‘Don’t notice what happened tonight!’

‘Well, go on playing then. She can’t go on turning them against you. They come to see a play well played and nobody can play better than you.’

‘Oh, George…’ She held out her hand and he took it suddenly and kissed it.

She felt then that something good had come out of this unhappy night.

George Inchbald was right. That night had been an isolated incident. The citizens of Hull wanted to see Dorothy Jordan in her parts and when she wore male attire no one was going to boo her off the stage. They liked to hear her sing; and in fact preferred her performances to those of Mrs Smith.

Tate Wilkinson sighed over the tantrums of his company and deplored the fall in takings which had resulted from the absences from the stage of his two chief female players; but there was no doubt that Dorothy was a draw and all Mrs Smith’s malice could not alter that.

As for Dorothy she was more light-hearted than she had been for a long time. Every morning when she awoke she remembered that Daly no longer had any power to harm her; that in itself was the greatest blessing she could think of. Young Frances was well and Grace enjoyed looking after her. Hester was playing small parts and growing into a tolerably good actress. There was an occasional part for Francis, the eldest of the boys. At last she was no longer worried about money; and she had given the clothes her baby had worn to a hospital for the use of some poor mother. In her desire to show her gratitude for her changed position she added several layettes to the one she had used and gave these too, for she would never forget her fears when she had believed herself to be in debt to Richard Daly. It was a sort of thanks offering for deliverance.

So she was light-hearted and George Inchbald was an attractive young man. They fell in love.

Grace was pleased; there was nothing she wanted so much as to see her daughter settled with a man to look after her and help shoulder responsibilities. She could have hoped that Dorothy might have made a brilliant match but as she said to Hester, it was not marriage rich men were after; and she thought Dorothy ought to be married. Little Frances wanted a father, and George Inchbald would do well enough.

George’s stepmother, Mrs Elizabeth Inchbald, a novelist, playwright and herself an actress, believed that it would be a good match for she had a high opinion of Dorothy and thought her singing and speaking voices charming, though, she had pointed out, she had a faint Irish accent but that would disappear in time. So there would be no difficulty between the families.

Marriage, thought Dorothy. Yes, she did want it. Sometimes she asked herself, Was it George she wanted as much as marriage? She longed for her mother to be satisfied; she wanted no more anxiety, and she was still smarting under the rumours Mrs Smith had spread of the immoral life she led.

Dorothy wanted respectability and she saw it in George Inchbald.

Gentleman Smith came again to the theatre, bringing with him an air of elegance from London. He talked knowledgeably of what was going on there. Names like Sarah Siddons and Richard Sheridan crept into the conversation. He spoke knowingly of the affair between the Prince of Wales and Mrs Robinson which had ended in such a burst of scandal. The whole of the company could not hear enough of gay London society and there was not one member of the company who did not hope that Gentleman Smith would go back to London and report that he – or she – deserved to play in Drury Lane or Covent Garden.

But everyone knew that Gentleman Smith was more interested in Mrs Jordan than in anyone else.

‘She has the quality,’ he had been heard to say. ‘It’s indefinable… but it’s there.’

The envy of the women players was as evident as ever, but as Dorothy’s position grew stronger it had less effect on her.

George Inchbald would call at the lodgings and talk for hours to the whole family of what would happen if Dorothy was invited to play in London. It would make all the difference, he said. To continue to play in the provinces was death to an actor or actress. There was no chance really; and they had to be noticed before they were too old.

‘He is on the point of proposing,’ said Grace after he had left. ‘He thinks you’re going to London, Dorothy, and he’s afraid that he’s going to lose you.’

‘And he always speaks as though when you go he’ll be with you,’ pointed out Hester.

‘He’d be a good husband,’ put in Grace almost pleadingly. ‘Quite serious… and reliable.’

Yes, thought Dorothy, serious and reliable; a good husband for her and a father for Frances.

Gentleman Smith went back to London. Almost daily Dorothy waited for a message, but none came.

If I were going to be asked, she thought, I should have been by now.

It was some time before she noticed that George’s visits to the lodgings were less frequent. She saw him often in the theatre as a matter of course, but he did not seem to be waiting for her when she came off to give her the usual congratulations.

Grace invited him to supper and he accepted with pleasure; and during that evening Dorothy realized what his devotion had been worth, for he talked of the precarious existence of stage folk, who could never be sure of financial security. He hinted that he believed it would be folly for impecunious actors and actresses to marry. How could they be sure when their playing would not separate them? But chiefly how could they be sure that they would keep a roof over their heads? It did not seem to him wise to bring children into such an uneasy existence.

Dorothy understood.

He was telling her that while he had considered marrying an actress who had a chance of a London success, he did not want to unite himself with one who was a provincial player.

When he had gone she gave vent to her temper.

‘That is an end of Mr George Inchbald!’ she cried. ‘Reliable… oh, very! Reliable in his desire for a wife who can bring home a good salary. Serious in his intentions! Oh, yes. In his intentions to marry a woman with money! Men!’ she went on: ‘They are all alike. I have not linked myself with one so far. That has been wise of me. I shall go on in that way.’

And she was not sorry, for she had never had more than an affection for him.

‘I shall have to be besottedly in love,’ she told Grace, ‘before I consider sharing my life with a man.’

It was Grace who was heart-broken. The longing to see Dorothy respectably married was the dearest wish of her life.

The next three years passed quickly. Dorothy devoted herself absolutely to the theatre, Cornelius Swan coached her and she was never too sure of her own ability not to learn from others. Her spontaneous generosity brought her the friendship of beginners; her talents brought her the envy of her rivals; she was careless of their enmity and devoted herself to her family.

Then one day the letter arrived. Dorothy could scarcely believe that she was being offered a chance to go to London and appear at Drury Lane that autumn.

She called to her mother and Hester. ‘Read this,’ she cried. ‘Read this. Tell me that I’m not dreaming.’

Grace snatched the letter from Hester; they read it, their cheeks flushed, their eyes round.

At last – the great chance. Gentleman Smith had not failed them.

The news spread rapidly through the theatre. Dorothy Jordan is going to Drury Lane. Those jealous actresses, Mrs Smith and Robinson, ground their teeth in fury, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were sure Mr Sheridan would be unmoved if they tried to pass on to him news of Dorothy’s scandalous life. What scandals could a provincial actress hope to create to compare with those which circulated about him? Dorothy was going. In spite of them she was the one who had been given the great chance. She was to act in the same theatre as the great Sarah Siddons.

It was unfair; it was favouritism; it was intolerable; but there was nothing they could do about it.

Tate Wilkinson grumbled. ‘No sooner do I train an actress and make her of some use to me than I lose her.’

Grace tried to put a sympathetic façade over her elation.

‘She’ll never forget what you did for her,’ she soothed. She believed that Tate Wilkinson’s reward would be posterity’s gratitude to the man who had helped Dorothy Jordan when she most needed it.

Dorothy could think of nothing but her London début; she played indifferently; she even forgot her lines.

‘My God,’ cried Mrs Smith. ‘Is this our London actress?’

George Inchbald came to offer his congratulations, his eyes alight with speculation. Dorothy received him coldly. ‘When I’m in London, George,’ she said, ‘I shall think of you playing in Leeds and Hull and York.’

He flinched; but he told himself an offer to play in London did not necessarily mean an actress’s fortune was made.

Dorothy dismissed him from her mind. She could not wait for the summer to be over.

She was in her dressing room preparing to play Patrick in The Poor Soldier when Tate Wilkinson came in.

‘There’s a distinguished visitor in the theatre tonight,’ he told her,

‘Oh?’

‘The great Siddons herself.’

Dorothy felt as she had never felt in the theatre before: nervous. The great Sarah had surely come to see her because she would know that in a short time they would be playing together in Drury Lane. It couldn’t be that Sarah would regard her as a rival – scarcely that – but all actresses were uneasy when someone younger and reputed to be very talented was about to share their audiences.