by Jean Plaidy
The equerry who had not been unaware of the excitement in the theatre – and its cause – was able to answer immediately: ‘It’s a Mrs Robinson, Your Majesty. An actress from the Drury Lane Theatre.’
The King was silent for a few seconds and the Queen watched him fearfully, heartily wishing that she had not called the King’s attention to what was going on.
The King was thinking: An actress from Drury Lane! It would be one of those young women he had seen perform not very long ago. And here she was at Covent Garden and the young fool was ogling her so that people were noticing.
The King again summoned his equerry. ‘Tell the actress who is occupying the box above this one that her presence is no longer required in this theatre. She is to leave at once.’
The music was resumed and the King’s equerry went to tell Perdita that she must leave at once, for this was the order of the King.
*
Mrs Armistead was surprised to see her mistress’s chair so early. Could she have left before the performance was over? As soon as she opened the door to receive her she had no doubt that something was wrong … very wrong indeed.
Mrs Robinson said nothing but went straight to her bedroom and there tore off the feathers and flung them on to her bed. She stood looking at her angry reflection, her usually pale face under her rouge was scarlet.
Mrs Armistead was at the door.
‘Madam sent for me?’
Mrs Robinson was too angry to deny it. Moreover, it was a relief to talk to someone.
‘Madam is ill. Allow me to help you to bed. The evening was not a success?’
Mrs Robinson looked at her maid in sudden suspicion. Was the woman too forward? Did she feel that because her mistress was a play actress she could treat her differently from the way in which she could a noble lady? She was ready to suspect everyone of insulting her.
Mrs Armistead arranged her features into a look of deep concern, which was not difficult since she believed her mistress’s success at this stage was her own.
Mrs Robinson softened towards her. Armistead was a good servant, good enough to be a confidante too.
‘I have been insulted tonight,’ she said. ‘I have been sent out of Covent Garden. Dismissed. Told to leave. As though … as though …’ Her lips trembled. ‘I wish to God I had never gone.’
‘But, Madam, surely the Prince …’
‘The Prince could do nothing. In fact I doubt he was aware of it until it was over.’
‘Madam!’
‘You may well look startled, Armistead. I have never felt so humiliated.’
‘But who would dare, Madam?’
‘The King’s orders. Very simple. His equerry came to my box. “His Majesty’s command, Madam. But he has no longer need of your presence here. I have orders to take you to your chair.” And he did.’
‘Then …’
Her face softened. ‘The Prince showed too clearly his devotion to me. I admit it was rather obvious. The King must have noticed. Hence my dismissal. I am deeply sorry that I laid myself open to this insult.’
‘Madam, I doubt not that this will but increase the Prince’s affection for you.’
‘I cannot say. But of one thing I am certain. I shall never put myself in such a position again.’
‘Tomorrow it will seem less humiliating. Allow me to help you to bed and bring a dish of warm chocolate. It will soothe you.’
Mrs Robinson sat at her mirror and Mrs Armistead let down the dark hair and helped her into her bedgown.
‘There, Madam. I will have your chocolate ready in a few moments.’
Preparing the chocolate she was thinking: What airs these play actresses give themselves! Does she think the Prince should marry her and make her Queen of England? Did she think the King would give his consent to that! And what of Mr Robinson? How dispose of him? But I believe our dear lady feels this is not impossible.
She sipped the chocolate. Delicious. Then she took it to her mistress’s room.
Mrs Robinson was sitting up in bed, the angry flush still on her checks.
‘There, Madam. Drink this.’
She handed her the cup and picked up the dress and feathers which had been flung aside.
‘Take those away,’ said Mrs Robinson. ‘I never want to see them again.’
In her own room Mrs Armistead held the white and silver dress against her and studied her reflection. A little alteration would be necessary. She tried the feathers against her own dark hair. Very becoming. Perhaps at some future date …
*
Lord Malden arrived next day. He brought a letter and a package from the Prince.
‘His Highness was most distressed by what happened at Covent Garden,’ Malden told her. ‘The whole company was aware of his anger. When you disappeared from your box he was quite distraught.’
Mrs Robinson bowed her head, her eyes on the letter which she was longing to read.
Lord Malden handed it to her. It was addressed to ‘Dearest and Most Beautiful Perdita’ and begged her to meet him. It was signed as usual Florizel.
Lord Maiden watched her while she read it and then handed her the packet. She gasped with pleasure when its contents were revealed. There was an exquisite miniature of the Prince of Wales painted by Meyer, delicately coloured, accentuating his good looks. The Prince had cut a piece of paper into the shape of a heart and on one side had written ‘Je ne change qu’en mourant’, and on the other: ‘Unalterable to my Perdita through life.’
‘Now, Madam,’ said Lord Maiden, ‘have you any doubt of His Highness’s devotion?’
She admitted that she had not; but at the same time she did not think it was wise for them to meet.
‘His Highness will never accept such a verdict.’
‘And if our meeting should come to the ears of the King?’
‘Madam, the Prince will be eighteen in August. Then he will have an establishment of his own. He cannot be kept at the Dower House at Kew after his eighteenth birthday.’
‘August!’ sighed Mrs Robinson. ‘That is a long way off!’
‘There is no need to wait until August.’
‘You were at Covent Garden, my lord. You saw me ignobly dismissed.’
‘Madam, the Prince will never allow you to be banished from his life.’
‘I think that until he is of age he will have to obey his father. You should tell him that much as I admire him, greatly as I appreciate his gift, which I shall treasure until the day I die, I must advise caution.’
‘Advise caution to a lover, Madam! And such a lover!’
She sighed and turned away. Then gazing at the miniature she smiled tenderly.
And Lord Maiden went back to report to his master.
‘A triumph of chastity!’
LETTERS AND POEMS were arriving frequently from Florizel and the theme of these letters was: ‘When shall we meet?’ But Perdita’s answers always showed the same evasiveness. The Prince must be cautious; he must remember his rank; he must not offend his father.
‘My fate is in the hands of my Perdita,’ he wrote. ‘My life is yours to save or ruin. Your Florizel.’
Carefully she preserved the letters, reading them over and over again, soothing her hurt vanity through them; dreaming that this chaste romantic idyll would go on all their lives and be a lesson for the whole world to admire. Lovers parted by two insuperable obstacles – his crown and her husband.
Florizel had different ideas. He raved to Maiden. There must be a meeting. She could not go on like this.
The romance was no longer a secret. It was hinted at in the more scurrilous papers. ‘A certain illustrious Personage and a famous actress have become aware of each other’s undoubted charms …’ ‘A new Florizel for Perdita …’ And such allusions.
The theatre was doing business such as it had rarely done before for people wanted to see the actress who had enchanted the Prince. They were more pleased with him than ever. What a change from his dull old father!
Sherida
n was delighted with his audiences but a little apprehensive of the future. Perdita was a very lovely woman but he did not think for one moment that she would be wise enough to hold the Prince of Wales for long.
If she became the Prince’s mistress she would continue to bring in packed houses. He would not be able to accommodate all the people who would be clamouring to get into the theatre to see her; but of course the Prince would never allow his mistress to appear on the stage – and that would be the end of good business for Drury Lane. And if the Prince discarded her? A royal mistress could not return to the stage. The public would come to see her once, twice, and then lose interest in her.
He decided to speak to her and called at her house to do so, for they could enjoy more privacy there than at the theatre. In her muslin and ribbons she was very appealing. One of the prettiest women he had ever known. If she would not take herself and her virtue and her ladylike ways so seriously, she would be very attractive indeed. Being frank with himself he admitted that he had quickly tired of her. Beauty alone was not enough. Would the Prince tire as quickly? He was young and at the moment inexperienced, the prisoner in that Puritan Palace set up by Papa; but when he had his establishment, that would be different. We shall see a change in HRH when that happens, mused Sheridan. And I doubt that our dear ladylike Mrs R will then seem to him the ideal of perfection that she does seen through prison bars. Now his – Sheridan’s – dearest Amoret (Mrs Crewe), that sparkling witty creature whom he adored and to whom he had dedicated The School for Scandal, would hold any man. If she had been in Perdita’s shoes … But God forbid. Amoret was too enchanting to be thrown away on a callow prince; only the most brilliant play-wright in England was worthy of her.
Fleetingly he thought of Elizabeth. He was sorry Elizabeth had to know of these things. But Elizabeth was a saint and a man of flesh and blood cannot live with a saint.
But here was Mrs Armistead – that most discreet of women – to usher him in.
‘My dear Sherry!’ Perdita rose to greet him, so pretty with the faint flush in her cheeks. He knew what that meant. A letter from Florizel. What a correspondent the Prince was! And so was Perdita! She had always been one to pour out her heart and soul on paper, which was probably fanning the flame of HRH’s ardour. Those poems she had written from her debtors’ prison! No merit in them but lots of feeling – and that was a commodity the public were often more ready to pay for than genius.
‘My blessed Perdita!’ He kissed her hands ardently. It was always wise to feign regrets for a love affair that was over in the presence of the one who had shared it. It was advisable to blame circumstances – ‘coming to one’s senses’, ‘it is better for you, my dear, and I am thinking of you’, ‘my own inclinations are of no account’ – than to speak of satiety, boredom, a new and more exciting mistress.
‘But how enchanting you look.’
She would never grow accustomed to compliments. He wondered lightly what proportion of her life was spent studying her reflection in the mirror and deciding what clothes she would wear.
She sparkled at once – and now she showed some vitality which was more attractive than that look of melancholy which was her usual expression.
‘The simplicity of the gown throws up the contrast of your dazzling beauty.’
‘This morning gown …’ she said disparagingly, and he could see that she was wondering whether to order a new muslin to be made … one in which she could appear in public and startle the world of Ranelagh, the Rotunda, the Pantheon by appearing in muslin and ribbon among all the satin and feathers.
‘… is most becoming,’ he finished for her. ‘But, my dear, I have not come to talk to you of gowns. I am concerned for you … greatly concerned.’
‘Sherry?’
‘I am thinking of Prince Charming’s very public passion.’
‘Alas, people in our position cannot live secret lives.’
‘That is indeed true and is why you should consider your situation from all aspects before taking any step.’
‘I am sure you are right. And that is what I am doing.’
‘So far you and the Prince have not met … alone.’
‘Certainly we have not.’
‘But how long do you think he will be content with this state of affairs?’
‘The Prince is content that he loves me and I …’
‘And you, Perdita, adore him. Naturally, all ladies adore royalty.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A simple fact, my dearest.’
‘I hope you are not suggesting that I love the Prince because of his rank. You have forgotten how his uncle the Duke of Cumberland plagued me. But you should remember how I repulsed his advances.’
An ageing roué of a duke. A young and charming prince with a crown in view. The one was a much more glittering prize than the other. Moreover, the Duke’s character was well known. He had had several mistresses and had merely invited Perdita to join the group. He had not written the sentimental love letters which she had just been reading and which she would tie up with blue ribbons – or possibly pink – and gloat over in her old age … that was if she did not use them to financial advantage at some earlier stage. The very fact that Florizel wrote to his loved one pointed to his inexperience. The Duke was no scholar; he could not have compiled those flowing phrases had he wished to; but although the Prince might chatter in French, Italian and German like a native, although he was familiar with Horace and Virgil and was reputed to have some taste for Tacitus, he was clearly not aware of the ways of the world or he would never have so guilelessly handed over to an actress those letters which, Sheridan had no doubt, the young fool would in a year’s time curse himself for having written. In this Perdita had shown herself wise. She repulsed the roué and encouraged the innocent boy; for much as she might protest, her coy reluctance to become his mistress was the best method of luring him on.
‘I remember well,’ said Sheridan. ‘And that was wise. It would have done your reputation no good at all to be concerned with my lord Duke.’
Perdita shuddered piously.
‘And the Prince …’ mused Sheridan. ‘Oh, my dear, dear lady, you must tread very cautiously. What do you think will be the outcome of all this?’
‘The outcome? Why, I think we shall learn to content ourselves with our fate.’
Clichés, thought Sheridan. Could she really see a lusty young man being content with letters.
‘I think His Highness will become more and more insistent in his request for a meeting.’
‘I have advised him to consider his position.’
‘And I have come here to advise you to consider yours.’
‘That I am doing.’
‘I know you well. I shall never forget the day we met. I recognized your ability the moment I saw you and so did Garrick. God rest his soul.’
‘Poor Mr Garrick! Dear Mr Garrick! What I owe him! It is very sad to think he will never again coach ladies for the stage.’
A short pause to pay respects to Garrick who had died a few months before.
Garrick had said: ‘With looks like that, she’ll bring in the audiences. If we can teach her to act a little that could be a help.’
How right he was! How right he had always been! He was greatly missed.
‘But even now,’ went on Sheridan, ‘that you have your place in your profession, it could be easy to throw it away.’
‘Throw it away? How?’
‘By becoming the Prince’s mistress.’
She drew back at what she considered an unpleasant word. She would never see herself as the Prince’s mistress, no matter if he set her up in a house and openly visited her. His friend? wondered Sheridan. The lady whom he favours with his confidences? His wife in name only? Never mistress!
No, he would not give her a long hold on the fickle favour of a young Prince avid for experience, avid for life.
‘My dearest, let us face the facts. That is what is in the Prince’s mind.’
‘I appreciate your anxiety for me, dear Sherry, but I do not think you know the Prince.’
A little better than you do, he thought, for you my dear have not yet spoken to him face to face.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You know I speak for your good. If you become the Prince’s mistress you will lose your place on the stage. You have too much sensibility to become the mistress of a king or a prince. You are too romantic. It would be necessary for you to consider all sorts of propositions which would be distasteful to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Before entering into such an arrangement you should make sure that some provision was made for the days when it would be over. Tell me this, what would you do if you could no longer act? Don’t forget you have a child, a mother … and a husband to support.’
She turned away; he was forcing her to see the ugly truth; he was spoiling her romance. And she wanted to go on in her dream.
‘My dear Sherry,’ she said, ‘I know you speak out of your concern for me. But rest assured I shall never do anything which would make you ashamed of me.’
‘I should tremble less for you if I thought you would,’ he said.
‘You must have your quips.’ She swept away the unpleasant discussion with a wave of the hand. ‘Now, would you take a dish of tea, a dish of chocolate?’
He declined. Business at the theatre, he pleaded. He had no desire to drink tea or chocolate with a mistress of whom he had tired.
Mistress? he chided himself. No, lady friend … the lady whom I favoured with my confidences … once.
He took his leave, kissing her hand fervently to assure her that it was her good for which he was concerned and that she should consider very carefully before throwing away a career which had been built up to fame since that night when her Juliet had first enchanted his audiences.
*
Mr Fox chose a time when Mrs Robinson was out to call on her. He had his reasons for this. He had not been unaware of the lady’s maid. An extremely handsome woman he had noted, and he had a liking for handsome women; moreover, there was an air about this one which had specially intrigued him. Not only was she handsome but intelligent.