by Jean Plaidy
‘You, boy…’ he stammered.
William felt repentant for all the wild adventures, the flouting of discipline; and wished at that moment that he could have been the son his poor old father hoped for.
Kings seemed to be the most unfortunate men on earth as far as their families were concerned. They either longed for sons whom they could not get, or had too many of them who caused so much trouble.
‘Well, William,’ said the King. ‘You’re growing up, eh? Quite a man, what?’
‘Twenty-four, Sir.’
‘H’m. Time you had some title, eh? Clarence… that’s what you’ll be. Duke of Clarence; and they’ve voted you twelve thousand a year. All right, eh, what?’
Twelve thousand a year! It wouldn’t keep the Prince of Wales in shoe buckles and neckerchiefs, but it sounded like a fortune to William.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘All right, eh, what? And a place, eh… place of your own. Richmond Lodge on the edge of the Old Deer Park, eh?’
‘Well, Sir, I’d like it very much. It’ll be something to come home to after voyages.’
‘H’m,’ said the King. ‘Can’t have you away all the time, eh? King’s son. Duke of Clarence. Two elder brothers… yes… knaves! George always was. But Fred… I thought Fred would be different. Hope of House. Don’t like it. What are they coming to, eh, what?’
William said: ‘Richmond Lodge will be much appreciated, Sir. Thank you.’
‘H’m. Not often I get thanks from my sons. You’ve got to take care, boy. Keep away from women… and drink… and gambling… understand, eh? Mostly women. They can cause trouble… great trouble. Might be a good woman. That woman of George’s… Good woman, beautiful, nice woman. But they cause trouble. Could be Quakers…’ The King’s eyes filled with tears. What am I saying? he asked himself. All long ago. All over now.
William left his father thinking: The old man may have recovered but madness is still lurking there. And then: Richmond Lodge and twelve thousand a year!
Settling into a new house was a great pleasure. He was satisfied to be home and have a rest from the sea.
Twelve thousand pounds was a great deal of money but not when George and Frederick showed him how to spend it.
He enjoyed being a householder; he took great pride in his new possession; he engaged the servants himself and laid down the rules and made sure that he locked up every night to ensure that they did not stay out late. He took an interest in them; he was discovering that the quiet life appealed to him. He would have liked to be a landowner – if he were not a sailor – looking after his tenants, living in conjugal bliss with the wife of his choice and rearing a family. He fancied that the Prince of Wales felt the same for he was very happy with Maria Fitzherbert – if occasionally unfaithful – and liked to know that cosy domesticity was awaiting him when he cared to return to it.
In spite of all William’s care Richmond Lodge, which had been renamed Clarence Lodge, was damaged by fire one night and while the damage was being repaired William took another house close by called Ivy House and himself superintended the repairs to Clarence Lodge.
He was restive. He thought nostalgically of life at sea; he was already tired of being the country squire and nothing could compensate him for the feel of decks beneath his feet and the rock of a ship, the arrival at strange exotic places, the adventure of the sea. They had made a sailor of him. They could scarcely expect him to settle on land.
But apparently they did.
‘Not fitting,’ said the King. ‘Go to the Admiralty. On the Board, give advice… Yes… still in the Navy. But a King’s son should be at home. Besides, you broke discipline. That sort of thing, frowned on. Favouritism. Not right. Bad feeling. Stay where you are… for a while.’
So he must stay. He found a very pretty and diverting young woman named Polly Finch of very obscure origin who delighted him and made few demands and agreed to come along and share Ivy House with him.
It was in a way the domesticity he hoped for. Polly never let the fact that he was a royal Duke affect her. She abused him in the manner of the streets and made love with a careless abandon. He was delighted, never having known anyone quite like Polly.
She was interested in the repairs to Clarence Lodge, for she thought they would live there. William dreamed of their living in obscurity and raising a family and himself going away to sea for periods and coming home to find Polly waiting for him.
It was a sentimental dream. Polly was not that sort of girl.
He talked to her about the sea. The rank of Rear-Admiral had been conferred on him and he would soon be an Admiral. It was inevitable. One could not be a royal Duke and not in the highest position.
‘But don’t imagine, Polly,’ he explained, ‘that I shall not deserve my promotion. But I must be ready for it.’
He wanted her to stay at home in the evenings while he read to her from the Lives of the Admirals which he regarded as a most fascinating document. Polly would sit at his feet yawning and nodding while he read of the decisions of these great seamen and their adventures at sea.
It might have been enthralling to him but it was more than Polly could endure.
Before Clarence Lodge was ready for occupation she had left him for a more congenial companion.
There was an uneasy tension throughout the country. Mr Pitt and his Tories did everything in their power to vilify the Prince of Wales and his brothers. It was not difficult. It was true that the Princes indulged in wild living, their gambling debts were enormous and their amours the main theme of court and town gossip. The cartoonists and lampoonists delighted in these and exaggerated and ridiculed them to public pleasure and their own good profit.
Every little indiscretion was exaggerated. Every prominent person was pilloried it was true, but the most profitable cartoons were those which libelled the royal brothers and in particular the Prince of Wales.
John Walter of The Times was known as one of the most scurrilous writers of the day. His comments on the conduct of the King’s three eldest sons were outrageous, and exaggerated beyond all endurance. They were having an effect on the public and as the Prince of Wales was the principal target and he was constantly being held up to ridicule, he was becoming increasingly unpopular. It was no new experience for him to be treated to a hostile silence in the streets but when his carriage was pelted with mud and rotten fruit it was the time to take some action.
A prosecution was brought against Walter for libelling the Duke of York; he was found guilty and sentenced to a fine of fifty pounds, an hour in the pillory at Charing Cross and a year’s imprisonment in Newgate. There was another charge to be answered – a libel this time jointly on the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York which brought a further fine of one hundred pounds and another year in Newgate. The Duke of Clarence had not escaped, for Walter demanded of his readers why it was that the son of the King was allowed to desert his ship and return home to be rewarded with a dukedom and twelve thousand pounds a year.
The heavy sentences imposed by the judges on John Walter angered the public. Mr Pitt, delighted at any circumstances which brought criticism to the Prince of Wales, declared that he was astonished that he and the Duke of York should have brought their cases against Walter; he believed that the Prince of Wales had declared himself for the freedom of the press. Was it a different matter when he himself was attacked?
Never had the unpopularity of the Prince of Wales been so great. It was incredible that this was the same man who had once delighted the people with his charming manners, his elegance and romantic adventures.
It was particularly alarming when it was considered what was happening on the other side of the Channel. The Bastille had fallen; it was said that the French Monarchy was tottering; an unpopular Prince, such a near neighbour, could not help feeling somewhat uneasy.
The only place where the people seemed to have any regard for him at all was Brighton, which had every reason to be grateful to him since he had turned the remo
te village of Brighthelmstone into the most fashionable town in England.
The Prince affected not to care and continued to concern himself with his tailor, his beautiful houses – Carlton House in London, the Pavilion in Brighton – with art, music and literature, gambling, horse racing, his own stables and women.
He liked the theatre and one day drove his phaeton down to Clarence Lodge to tell William about the play he had seen the evening before.
‘The Constant Couple – very amusing,’ he said. ‘Dorothy Jordan takes the Wildair part as I never saw it played before. She looks well in breeches. You should go and see her, William.’
William told his brother about the plays they had put on on board ship and what fun they had had.
‘We had a fine fat Falstaff,’ said William. ‘I think his name was Storey… That’s it, Lieutenant Storey. We had to improvise quite a bit and I remember in the bucking scene we used a hammock for the basket. The river was represented by a heap of junk and we were to topple our fat lieutenant out of the hammock and into the junk. It was a sight to be seen, I can tell you. This fat fellow sprawling there. It was the most successful moment of the play.’
The Prince said he could well believe it. He liked a good practical joke himself and had once contrived it that Sheridan was challenged to a duel by a Major Hanger and he and his fellow jokers had gone to great pains to put dud bullets in the pistols and Sheridan had fallen down and pretended to be dead. The Prince often said it was the best joke he ever remembered seeing played on anyone; and even Major Hanger had thought so too and because of it had become one of the Prince’s special cronies. So he laughed heartily at the joke William and his friends had played on his plump Falstaff.
‘We threw a lot of pitch over the junk heap,’ said William. ‘ “We must be realistic,” I said, “for if Falstaff were tipped into a muddy river he would not come out unsoiled.” Well, we tipped him into the junk heap and you should have seen him – rubbish of all sorts sticking to him and to our young two middies who played Mistress Page and Mistress Ford.’
The Prince laughed and told of his own experiences in the theatre, but he said nothing of his love affair with Mrs Perdita Robinson, because that matter had so humiliated him when she had threatened to publish his letters, and still rankled.
Perhaps he should warn William, he pondered for a while. There was something innocent about William in spite of his travels and adventures.
The Prince hesitated and the moment passed. And talking of the theatre filled William with an urge to see a play; and he decided there and then the very next night he would go along to Drury Lane.
He went and that night Dorothy Jordan was playing Little Pickle in The Spoiled Child.
Dorothy and William
Royal courtship
DOROTHY JORDAN HAD no idea on that autumn night in the year 1790 that it was going to be the most significant of her life. Strangely enough she was feeling depressed and was heartily wishing that it was one of her free nights. Nothing would have pleased her more than to stay at home with the children.
While she sat before the looking glass in the bedroom she shared with Richard her eldest daughter came in and started playing with the articles on her dressing table.
‘Fanny, dear, pray don’t touch my rouge. You will make such a mess.’
Fanny scowled. She looked remarkably like her father when she did so. She had a quick and vindictive temper and Dorothy was rather afraid she was unkind to Dodee who was only three. Fanny was eight. Was it only nine years since that dreadful time when she had been the slave of that odious man? It seemed longer. But then so much had happened. An obscure actress had become a famous one and the mother of three little girls as well.
She thought of darling Lucy just over a year old and wished once more that she might have a quiet evening at home instead of facing an audience.
Fanny was dabbing rouge on to her cheeks and Dorothy looked at her daughter and burst out laughing. ‘You don’t need it, my precious.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re young and pink enough without it.’
‘Why aren’t you?’
‘Because I am not so young and not so pink.’ She bent over, took the pot from the child and kissed her. She always felt she had to be especially gentle with Daly’s daughter.
‘Mamma, what are you playing tonight?’
‘Henry Wildair.’
‘Is that a breeches part?’
‘Oh, Fanny, where do you hear such talk!’
‘From all the people who come here. Shall I go on the stage? I want to go on the stage. Would I be a good actress?’
‘I should think it likely. You have the theatre in your blood.’
‘Have I? Has Dodee?’
‘You are both my little girls,’ said Dorothy quickly. But it was more likely she thought that the daughter of Richard Daly should become an actress than Richard Ford’s.
And neither of them legitimate! she thought, with sudden bitterness. Since her mother’s death she had often considered her position. It was humiliating, for although most people accepted her as Richard’s wife it was widely known that she was not.
And for what reason? Why did Richard live with her openly and yet shy away from marriage every time she broached the subject? What could the reason be except that he did not consider her worthy to be his wife? And yet he was not averse to using her money. He had pleaded his father’s wrath as an excuse. He had said that he would be disinherited. He might as well have been for all he got from his father; he was not too proud, though, to live on her salary!
For she was rich – or she would have been if there had not been so many calls on her purse.
Her sister Hester came in carrying Lucy, with Dodee clinging to her skirt. Dodee flung herself at Dorothy.
‘Mamma is going to read to us.’
‘Not tonight, my darling, Mamma has to go to the theatre.’
‘Naughty old theatre,’ said Dodee.
‘Don’t be silly, Dodee,’ said Fanny. ‘It’s a good old theatre.’
‘It isn’t. It isn’t. It takes my Mamma.’
‘And gives her lots of money for us.’
Dorothy laughed. ‘You think that’s a good exchange, Fanny?’
‘Well, of course it is,’ retorted Fanny. ‘It gives us plenty of money so that Papa can have a new velvet coat and we can have sweetmeats – one after our dinner every day.’
‘So now you see, Dodee,’ said Dorothy.
‘I don’t want the theatre to have my Mamma,’ said Dodee, her lips beginning to quiver.
‘Don’t be a cry-baby, Dods,’ said Hester briskly. ‘I’ll sing you a song while you’re having your supper.’
I ought to be here with them, thought Dorothy. I ought to be singing a song to them while they have their supper.
Hester sat on the bed and said; ‘It’s Wildair tonight, I suppose.’
‘Wildair followed by Pickle.’
‘And you’ll come straight home after?’
Dorothy nodded.
‘Richard will be in the theatre.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You seem tired.’
‘Oh, no. Just wishing that I could have an evening at home.’
‘You’ll feel differently when the curtain rises.’
‘It’s strange, Hester, but I always do. Now I feel depressed, and when I’m waiting my cue I’ll have that fluttery feeling inside. I never fail to get it; but once I’m on… I forget all about it and enjoy myself.’
‘There speaks the true professional.’
Fanny was listening eagerly to the conversation; she was vitally interested in everything connected with the stage. Dorothy thought: I don’t want that life for them. I’d like to see them all married happily and settled down in comfort. Would she ever realize that dream? In the first place they would have their illegitimacy as a drawback. Damn Richard! Why should he be such a coward? Why shouldn’t he defy his father for the sake of his family?
She would want dowries for the girls; and she would provide them if she could. But would she ever be able to? However much she earned she seemed to need it for her family’s expenses. She was beginning to realize that not only did she keep the children but Richard as well.
Hester was dependent on her; but what would she do without Hester, particularly now? Hester scarcely ever appeared on the stage because she was devoting herself to the children, and they looked upon her as a part of the household. They relied on Aunt Hester more than they did on their mother.
Richard came in and said: ‘You’ll be leaving shortly, I suppose?’
She looked at him with faint irritation. He was anxious for her not to be late at the theatre and was always worried when the quarrels between her and Mrs Siddons and the Kembles flared up. At the back of his mind was the fear that that powerful family. might oust her and that if she were turned out she wouldn’t be able to command the salary at Covent Garden, say, that she was getting at the Lane. Oh, Richard had his eyes to her salary. There was no doubt of that.
Hester seemed to be very sensitive regarding the atmosphere in this house. When she guessed trouble was rising between Richard and Dorothy she always endeavoured to be out of sight and earshot.
Now she said: ‘I’ll take the children off for supper. Come along. Fan.’
Fanny said she wanted to stay and talk to Papa and Mamma; but Dorothy said sternly that she was about to leave for the theatre and Fanny must go with the others.
Fanny pouted and stamped her foot, but Hester had a way with fractious children.
‘Now, Fanny,’ she said, ‘we don’t want to make a little idiot of ourselves, do we, before a famous actress?’
Fanny accepted the fact that her mother was a famous actress who had her name on play bills and at whom people stared in the streets and to whom they often called out a greeting and added that they had seen her in such and such and enjoyed her performance. She differentiated between her mother and that actress and while she displayed her temper to the one she was in awe of the other. Hester seized the opportunity to remove her.