He quickly stopped whatever protest I’d been about to make by putting his mouth to mine, kissing me as he never had before, stirring my senses and making my head spin with longing. I couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, I had been kissed with such passion. When he finally drew away, still clasping my hands in his, I saw how his eyes were alight with love. ‘Do not say anything right now. I would ask you here and now to be my wife, were it not for the Royal Marriages Act. And no one appreciates better than I the problems of loving a prince. But I couldn’t bear a refusal before you have even properly considered the idea.’
‘. . . I am a married woman . . .’ I finished what I’d been about to say, so used to keeping up the fiction of my status that the words came out almost of their own volition.
‘No, Dora, you are not. Richard Ford has had years to fulfil that promise, and has failed to do so. And you love me. I can see it in your eyes when you look so tenderly at me. I can feel it in the quiver of your hand when you rest it on my arm. And I’ve witnessed your unhappiness during these last months, know that you would not have taken supper with me, or talked with me so frankly, were you still in love with this man. You must also be aware by now how much I love you, Dora. I adore you, Little Pickle, and want nothing more than to make you happy for the rest of your life. What could I want more than to have you beside me as I make my way in the world?’
Despite my resolve not to allow this flattery to go to my head, I couldn’t seem to stop the bubble of excitement that rose in my chest at these words. Perhaps because what he said bore an element of truth in it. I already felt a great fondness for him which could easily grow into love.
‘You must allow me time to think. I am working so hard right now, and there are the children to consider.’ I could feel myself trembling with emotion. It was right, in a way, what I had said to my sister. Never, not for a moment, had I expected it to come to this, and I couldn’t for the life of me decide what my true feelings were.
‘I like children, and would gladly take them too. You need have no fears on that score. You must take what time you need to decide,’ he offered generously. ‘Meanwhile you must write to me every week, every day we are not together. I need always to know that you are well, dearest beloved. And when you are ready to come to me, I will be waiting.’
Sixteen
‘If you could think me worthy of being your wife . . .’
I meant to speak to Richard, of course I did, but I was dividing my time between the house at Somerset Street, Richmond and the theatre, and rarely saw him. When we were together there never seemed quite the right moment to speak of this delicate matter. Besides, I still loved him, didn’t I? Still wanted our situation to be resolved. And then another piece of mischief appeared. Richard set the paper before me one morning at breakfast time, his thin, angular face dark as thunder.
‘Is this the reason you no longer share my bed? Are you too occupied in a grander one?’
I gasped with horror as I looked at the print.
It was an Isaac Cruikshank cartoon showing the royal physician, Doctor Warren, dangling a baby over the balcony of a house in ‘Sommers St’. He was shouting down to the folk in the street below: ‘Damn your noise, Rascalls, you’ll disturb Mrs Pickle, who has just made a faux couch of a young seagull.’ Next to him the Duke, dressed as a nurse, was throwing the contents of a chamber pot over a dancing justice of the peace, who was clearly meant to be Richard. The Duke was saying: ‘Well said, Doctor Warren, I will rake ’em fore and aft.’
It was labelled ‘Mrs Pickle’s Mistake’. And since a common word for chamber pot is a jordan, I was utterly mortified.
‘I have no idea what this is meant to mean,’ I cried out in horror. ‘There has been nothing of that sort between us, I swear it. I am innocent of this charge. There has been no baby. You can see yourself that I am not pregnant, nor have I been since Lucy was born.’
‘Yet it likens me – I take it the figure in the black suit is supposed to represent me – to Solomon. Why is that, I wonder? Am I supposed to dispute the father of our last child?’
‘No, Richard, there is absolutely no doubt that Lucy is yours, as is Dodee. I do not understand this any more than you do. It is pure mischief, and entirely fabricated.’
He was glaring at me with the kind of sullen ferocity that made me shiver with foreboding. ‘Are you saying that you do not harbour soft feelings for the Duke? If so, then you should stop accepting his invitations to supper.’
Determined at least to hold on to my dignity, I challenged him. ‘I went just the once, as I told you, along with other members of the cast.’ I made no mention of the Duke’s disappointment that I had insisted upon this. ‘Perhaps you would care to take me instead? Or even make me your wife, as I deserve to be?’
As always when this question was asked, he turned on his heel and walked away.
There were further comments in the press in the weeks following, as if they were determined to create a scandal. One claimed Little Pickle was being besieged at Richmond by an exalted youth. This presumably because at twenty-five, the Duke was four years younger than I. Another cast doubt on whether Richard and I were truly married. I longed to tell everyone the truth, but he was adamant that we keep up the pretence, for the sake of appearances.
The Bon Ton Magazine wittily commented: ‘The Ford is too dangerous for him to cross the Jordan.’
My friend Lady Lumm advised me to stick with Richard. ‘I am convinced no good will accrue from this association. These Hanoverian princes are not known for their constancy, my dear,’ she warned, ignoring my protests of innocence.
Even Hester agreed with her. ‘Lady Lumm is right, why would you leave Ford for yet more uncertainty? Richard is at least a gentleman.’
‘He does not always behave as such,’ I gently reminded her. ‘Certainly he has shown little sign of honour, or care for my respectability. You yourself have dubbed him a scoundrel.’
My sister frowned, as if personally affronted by the scandal. I might well have laughed at her cross expression were it not all so terribly serious. ‘I will admit his failings have disappointed me, but what of the children? You might lose them.’
She had, of course, touched upon my greatest fear, and the real reason I had held back so long from telling Richard of the Duke’s earnest pursuit of me. My children were everything to me, and I could not envisage a life without them.
When my sister saw that raw terror in my face, all her temper melted away and she gathered me in her arms, as she always did in moments of crisis. ‘We will make absolutely certain that whatever you decide, the children are safe. I would be happy to care for them myself, as I do now when you are at the theatre.’
Tears rolling down my cheeks, I could scarcely speak for the emotion choking my throat. ‘What would I do without you, sister dear?’
Richard himself settled the matter. ‘The scandal will die down, as these things generally do. We are perfectly content, as are the children, so we will speak no more of this unfortunate business. We will stop buying newspapers, and ignore these scurrilous gossip sheets.’
Riddled with indecision, I readily agreed.
But it was less easy to ignore the Duke. In the following weeks he was at the theatre at every opportunity, coming to see me backstage, sending me flowers and gifts which I absolutely refused to accept.
‘Please,’ I begged him. ‘You must allow me time, some breathing space to decide. It is only fair to both Richard and myself.’
He gallantly agreed to do so, and went away to patiently await my answer.
On the fourth of June, 1791, I played the lead in the last production at Drury Lane, as the theatre was about to be demolished and rebuilt on a much grander scale. Henry Holland, the architect the Prince of Wales had used for Carlton House, was heading the project. In the meantime, the entire company was to move to the old opera house at Haymarket. On this final night I played Peggy in The Country Girl to a packed house of two thousand.
&nb
sp; The Duke was not present on this occasion, which I secretly regretted despite my request to him to allow me some space to think. He was attending a celebration of the King’s official birthday, the first time, he explained, that he’d been able to take part, usually having been away at sea. He’d also taken delivery of a new carriage and was in high spirits. I wished I could feel the same.
I was sad to say goodbye to the old theatre, and even sadder over the gulf that was developing between myself and Richard.
That summer the revolution in France was causing considerable unease. There were riots in Birmingham and surrounding towns, in sympathy with their compatriots across the Channel. Yet it didn’t seem to put people off going to the theatre, or enjoying their card parties and soirees. Life for some continued to be a veritable merry-go-round of pleasure.
The Duke was present at my next benefit, which took place at the Haymarket in August, and again the following evening when I played at Richmond to a full house. As always he came backstage.
I was expecting Richard, who had suddenly become most attentive, insisting on escorting me to the theatre each and every day, waiting for me in the Green Room and seeing me home in my carriage afterwards, rarely letting me out of his sight. I was therefore brusque almost to the point of rudeness to the Duke.
‘You really shouldn’t be here. You agreed to stay away and give me time to think.’
‘I came to invite you to a fête at my home. There will be many friends there, and I thought you might enjoy it.’
‘You have surely not done this for me?’
‘You are the guest of honour,’ and he beamed at me.
‘I’m truly sorry, but I cannot accept. It wouldn’t be right, Sir.’
‘William, you must call me William.’ He took my hand and kissed the tips of each finger. ‘I keep rushing you, don’t I? Unfortunately, I can’t seem to help behaving like a besotted schoolboy.’
‘It is quite endearing,’ I confessed, melting a little. ‘And I promise you will have your answer soon.’
I later learned that the fête had been cancelled, since I had declined the invitation. By then Richard and I were on our way to York, rather later than Wilkinson had hoped. But I was desperate to escape and this seemed the only way.
The weather in York was unusually hot with occasional thunderstorms, which seemed to shorten tempers. Perhaps this was the reason the house was a poor one, or else fears of further riots had finally taken root. For when I walked out on stage in The Country Girl, I felt no friendly warmth emanating from those who had bothered to turn out. The cool reception reminded me very much of that time in Hull many years ago, when Mrs Smith and her coven of witches had spread their malice. I was just getting into my stride when, to my utter horror, someone in the audience shouted out, ‘Strumpet! Whore! Caught your prince yet?’
So they had been reading the gossip sheets too, or someone had circulated the scandal.
‘Is this the same tribe who hissed and booed me before?’ I asked Wilkinson, the moment I came off stage. How I had managed to struggle through, I couldn’t rightly say. Sheer professionalism, I dare say.
‘It is common knowledge, Dora, that you are not married to Ford as everyone had thought, and that you are now being pursued by the Duke of Clarence.’ He grinned good-naturedly at me, but then Tate Wilkinson had never been one to presume to pass judgement. ‘They are calling you the Duchess of Drury Lane.’
I was not amused.
In short, I would say that apart from that best-forgotten night at Hull, this was the worst performance of my entire career. I did not shine or sparkle, my lines were delivered flat and without conviction. I longed only for the play to end, and when it finally did, the audience gave lukewarm applause laced with a few muted hisses.
Wilkinson was waiting for me offstage. ‘Make haste and change and go straight back on and sing. They can never resist your singing, Dora.’
I did as he suggested, and this time they softened a little, even joined in with the familiar melodies, and the applause was warmer as the curtain fell for the last time.
‘Saved,’ Wilkinson said. ‘What a star you are.’
I fled to my dressing room and burst into tears. ‘This is all your fault,’ I snapped at Richard. ‘Had you not destroyed my reputation, I would still be a respectable woman, a respectable married woman!’ I thought of how much Mama had longed for that happy state for me, which made me cry all the more. ‘What have I ever done to deserve this sort of vilification? All I did was to love you and believe in your promise of marriage.’
‘Don’t blame me for their behaviour,’ Richard caustically remarked. ‘If you are losing the loyalty of your audience, the fault may well be yours, not mine.’
Wilkinson attempted to lift our spirits by entertaining Richard and me to a splendid dinner party, inviting many old friends: John Kemble, Michael Kelly, Maria Crouch and others, all of whom happened to be in Yorkshire too, no doubt working the circuit. Poor Richard, obliged to lower his dignity sufficiently to dine with a bunch of itinerant strolling players.
‘It will be better tomorrow,’ Wilkinson assured me. ‘We’ve certainly sold more tickets. Perhaps the play was a little risqué for Yorkshire folk. And I’ll make sure the stage door is locked so that no pranks are played there either.’
If anything, the following night was worse. I was playing one of my favourite parts, Hypolita in She Would and She Would Not. But instead of laughing when I dressed up as a man, pretending to be the rival to my own lover – the outcome being the usual tangle – the audience booed and hissed, again calling out insults regarding my personal life.
At the end of the show I took my revenge. Instead of bowing towards the audience, as I normally did, I turned my back upon them and bowed showing them my rear end. Let them salute my backside, I thought, telling them very plainly what I thought of their disapproval.
I could hear Tate Wilkinson’s roars of laughter from the wings. ‘Dashed if I don’t admire your fighting spirit, girl.’
I left the theatre without even bothering to take off my stage costume and make-up, and refused to return the next day. Instead, Richard took me to Castle Howard, but I was so upset I simply couldn’t relax and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. Later, back in our hotel room, I took out my ill temper on him, not unnaturally in the circumstances. It seemed that the moment to settle our differences had finally arrived.
‘Had you made good on your promise of marriage the scandalmongers would not have printed such scurrilous rumours about me, and the audience would have had no reason to call me vile names. They are punishing me for your neglect.’
He looked at me with disdain. ‘If the moralists disapprove of your association with a prince, you have only yourself to blame for encouraging him.’
‘I did not encourage him! Five years I have waited for you. Five long years of listening to excuses and procrastination, yet still you refuse to make me your wife. You have deprived me of a proper legal status.’ I was pacing back and forth, brimming over with rage, while he sat calmly smoking a cigar, feigning absorption in a newspaper, but I knew he heard every word. ‘Before I met you I was still considered respectable, save perhaps by Siddons, who likes to look down her long nose at everyone.’ Thinking of my old rival only made me angrier than ever, as, unlike me, she was respectably married, her children legitimate. And didn’t she just love to crow about this difference in our status.
He heaved a weary sigh. ‘I cannot see that it makes the slightest difference whether we are married or not. You are an actress, therefore you are fooling yourself if you imagine anyone would even consider you to be respectable. I am not the one to ruin your reputation. You never had one to lose in the first place.’
Flashes of fire seemed to dart before my eyes, such was my fury at this cruelly heartless remark. ‘How dare you say such a thing? What is it about the acting profession that makes everyone assume an actress is a whore? We tread the boards and entertain people in all honesty. I do not w
alk the streets and offer services of a less salubrious nature.’
He actually laughed at that. ‘You know full well audiences imagine you lead the same life as the characters you play.’
‘Then people are more stupid, or cruel, than I took them for. But, my reputation aside, what of our children?’
He gave a careless shrug as he turned a page, as if the news sheet were far more interesting than his family. ‘Why would our lack of marriage lines trouble them?’
‘It may not now, while they are young, but what when they are older? How will they feel to be constantly accused of being illegitimate? And there are worse words to describe the condition. I suffered many such flung at me as a child. My own father’s family treated Grace and all of us children with shameless derision, all because the marriage was not legal. Is that what you wish for your own two precious daughters?’
‘Better than risking the loss of a fortune from my father. Names never hurt anyone, being poor does.’
‘Money, is that all you think of? Does the happiness and honour of your children not count for more than your own greed?’ I could hardly contain my anger, wanting to fly at him, to scratch his arrogant face as a wild cat might. In that moment I truly hated this man I’d once professed to love.
Exhausted with emotion I collapsed on to the bed and ordered him to leave. ‘Go! I have no wish for dinner tonight. I need to be alone, to think.’ I was still sobbing into my pillow when I heard the door bang shut behind him.
After the tears finally subsided I lay on my bed for some time thinking of how the Bland family had actively encouraged their son in his ultimate betrayal, yet condemned to near starvation the innocent woman he had so callously abandoned. And all because his children, my brothers and sisters and I, were illegitimate. My poor mother must be turning in her grave to see me faced with a similar dilemma.
Were Richard Ford to do as my father had done and marry another woman of whom his parent did approve, there was no law to make him support our children. He too could leave them to starve if he chose to ignore them, and if I were not around to protect them. Or take them from me, if he so wished, as once they were seven I would have no rights over them at all, being only an unmarried mother.
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