‘But I think you are wrong to bring that creature to the notice of His Highness.’

‘My virtuous Sarah is thinking that His Highness might wish to repeat the Robinson adventure?’

‘I do not, Jordan is vulgar. Mrs Robinson tried always to be… refined.’

How hard she tried! he thought. Poor Perdita! ‘You have taken a weight off my mind, Sarah my dear. Now I shall feel happier. Our little Jordan’s shortcomings will save her from Perdita’s fate. And you should rest. Moreover, His Highness’s affections are firmly held elsewhere. William will be angry with you if you forget your condition and tire yourself.’

He smiled, thinking of poor Will Siddons who scarcely dared raise his voice in Sarah’s presence.

Sheridan went on: ‘It is because of your condition, Sarah, that I have to offer His Highness second rate fare tonight. I could not allow William to reproach me for putting you through an ordeal which at the time is too much for you.’

She was placated.

It was time, Sheridan told himself, that he had an actress with the ability to draw as full a house as Sarah. It was the only way of controlling her.

His hopes were fixed on Jordan.

So this was Royalty. This good-looking young man with the plump freshly coloured face, the pert nose which gave a friendly touch to his face, the alert blue eyes and the elegant person. The diamond star on his velvet coat was dazzling – but not more so than he. He was elegant in the extreme; and the manner in which he bowed to the audience was quite exquisite. His box on the stage was so close to her that she could see him clearly and his eyes followed her and were particularly appreciative when in the third act she appeared in male costume.

With him was a less attractive member of the royal family: his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, glittering and royal, but debauched and completely lacking the Prince’s fresh good looks.

Cumberland was in disgrace and not received at court because he had married without the consent of his brother, the King, a lady who had had many amatory adventures before she had captivated Cumberland and who, Horace Walpole had said, was possessed of the most marvellous eyelashes he had ever seen; they were ‘about a yard long’. Because of this marriage the King had introduced the Royal Marriage Act which forbade any member of the royal family to marry before he reached the age of twenty-five without the consent of the King.

Cumberland might not be received by his brother but he had become the constant companion of his nephew, the Prince of Wales, and now the Prince was growing up – he must be about her own age, Dorothy thought – he had his own little court and it was becoming like a repetition of previous reigns when there had been a King’s and a Prince’s court in opposition to each other. The Prince’s friends were Whigs; the King’s Tories. The Prince’s friends and mentors in politics were Mr Charles James Fox and Sheridan, and the King was relying more and more on young Mr William Pitt, who two years before, at the age of twenty-five, had become his Prime Minister.

In the new world into which she had come Dorothy learned of these matters. Royalty was closer. How could it be otherwise when it came to the theatre and sat in a box a few yards away. Here in London she could see the important members of the government in their carriages on their way to Parliament. One day she would catch a glimpse of the King and Queen, the Princes and the Princesses who made up that large family.

Here in London, in Drury Lane, was the centre of affairs.

And now she was playing before the Prince of Wales.

She heard his laughter. It stimulated her. He leaned over the box and applauded her. When at the end of the play she turned to his box and curtsied, he rose and bowed in such an elegant manner that she might have been royalty. The applause was thunderous.

A successful evening. The approval of royalty! What more could an actress eager to make her name desire?

‘His Royal Highness is impressed with Mrs Jordan,’ said Sheridan to Tom King. ‘But for the disaster with Mrs Perdita Robinson and the fact that his love is dedicated to Mrs Fitzherbert we might have a royal romance on our hands.’

Dorothy followed Peggy in The Country Girl with Viola in Twelfth Night and then Miss Prue in Love for Love.

There were many appearances for Dorothy that autumn for Sheridan wished to get her known to audiences as quickly as possible.

He need not have been concerned. Audiences had taken her to their hearts. Her daintiness, her extreme femininity, which was accentuated by her breeches parts, delighted them. They had begun to associate Dorothy Jordan with laughter.

Mrs Siddons, as her confinement grew nearer and nearer, ground her teeth with annoyance. Much as she wanted the child and her children meant more to her than her ineffectual William, she deplored the ill timing of the child’s arrival. ‘A little later, William,’ she declared, ‘and I could most certainly have put the Jordan back where she belonged.’

William agreed but secretly thought with everyone else that the Jordan had come to stay and there was something likeable about her friendly attitude which was completely lacking in Sarah’s. Loyally he supposed that actors and actresses should be grateful for the opportunity of working with Sarah and audiences of the chance to see her, but even apart from the usual theatrical jealousies, Dorothy Jordan did seem to be more liked than Sarah by both the company and management.

The carriages which stopped outside Drury Lane on the night when Dorothy was playing were as numerous as those which came for Sarah Siddons.

‘Wait until I am ready to come back,’ said Sarah.

In the meantime Dorothy enjoyed her success. She was fully aware of her value. Sheridan had offered her four pounds a week to start and that had been affluence when compared with the thirty shillings Wilkinson had paid her; but after that first performance he had of his own free will offered her eight because he was afraid that Harris would come over with a bigger offer; and greatly daring, for living was dearer in London and she had the whole family to think of, she asked for a further four pounds a week and to her astonishment Sheridan said that he would consider it.

This was success.

A delighted Grace declared that it was nothing more than she had anticipated and she only wished that Aunt Mary had lived to see this day. She wished, too, that Dorothy’s father had seen it – and his family; perhaps they might have been eager then to link themselves with such a famous and respected figure as Dorothy Jordan.

‘Oh that’s all over and done with,’ said Dorothy.

‘I only want one thing to complete my happiness,’ said Grace, ‘and that is to see you nicely settled and respectably married.’

‘Do you think I should have time for a husband with all the new parts that are coming along for me?’ demanded Dorothy.

‘A woman always has time for a husband. And I want a nice steady one for you.’

‘Someone mild as milk like Will Siddons?’

‘Ah, she has done very well. Fame and respectability. What more could an actress ask for?’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Dorothy with a laugh. ‘I have to make the most of it while Sarah gets her respectable child respectably brought into the world. I’m to have the part of Matilda in that odd play Richard Cœur de Lion. I think I can make something of that.’

Dorothy lured the talk back to the theatre and her future parts which was so much more comfortable than the subject of marriage. She could never think of it without recalling that nightmare with Daly and the rather humiliating position in which George Inchbald had put her.

She would leave men alone. Parts pleased her more.

In December of that year, two months after Dorothy’s first appearance at Drury Lane, the great comedy actress Kitty Clive died. It seemed significant; a star had set and a new one had arisen to take her place; that new one was Dorothy Jordan, for so had Dorothy’s fame grown that people had already begun to compare her with Kitty Clive and Peg Woffington.

And by that time she had met Richard Ford.

Her meeting with this young man was momentous for in a very short time he had made her change her opinions about his sex. He was different from any man she had hitherto known – young, eager and passionate; he wanted above everything else, he declared, to please her, to make her happy; and that would from henceforth be his main purpose in life. Shortly after their first meeting he told her he had made up his mind to marry her.

She reminded him of her career. It was not easy for an actress to lead a married life. Why not? he wanted to know. So many of them did. Look at the great Siddons herself.

‘And see how she had to leave the theatre to a rival while she retires to have her babies.’

‘She’ll come back as popular as ever.’

But she was not really arguing against marriage. She only wanted to be sure of Richard. Her experiences with Daly and George Inchbald had made her very wary. And as Richard broke down all her arguments against it she gave herself up to the luxury of contemplating it. She thought of him as a father to Frances – who could be a better? He was gentle and kind, all that Frances’s own father was not. She thought of other children she would have, for she knew that once she had made her family financially secure she would love to add to it. Frances born in such bitter circumstances was very dear to her; how joyful she would be to have children of a happy union! There was her mother, who longed for one thing to complete her contentment: Dorothy’s marriage.