Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘when you had gone I knew what I missed. I should never have let you go.’

  ‘Then I shouldn’t have come to London and started out on the road to fortune.’

  ‘You had to come. You’re a great actress, but you need someone to look after you. How happy I should be if you would decide I was the one—’

  ‘You have changed your mind in these last months.’

  ‘I want you to marry me, Dorothy. Being away from you made me realize that.’

  ‘Not so much my being away from you as my twelve pounds a week and prospects. That’s what made you change your mind. George Inchbald, do you think I’m a fool! Do you think I don’t see through your feeble efforts. I’ll tell you one thing. You will never succeed on the stage if you can’t play a part better than you’re playing it now. Enter ambitious suitor who has learned the penniless actress of the past is now rich and famous. He pleads with her. George, you’re a fool. I’d never marry a fool. I’d almost sooner marry a mercenary gutless schemer.’

  ‘Dorothy!’

  ‘Curtain,’ she said. ‘This little drama is over. Go back to York or Hull or Leeds, wherever you’re playing. Your proposal has been most definitely refused.”

  George would have protested, but she laughed at him; and since he did not leave she went out and left him.

  She had made up her mind. The next time Richard asked her to marry him she would accept him. He was not long in doing so and she gave her promise.

  He was the happiest man in London, he told her. He would love her for ever; his life would be subjected to hers for he knew that she would never be happy away from the theatre.

  ‘I want my mother to be the first to hear,’ she told him. ‘I know she will be delighted.’

  ‘And after that,’ he said, ‘I will tell my father. Until these two know, it must be a secret.’

  So they went to Henrietta Street and when Grace heard the news she was overcome with joy. No wonder Dorothy had sent George Inchbald about his business. And all the time she had been in love with Richard Ford and had kept it secret!

  When was the wedding to be? Clearly it could not be too soon for Grace.

  ‘I think after I come back from my northern tour,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘So long!’

  ‘Oh, Mamma, that is not really very long.’

  Richard said fondly that he agreed with Dorothy’s Mamma and it was far too long.

  Grace brought out wine and they drank to the future.

  That was a happy evening.

  Richard left Henrietta Street in an uneasy mood. He loved Dorothy; he sincerely wished to marry her; but he was not looking forward to telling his father that he had proposed and been accepted.

  His father was a wealthy and ambitious man, and Richard knew that it had always been a desire of his that his son should make a good marriage. He had excellent prospects; all he had to do was qualify at the Bar and with his father’s money and connections at court that could lead anywhere. And as he had so often impressed on his son the first step towards advancement had often been the right marriage. There were several wealthy and influential families into which Richard could marry.

  Richard was not very courageous. He was devoted to Dorothy; he thought her the finest actress in the world; he was happy watching her perform all her parts; he was content to talk to her, be with her; and he longed to be her husband. If only his father were not so ambitious.

  But now he had been accepted and he had to tell his father. He had definitely promised to marry Dorothy and nothing, he told himself boldly, would make him go back on his word. Dorothy was the only woman in the world he would have for his wife.

  When he dined with his father that night it was obvious that Richard had something on his mind. His appetite was poor; he played nervously with his glass and every now and then opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind.

  Dr Ford had a very good notion of what this might be for Sheridan had told him that young Richard had haunted the theatre for some months past and was almost always in one of the balcony boxes when Dorothy Jordan was playing. It was Sheridan’s belief that young Richard harboured very tender feelings towards his little actress and Sheridan was not surprised; she was a dainty piece, a clever little piece, full of charm; and it amazed Sheridan that a Duke or an Earl or at very least a baronet had not installed her in some charming little love-nest by now.

  In fact it was Sheridan’s view that but for H.R.H.’s preoccupation with Mrs Fitz, there might have been a royal offer. But his little actress was by no means promiscuous; she was indeed a very virtuous lady. There had been one slip with young Miss Frances and ‘never again’, said Mrs Jordan. Sheridan fancied that she was holding out for marriage lines.

  ‘Our divine Sarah sets a very moral tone at Drury Lane,’ he added.

  Dr Ford was remembering this as he noticed his son’s uneasiness. If Richard had made a fool of himself that must be stopped without delay.

  ‘As soon as you’ve qualified, Richard,’ he said, ‘I can put you into the way of making a fortune for yourself. Your future is rosy, my son. There’s no doubt about it. Of course you’ll have to work. Can’t be hanging around the theatre every night. Who was it was talking to me the other day… Son got a fancy for some actress. Married her on the sly. Married her. That was the end of him. A nobody if you please. The fellow’s prospects ruined. Imagine what it’ll be like for them. Love’s young dream at the moment, but how long will that last when the babies come and the money’s short, for you can be sure the silly fellow will be cut off from his inheritance. I understand he’ll get nothing. I’d be the same myself. Why, if you came along and told me that you’d made such an idiot of yourself, I’d do exactly the same. Well, no fear of that. More sense, eh?’

  Richard grinned feebly.

  How could he tell his father that he was engaged to marry Dorothy Jordan after that?

  He tried to explain to Dorothy.

  ‘You see it would break his heart. He’d never accept it. He was talking about a fellow who had married and been cut off by his father. He said he’d be the same.’

  ‘It seems,’ said Dorothy, ‘that someone warned him about us.’

  ‘I don’t know who. We told no one. I can’t tell him yet… and yet… how can we wait like this? You love me, Dorothy. You love me enough not to give me up because of this. As soon as I’m making money at the Bar we’ll be married. As soon as I don’t depend on him.’

  He looked so young, so helpless that she was so sorry for him.

  She was not the sort of woman to make bargains; and yet she longed for a respectable ceremony, for a father for Frances, for children who would be born without the slur of illegitimacy.

  She told him all this; he wept and entreated her. He understood. They would take a house together; she should be Mrs Ford; it would be the same as though they were married. No difference at all, except that they wouldn’t go through the ceremony. In time he would persuade his father, but as yet the old man would not listen. He considered his son too young. In a few months’ time it would all be different. But he could not wait those months. He wanted Dorothy; he needed Dorothy… now.

  Dorothy could not bargain when it was a matter of love; and she loved him. Only when she had seen George Inchbald again had she realized how much.

  They would wait no longer. She had his solemn promise that as soon as it was possible he would marry her. In the meantime they could live comfortably enough on his private income and her salary.

  It was not what they had planned but the next best thing.

  So Dorothy and Richard Ford became lovers.

  Grace was bitterly disappointed, for it seemed as though her greatest wish would never be realized.

  ‘They are in love, though, Mamma,’ pointed out Hester, ‘and it is time Dorothy had a little happiness. I began to fear that her terrible experiences with Daly had made her turn from men for ever. I think she needs to love and be loved.’

&
nbsp; ‘Well, she is earning well now and I daresay will always be in a position to keep herself.’

  ‘And us all,’ said Hester with a grimace.

  ‘And, Richard is not a pauper.’

  ‘I’m sure that when he can do so he will marry her,’ added Hester, ‘for he truly loves her and she loves him.’ So they had to be contented with that.

  A royal command and a battle

  THAT SUMMER DOROTHY went on tour visiting the old theatres at which she had played in the past; and she could not help but enjoy returning to the old haunts and remembering her early struggles; some of the actors and actresses who had played with her in the past were still there.

  She played The Country Girl and The Romp to overflowing houses in Leeds; she saw the envious looks and heard the references to her ‘luck’ and she smiled on them all, pitying these poor provincial players and understanding their envies.

  She went to Edinburgh where she was received with some reserve. The inhabitants of Edinburgh did not care for frivolity and their idea of acting was that portrayed so admirably by Mrs Siddons. It was different in Glasgow. Here she was an immediate success and before she left she was presented with a gold medal.

  When she returned to London it was to receive a letter from her brother George who longed to go on to the stage; he was asking if he might now join the family and try his luck.

  In the autumn George arrived in London and Dorothy and Richard took number five Gower Street where they set up house together and Dorothy was known as Mrs Ford. It was understood that in a few years they would be married and because of their devotion to each other and the domestic atmosphere which they created at Gower Street she was accepted as Richard’s wife by their circle of acquaintances.

  Grace referred to Richard as her dear son and refused to think of Dorothy’s position as anything but the desired married state.

  Her eldest son Francis had joined the army but here was George in his place; and the aim of the family now – greatly assisted by Dorothy – was to get him parts in the theatre.

  They were comfortably off – Dorothy’s salary seemed like near affluence; Hester’s occasional appearances and Richard’s private income added to the exchequer; and they were all content to wait for the day when Dorothy would become Mrs Ford in truth.

  Dorothy was happier than she had ever been before. She had success in her profession and she loved and was loved.

  What more could any woman ask? But there was always the echo to come back to her: Marriage.

  The inevitable happened. Dorothy was pregnant.

  Grace was inclined to be alarmed, remembering the lack of marriage lines, but Dorothy was serene.

  ‘I shall play till the last month. It’ll make little difference,’ she assured them.

  ‘There’s the tour,’ cried Grace aghast.

  ‘Never mind the tour. I shall go.’

  ‘But what if…’

  ‘Do stop fretting, Mamma,’ said Dorothy. ‘Babies are born in Leeds and Hull and York, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish…’

  But Dorothy would not let her voice her wish. She knew that what she wanted was Dorothy to be respectably married and received by Dr Ford and allowed to have her confinement in luxury.

  Dorothy set off and was in Edinburgh when she gave birth to her child – a daughter. She named her Dorothy but she was soon known as Dodee which avoided confusion. Dorothy loved her child from the moment she held her in her arms and she realized that although she had believed she had loved Frances in the same way, it was a fact that she could not forget the child’s father and the manner in which she had been conceived. How different was little Dodee’s coming.

  She wanted lots of children. She imagined herself far away from the theatre, the thrills and depressions, the spite, the envy and the malice, the smell of guttering candles, the callousness of audiences with their boos and catcalls and their wild applause. Peace, she thought, with her children growing up round her. Perhaps a house in the country with lovely gardens and the children playing and Richard beside her. It was a pleasant dream, but not for her. And did she really want it? Could a woman, born to strut the boards, ever really do without the clamour and glamour, the glittering tinsel existence?

  She laughed at herself. Why, I’d be aching to be back in less than a month. Having a baby made one sentimental.

  The press was far from sentimental. It chortled over the adventures of its darling comedienne.

  An advertisement in the Public Advertiser ran:

  ‘The Jordan from Edinburgh – a small sprightly vessel – went out from London harbour laden – dropped cargo in Edinburgh.’

  The theatrical world was well aware that Dorothy Jordan had borne Richard Ford a child.

  That spring rumour concerning the royal family was discussed in Drury Lane almost as much as theatrical events. There was always the relationship of the Prince of Wales and Mrs Fitzherbert, and the question: Was he married or was he not? was on everyone’s lips. Mrs Fitzherbert behaved as Princess of Wales and when the Prince came to the theatre it was always in her company. Sheridan received her with the utmost homage which she accepted with as much dignity as visiting royalty; and the Prince was clearly delighted with her.

  Then a more extraordinary rumour arose which put that of the Prince’s marriage temporarily in the shade. It was the state of the King’s health. Stories of his extraordinary conduct leaked out from the royal household. He had tried to strangle the Prince of Wales; he had talked gibberish to the Prime Minister; he had shaken the branch of a tree under the impression that it was the King of Prussia.

  Was it true? Was the King going mad?

  There would be a Regency, said some. There were quarrels between the Queen and the Prince of Wales. The Whigs wanted the Prince to have the Regency; the Tories wanted the Queen. Mr Fox who had left England after his estrangement with the Prince – for the statesman had denied the Prince’s marriage to Mrs Fitzherbert in the House of Commons and by so doing had incensed Mrs Fitzherbert to such a degree that she had left the Prince, who had great difficulty in winning her back – returned to England to be beside the Prince should he become Regent.

  There was a tension everywhere; people talked of the King’s illness in the theatre; they talked during the play itself if the players failed to hold their attention.

  As for Sheridan, he seemed aloof from theatrical affairs. It was clear that he saw great things for himself through a Regency. The Prince was his friend and if the Prince became the King in all but name, that would be a good augury for those who had been his friends when he had scarcely any power against his antagonistic parents.

  Sheridan had always preferred drinking and gambling to work; he squandered his genius in conversational quips instead of preserving them for posterity. He had written brilliant plays but that was years ago; he was too intent on carousing with the living to work for posterity.

  Who knew what Sheridan might become? Who was there to stand in his way since Fox was out of favour and some said could never come back completely, for all his sly genius, while Mrs Fitzherbert reigned with the Prince, for Fox had offended her mortally when he had denied her marriage. ‘Rolled her in a kennel as though she were a streetwalker,’ she had said. She would never forgive him; and although it was really the Prince’s lack of courage which was to blame and Mr Fox had acted in the only way to save the Prince’s hope of the crown, Mr Fox must be the scapegoat. But Mr Fox was coming home. Great events were in the air. Life was stimulating, full of excitement; and no one knew what would happen from one day to the next.

  A young woman whom Dorothy had known in Dublin came to play at Drury Lane. This was Maria Theresa Romanzini. She was an Italian Jewess, small, inclined to plumpness with magnificent black eyes and hair which offset her heavy features. She had a beautiful voice and this it was which had secured her engagement.

  She was delighted to see Dorothy and together they recalled some of the old Dublin days.

  Maria
shivered. ‘I was terrified of Richard Daly,’ she said.

  ‘You too?’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Were not all of us? I tremble to think of what would have happened to me if my mother had not been with me. He was always trying to seduce me and I told my mother. She knew we should very likely be turned out of the theatre but she said that she would rather that than that I should fall into his hands.’

  Dorothy nodded. Mrs Romanzini had been more watchful of her daughter than Grace had been of hers. That was not fair. Maria had been younger – only a child; and she Dorothy had been seventeen, old enough, one would think, for an actress to take care of herself.

  ‘Mamma shrieked at him once in Mrs Daly’s hearing,’ said Maria with a little laugh. ‘I shall never forget it. Mamma was so angry. “You have a fine wife of your own,” she said. “Leave my daughter alone.” And he did., He dared do no other. And we were not turned out of the theatre and it made no difference to my career. But I am glad to be free of him.’

  Dorothy took Maria under her care and praised her to King and Sheridan; but Maria was ambitious enough to look after herself and because of her very fine voice quickly became quite a favourite with the audience. Her personality did not match that of Dorothy, Sarah Siddons and Elizabeth Farren, who were clearly destined to remain the three queens of the stage, but young Maria was an asset to the theatre.

  When George arrived he and Maria took an immediate liking to each other which meant that Maria was frequently invited to Henrietta Street as well as to the Ford household in Gower Street.

  Dorothy was winning praise in many roles. People flocked to see her Sir Harry Wildair in The Constant Couple – one of those ever popular breeches parts.

  In the summer when Drury Lane closed and the more famous actors and actresses went on tour she hoped to play in Edinburgh again but learned that Mrs Siddons had accepted an offer to play there which would mean that the Queen of Tragedy would be in direct rivalry; and it was hardly likely that good business would result from it. The dour people of Edinburgh did not care for the laughter-makers; tragedy was more to their taste; and in their view pert little tomboys – whose private life Mrs Siddons and her adherents would not hesitate to inform them was not all to be desired, unlike that of the great tragedienne herself which was without reproach – could not be accorded respect in a town like Edinburgh.