My main task was to learn, as quickly and efficiently as I could, all the standard parts in our repertoire, from Shakespeare to Fletcher, Steele, Dryden and Cibber, as well as the regular farces we used. One day I might be playing Phoebe, the next Calista, or perhaps Maria in an extract from The School for Scandal. I might even perform in both main play and farce on the same night, sing a ballad or do a recitation during the interval. Just writing out the lines took an age, although Mama helped with this chore, as she had schooled me in my letters as a small child.
‘I’ve finished writing out the part of Rosalind for you,’ she told me, as we went to our beds after an excellent supper at the Sun Inn. ‘Which I’m sure you will play before too long. It is entirely suited to you.’ That was another thing about Mama. Her complete and utter faith in my talent and ultimate success.
I was so grateful to have my mother and sister with me for support. Surely we were now far enough away from Dublin to feel ourselves safe from Daly’s reach.
The company moved on to York for the races. The Yorkshire circuit was carefully planned to coincide with race meetings, assize weeks, fairs and markets. This was because the town in question would be buzzing with people who’d come in from the countryside around to enjoy the great event. The military, sailors, even fishermen also proved to be a loyal audience, and they too were taken into account when we chose our stopping places.
But it was hard work, our performances carried out in less than perfect conditions, often in rooms behind inns, or in stables and barns. The rare occasion when we acted in a real theatre was a treat indeed.
Once we were settled, there would be rehearsals every morning, and often in the afternoons too. Doors opened at four, allowing ample time for the audience to gather, and performances often lasted from six until midnight. It was an exhausting schedule but not for a moment did I complain. Wilkinson was paying me one pound, eleven shillings and sixpence a week, which I greatly valued.
My first stage appearance in York was with a part at which I excelled, and I soon had the audience shrieking with laughter at my favourite role of Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. They loved her cheeky audacity, and the vitality I put into the part. It was exhausting but I always came off stage in high spirits.
I next played Arionelli in The Son-in-Law, a part normally played by a man, which greatly offended a Mr Tyler, the actor who had played him before. He had acted opposite me in The Fair Penitent and when he objected to my being cast in this role, Wilkinson told him that if he had any complaints then he should try some profession other than acting. The poor man left, but a sense of ill will against me lingered long afterwards, as if I were in some way responsible for his dismissal.
While in York we took the opportunity to pay a call upon dear Aunt Maria. Sadly we found her sick in bed, a jaundiced look upon her face, and clearly close to death. Mama whispered to me that she thought the cause to be either drink or laudanum, or possibly both.
As if to echo these private comments, my aunt regarded me with a feverish gaze. ‘I did not deal well with the strains and stresses of theatre life, nor the disappointment of my lack of stardom in the capital. Other than that I believe I did rather well for myself. But I hope that you, dear niece, will do better, and learn from my mistakes.’
She was delighted that I was to follow her in the profession, and bequeathed her entire wardrobe to me.
‘That is most generous of you, Aunt,’ I cried, excited by the prospect of new costumes to replace the ones I’d been forced to abandon in Ireland.
‘Sadly, I’ve been obliged to pawn most of them, but I still possess some of my favourites, which may be of use to you.’
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘And I can alter them to fit,’ put in Hester.
She was distressed to hear our tale of Daly and learn of my condition. ‘I urge you most strongly to use the title Mrs, not only for the sake of your reputation but as a means of protecting yourself against unwelcome advances from would-be suitors.’
‘I will indeed.’
‘Nor do I care for the stage name of Francis, as I never had much time for your father. He let my dear sister down badly.’ Aunt Maria was equally adamant that I should not use her own name of Phillips. There was much more advice she gave me, to which I avidly listened, eager to soak up everything I could in order to build a good career for myself. And sadly, a week later she died, but true to her wishes we discussed with Wilkinson a change of name.
‘It cannot be Bland because of family problems,’ Mama pointed out. ‘Nor Phillips. My sister made her objections very clear on the use of our maiden name, as it may cause confusion, or detract from her own place in posterity.’
‘Then what shall it be?’ Wilkinson wondered, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the tip of one finger. ‘Dora we have, much better than Dolly or Dorothy, but we must come up with a new surname.’ He thought about this for some moments, as did we all. But then his face broke into a smile. ‘I have it, the perfect name for a new beginning. As the son of a clergyman it occurs to me that dear Dora here has in effect crossed the water. She has been rescued from her days as a slave and reached the promised land. So we will call her Jordan. Dora Jordan. How would that suit?’
‘Perfect,’ I agreed, smiling happily. My new career had begun.
Seven
‘the fly in the ointment’
The entire company was humming with excitement. Mr William Smith, an actor with the Drury Lane Theatre, was coming on a visit. Wilkinson had opened the new Theatre Royal in York in 1770, and its reputation had grown since those early days. It was very often a place London impresarios such as Richard Brinsley Sheridan, or their agents, would come to seek out new talent. Gentleman Smith, as he was known, was in York because it was race week, but naturally everyone hoped to be noticed, perhaps even offered a contract. An opportunity to star at such a famous London theatre was every actor’s dream.
I was playing in The Romp, and afterwards the gentleman himself came backstage to congratulate me on my performance. ‘You would do well at Drury Lane,’ he said, making me blush.
‘I think you flatter me, sir.’
‘Not at all. You are wasted here, touring the provinces. The capital is where you should be displaying such a rare talent.’
Before I could answer, Wilkinson suddenly appeared at my elbow. ‘How kind of you, sir, to compliment my actors. Such appreciation of our efforts is always welcome. But I would tactfully remind you that Mrs Jordan is articled to my company, and has no plans to leave it.’
No one was more aware than I that I could not break my contract without incurring penalties, but Gentleman Smith had planted a seed in my head that would continue to grow.
‘No indeed,’ I hastily agreed. ‘I am most happy here.’ Which was certainly true. I took care to note that my admirer did not miss a single performance that week, and then left without making offers to anyone, which was a great disappointment to all.
Wilkinson was so alarmed at the prospect of losing me that he at once doubled my salary and gave me another benefit. I was delighted, as it is always good to feel valued. He also promised to draw up longer articles, once the tour was over. Sadly, being granted a second benefit so soon did not go down well with fellow cast members, and only added to their jealous mutterings.
Perhaps as a result of this conversation with Gentleman Smith, and while we were still in York, Wilkinson introduced me to a Mr Cornelius Swan. He was quite elderly, a Shakespearean scholar and drama critic of renown. He too most charmingly praised my performance, and soon became a great friend.
‘May I, dear lady, offer my services as tutor, or perhaps coach would be a better word. Mr Wilkinson believes you show great potential but would benefit from a few lessons. Perhaps I could be of assistance.’
He was indeed of the greatest assistance, taking me through my lines, pointing out where the emphasis should lie, explaining the exact meaning in Shakespeare’s poetic words, which I found most enlightening.
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He called me The Jordan and if I was feeling unwell, which I sometimes was due to my pregnancy, he would sit by my bed with Mama’s red cloak about his shoulders and instruct me in the character of Zara, in the tragedy of that name by Voltaire, although he introduced me to the part using the English version translated by Aaron Hill.
He later told the manager, ‘You must revive that tragedy, Wilkinson, for I have given the Jordan but three lessons and she is so adroit at receiving my instructions that I declare she repeats the character as well as Mrs Cibber ever did. Nay, let me do the Jordan justice, for I declare she speaks it as well as I could myself.’
I could not help but smile at this evidence of pride in his own acting skills, appreciating the great critic’s help even as I insisted that comedy was much more my forte. Life was indeed most pleasant and it felt good to stay in one place for a while and have more time to study.
Our contentment ended when one morning Mama came rushing in bearing a letter. ‘It is from Daly, I know his hand well.’
My heart seemed to stop beating. But she was correct. Daly had discovered our whereabouts, no doubt thanks to the excellent press reviews I’d received while playing in York. He was ordering me to return upon the instant of receiving this letter, or he would have me arrested for debt. He was also claiming a full penalty of £250 for breach of contract, plus repayment of the original debt, with interest. Fear overwhelmed me and I burst into tears.
‘Oh, Mama, what are we to do? I can no more pay such a debt now than I could before we left, and the sum has grown worse. I shall be incarcerated in a debtor’s prison after all!’ It was too much for a young girl to cope with.
‘Dear me, what is this?’ Our new friend had arrived for my next lesson, and seeing me in such distress he insisted on hearing the whole sorry tale. I spared him few details, and his jaw tightened in angry disapproval as the true reason for my condition was finally revealed. When I was done, he leapt to his feet in a rage.
‘The man is a scoundrel and shall be dealt with most forcefully. He must not be allowed to destroy either your career or your life. I will settle the debt myself.’
I gasped. ‘Oh, but I could never ask such a thing.’
‘You have not asked it of me, I offer the service most willingly. I am a man of means and can easily afford such a trifling sum. You have become like an adopted daughter to me and if by this small service you can be free of that charlatan, it would be a small price to pay.’
And so my debts were generously settled by my new friend, with no return favours attached, and I was at last free of Richard Daly.
As we progressed across Yorkshire, putting on our productions in venues large and small, I continued to study hard, to observe my fellow actors closely. I was eager to learn from their greater skills. It was, of course, the same old story. They did not welcome the presence of a new rival in their midst, competing for the best parts. I soon recognized that the other women were wary and resentful of me, in case I should prove to be more successful than themselves.
‘Who is this Mrs Jordan?’ they would whisper to each other behind their hands. ‘Where did she come from, and why has she risen so quickly to be granted such excellent parts?’
They would scrutinize my every performance, and be quick to point out any perceived mistakes.
My greatest rival and sternest critic was a Mrs Smith (no relation to Gentleman Smith). Until my arrival she had played all the comedy leads. For this reason, and because she was well connected, the lady thought rather well of herself. And she too was pregnant. The difference between us being that her circumstances were somewhat more comfortable than my own, since she was in the happy position of having a husband.
There was precious little in the way of privacy in the claustrophobic little village halls, old barns and inns in which we often performed, and changing behind a blanket strung up on a washing line was often the best we could manage. Mrs Smith would frequently take the opportunity to express her opinions to her friends in strident tones, knowing I could hear every word, as, with Hester’s help, I prepared to go on.
‘Are we ever to be graced with the presence of Mr Jordan, I wonder?’ she would loudly proclaim to fellow cast members, who quietly tittered at her daring. ‘Does he in fact even exist, or is the Mrs merely a courtesy title?’ Her caustic laugh rang out. ‘I doubt that is a courtesy baby she carries in her belly. More likely a bastard.’
‘Enough gossip, ladies. Five minutes to opening,’ I heard Wilkinson say as I froze, mortified with embarrassment. He was ever coming to my rescue.
Once on stage, of course, I easily put the jealous mutterings of my fellow cast members out of my head and concentrated on the character I was playing. It was of vital importance that I become that person, that she, or he, appear real to the audience. That only worked if I believed I was that character too.
This was my big opportunity, and I meant to make the most of it.
I certainly had no intention of being upset by the Mrs Smiths of this world. Hadn’t I endured far worse than malicious gossip in my short life? And no matter what I had suffered in the past I was determined to love this baby I carried below my heart, whether it be a bastard or no.
‘Pay her no heed,’ he assured me later. ‘I’ve made it clear that your marital status is none of her business.’
As always I was grateful for his protection, but rather feared his intervention may have made matters worse, not better.
We next toured Wakefield and Doncaster, planning to go on to Sheffield, but the undercurrent of jealousy continued to fester. The dreadful Mrs Smith was so anxious for me not to steal her roles of Lady Teazle and others, that as summer turned into autumn and she came close to her time, she clung on looking anything but a virginal heroine. Eventually, for the sake of propriety, she was ordered by Wilkinson to retire. Even so, some ten or eleven days following the birth of her child in September, and stubbornly determined to play the part of Fanny in The Clandestine Marriage, she attempted to walk the eighteen-mile journey from Doncaster to Sheffield. Sadly, she injured her hip as a result of this foolishness, and was again forced to retire.
As I am able to learn a part in twenty-four hours, it was I who played the role. It’s a convoluted comedy about arranged marriage, and I gave a spirited performance which went down well with audiences. But my success only added to the lady’s bitter dislike of me.
In October matters took a turn for the worse when a huge wooden roller, that held up the scenery, fell within inches of myself and Mr Knight while we were seated at a table as chambermaid and footman in The Fair American. We could easily have been killed outright. Somehow I kept my nerve, believing the show must go on no matter what. But I did wonder if there was some mischief afoot.
We left Sheffield at the beginning of November, moving on to Hull for Christmas where we stayed at Mr Dunn’s in Myton Gate, in rooms above a shop. And it was here that I gave birth to my daughter Frances just before I turned twenty-one. Mama was there to help, but it was a straightforward birth and all went well. Despite my little Fanny being Daly’s child I loved her on sight, perhaps even more so, since she had no father.
‘Now do not make Mrs Smith’s mistake of rushing back to work too soon,’ Wilkinson urged me. ‘You stay safely in the straw until you are fully recovered. I always insist upon it with my own dear wife.’
He was ever kind in his treatment of me, as with all his cast. But unbeknown to me, Mrs Smith took advantage of my absence to spread her malicious gossip.
The play chosen for my return, The Fair Penitent, was, as it turned out, somewhat unfortunate. Calista is in love with the disreputable Lothario despite having been seduced by him, and not in the least penitent. He refuses to marry her, and in the end she is desperate to salvage her lost reputation, only it is too late.
As the play was performed on Boxing Day the house was a good one, but the audience received it with cold disapproval. It seemed that the good wives of Hull had been regaled with the story of
the birth of little Fanny, and with no husband in sight I was seen to be re-enacting my own shocking tale. This naturally affected my performance, which I confess was indifferent and uninspired. I do not do well when I feel no warmth radiating from an audience. Not only that, but I could hear loud whispers being exchanged, see fingers pointing at me. It was utterly humiliating. When I went on to sing ‘The Greenwood Laddie’, I was actually hissed. As always Wilkinson came to my aid. ‘Bear up, dear girl. Do not allow them to unnerve you. This is all down to the Scandal Club.’
I did not need to ask who the instigator of that cabal was.
He put out a more benevolent explanation for my situation, painting me as a victim rather than a strumpet by pointing out I was not parading a lover but rather living with my mother and caring for my siblings. Following his intervention I gradually won over the ladies of Hull and was forgiven, but it was an unsettling experience.
‘We seem to be caught up in an endless spiral. Why did Wilkinson not put an end to this peevish jealousy when it first began?’ I asked of Mama.
‘Because Tate is not against a little competition between players. He believes it makes them strive all the harder to give of their best.’
‘That seems to me an odd way of viewing the matter.’
Mama laughed. ‘That is because you are conscientious, my dear, and Mrs Smith and her cronies are not.’
The company then returned to York where, properly recovered from childbirth, I donned male attire once more to sing the part of William in a rustic operetta, Rosina. The theatre was sold out.
The Scandal Club, as Wilkinson called it, was once again in action at Sheffield a year later in 1783. By this time Mrs Smith had a new ally in a Mrs Ward, who had recently joined the company, her husband being in the orchestra. There was also a Mrs Robinson who loved to show off her neat and graceful figure, resenting the fact that I captured all the breeches parts, that rare opportunity for an actress to reveal her legs. The venom of those three women soon spread, and they would huddle together at the open stage door, or in the wings like the witches in Macbeth, chattering in loud voices in an attempt to disconcert me and put me off my lines.
The Duchess of Drury Lane Page 6