The Duchess of Drury Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  Then we packed my precious costumes and books, and Mama, Hester and I, together with two-year-old Fanny, set out on our next adventure to London. I went with no degree of confidence. Many actresses had followed this same route to the capital, bearing the same hopes and dreams of fame and fortune in their hearts, and been obliged to return forever into obscurity, like my mother before me. Yet at least I had been granted the opportunity, and on double the wages that Wilkinson could offer, so what did I have to lose?

  Mrs Smith stood watching me depart. ‘Make no mistake,’ she said to the coven of companions by her side. ‘The Jordan will be back within twelve months.’

  Nine

  ‘She came to town with no report in her favour . . .’

  We had thought that city life would be no surprise to us, coming from Dublin, but London was very different, so much larger and grander than our Irish equivalent, or certainly the part we had known by the quays. The sounds and smells of the capital hit us in full force: the rattle of carriage wheels, the clip of horses’ hooves, the cries of the street sellers.

  ‘My mop is so big, it might serve as a wig for a judge, if he had no objections,’ cried one, making us all laugh.

  Lamps lighted the streets, which were properly paved. There were street sweepers so less rubbish and sewage ran in the gutters, and apparently water was piped below ground to the row of fancy tall houses. Elm trees lined every street and square, with green swathes of parkland everywhere. We’d endured two long days being bumped and jostled and squashed in a public coach, till we were bruised and bone-weary, despite regular stops at inns on the Great North Road.

  ‘At least we didn’t have to walk this time,’ I said in an effort to raise spirits as we trundled along.

  Hester was in one of her moods, Mama weak with exhaustion and little Fanny was screaming like a banshee. But I was filled with excitement. London seemed to me a magical place, and I fell in love with it on sight.

  The streets themselves were crowded with traffic: carriages, hackneys, sedan chairs hurrying by with some lady hidden inside, perhaps off on a secret tryst with her lover. There were carts and wagons and horses by the score; and fancy phaetons ‘taking the dust’, as Sheridan later described it, when the young bucks took their ladies for a drive.

  ‘Turn left at the top of Drury Lane, if you’re looking for somewhere cheap to stay near the theatre,’ our coach driver advised us as he stopped to allow us to alight. ‘It’s far from salubrious but where most of the Irish immigrants live.’

  I shuddered at the thought but Mama soon put him right, looking quite outraged. ‘We are respectable ladies and have no intention of living in any low part of town.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he responded politely, doffing his cap. ‘Then I’d recommend you choose with care, as fashionable people have moved away from the area, and criminals and prostitutes are in abundance there now.’ He piled our baggage about our feet, climbed back on to his seat and with a flick of his whip drove away, far too accustomed to delivering people to the city to care greatly whether or not we ended up in a hell-hole.

  But his advice indicated to me how ill-regarded the Irish were. And the closeness of the slums was an alarming reminder of where we might end up if things went wrong. I suddenly felt the pressure of responsibility for our survival weighing heavy on my young shoulders. I would shortly turn twenty-four with the burden of being the main bread winner for my family. I was fully aware that I would be but one among many, competing against the best in the business, and would need to prove myself quickly if we were not to end up in those slums.

  Fortunately, thanks to Mama’s memories of Thomas Sheridan, who had lived in Henrietta Street, we managed to find decent lodgings at number eight. It was a handsome four-storey terraced house which boasted a fine staircase and wood-panelled rooms, within easy walking distance of all the major theatres including Drury Lane, and quite close to Covent Garden.

  We unpacked our few possessions, save for my stage costumes which we left in the basket Hester and I had carried between us all the way from Yorkshire. Our room seemed comfortable enough with three iron beds, and Mama went in search of the kitchen, shared with the other lodgers, to warm what was left of the soup she’d brought with us. I put little Fanny down for a much-needed sleep.

  ‘So here we are,’ I said, hugging my sister. ‘Now what?’

  She grinned at me. ‘Now you sweep on to the stage at Drury Lane and charm London with your talent. Then we all become very rich.’

  ‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten that part. And when we are “very rich” we shall all wear satin and lace, and gold slippers, and ride everywhere in a fine carriage of our own instead of the public stage.’

  ‘And parade ourselves in our fancy clothes before the nasty Mrs Smith in Yorkshire.’

  ‘“My, my, Dora Jordan, ’oo do you think you are lass, the Queen of Sheba?” she’ll say.’ I mimicked the woman to perfection.

  Hester collapsed with laughter. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Doll, you will really.’

  We were still rolling on our beds in fits of giggles when Mama returned with the hot soup and a crusty loaf she had bought from a passing baker’s boy.

  ‘What has got into the pair of you?’ she asked, somewhat bewildered by our merry mood.

  ‘Dreaming, Mama, only dreaming. Tomorrow, when I arrive at Drury Lane, I shall come face to face with reality.’

  But long before I ever reached the theatre the next morning, I was filled with trepidation. ‘Why do I even imagine I could be any use? Mrs Siddons is the great name at Drury Lane. The other main actresses, a Miss Farren and a Miss Pope, I am reliably informed by Gentleman Smith, play the dainty ladies to perfection.’

  ‘Leave the tear-jerking tragedy to Siddons,’ Mama said, somewhat dismissively. ‘Nor are you the sort of actress to play a dainty lady. The good gentleman also said that there was no one who played farcical comedy, at which you shine.’

  ‘But it is not in fashion, Mama, not in London. Drury Lane prefers serious drama: Shakespeare, Molière, Voltaire. What can I offer to compete with the likes of Siddons?’

  ‘Yourself, dearest. Just be yourself.’ And she put her arms about me and hugged me in her loving, motherly way.

  Drury Lane was much shabbier than I had expected, but then theatres are never the most salubrious of places. Backstage at Leeds more often than not stank of beer, grease paint and stale sweat, although somehow I had expected better from this grand London theatre. The proprietor, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a tall thin man with a rigid posture, offered me a bow that was not in the least foppish, despite his brightly coloured costume of blue coat and red waistcoat. I politely asked that my mother’s kind regards be transmitted to his father, Thomas Sheridan.

  ‘She has fond memories of working with him in Dublin.’

  ‘I do not often see him,’ came the cool response.

  I was then shown around by the manager, Tom King, who told me that he in fact remembered my mother very well from his time in Dublin. ‘I knew Mrs Bland back in the 1750s. Do give her my regards.’

  ‘I will.’ I felt as if I had found a friend.

  We sat in on a rehearsal, and I listened avidly while he told me something of the history of the theatre, first built in 1662 and rebuilt following a fire ten years later.

  ‘It is called the Theatre Royal because the first troupe of players was considered to be a part of the royal household, and as such entitled to wear the scarlet and gold of royal livery, rather like footmen do now.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘At that time the theatre could seat seven hundred but it is twice that size today. Mr Sheridan took it over from Garrick in 1777, although he leaves the day-to-day management entirely to me.’ He regarded me quite seriously for a moment. ‘You must not be intimidated by him. He is a charming man, if something of a contradiction, and is himself of Irish stock, although he was raised mainly by servants after his parents returned to England.’
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  ‘Doesn’t he ever tread the boards himself?’ I asked, thinking of Ryder, Daly and Wilkinson, who all loved to be a part of the action on stage.

  ‘Mr Sheridan is too occupied as a Member of Parliament to have time for such trivialities these days.’ And lowering his voice, softly added, ‘He suffered rather badly from bullying as a boy at Harrow, being the son of a travelling player, so now prefers not to be too closely associated with the theatre.’

  ‘Then why own one?’ I asked, astounded by this private glimpse into a very public figure.

  ‘Money, my dear, why else? He has turned his back on both acting and writing in order to concentrate on politics, but he still has to live, and has debts to settle, so if you can pull in an audience, you will be particularly welcome here.’

  I was still mulling over this information about my new employer, which seemed to add to the pressure already on me, as we returned to the office to consider how best to make my debut. Sheridan waved me to a seat with a flourish of one delicate hand.

  ‘Our aim,’ he began, ‘is to dedicate the Theatre Royal to the very best in drama, as well as high moral rectitude. It is a place for intellectual culture, entertainment and enjoyment, a theatre which needs to be regarded as a national treasure. We must never allow it to slide into vulgarity and immorality. Young actresses should take particular care that they do not overstep the bounds of propriety. It is commonly agreed that they create a certain excitement in the male breast, and provoke a sense of mystery since the real woman can easily be confused with the parts they play.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ I said, beginning to wonder where all this was leading.

  ‘Sadly, it is an actress’s lot in life that she rarely finds married joy with a respectable man.’

  My heart skipped a beat at this bleak prospect for my future happiness. ‘I trust you exaggerate, sir. I have every hope to marry a good man one day,’ and I smiled. Sheridan’s expression remained inscrutable.

  ‘I believe, Mrs Jordan, that you have a child.’

  ‘I do.’ If he expected me to apologize for my darling Fanny, or explain her existence, then he had mistaken me badly.

  Tom King looked away, clearly embarrassed. After a slight pause in which I sat rigid, Sheridan blithely continued with his lecture. ‘You should ever remember that I have an instinctive abhorrence to the theatre being seen as a vehicle for vice. Nor have we any place here for smutty farce and coarse jokes.’

  The manager hastily intervened. ‘What Mr Sheridan means is that Drury Lane is the place where the fashionable like to come to see the great Mrs Siddons act. They are content to sit and enjoy the tragedy, but whether we could persuade them to remain in their seats long enough to view the farce after it, has yet to be proved.’

  This all sounded deeply disturbing. ‘Are you saying there is no room for comedy at the Lane which may be considered in the slightest risqué?’

  ‘No, we don’t mean that at all. We have no objection to a lively or bawdy comedy,’ Sheridan put in, himself the writer of two amusing farces, The School for Scandal and The Rivals, and generally revered as a notorious wit. ‘But the genteel will not tolerate anything too offensive or uncouth, and prefer to leave the theatre with the glow of Mrs Siddons’ performance fresh in their minds.’

  ‘Mrs Siddons is the great draw,’ Tom King agreed. ‘Her performances are always well attended, and she holds two benefits each season. She is very well thought of.’

  ‘Not least by herself,’ Sheridan added with a grim smile. ‘But we cannot afford to offend her, you understand, by puffing up a newcomer too much. Not even one who comes so highly recommended by William Smith.’

  I was beginning to appreciate the size of the challenge I faced, and the battle Gentleman Smith must have faced to get me taken on. No wonder his offer had been a long time in coming. ‘May I ask what you have in mind for my debut?’

  Now Sheridan actually smiled, as if he was about to offer me a rare treat. ‘We have announced to the press that you are to play in a revival of Philaster, or Love Lies Bleeding as it is often called. It is a tragi-comedy and you will play Bellario, a page who turns out to be a girl.’

  I thought about the disaster when first I trod the boards at Smock Alley by being forced, by Daly, to play in a tragedy. My resolve never to allow that to happen again strengthened. ‘May I make an alternative suggestion?’

  The two men exchanged a surprised glance but then turned to me as one, offering a polite smile. ‘We are always interested to hear an actress’s view,’ Sheridan said, so charmingly that I warmed to him a little.

  Taking a breath I mustered as much tact as I could. ‘I have no wish to intrude upon Mrs Siddons’ territory. She is, as you say, a great actress, the queen of tragedy. In any case, that is not my forte. Nor have I any wish to play the perfect lady parts performed so ably by Miss Farren. I do not possess either her elegance or her dignity. I am much happier playing comedy. And if I am to succeed then I must play to my strengths, not my weakness, do you not agree?’

  ‘I have no quarrel with what you have said thus far,’ Sheridan said.

  ‘Nor I,’ agreed Tom King. ‘But if Philaster does not appeal, then what do you suggest?’

  I leaned forward in my seat, anxious to put my case as well as possible. ‘While in Yorkshire I saw a performance by Mrs Brown in The Country Girl, the revised version, and realized the potential of the role of Peggy for myself. Consequently, I studied it with great care and feel I have a full grasp of the lines and character.’

  The manager seemed to be giving my suggestion serious consideration, ‘I do agree that Garrick’s adaptation is less outrageous than the original. Even the most scrupulous could find no offence in it. But it is some time since it was revived. Would it work, I wonder?’

  ‘I am prepared to take the risk if you are,’ I persisted. ‘And if it fails, then I will be the one to bear the greater loss. I cannot think that Mrs Siddons would have any objection to it.’

  The two men put their heads together for a little private deliberation, and then Sheridan sat back and actually beamed at me. ‘Very well, we are agreed. Your debut will be in The Country Girl. Welcome to the company, Mrs Jordan.’

  First night was Tuesday, the eighteenth of October, 1785, and I was aquiver with nerves, as always. Rehearsals had gone well as I had instantly warmed to the rest of the cast, some of whom, like Tom King, remembered Mama from her days as Grace Phillips. And without exception they were all most supportive. Nevertheless, I was a trembling wreck. ‘What if they do not like me?’ I moaned to Hester. ‘What if I am booed or hissed again, as I was at Hull?’

  ‘That will not happen. For one thing, Mrs Smith is not here to prattle her malice, and for another you know this play inside out.’

  ‘But my first benefit at Smock Alley was also a disaster, with hardly anyone in the house. And do you remember the riot?’

  ‘That was because your supporters loved you and thought you’d been unfairly treated. This audience will love you too.’

  ‘And at least the management at Drury Lane has allowed you to choose,’ said Mama.

  ‘But nobody will come to see me. Why would they bother?’

  ‘Stop talking yourself down, Dolly, the house will be a good one this time,’ Mama gently scolded. ‘Now go out there and have fun. Make them laugh as only you can.’

  But her optimism on this occasion was ill-founded. When I peeped through a crack in the curtain at the side of the stage it was clear the house was no more than half full. Sheridan had warned me, of course, that the fashionable did not turn out for newcomers, indeed for anyone very often, other than the great Sarah Siddons herself.

  Nevertheless, as the orchestra struck up the first notes, I drew several deep breaths to steady my nerves, and when I stepped out on stage there came again that rush of excitement. My heartbeat instantly settled, I stopped feeling sick and ceased even to be Dora Jordan. I became Peggy, the innocent young country wife let loose in town.

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sp; I have to say that I had the most fun that night. I tripped about the stage delivering my lines with wit and humour, and had them rolling in their seats, crying with laughter. The applause at the end brought tears to my own eyes as the response of the audience seemed so genuine and heartfelt. How joyous, how uplifting it was to be so appreciated, and to give people such pleasure. I hoped they would all go home and tell their friends, so that we would have a better house for the next performance.

  Tom King was beaming as he met me when I came off stage, and warmly congratulated me. ‘Sheridan saw the first act before going on to Brooks’s Club, and passes on his good wishes, which I assure you is a rare compliment. As for myself, while I confess to a preference for tragedy, I foresee you will bring new life and prosperity to the theatre.’

  I was so grateful for this accolade I impulsively kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity.’

  The cast and my leading man, John Bannister, plied me with congratulations and a large glass of wine to celebrate. It was all most exciting. Gentleman Smith had also been present and was generous in his praise. ‘Did I not know what a treasure I had bestowed upon this great theatre, which I love? You will be a powerful magnet, my dear, bringing in a new clientele who will most readily come to see you on the nights Mrs Siddons does not perform.’

  I could hardly sleep that night for happiness. I had to keep reminding myself that I had actually appeared at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, for the very first time, and the audience had loved me. Long before Mama had gathered together all the reviews she could find the next morning, I knew that I was a success.

  She still insisted on reading snippets to me. ‘Listen to this one: “from first to last the audience responded uniformly in an astonishment of delight.” And this one, “her fertility as an actress was at its height in the letter scene . . . the very pen and ink were made to express the rustic petulance of the writer.” Ah, if only your dear Aunt Maria had lived to see this day.’