by Jean Plaidy
Luxurious thoughts. Was she wise to indulge in them after such a short meeting? Yes, she was certain of it. What a meeting! And everyone had declared that they had never seen the Prince so enamoured. Yes, this was certainly a beginning – from here she would go forward; she would forget everything that had happened to her before this night – all the doubts and fears, the horrors of existence with Mr Robinson, the great struggle which had brought her to where she was. Mary Robinson was finished; from her ashes had risen the fair Perdita.
But having started to think of the past she could not stop, and scenes which she would rather have forgotten kept coming into her mind, and she saw herself little Mary Darby going daily to school in Bristol and waiting for the return from the whaler on which he was employed, of the man who accepted her as his daughter.
From the first she had given herself airs. Perhaps she had been taught to. Her mother had been very proud of her, very anxious that she should be ‘a lady’.
Echoes of the over-refined voice: ‘Mary, sit up straight. Don’t slouch in your chair. Is that the way a lady would sit?’ ‘Now, Mary, go and wash your hands. Ladies always have clean hands.’
That had presented no difficulties. She had been very ready to sit up straight, wash her hands, do anything that a lady would do; for as long as she could remember Mary Darby had been determined to be a lady. She had known instinctively whether a dress required a blue or a red sash; she moved with grace; she dreamed fantastic dreams in which her father, some noble lord, came and claimed her and carried her away to his mansion and perhaps to Court. She had heard stories of the royal family, and it was all vitally interesting to her; she had longed to go to London and perhaps catch a glimpse of royalty and the great.
She was a romantic dreamer. She would build up legends about herself; it was inconceivable that she could be the fruit of a union between a Bristol whaler and his wife. Her mother was inclined to foster this belief and now and then gave out dark hints, and when Mary was taken to visit Lord Northington who showed a great interest in her, she was certain that he was her father.
Her mother she accepted, and although she had three brothers – obviously the whaler’s children – it was to Mary that Mrs Darby gave her attention. And small wonder, for Mary was very young when it became obvious that she was going to be a beauty and Mrs Darby was proud of her daughter.
The boys were of small account. Mrs Darby spent a great deal of her money on dresses for Mary; and when she visited friends Mary would sing or dance for the company, for she had a sweet singing voice and a natural grace, and if these were not up to professional standards, even as a child Mary had that quality which made people enjoy looking at her.
‘You’ll have a great future, Mary,’ prophesied Mrs Darby; and Mary would sit and daydream about Lord Northington who, alas, made no effort to claim her.
The family fell on hard times. The whaler went off with another woman and they heard that he had gone to America; he left his family unprovided for, but Mrs Darby was resourceful; she was connected with the philosopher Locke and she was very proud of this, and from her family came a little financial help without which they could not have managed.
But they could not go on living on their relatives indefinitely and one day when Mary came home from school Mrs Darby told her that something would have to be done.
Mary was downcast. She smoothed the muslin of her dress – so beautifully white and laundered. She had a picture of them begging in the streets. One could not beg in a muslin dress; one would have to wear something ragged and dirty. She would rather be dead, she decided. She would never suffer the humiliation.
‘I could run a school as well as the Mores,’ went on Mrs Darby, for Mary’s teachers were the sisters of Hannah More. ‘Why not? I’m as well educated. And you could help me and learn at the same time.’
To teach children was not Mary’s idea of a career. It was preferable to begging in the streets it was true, but she could feel no enthusiasm for it.
Then her mother said: ‘Not in Bristol, of course, where we are known. People would never come to us. We should have to start afresh somewhere.’
‘Where?’ asked Mary.
The reply enchanted her. ‘London, I think.’
*
London! Chelsea in fact. She could see the school clearly now. There were never enough pupils, but they had not made a had job of it. Her mother proved to be an excellent teacher – as for herself … no one would have guessed she was only thirteen years of age. She looked sixteen … possibly seventeen; she already had a well-developed figure and her face was growing more beautiful with every day.
Then her father came home. He had tired of his mistress and thought he would spend a little time with his family. With him came a captain in the navy who promptly did what men were to do from then onwards, fell in love with Mary. She shuddered to remember her innocence. What had she been taught of life and what time had she had to learn! She was thirteen and a half. She had perhaps been a little attracted by the captain. She could not remember very clearly now; and all her memories were rose-tinted so she saw rather as she would like it to have happened than as it had.
His embraces! His compliments! So rare then, so commonplace now. His talk of marriage and the grand life they would have. He had known how to tempt Mary, and he had almost succeeded in seducing her. Not quite, she insisted, and shut her eyes tightly so that she could not remember too clearly. Then it had been discovered that he was already married, that he had told her lies, had no intention of marrying her as he promised to do, and his one goal was the seduction of this tender maiden.
‘A fortunate escape,’ murmured Perdita. ‘Oh, what a fortunate escape!’
Mr Darby, after having left his wife and family to fend for themselves, suddenly decided to be righteously indignant because they had done so. He would not have his wife and daughter working, so the school, which had begun to be fairly prosperous, was closed and Mary was sent to a school in Chelsea which was run by a Mrs Lorrington. This lady was fond of the bottle but when she was not under its influence she was a very good teacher and she took an immediate interest in the strikingly lovely young girl who was so eager to learn.
At Mrs Lorrington’s Mary worked hard, received encouragement and learned fast; not only did she work at her lessons, but in deportment and elocution, for both of which she had a natural flair.
Her mother watched her development with pride and the utmost interest. Mr Darby, too, was interested in his daughter and, with a little prompting from his wife, agreed that she should go to Mrs Hervey’s Finishing Academy at Oxford House in Marylebone. And there she had met … what was the name of the man? He in himself was of little importance to her, except for the fact that he was the ballet master at Covent Garden and had introduced her to David Garrick. Hussey! That was his name. He had taught dancing at Mrs Hervey’s school and had immediately singled her out as his most promising pupil.
She remembered the day he had brought in Mr Garrick. A somewhat irascible old man he had seemed to her, although she had been overawed by his fame. Very sombrely dressed in brown he did not look in the least like any of the great romantic roles he had played in the past. He had been running Drury Lane then, for it was just before Sheridan had bought his share in it. He had grunted at her and made her recite and sing and dance and then he had walked away as though disgusted with her. She had felt so depressed that she had gone home and wept and her mother had been very angry that Mr Garrick should have failed to appreciate her daughter.
But the next day Mr Hussey had called her aside from the other pupils and told her she could be a very fortunate girl if she was prepared to work hard because Mr Garrick – although he found her raw and in great need of tuition – thought that there might be a small talent in her and he was prepared to give her a chance.
What a different story she had to take home on that day. But Mrs Darby was immediately thrown into a fluster. The theatre! But was it the profession for a lady? She was n
ot at all sure. She was in a terrible dilemma. Mr Darby had disappeared again, having gone to America, and before he had gone, so impressed was he by the beauty of Mary which was growing more and more obvious every day that he had threatened Mrs Darby with dire punishment if any ill should befall her.
‘I do not think ladies become play actresses,’ she reiterated.
‘But what should I become, Mother? What can I become? Should I teach in, school?’
‘No, that is no good either. Oh dear. With looks such as yours …’
‘Mamma,’ implored Mary, ‘we must be practical. Some actresses have done very well. If one is clever …’
‘You are not yet sixteen. I should die of fear every time you went to the theatre. You are too young.’
‘One must begin. It is really a great stroke of good fortune. Mr Hussey tells me that Mr Garrick said I might be trained to play Cordelia to his Lear.’
‘How I wish I knew what to do.’
And then Thomas Robinson appeared. Perdita did not wish to think of Thomas Robinson. How much happier she would have been if she had never heard his name. But at the time her mother had rejoiced in that young man because he seemed to provide the soothing answer to her fears.
Marriage was the answer – marriage to a man with good prospects, a man who would provide for Mary, give her a good establishment, servants, and keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. Then this dream of theatrical fame could be thrust aside without regret.
And Thomas Robinson would provide these.
Her mother had heard of Thomas Robinson through an attorney whom she had once consulted, a Mr Wayman. He assured her that Thomas Robinson was a man with prospects. Although he worked in a solicitor’s office he was no ordinary clerk and had excellent prospects. His father, Mrs Darby was assured, was a Welsh nobleman who had sent his son to London because he believed it would be good for him to have something to do. In due course he would inherit a vast estate in Wales and maintain a large establishment in London.
Mrs Darby’s eyes glowed at the thought. It was exactly what she would have chosen for her daughter. As the wife of rich Mr Robinson there would be no need for her to show off her beauty every night on a stage and have people make all sorts of proposals to her.
The first thing was to arrange a meeting with Mr Robinson, which the obliging attorney was prepared to do.
And Perdita? How had she felt? She liked to think now that she had viewed the prospect with horror, that she had flung herself on her knees and implored her mother to allow her to take the more honourable line and play for Mr Garrick. She liked to picture herself weeping stormily, declaring dramatically that she preferred to sell her talents rather than herself.
And over the span of years … it was not really so many yet … she had forgotten so much; she had coloured here, tinted there, and even she was not quite sure how it happened. Yet even she could not sketch in pretty pictures of what followed.
She saw the meeting at the Star and Garter at Greenwich. She remembered the dress so well. That was the one aspect which remained clear to her in every detail. It was more pleasant to think of the dress – an evening dress, long and flowing, of pale blue lustring; and a big chip straw hat swathed with the same material as her dress.
Thomas Robinson had taken one look at her and was in no doubt. He was conscious of the many eyes turned in their direction – all in homage to the young girl’s beauty. Endless possibilities, thought Thomas Robinson, whose greatest ambition was, she had quickly discovered, to live in luxury with the smallest possible personal effort. Through the rich clients who came to his office and a knowledge of the difficulties in which they became entangled he saw a way in which this way of life might be accomplished through a wife of such extraordinary beauty.
So he was eager for the marriage. He was chivalrous and attentive, not only to Mary but to her mother. He visited their home; he made casual references to the family estate in Wales; he talked of running an establishment in London and the names of certain well-known noblemen were scattered lightly throughout his conversation until Mrs Darby was all impatience for the wedding, and when Mr Robinson suggested it should take place immediately, she agreed with alacrity.
It was an April day – five years ago. Was it only five years Perdita asked herself. Could one live through a lifetime of misery, despair and horrific adventure in such a short time? It was a wonder that she had come through with her beauty unscathed – and in fact more dazzling than ever.
St Martin’s Church – and Mr Robinson looking elegant in clothes for which she later discovered he had not paid – a presentable bridegroom, she had thought then; and knowing little of the obligations of marriage she had not been unduly downcast.
And so she had become Mrs Robinson.
Before the wedding he had explained that his father would have to be prepared for his marriage. ‘Of course once he sees Mary he will be reconciled … enchanted as everyone must be. But just at first we had better not set up house together.’
How gullible they had been. It had all seemed so plausible. After all, the heirs of vast estates did not marry penniless girls without some obstacles being raised by their parents. So Mary would continue to live for a while in her mother’s house in Great Queen Street and he would spend his nights there, keeping on his lodgings a few streets away. These humble lodgings were explained by the story that his father wished him to be independent for a short period, and he was proving that he could stand on his own feet and as soon as possible he proposed to go to Wales to inform his father of what had happened.
So during those weeks Mary had merely to receive him in her own bed in her mother’s house each night, which was no great pleasure to her. She was by no means sexually avid, preferring – now as then – romantic dalliance to consummation, and she quickly discovered that Mr Robinson’s habits in the bedchamber were far from romantic.
Perhaps she had begun to doubt him before her mother had. Perhaps some instinct warned her that this was not the way in which a gentleman behaved. Disillusionment, however, quickly set in. There was the discovery that Mr Robinson’s prospects were non-existent. He was soon proved to be a liar, being but the bastard son of a Welsh farmer who had no intention of leaving him even his small farm; all Mr Robinson possessed was his salary as a clerk and it was for this reason that he had been unable to set up an establishment for Mary; and until he could raise money through moneylenders to begin his projects it suited him that she should continue to live with her mother.
The truth gradually dawned on mother and daughter, but when they realized the trap into which they had fallen they were, after the first shock, philosophical.
They had blundered terribly, but they must now make the best of it.
Perdita closed her eyes now as though by so doing she could shut out the memories of the next two years – the shameful memories! She put her hands over her face. ‘I was so young,’ she kept repeating to herself. Better to forget those years before she became an actress. She had hated the life. It was … she shivered, besmirching. Even so she could not shut out memories of the joy with which she had contemplated a certain new velvet gown, the pleasure in an exquisitely quilted petticoat, or a hat trimmed with feathers or ribbons. It had given her great pleasure to study the reflection of herself in these garments – which would never have come her way but for the life they led. Whenever she went out people looked at her – so many men showed admiration, so many women envy. This was the tribute to her beauty and it was the knowledge of her beauty which maintained her through all her disasters.
Mr Robinson had rented a house in Hatton Garden and there had ‘entertained’. This meant bringing gentlemen to the place and introducing them to his wife. For this privilege he was able to mix in a noble but extremely rakish society, and because of these friendships was given credit by various tradesmen. Mrs Darby was allowed to come and live with them to save employing more than one servant and running two establishments. Mr Robinson had no need now to act so
he appeared in his true character – a lecherous man without principles, apeing the nobility to which like his wife, he longed to belong.
And for a year or so they lived on the edge of this society. Men like the libertine Lord Lyttelton – something of a politician, artist and poet, was a constant visitor, his object being the seduction of Mrs Robinson. Another visitor was the notorious rake George Robert Fitzgerald, known as Fighting Fitzgerald, whose object had naturally been the same as that of Lord Lyttelton.
Because of his beautiful wife these men were ready to treat Mr Robinson as an equal which meant that they allowed him to accompany them to gaming clubs and brothels. Mr Robinson had very soon betrayed himself as an unfaithful husband – a fact which had not altogether dismayed his wife since it prevented his pressing his attentions on her too frequently, although she deplored the fact that he slept with their slut of a maid.
That had been a curious year or so … when they had lived on the edge of society and Mr Robinson had tried to make a high-class prostitute of her. She would never forget the occasion when George Robert Fitzgerald had tried to abduct her in Vauxhall Gardens. She had resisted him and Mr Robinson had appeared which put an end to the adventure because the last thing Mr Robinson wanted was to lose his wife.
Such a life could not go on. Her husband must have realized that. But he seemed not to be able to think beyond each day. Everything began to go wrong; she became pregnant; the creditors began to threaten; Thomas Robinson’s luck at the tables ran out.
No, she would not think of it. She had found a way out of trouble. By her own efforts she had provided for herself, her mother, her child … and the means of shutting Thomas Robinson out of her life. She was not to blame. She liked to see herself as virtuous, noble, unscathed by these humiliating adventures. And it was so … if she shut her eyes to certain moments … and she had shut her eyes; she had quickly learned the necessary art of doing so.