her in our company. He would not like to be seen at a disadvantage.”

  “Excellent!”

  With their plan waiting, St. John was able to concentrate on the play, waiting for Nell to make her appearance. She did so, in men’s attire, to the applause of the audience. Her acting was effortless and natural with no histrionic dialogue; in fact, he was struck by the mesmerizing way that she spoke her lines as if she were engaged in actual conversation.

  Her role was a side plot and she was not on the stage often. Marguerite, on the other hand, was the main character. St. John recognized her as a woman skilled in the art of summoning the audience’s empathy, moving them with her words and motions. His father, although he had seen the play many times, leaned forward so that he would not miss a single syllable or gesture. At one point, when Marguerite was bidding her lover adieu, she sent a kiss, with a wave of her hand, in the direction of Lord Bennington.

  “She does that every night that I am in attendance,” Lord Bennington whispered.

  “Is she not endearing?”

  “No doubt. How soon until the play ends?”

  He was eager to go to Miss Dorchester’s dressing room, even though he had no idea what he would say to her when he arrived. He glanced up at the royal box. It was empty!

  “Father! The prince has left.”

  12

  The Prince Regent’s Intentions

  “Hm? Left? But the play has not finished.”

  “Let us leave now so that we may reach the dressing room before him.”

  “But the play is not—“

  St. John was already out of his seat. Lord Bennington followed, with several glances back to the stage, where another scene had begun, one of the few which did not include his wife.

  Familiar with the layout of the theatre, Lord Bennington led the way backstage. “This way,” he said quietly. “The dressing rooms are back here.”

  His was a familiar face to the members of the acting troupe who worked behind the scenes and they greeted him with a familiarity that surprised St. John. His father did not appear to be offended in the least by their casual address.

  “Here,” he said. “We shall wait here for her. But what shall we do when the Prince—“

  Too late. Prince George, heir to the British throne, approached the door, flanked by two men who looked, by their appearance, as if they were more bodyguards than servants. His face showed displeasure.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Waiting for Miss Dorchester,” St. John answered.

  The Prince’s years showed. Was he wearing cosmetics, St. John wondered. His cheeks looked rather unnaturally rosy. He would have to ask Linden; Linden would know, even if he had not seen for himself. He moved with the bulk of a man who was dressed in clothing too tight to allow for comfortable mobility. But he was royal and his features exposed a regal countenance.

  “I am here to see Miss Dorchester,” he said, moving forward as if he would enter her dressing room.

  “Your Majesty,” Lord Bennington said, “Miss Dorchester lives with my wife, Lady Bennington and me. We intend no disrespect to her, or to you.”

  “I am glad to hear of it, Lord Bennington. I am—“

  Movement swirled around them as, the play having ended, the actors went to their dressing rooms, Marguerite among them.

  She curtseyed when she saw the Prince. Mollified, the Prince Regent extended his hand to raise her to her feet. “Lady Bennington,” he said, kissing her hand, “it was, as always, a delight to see you perform.”

  “Your praise, Your Majesty, is akin to a dozen ovations,” she replied. “You know my husband, Lord Bennington, and his son, St. John. My stepson is seldom in London, but we are glad to have him with us.”

  “They are reluctant to allow me to enter,” the Prince Regent complained. “I am eager to compliment Miss Dorchester on her performance.”

  St. John could hardly bear to hear such hypocrisy. “Is that your only intention?” he demanded.

  “St. John,” Lord Bennington cautioned, placing a warning hand on his son’s arm.

  “That is none of your business!” the Prince retorted. “How dare you speak thus to me, your monarch. What is the matter with your eye?”

  St. John avoided looking at Marguerite. “An accident,” he replied. “Entirely my fault.”

  “With your present conduct as an indication, I have no doubt that the accident was your fault. You will be pleased to move from the door so that I may enter. Miss Dorchester is expecting me.”

  “I will not move from the door!” St. John exclaimed.

  The actors milling about backstage looked over at the sound of the raised voice.

  “You will not speak this way to me, you unmannered puppy!” shouted Prince George. “I will see you brought before the magistrate for this! You have no right to be here.”

  “I am here to offer Miss Dorchester my hand in marriage, if she will have me,” St. John declared. “You are intruding upon my marriage proposal.”

  “Your marriage proposal?” The Prince’s mouth dropped.

  “Yes, marriage! She is an estimable woman and I should consider it a great honor if she would accept my hand in marriage. I should account myself the most fortunate man alive if she will do so. I do not intend to surrender her to anyone who will not prize her as I will and therefore, Your Majesty, I am here to obstruct you from your plans.”

  “Marriage proposal?” the Prince repeated, apparently hearing nothing else of St. John’s speech.

  “Marriage proposal?” echoed Lord Bennington.

  “Marriage proposal . . . “Marguerite said thoughtfully as she surveyed his eye.

  “Yes, a marriage proposal! I wish to---“

  The dressing room door opened. Nell, still wearing her trousers, waistcoat and shi
rt from her last scene, stood there. Her face was wiped clean of its stage make-up. The top hat was still on her head, but strands of gold escaped from confinement to tumble to her shoulders.

  Her gaze swept over the assembly in front of her door.

  “Is there a problem?” she inquired in slightly ironic tones.

  “This gentleman wishes to marry you,” the Prince Regent said.

  “If you do not mind, Your Majesty, I should prefer to do my own proposing.”

  St. John sank to one knee. “Miss Dorchester, although we have not had very much time to acquaint ourselves with one another, I should like permission to pay court to you with the intention of offering you an honorable proposal of marriage. I hope that you will not take my previous conduct as an indication that I regard you with anything less than the very highest esteem. I have been persuaded by a very wise woman that I have been remiss in my behavior. I wish to remedy that. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  “You have my permission!” said the Prince Regent.

  St. John, who was feverishly taking a ring from his finger to place upon Nell’s hand, stopped abruptly. “Your permission!” he said. “What the devil has your permission to do with anything?”

  “Perhaps, Your Majesty,” Marguerite murmured, “we might find a less public place for this conversation to take place.”

  “Not at all!” the Prince proclaimed exuberantly. “I am done with secrecy and privacy. Nell is my daughter, and I wish to recognize her as such. Her mother and Lady Bennington were comrades. After Annabella died, Lady Bennington—who was then Marguerite Winslow, of course—saw to it that Nell was reared in an orphanage, but that she received the best possible education and care. I did not know what had transpired . . . time had past, you see, and . . . well, no matter now. After Marguerite became the toast of the London stage, I met her and she told me—rather peremptorily, as I recall—that Annabella had died in childbirth. The child was mine. Once informed of this event, I demanded to be kept aware of the child’s progress. And after she went on the stage, I have been able to see her regularly, although I fear there are those who have misunderstood my devotion.”