by Jean Plaidy
The carriages which stopped outside Drury Lane on the night when Dorothy was playing were as numerous as those which came for Sarah Siddons.
‘Wait until I am ready to come back,’ said Sarah.
In the meantime Dorothy enjoyed her success. She was fully aware of her value. Sheridan had offered her four pounds a week to start and that had been affluence when compared with the thirty shillings Wilkinson had paid her; but after that first performance he had of his own free will offered her eight because he was afraid that Harris would come over with a bigger offer; and greatly daring, for living was dearer in London and she had the whole family to think of, she asked for a further four pounds a week and to her astonishment Sheridan said that he would consider it.
This was success.
A delighted Grace declared that it was nothing more than she had anticipated and she only wished that Aunt Mary had lived to see this day. She wished, too, that Dorothy’s father had seen it – and his family; perhaps they might have been eager then to link themselves with such a famous and respected figure as Dorothy Jordan.
‘Oh that’s all over and done with,’ said Dorothy.
‘I only want one thing to complete my happiness,’ said Grace, ‘and that is to see you nicely settled and respectably married.’
‘Do you think I should have time for a husband with all the new parts that are coming along for me?’ demanded Dorothy.
‘A woman always has time for a husband. And I want a nice steady one for you.’
‘Someone mild as milk like Will Siddons?’
‘Ah, she has done very well. Fame and respectability. What more could an actress ask for?’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Dorothy with a laugh. ‘I have to make the most of it while Sarah gets her respectable child respectably brought into the world. I’m to have the part of Matilda in that odd play Richard Cœur de Lion. I think I can make something of that.’
Dorothy lured the talk back to the theatre and her future parts which was so much more comfortable than the subject of marriage. She could never think of it without recalling that nightmare with Daly and the rather humiliating position in which George Inchbald had put her.
She would leave men alone. Parts pleased her more.
In December of that year, two months after Dorothy’s first appearance at Drury Lane, the great comedy actress Kitty Clive died. It seemed significant; a star had set and a new one had arisen to take her place; that new one was Dorothy Jordan, for so had Dorothy’s fame grown that people had already begun to compare her with Kitty Clive and Peg Woffington.
And by that time she had met Richard Ford.
Her meeting with this young man was momentous for in a very short time he had made her change her opinions about his sex. He was different from any man she had hitherto known – young, eager and passionate; he wanted above everything else, he declared, to please her, to make her happy; and that would from henceforth be his main purpose in life. Shortly after their first meeting he told her he had made up his mind to marry her.
She reminded him of her career. It was not easy for an actress to lead a married life. Why not? he wanted to know. So many of them did. Look at the great Siddons herself.
‘And see how she had to leave the theatre to a rival while she retires to have her babies.’
‘She’ll come back as popular as ever.’
But she was not really arguing against marriage. She only wanted to be sure of Richard. Her experiences with Daly and George Inchbald had made her very wary. And as Richard broke down all her arguments against it she gave herself up to the luxury of contemplating it. She thought of him as a father to Frances – who could be a better? He was gentle and kind, all that Frances’s own father was not. She thought of other children she would have, for she knew that once she had made her family financially secure she would love to add to it. Frances born in such bitter circumstances was very dear to her; how joyful she would be to have children of a happy union! There was her mother, who longed for one thing to complete her contentment: Dorothy’s marriage.
Yet she wished to wait for a while. I must be absolutely sure, she told herself. Moreover, in spite of her recent success did she stand firmly enough in her new position? The people were flocking to see her, but she had formidable rivals and once Sarah came back the battle to hold her place would begin in earnest.
They would wait for a little while and in the meantime tell no one. There was too much gossip in the theatre already; she had many enemies who would seek to blacken her character; and if her mother knew of Richard’s intentions she would undoubtedly attempt to hustle them into marriage.
Richard was the son of Dr James Ford, a co-shareholder in Drury Lane Theatre with Richard Sheridan, though he took no part in the running of the theatre; for him it was purely a business adventure. He was rich, a court physician and on friendly terms with the royal family, and he had invested a large sum of money in the theatre to help the ever-impecunious Sheridan. Because of his father’s position Richard came and went as he pleased while he himself trained for the bar.
Whenever Dorothy played he was at the theatre and as when she was on stage he never took his eyes from her, it was soon common knowledge that he was mightily taken with her. Then so were many others. Even the Duke of Norfolk came to see her play and showed his appreciation.
But Dorothy refused to dally with any. She was an actress, she reminded them; she needed to devote herself to her work. Life was a constant round of rehearsals and learning new parts.
Not yet, was her continual excuse. ‘First I must make sure that I’ve come to stay.’
She was to play Miss Hoyden in A Trip to Scarborough, a version of Vanburgh’s The Relapse which Sheridan had arranged for his theatre. This part was the sort at which she could excel – the bouncing young woman just out of the nursery, without social graces, wayward, full of high spirits. It was a similar part to that of Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp.
She expected to enhance her reputation in this role and put everything else from her mind.
As soon as she stepped on the stage in her scanty costume, purposely not fitting and falling from her shoulders, and her hair in very charming disorder under a rakish cap, she was hailed with delight.
Sheridan watching from the back of the theatre was certain in that moment – although he assured King that he had never had a doubt before – that Dorothy was going to be one of the biggest draws they had ever had.
It was not the tradition of the London theatre to play comedy all the time. Tragedy had been more acceptable and the great Sarah herself was a confirmation of this. ‘Ask anyone,’ said Tom King to Sheridan, ‘who is the greatest actress on the boards today and the answer is Sarah Siddons. People will always come to see Sarah throw herself about in her agony and declaim disaster in that magnificent voice of hers. It’ll go on when they’re sick to death of a young hoyden romping round the stage.’
King was not as enamoured as Sheridan with the newcomer. He thought her rise had been far too rapid. She was young and had an appeal, he knew; but an actress must act. She couldn’t rely on her youth because it was a stuff that did not endure, as the bard told them; as for her beauty that was equally perishable. If the Jordan was going to prove her worth she would have to act tragedy as well as comedy.
Sheridan was persuaded and Dorothy was dismayed when she was told she must play Imogen in Cymbeline.
She could not say she would not. She was not in the position to do that. She could not declare her inability to play the part, for that was something an actress must never do.
She would do Imogen, but, she pleaded with Sheridan, could she not do Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp afterwards? The public would be in a serious mood and there was nothing it liked better than to go home in a merry one. When the curtain had fallen on Cymbeline, let it rise again on The Romp, which would give them good measure for money.
Sheridan knew his actress and applauded her energy. He had given way to King on this matter of Cymbe
line and now he was going to give way to Dorothy. So The Romp followed Cymbeline – and what a stroke of luck that it did! Her performance as Imogen was indifferent. How could it be otherwise when her heart was not in it; she was not made for tragedy. She was a comedienne. She knew it. The audience must know it and accept her as such.
The audience, a little depressed to see their new idol scarcely at her best, were soon laughing at the antics of Miss Tomboy who threw herself into the part with even more verve than usual. Desperately she had to eradicate the impression of Imogen with Priscilla Tomboy; and she did. Next morning the papers were full of the performance of Mrs Jordan in The Romp.
‘In the farce Mrs Jordan made amends for her deficiency in the play,’ the Morning Chronicle announced. ‘The audience were in a continued roar of laughter. The managers of Drury Lane have a most valuable acquisition in this actress.’
‘Saved!’ cried Dorothy when she read the papers in the company of Grace and Hester. ‘I’ll have to fight off these tragic parts with all my might. The fact is I could never compete with Siddons. I should burst out laughing if I beat my breast and cried out in agony as she does. The point is that no one ever behaved in real life as Sarah Siddons does on the stage.’
‘And they call that acting!’ cried the loyal Grace.
‘Which, dearest Mamma, is exactly what it is.’
So all was well for the time being; but how could she think of marrying just now when there was so much to be done? She was in love. She was aware of that now. She believed that if she married Richard she would want to give all her thoughts to pleasing him, to building the foundations of a happy marriage. She would neglect her career; and how easy it would be to let slip all that she had so far grasped. The recent experience with Imogen had shown her that very clearly.
Mrs Siddons returned to the stage after the birth of her child – an avenging angel of the Tragic Muse ready to do battle against the enemy Comedy.
‘What will happen to the theatre if this persists?’ she demanded of King and Sheridan, striking one of the poses which had held an audience spellbound. ‘It will sink to the level of a peep show.’
King was inclined to agree with her; Sheridan shrugged his shoulders.
‘Now you’ve returned, Sarah my dear,’ he said, ‘you can lead them back to tragedy and show them how much they prefer you to little Jordan.’
‘They will not need much leading.’
But they were not to be led. They showed clearly that it was laughter not tears they wanted.
‘If they want laughter,’ said Sarah, ‘I will play some of my lighter roles. I’ll give them Portia. They have always responded to her.’
But brilliant as Sarah was, beautiful as was her face – though her figure had suffered from childbearing and she had always been Junoesque – and magical her voice, she lacked the gamin quality of Dorothy Jordan and it was to Dorothy’s performances that the people were flocking.
Even King must see the importance of bringing in the money and The Romp had become a recognized afterpiece. The Prince of Wales came to see it twice in a week. Mrs Fitzherbert accompanied him and they sat laughing and applauding in their box.
‘The success of The Romp rests almost exclusively on the spirited performance of Mrs Jordan,’ wrote a critic in the Morning Post, ‘and it must be confessed that there has not been seen a more finished acting of its kind. It is not to be doubted therefore that this ludicrous little afterpiece will become a favourite not-withstanding the fastidious taste of certain critics who seem ashamed of being so vulgar as to indulge in a hearty laugh.’
No, her power was too great for anyone to break. She had what the people wanted and were ready to pay for and no carping critic, no jealous actress, could stop her.
‘This will show Madam Sarah that she is not the only pebble on the beach nor the only actress in the world,’ commented Grace triumphantly.
Dorothy smiled at her indulgently. How lucky she was to have a mother who cared so passionately for her welfare!
One morning when Dorothy was sleeping late after a late night at the theatre Grace came into her room, her eyes shining with excitement.
She sat on the bed and cried: ‘What do you think? George Inchbald is in London. He arrived last night. You can be sure he’ll be calling today.’
Dorothy yawned. ‘Well, what of that?’
‘What of it! He’s come to see you. You can depend upon it.’
‘Well, I’m not all that eager to see him.’
Grace laughed knowingly. ‘He wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing.’ She was a little arch. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a proposition to make.’
‘I can’t see that he would have any proposition to make to me which I should want to act on. He’s not a theatre manager and what could be better than Drury Lane unless it’s Covent Garden. And talking of Covent Garden I heard that Harris is going to bring Mrs Brown down to play in The Country Girl.’
‘That old hag!’ cried Grace. ‘London would never accept her. She’s too old.’
‘She’s a fine actress. And you’ll remember how I used to stand in the wings when she was on stage and watch how she played Peggy.’
‘She’ll be a fool if she comes. Harris is a fool to ask her. What chance would she have against you! But do get up and put on a pretty gown and Hester can do your hair, for I do believe that George will be calling soon.’
‘I’ll be ready for George when he comes,’ said Dorothy.
Grace nodded. Good Heavens, thought Dorothy, she believes he has come to ask me to marry him and that I’m going to accept him! Does she think I have no pride. But I do believe dear Mamma thinks it is wise to sink everything for honourable marriage. Honourable indeed! He’d be marrying twelve pounds a week and an almost certain brilliant theatrical future whereas thirty shillings and uncertainty was not good enough for him.
Hester came in. ‘Can I help you dress, Doll?’
‘Thank you. I feel grand with my lady’s maid.’
‘So you should. What should we do without you! I’m happy to be your lady’s maid, as you know.’
‘Dear old Hester. I was just thinking how fortunate I am in my family. And being so why should I think of adding a fortune-hunter to it.’
‘George was always cautious, you know.’
‘And Mamma cares so much about my marrying that she would want me to accept him.’
‘Oh, you know what she is. She worries. She’s haunted by insecurity. Which dress will you have?’
‘The blue. You can be just as insecure married as unmarried – more so, if there are children to feed.’
‘You’ll never get Mamma to see that. Besides, it’s respectability she’s after.’
‘It’s strange, Hester, but I hanker for it myself. I think that Daly business did something to me.’
‘Don’t think of it.’
‘I don’t often. But when Siddons sweeps into the theatre so assured, so certain of her genius, the greatest tragic actress on the boards, with a nice meek little husband, children and a reputation beyond reproach, I confess I find something rather enviable about that.’
‘For Heaven’s sake don’t you start being envious. There’s enough envy about this place already.’
‘But you see I’ve got Frances… and she’s illegitimate. It’s a handicap for the child. Oh, yes, I might like a little respectability.’
‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept George Inchbald.’
Dorothy laughed scornfully.
‘I didn’t think you would,’ said Hester with significance.
I believe she knows about Richard, thought Dorothy. Well, they would all have to know soon because she was fast making up her mind that she was quite capable of managing her career and marrying.
George cried: ‘Why, Dorothy, you’ve become even more beautiful!’
‘Thank you. It’s the London air.’
‘Success!’ murmured George. ‘I always knew you would achieve it. Ther
e was a quality about you, Dorothy.’
‘Did you always know it, George? I remember a time when you talked so earnestly about the insecurity of a stage career.’
‘That’s for most people, Dorothy. Not for you.’
‘But I have always been ambitious.’
‘It must be wonderful to know that London is talking of you, and to play before royalty. Oh, wonderful indeed. But don’t forget there is another side to life. Love, marriage.’
‘I don’t forget it, George,’ she said softly.
He would have taken her hand, but she eluded him.
‘I knew you would be the same Dorothy who played with Wilkinson’s.’
‘You’re wrong, George. I’ve changed. We all change. You’ve changed too, you know. I have a fancy that you don’t feel quite the same about certain matters as you once did.’
‘We grow wiser.’
‘You were always wise, George. I trust I have learned to see those about me more clearly. It’s a great help, you know.’
‘Dorothy, I was most unhappy when you left. The only brightness was hearing about your triumphs. My stepmother says you’ll be a great actress.’
‘Earning twelve pounds a week,’ put in Dorothy. ‘That’s a little better than thirty shillings, eh?’
‘And it’s not the end. You’ll be rich as well as famous.’
‘I have my family to care for.’
‘And you would always care for those who depended on you, Dorothy.’
She smiled at him almost fondly. She wanted to lure him on so that he would suffer fully the extent of her scorn.
He told her how he had followed her career; how excited he had been; how he had feared for her – though not really for he knew she would succeed, but as one member of the profession to another they knew what it meant to face an audience on whom one’s future could depend.