Five
‘. . . the exquisite and plaintive melody of her voice’
We arrived in Leeds on a wet day in early July 1782 after a gruelling journey across country. We’d begged whatever lifts we could, but walked far too many of the hundred or so miles from Liverpool, taking the better part of a month to do it. I had spent a deal of time throwing up in ditches, where we’d generally spent the night. I was sick to my stomach with fear of being followed, as well as from the effects of my pregnancy. Footsore and weary, Mama alone was in high spirits. She had astonished me by her unflagging zeal, and entertained us through the long miles with yet more anecdotes of theatre life, most of which we had heard many times before. But she did also fill us in on Tate Wilkinson.
‘He’s the son of a Doctor of Divinity who was once chaplain to Frederick, the previous Prince of Wales. Sadly, as Tate’s father went on to solemnize marriages in defiance of the Royal Marriages Act, the poor man was sentenced to transportation to America.’
‘What on earth is the Royal Marriages Act?’ I asked.
‘It was brought in by George III in 1772 to ensure that royal princes and princesses marry appropriately, with the King’s consent. His Majesty disapproved strongly of some of his brothers’ marriages and concluded greater control was needed so that the dignity of the monarchy could be preserved. Which means they are only permitted to marry ugly foreign princesses instead of lovely young actresses.’ And we both laughed, not for a moment thinking that this very act might one day impinge upon my own life.
‘I believe Tate’s father died at Plymouth before the ship had barely left port. Tate himself, however, you will find a most charming man, and well educated, having been a pupil at Harrow School.’
‘Then what on earth made him choose the theatre as a career?’ I felt compelled to ask the inevitable question, my earlier hope in my own new career now rapidly fading as I grew increasingly weary.
‘Because in spite of all the social prejudices against actors, he chose this most reviled profession so that he might indulge his love of mimicry. He is not the greatest actor in the world, and those he impersonates do not always take kindly to his shrewd observations of them, but he is a most polished and kindly gentleman.’
When we at last reached Leeds we found cheap lodgings and Mama quickly dispatched a note to Tate Wilkinson, requesting a meeting.
‘It will not be long now,’ she assured me. ‘I have every confidence he will take you on.’
I couldn’t stop blaming myself for the time I had wasted keeping my secret. Why had I not trusted my mother, instead of hiding behind my shame? Now I was worried that my condition, at four months gone, would damage my chances of being given even an audition.
‘Make no mention of this matter for now,’ Mama insisted, when I expressed this concern to her.
‘But that would be cheating,’ I protested.
She scoffed at this. ‘Actresses fall pregnant all the time. We will leave off mentioning you are increasing until he has seen the value of your work.’
The following day we received a note saying that Wilkinson would be happy to meet us at a local inn.
The moment he walked through the door I knew at once that I would like him. He was not handsome in any way, nor young, being in his middle years. He was short and rather stocky with an awkward gait. Mama had explained that he’d once fallen off stage and broken his leg, which had been set badly. But his round, homely face was wreathed in a broad smile, and his eyes twinkled most merrily.
‘What a happy chance to see you again, Grace,’ he cried, smacking a kiss on each cheek. ‘Not quite the waif-like Desdemona of yesteryear, but not unhandsome, no indeed, not unhandsome at all. In fact, bearing up better than most, I should say.’
My mother blushed delightfully at this flattery and quietly introduced George, Hester and me. I realized of a sudden we must look a sorry sight indeed: travel-stained, bone weary, and really rather shabby. I deeply regretted the loss of my basket of stage costumes, essential for any actress, and one I’d invested in heavily over the last two years. But afraid of alerting Daly’s attention, as he might then prevent our departure, I’d been forced to agree with Mama that we walk away with only the clothes on our backs. Nor did we have much money, and I saw at once that Wilkinson recognized our penurious state.
Dejected, miserable, close to tears, I was suddenly overwhelmed by shame and shyness. How foolishly naïve of me to imagine we could just up sticks, cross the Irish Sea and find a place in another company.
Genuinely delighted to see her old friend again, my mother was bubbling over with high spirits. Over-compensating for my gloom she at once began to sing my praises, painstakingly listing the productions in which I’d played the lead, emphasizing the good audiences, the well-received songs, even the benefit, leaving out any mention of the first failure. I listened in cringing silence, hating the fact that my brother and sister were witness to my embarrassment. I could sense Hester fidgeting beside me, jealous of the fact she was being overlooked.
‘Harrumph!’ Wilkinson muttered at last, also embarrassed by this outpouring of maternal pride and anxious to stop the flow. He appeared reluctant to take on the responsibility of an actress who looked so unprepossessing, and who could blame him? He turned to me at last and asked, ‘And what is your speciality: tragedy, comedy or opera?’
‘All,’ I said, too deeply depressed to be bothered to answer properly.
He looked astonished, eyebrows raised in some surprise. ‘Well, I should need to reflect on the matter most carefully.’ Upon this remark he quietly withdrew, presumably to think of some excuse to be rid of us, and I turned upon my parent in a fluster. ‘This was all a terrible mistake. How could you embarrass me so, Mama?’
‘Be calm, my dear. He is a fair man and has not yet given us his verdict.’
Nor did he immediately do so when finally he returned, bearing a bottle of Madeira and several glasses. He placed these on the table, then cleared his throat.
‘Normally, my response would be in the negative. I am most particular who I take on these days as business is not as brisk as it might be. But because of my fondness for you, Grace, my old friend, and the undoubted bond between us, I may well be prepared to offer your daughter a small part, just to try her out. That is, if I like what I hear, you understand?’
‘Oh, I do indeed, Tate, how very kind of you. That would be perfectly acceptable, would it not, Dora?’
I said nothing.
Mr Wilkinson smiled. ‘May I hear a sample of your work, my dear, so that I might taste the quality, as it were.’
My throat was so choked with emotion, shame and fear, that I could barely speak. ‘I would rather have a proper audition on the boards at some other time, if you please, sir.’
‘Ah, would you indeed? Well, I dare say that could be arranged.’ Picking up the bottle of Madeira he began to pour a little into each glass. ‘But since I am here, let us drink a toast to friendship and to old times.’
We each sipped our wine and soon he and Mama were laughing together as they shared memories of their youth. Mama regaled him with her own marital tale and he spoke fondly of his wife and five children. As the conversation moved back to their shared passion, the theatre, the wine was beginning to warm me, staving off the constant gnawing hunger we’d all endured these last weeks, and I began to relax a little and smile at some of their tales. George was asking questions about stage sets, and Hester urging him to say more about the famous actresses he’d met over the years. It was all most pleasant. Then he turned to me and again asked me to recite a few lines.
‘Choose something you know well. I’m not a harsh judge and will make all due allowances for the lack of a stage from which to project your voice.’
I caught Mama’s encouraging smile and as the Madeira had boosted my courage a little, I agreed. ‘Very well. I shall do a speech from The Fair Penitent.’
Nodding, he sat back, glass in hand, and listened most carefully as I recit
ed the lines. When I stopped, there was a small silence. Not one of us dared speak, and I could hardly breathe. Even the volatile Hester had the sense to see that our family’s future rested on his answer, and held her silence.
At length Wilkinson spoke, addressing his remarks directly to my mother. ‘Have you tutored her, Grace?’
‘Not excessively so,’ she protested.
‘If you have, then you are to be congratulated. I am astonished by the exquisite and plaintive melody of her voice, her distinction of articulation, as well as her truth and sincerity of feeling.’
I actually gasped. Never had I been granted such high praise. It quite boosted my dull spirits. ‘If I can please you, the manager, then I should have no fear of pleasing an audience,’ I said. ‘And were I to achieve public favour then you would not find me ungrateful for the help you have afforded me. I would work hard for you, sir, always.’
Thinking I’d perhaps sounded a mite too full of myself before, I flushed a little as I tried to explain. ‘When I said earlier that I could do all, what I meant to say is that I have performed in all, although I prefer comedy, and the opera was of the comic variety.’
He nodded, dismissing my rudeness with a wave of his hand. ‘My only concern is that in all honesty I can only pay you fifteen shillings a week, hardly enough to keep the entire family.’
Mama hastened to say how that was of no account, as if we had no need of money; that George too could sing and would willingly help backstage. ‘And Hester could play small parts and help with costume, would you not, my dear?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, eyes bright with hope.
Wilkinson seemed reasonably satisfied with this, and offered me the part of Calista in the very play from which I had quoted, the very next Thursday. ‘To be followed by the role of Lucy in The Virgin Unmasked.’
I was overwhelmed, and thanked him profusely, while privately recognizing the irony of such a role.
Mama was casting me telling glances, urging me to keep my secret a while longer, until I had proved myself. ‘And may she sing too?’ my mother pressed. ‘She does a wonderful rendition of “The Greenwood Laddie”.’
Wilkinson looked somewhat surprised by this request. ‘How can Calista die pathetically and then come on all alive and singing a pretty ballad?’
I hastened to assure him there would be a slight pause, and that I’d make a complete distinction between the two performances.
He still looked unconvinced. ‘I shall consider the suggestion, but are you quite certain you can handle comedy as well as tragedy?’
I fully understood his reservations, as he’d seen little sign of the merry side of my nature in my miserable, bedraggled appearance at the inn. In addition, he was well respected, not only in the local community but nationwide, and had a reputation to maintain. As Calista was a role usually given to a serious actress of note, not a young newcomer, I again expressed my gratitude. ‘I will not let you down.’
‘Then the matter is settled. I shall expect you at the theatre first thing.’
The rehearsals were long and much tougher than I had ever experienced before, though this was no bad thing. I wanted to work, to learn and improve. I spared no effort to attain a high standard, and fortunately I still cut a reasonably slender figure, not showing much at all, as yet. The slight swell of my stomach could easily be disguised with a full-skirted gown. And I loved every moment of it. The Fair Penitent, a Restoration drama in blank verse, was very popular with audiences and I gave of my very best, wishing to do the power of the words justice.
To be fair, Wilkinson stood by his agreement to allow me to sing at the end of the performance, and changed the programme accordingly.
When the first night arrived I was, as usual, terribly beset with nerves, which thankfully vanished the moment I went on. The play was reasonably well received, although it was a small house since folk don’t turn out for a newcomer, and the Yorkshire cotton workers in the audience were not an easy public to please. At the end I jumped back on stage, dressed in my frock, with my mob cap atop my mop of brown curls, and sang ‘The Greenwood Laddie’ without accompaniment.
To my complete delight, the Leeds audience loved it. Not only that, they leapt to their feet and applauded. The reviewers the next day said that I possessed the necessary vivacity, confidence and natural stage presence required, and that my voice was strong and clear and true.
Mama was jubilant at my success and I was duly granted a benefit by way of a launch, playing to a packed house early in August. Following this success, Tate Wilkinson offered me a contract.
‘Before I sign I should tell you, sir, that I am with child.’ I flushed with humiliation at having to reveal my loss of innocence, but the moment for honesty had come.
I saw the disappointment in his eyes, the way his mouth tightened as if he had heard this too many times in the past, and had not wished to hear it from me.
‘It did not happen of her own free choice. She was ill-used,’ Mama hastily put in, unable to restrain herself.
He gave Grace a quizzical look, but asked for no further explanation. Then just as I expected at any moment to be given my marching orders, he asked, ‘Are you fit to work?’
‘I am, and will continue right to my time.’
‘Then sign. I want you in my company.’
I gladly did so, too overcome with gratitude to find any words to express it.
Six
‘. . . the horse and foot’
The season being over the company set out for York. According to Mama, Tate Wilkinson was lessee of theatres at York, Leeds and Hull, as well as touring the company around Yorkshire and earning himself the title of The Wandering Patentee.
The company walked around Yorkshire on foot like strolling players. Actors, of course, were accustomed to living on the road and not having a settled home, carrying everything they owned with them. But having only ever worked in town, at one or other theatre in Dublin, this way of life was new to me, and came as something of a challenge.
Wagons carried the scenery and props, as well as some of the children, who found it all rather exciting. Occasionally the women too would ask for a lift if they were tired, or beg rides from passing farm carts. I managed to do this on several occasions, if only for the sake of Mama. Hester, of course, was always quick to complain if she grew weary. My sister is kind and helpful at heart, but not the most patient soul, and with a quick temper. The men rode on horseback, assuming they were rich enough to own or hire such an animal, and sometimes allowed my young brother a ride now and then, if they felt like a walk.
So off we went, bag and baggage, trudging across country, over hill and dale. Beautiful as they undoubtedly are, the Yorkshire moors are bleak and windswept, rough, rock-strewn and boggy. A remote part of the country indeed, with nothing more to guide our way than sheep trods, and the well-worn paths of previous years. A stout pair of boots was essential, not to mention good health and strength.
It was a far from ideal situation for a pregnant woman, but fortunately I was fit and healthy, my spell of morning sickness long past. I did, however, worry about Mama, who was less robust, and barely recovered from our earlier trek from Liverpool.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked, coming alongside as we plodded along, equally concerned about me.
‘I am very well, Mama, really quite enjoying the warm summer sunshine.’
‘You aren’t worrying about Daly, are you?’
‘I try not to, but it isn’t easy,’ I confessed. ‘I wonder sometimes what his reaction was when he discovered I’d escaped his clutches. More than likely he would be angry. Nor will he easily let me go. Were he ever to discover where we are he would most certainly demand recompense for his loss, penalties on breaking my contract, and the repayment of my debt.’
She thought about this for a moment. ‘One advantage of this peripatetic life is that it makes it harder for Daly to find us.’
‘But not impossible.’
�
��No,’ she admitted. ‘The theatre world is a small one, so not impossible.’
Wilkinson joined us at this point to ask how we were faring, and I smilingly thanked him for his concern. He was ever a kind, generous-hearted man. ‘I am well, thank you, kind sir.’
‘You look sprightly enough, praise be, but it is not easy for you, I know from my own wife’s labours. The horse and foot travels over one hundred and fifty miles a year,’ he blithely informed us.
I rather liked this description of us, as if we were a military troop rather than a troupe of strolling players, proud to be living and working together.
‘Are you hungry, dear ladies? We’ll be stopping in Tadcaster shortly where I know of a good inn.’
Fortunately, our rather rotund manager was fond of his food, and arranged regular stops at inns where he made sure ‘the horse and foot’ was well fed.
Those who could afford it would stay at the inn, while the rest would find cheap lodgings as close to the theatre as possible, hoping food would be provided and that the beds would be bug free, which I have to say was not always the case. Whenever we stopped to rest, or to prepare for the next production, I spent every free moment copying out or learning lines, making or mending costumes. Although I greatly depended upon Hester in this respect as she was far better with a needle than I. She would scour market stalls in every town we passed through.
‘See, I could trim a gown and bonnet with this,’ she would say, pouncing on a length of tatty looking gauze curtain. ‘And if I cut the sleeves off this old jacket it would make an excellent waistcoat for your part in The Romp.’
Whether I needed a hat and breeches for a page boy, mob cap or fancy gown, my talented sister could turn the most inauspicious looking garment into one that could easily have graced the great Sarah Siddons of Drury Lane.
‘What would I do without you?’ I told her. ‘I am so proud of you.’
‘And I of you,’ she answered, in a rare moment of sibling affection. As sisters we were fond but not overly sentimental.
The Duchess of Drury Lane Page 5