‘I’ll be ready for George when he comes,’ said Dorothy.

Grace nodded. Good Heavens, thought Dorothy, she believes he has come to ask me to marry him and that I’m going to accept him! Does she think I have no pride. But I do believe dear Mamma thinks it is wise to sink everything for honourable marriage. Honourable indeed! He’d be marrying twelve pounds a week and an almost certain brilliant theatrical future whereas thirty shillings and uncertainty was not good enough for him.

Hester came in. ‘Can I help you dress, Doll?’

‘Thank you. I feel grand with my lady’s maid.’

‘So you should. What should we do without you! I’m happy to be your lady’s maid, as you know.’

‘Dear old Hester. I was just thinking how fortunate I am in my family. And being so why should I think of adding a fortune-hunter to it.’

‘George was always cautious, you know.’

‘And Mamma cares so much about my marrying that she would want me to accept him.’

‘Oh, you know what she is. She worries. She’s haunted by insecurity. Which dress will you have?’

‘The blue. You can be just as insecure married as unmarried – more so, if there are children to feed.’

‘You’ll never get Mamma to see that. Besides, it’s respectability she’s after.’

‘It’s strange, Hester, but I hanker for it myself. I think that Daly business did something to me.’

‘Don’t think of it.’

‘I don’t often. But when Siddons sweeps into the theatre so assured, so certain of her genius, the greatest tragic actress on the boards, with a nice meek little husband, children and a reputation beyond reproach, I confess I find something rather enviable about that.’

‘For Heaven’s sake don’t you start being envious. There’s enough envy about this place already.’

‘But you see I’ve got Frances… and she’s illegitimate. It’s a handicap for the child. Oh, yes, I might like a little respectability.’

‘You’re not telling me that you’re going to accept George Inchbald.’

Dorothy laughed scornfully.

‘I didn’t think you would,’ said Hester with significance.

I believe she knows about Richard, thought Dorothy. Well, they would all have to know soon because she was fast making up her mind that she was quite capable of managing her career and marrying.

George cried: ‘Why, Dorothy, you’ve become even more beautiful!’

‘Thank you. It’s the London air.’

‘Success!’ murmured George. ‘I always knew you would achieve it. There was a quality about you, Dorothy.’

‘Did you always know it, George? I remember a time when you talked so earnestly about the insecurity of a stage career.’

‘That’s for most people, Dorothy. Not for you.’

‘But I have always been ambitious.’

‘It must be wonderful to know that London is talking of you, and to play before royalty. Oh, wonderful indeed. But don’t forget there is another side to life. Love, marriage.’

‘I don’t forget it, George,’ she said softly.

He would have taken her hand, but she eluded him.

‘I knew you would be the same Dorothy who played with Wilkinson’s.’

‘You’re wrong, George. I’ve changed. We all change. You’ve changed too, you know. I have a fancy that you don’t feel quite the same about certain matters as you once did.’

‘We grow wiser.’

‘You were always wise, George. I trust I have learned to see those about me more clearly. It’s a great help, you know.’

‘Dorothy, I was most unhappy when you left. The only brightness was hearing about your triumphs. My stepmother says you’ll be a great actress.’

‘Earning twelve pounds a week,’ put in Dorothy. ‘That’s a little better than thirty shillings, eh?’

‘And it’s not the end. You’ll be rich as well as famous.’

‘I have my family to care for.’

‘And you would always care for those who depended on you, Dorothy.’

She smiled at him almost fondly. She wanted to lure him on so that he would suffer fully the extent of her scorn.

He told her how he had followed her career; how excited he had been; how he had feared for her – though not really for he knew she would succeed, but as one member of the profession to another they knew what it meant to face an audience on whom one’s future could depend.

‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘when you had gone I knew what I missed. I should never have let you go.’

‘Then I shouldn’t have come to London and started out on the road to fortune.’

‘You had to come. You’re a great actress, but you need someone to look after you. How happy I should be if you would decide I was the one—’

‘You have changed your mind in these last months.’

‘I want you to marry me, Dorothy. Being away from you made me realize that.’

‘Not so much my being away from you as my twelve pounds a week and prospects. That’s what made you change your mind. George Inchbald, do you think I’m a fool! Do you think I don’t see through your feeble efforts. I’ll tell you one thing. You will never succeed on the stage if you can’t play a part better than you’re playing it now. Enter ambitious suitor who has learned the penniless actress of the past is now rich and famous. He pleads with her. George, you’re a fool. I’d never marry a fool. I’d almost sooner marry a mercenary gutless schemer.’

‘Dorothy!’

‘Curtain,’ she said. ‘This little drama is over. Go back to York or Hull or Leeds, wherever you’re playing. Your proposal has been most definitely refused.”

George would have protested, but she laughed at him; and since he did not leave she went out and left him.

She had made up her mind. The next time Richard asked her to marry him she would accept him. He was not long in doing so and she gave her promise.

He was the happiest man in London, he told her. He would love her for ever; his life would be subjected to hers for he knew that she would never be happy away from the theatre.

‘I want my mother to be the first to hear,’ she told him. ‘I know she will be delighted.’

‘And after that,’ he said, ‘I will tell my father. Until these two know, it must be a secret.’

So they went to Henrietta Street and when Grace heard the news she was overcome with joy. No wonder Dorothy had sent George Inchbald about his business. And all the time she had been in love with Richard Ford and had kept it secret!

When was the wedding to be? Clearly it could not be too soon for Grace.

‘I think after I come back from my northern tour,’ said Dorothy.

‘So long!’

‘Oh, Mamma, that is not really very long.’

Richard said fondly that he agreed with Dorothy’s Mamma and it was far too long.

Grace brought out wine and they drank to the future.

That was a happy evening.

Richard left Henrietta Street in an uneasy mood. He loved Dorothy; he sincerely wished to marry her; but he was not looking forward to telling his father that he had proposed and been accepted.

His father was a wealthy and ambitious man, and Richard knew that it had always been a desire of his that his son should make a good marriage. He had excellent prospects; all he had to do was qualify at the Bar and with his father’s money and connections at court that could lead anywhere. And as he had so often impressed on his son the first step towards advancement had often been the right marriage. There were several wealthy and influential families into which Richard could marry.

Richard was not very courageous. He was devoted to Dorothy; he thought her the finest actress in the world; he was happy watching her perform all her parts; he was content to talk to her, be with her; and he longed to be her husband. If only his father were not so ambitious.

But now he had been accepted and he had to tell his father. He had definitely promised to marry Dorothy and nothing, he told himself boldly, would make him go back on his word. Dorothy was the only woman in the world he would have for his wife.

When he dined with his father that night it was obvious that Richard had something on his mind. His appetite was poor; he played nervously with his glass and every now and then opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind.

Dr Ford had a very good notion of what this might be for Sheridan had told him that young Richard had haunted the theatre for some months past and was almost always in one of the balcony boxes when Dorothy Jordan was playing. It was Sheridan’s belief that young Richard harboured very tender feelings towards his little actress and Sheridan was not surprised; she was a dainty piece, a clever little piece, full of charm; and it amazed Sheridan that a Duke or an Earl or at very least a baronet had not installed her in some charming little love-nest by now.

In fact it was Sheridan’s view that but for H.R.H.’s preoccupation with Mrs Fitz, there might have been a royal offer. But his little actress was by no means promiscuous; she was indeed a very virtuous lady. There had been one slip with young Miss Frances and ‘never again’, said Mrs Jordan. Sheridan fancied that she was holding out for marriage lines.

‘Our divine Sarah sets a very moral tone at Drury Lane,’ he added.

Dr Ford was remembering this as he noticed his son’s uneasiness. If Richard had made a fool of himself that must be stopped without delay.

‘As soon as you’ve qualified, Richard,’ he said, ‘I can put you into the way of making a fortune for yourself. Your future is rosy, my son. There’s no doubt about it. Of course you’ll have to work. Can’t be hanging around the theatre every night. Who was it was talking to me the other day… Son got a fancy for some actress. Married her on the sly. Married her. That was the end of him. A nobody if you please. The fellow’s prospects ruined. Imagine what it’ll be like for them. Love’s young dream at the moment, but how long will that last when the babies come and the money’s short, for you can be sure the silly fellow will be cut off from his inheritance. I understand he’ll get nothing. I’d be the same myself. Why, if you came along and told me that you’d made such an idiot of yourself, I’d do exactly the same. Well, no fear of that. More sense, eh?’