Sometimes I would play them at their own game, and creep on stage with an air of great distress, as if bravely battling against tears. At this sad sight the audience would exclaim in horror, wondering what on earth might be the matter. Was I hurt, had something dreadful happened to my child? But my friends would send round a whisper explaining the mischief being done to me by my fellow actresses, and they would sigh crossly, and warm to me in sympathy.
I am not called a good actress for nothing.
In the end, Wilkinson grew so irritated by their behaviour that he had all the doors locked to confine the coven in their proper place, which put an end to the ploy, or so I hoped.
That winter Mrs Smith and her husband held a benefit, and I made what I thought to be a kind offer. ‘Is it not time that we ended this foolish vendetta? I am more than willing to offer my services in your benefit, if it would help.’
‘I’m sure we can manage well enough without digging in the gutter,’ Mrs Smith snapped.
‘Ladies, ladies,’ said Wilkinson, quietly attempting to placate everyone. ‘I’m sure Mrs Jordan means well, and you must have some other actor on stage with you, so let it be she. It can do no harm.’
The house was a good one, and I believed my own part in the production helped to contribute to the large sum pocketed by the Smiths.
The lady herself was less grateful. ‘I’m sure we did well enough, although I’m certain we’d have done better had Mrs Jordan not been the fly in the ointment.’
Fortunately, not everyone behaved in this manner towards me. There was in the company a fine young man by the name of George, who was the stepson of Elizabeth Inchbald, an actress of note. And to him, I tremble to admit, I gave my heart.
Eight
‘Mrs Jordan had better remain where she is and not attempt the London boards’
Hester had made her first appearance at Leeds not too long after my own, and it was she who now used the name of Miss Francis. She’d begun with a simple song, progressing through various small parts until almost two years later she was playing roles such as Polly in A Beggar on Horseback, and Juliet in Measure for Measure. My versatile young brother would happily perform walk-on parts as a messenger or halberdier. Very occasionally he would join me in a duet, as he had a fine voice. George added little to the family coffers from his efforts, but dreamed of playing comic opera one day, so was content to serve his apprenticeship in any way he could. Mama, of course, was kept busy looking after Fanny.
On stage I enjoyed the attention of many admirers, including a Member of Parliament who was apparently a close acquaintance of the Prince of Wales. He would sit in his box ogling me night after night, and then come backstage hoping to entice me to dine with him. I always refused, paying him no heed, as George Inchbald was the one I liked to think of as my new beau. George generally played the male lead, and he and I had performed many a ‘love scene’ together on stage. Rumour was rife in the green room that these were also taking place offstage. Sadly for me this was not at all the case, although there was an undoubted attraction between us which even my sister remarked upon.
‘I see you have yet another admirer now in Inchbald. What happened to the MP, the man with royal connections who was madly in love with you?’
I laughed at her teasing. ‘Charles Howard was a man more in love with the arts than with me. He was interested only in watching how my career progresses.’
‘He liked to watch far more than your career, Doll. The fellow was besotted. I do, however, have my reservations about George Inchbald. He, I think, is more in love with himself.’
I busied myself with tying ribbons in my hair as I could feel a betraying warmth on my cheeks. ‘He is most attentive, but it is of no interest to me whom he loves,’ I airily remarked, which was a bold-faced lie. But then I had no wish to admit how much I liked him, how often I watched his broad-shouldered figure stride across the stage, my heart beating fast and with open admiration in my eyes. I could most easily fall in love with him.
Every day he would come to my dressing room to console me against my rivals’ mischief-making. ‘Take no notice of the Scandal Club,’ he would say. ‘They are only jealous of your skill and beauty. You are by far a better actress than they will ever be.’
His consideration and support was most flattering.
‘But then you do realize I adore you, Dora. Your happiness means the whole world to me.’
I would blush with pleasure at these kind words, then let him kiss my hand while aching for him to pull me into his arms as he often did on stage, and kiss me for real this time. But, ever the perfect gentleman, too much so perhaps, he would simply smile and talk of other things. He loved to sit and watch me take off my make-up or pin up my hair for the next act. He would walk me home to my lodgings after a show, often coming in for supper to chat happily with me and my family for hours. Actors are notorious night birds as it always takes a little while to come down from the heights of a performance.
And he so loved to tease. ‘Do you know what the press call you?’ he asked me one evening following a performance of Nell in The Devil to Pay.
Anticipating some flattering remark, I blushed bright pink and shook my head.
‘The humble Nell of the York stage.’ He laughed, and I laughed with him, but then the more I thought of it, the less of a compliment it sounded.
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Well, there is all the malicious gossip about your apparent lack of morals that the Scandal Club has spread about you. And of course, you do have a child.’
I held my cool with difficulty, mortified that we should even be having this conversation. ‘Not all ways of getting with child are pleasant ones,’ I quietly remarked, and for a moment Inchbald was silent as he digested this comment.
‘Are you saying—’
‘I am saying that I am not some common little floozy. I have never willingly taken a lover, royal or otherwise. Nor do I ever intend to, so how am I to be compared with Nell Gwyn, if they are indeed comparing me with her? Why would I earn such a sobriquet?’
He appeared very slightly embarrassed. ‘You cannot deny being pursued by that friend of the Prince of Wales, son and heir to the Duke of Norfolk no less.’
‘For goodness sake, you make too much of what was no more than a passing acquaintance, and I gave the fellow no encouragement. I shall probably never see him again, thank goodness, and I certainly never expect to set eyes on the Prince of Wales. Can you imagine a royal prince ever visiting the Theatre Royal in York? I very much doubt it. Although, who knows, one day I may move to London and become famous.’
He beamed at me. ‘If that happens, I shall be honoured to claim you as a friend.’
‘I hope you are honoured now,’ I teased, batting my eyelashes a little, and instantly forgiving his comments, which must surely have been born of jealousy. ‘Not for a moment do I imagine such good fortune could ever come my way, but a girl can dream.’
Right now my dreams were centred upon George Inchbald, on romance, marriage and more children. If in some quarters I was not considered quite respectable, because of little Fanny, marrying a man such as George Inchbald would surely set the matter right. I rather thought he would make a good father for my little girl, and a devoted husband for me.
‘It is the idea of marriage you are in love with,’ my sister scoffed, shrewdly guessing the direction of my thoughts. ‘Not George Inchbald.’
I was quite sure she was wrong and missed no opportunity to spend time with him, to flirt and tease, and tempt him to linger a little longer over those stage kisses, hoping to encourage him to risk one backstage.
George, however, while happy to go along with the game, showed no sign of wishing to take our friendship further. Why did he never make a move? I wondered. Mama thought him a fine young man. And I knew that his own stepmother, Elizabeth Inchbald, approved of the match. I began to wonder if perhaps Hester might be right, that he cared more for himself than for me.
Was I simply desperate for respectability in order to put an end to these nasty rumours about my alleged immorality? Surely not. It was love that kept me tossing and turning in my bed at night, and my days gazing doe-eyed at the man I adored.
Gentleman Smith came again, and as always on one of his regular visits, anticipation and excitement mounted. There were the usual jealous mutterings, reignited whenever he was seen watching one of my performances, or came backstage to speak to me.
‘I am continuing to maintain an interest in your career,’ he assured me. ‘It appears to be progressing well.’
George was also excited. ‘He may watch the performances of the other actors, but it is you, Dora, who most impresses him. He will offer you a place at Drury Lane this time, I’m sure of it.’
At the end of the week, Gentleman Smith returned to London as he always did, and I waited anxiously, watching the post each day, hoping for that much longed-for offer. It took a week or so, but gradually, it dawned on me that no such offer would be forthcoming. Perhaps he was simply flattering me and being kind, while seeing me only as a provincial actress as my mother was before me.
It was about the time that I was recovering from this disappointment that a new realization dawned upon me. It occurred to me that George had not visited my dressing room, nor walked me home to our lodgings to take supper with me, ever since Gentleman Smith had left.
‘Why is he staying away?’ I asked Hester, genuinely puzzled. ‘We were getting along so well. Have I done something to offend?’
My dear sister looked at me with a cynical sort of pity in her eyes. ‘How naïve you are, Doll. George Inchbald is a cautious man, prudent and careful, and rather conservative in his views. I’m afraid he is reluctant to take on a woman with a child, unless, of course, that woman were a rich and famous actress.’
I stared at her in dismay. ‘Are you saying that were I to be offered a well-paid position at the famous Drury Lane, then he would ask for my hand? Otherwise . . .’
She nodded. ‘Otherwise he would never risk such a commitment.’
To my utter shame, my eyes filled with tears. ‘But he was so attentive, so kind, so loving. I believed he was smitten, as was I, I do confess.’
‘Oh, Dolly, what a dear affectionate soul you are, but far too trusting.’
To be let down again by Gentleman Smith was bad enough, but to be disappointed in love at the same time was a double blow. I fell into a depression. I had so taken George’s attentions for granted, believing that he truly did adore me, as he claimed, that I fondly believed I’d found the love I so longed for. Now I felt dispirited and listless, as if I carried the whole world on my shoulders, and the sameness of the parts began to pall. As a consequence my performance began to suffer; either I felt unwell, or was quite unable to give them the concentration and care necessary. Naturally I upset fellow actors with my inattention, and I confess public adoration cooled somewhat on occasions. I also suffered badly from migraines, and on one evening actually collapsed on stage. But that was the fault of Wilkinson.
It was March 1785 and I was to play in a benefit performance of Cymbeline. I was also billed to sing ‘The Poor Soldier’ at the end of the third act, as well as play in the farce. My head was pounding and I felt quite certain I was about to be sick. It was suddenly all too much and I told Wilkinson that I was not well enough to sing, begging him to lighten my load by cutting out the song after Cymbeline. He refused.
‘You know that I cannot change the programme at this late stage. The audience expects a song from you, Dora.’
‘You must announce that I am sick.’
He strode away but returned moments later, looking most flustered. ‘They refuse to do without it. They are demanding your presence. Can you hear them, they are baying for you. You cannot let them down.’
I was lying on the couch in the dressing room with a cold cloth on my forehead. Having struggled through the play I now felt utterly drained, yet he was ordering me to go on again. ‘I will not risk my health merely to warble a ballad, and if they are disappointed, so be it. Nothing in the world shall alter my mind.’
‘They feel that if you were fit enough to play in Cymbeline, you are also fit enough to sing. And I have to say I agree with them.’
‘Why will you not believe me when I say I am ill?’
‘You are a fine actress, Dora dear, but you cannot fool me. You may be heartsick, but your body is perfectly capable of working. Had you truly been ill you would have stayed at home and called a doctor.’
‘But my throat hurts. My head aches and I . . .’
He turned to Hester. ‘Fetch the costume for Patrick. She has two minutes to change, then she goes on and does the song.’
So I staggered on stage, began to sing ‘In the prattling hours of youth . . .’ and fainted.
In the spring of 1785 Wilkinson decided to stage The Country Girl, being Garrick’s revised version of Wycherley’s The Country Wife. It was as full of wit as ever, but he had toned down the somewhat outrageous immorality to a level more acceptable to today’s audience. The play had proved to be controversial for its sexual explicitness even in Restoration days, as it concerned the libertine’s trick of feigning impotence in order to ingratiate himself upon married women. But then a young and inexperienced country wife comes to London, who catches the eye of a rake. The leading part was played by a Mrs Brown, and I confess I fell in love with the play and the role on first viewing. It was an utter delight.
‘I intend to make this role my own,’ I told Mama, as I sat dandling darling Fanny on my knee one evening at the end of the week, having watched and studied Mrs Brown’s performance on every single night.
‘Ah, yes,’ Mama said, ‘I remember playing in the original when I was quite young. It was the greatest fun. Your dear father rather liked the play and gave it a revival, but I agree it fell out of favour again as Shakespeare came back into vogue. Bring me a copy of the new version and I will copy out the lines for you,’ she offered, ever ready to help.
I learned the lines, making notes of my observations from studying Mrs Brown’s performance, and how I might improve upon it by giving the part my own personal interpretation. Mama discussed the role with me at length, the play on words and nuance of character, and encouraged me to read the original version so that I could see how Garrick had made changes. Solid preparation, I believe, is essential before taking on any new role, and one day I hoped to shine in this one.
It was late in the summer of that year when Gentleman Smith visited during race week, as usual, and this time there was no prevarication on his part. He came straight to the point.
‘I’m here to make you an offer, Dora Jordan. We are seeking a new understudy for Sarah Siddons, and Sheridan has accepted my recommendation and is prepared to offer you four pounds a week if you will take the position.’
I could hardly believe what he was saying. My chance had come at last. Not perhaps quite what I had hoped for, for I’d no real wish to play second to anyone, not even the great Siddons, but it was the opportunity I had longed for to go to London and make a name for myself. It was certainly not one I had any intention of turning down.
‘I shall be delighted to accept,’ I told him, without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Excellent, then I will speak to Wilkinson and arrange your release.’
A few weeks later Hester rushed into the dressing room in a state of high excitement. ‘Guess who has deigned to pay a visit to our humble theatre?’
We all sat silent, unable to guess at a single name which would produce such enthusiasm in my sister.
‘The great Sarah Siddons herself.’
Mrs Ward gave a bark of cynical laughter. ‘She has come to observe your performance, Jordan, and may well put an end to your dream if she does not care for what she sees.’
This was so very true I heartily wished that my dear sister had not told me. The very prospect of acting before this famous actress had me shaking in my shoes before ever I reached th
e stage. I felt sick, longed to turn and run as I had once before.
Sensing my panic Hester grasped my hands in hers. ‘It’s all right, Doll. You can do this. Go out there and show her just how good you are.’
I would like to say that I did exactly that. Sadly, I was so beset with nerves that at best I was mediocre. Siddons was not impressed.
‘Mrs Jordan had better remain where she is and not attempt the London boards,’ was her verdict, brought to me by Wilkinson with a wry smile on his round, homely face. As always, he attempted to console me.
‘I think it curious to note that this same advice was given to Mrs Siddons herself in her early days by William Woodfall, the critic. He thought her too weak for the large London theatres, and recommended she keep to small houses where she could be heard. But your voice is strong, my dear, and can be heard loud and clear right up in the gods.’
‘What if I should fail?’ I asked, my earlier confidence now rapidly evaporating.
Wilkinson patted my hand. ‘There is absolutely no reason why you should. I have every faith you will be a complete success, but should that not be the case, you will always be welcome in my company, Dora dear.’
Tears brimmed in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks at the thought of leaving the safe haven this dear man had offered me in my greatest hour of need. ‘You have been like a second father to me, kindness itself. I do so wish I had performed better tonight, for your sake.’
‘There, there, do not take it to heart. The lady does tend to be somewhat scathing in her criticisms.’
Oh, but I did take it very much to heart, and I made a private vow to make sure that next time Mrs Siddons saw me act, she would come away with a very different view.
My last performance was in early September, and there were many fond farewells, and some very welcome ones. Mama wept at leaving George behind, but he loved working with Wilkinson, who promised to take good care of the boy as he was not yet ready for the capital.
The Duchess of Drury Lane Page 7