Jean Plaidy - Goddess of the Green Room

Richard grinned feebly.

How could he tell his father that he was engaged to marry Dorothy Jordan after that?

He tried to explain to Dorothy.

‘You see it would break his heart. He’d never accept it. He was talking about a fellow who had married and been cut off by his father. He said he’d be the same.’

‘It seems,’ said Dorothy, ‘that someone warned him about us.’

‘I don’t know who. We told no one. I can’t tell him yet… and yet… how can we wait like this? You love me, Dorothy. You love me enough not to give me up because of this. As soon as I’m making money at the Bar we’ll be married. As soon as I don’t depend on him.’

He looked so young, so helpless that she was so sorry for him.

She was not the sort of woman to make bargains; and yet she longed for a respectable ceremony, for a father for Frances, for children who would be born without the slur of illegitimacy.

She told him all this; he wept and entreated her. He understood. They would take a house together; she should be Mrs Ford; it would be the same as though they were married. No difference at all, except that they wouldn’t go through the ceremony. In time he would persuade his father, but as yet the old man would not listen. He considered his son too young. In a few months’ time it would all be different. But he could not wait those months. He wanted Dorothy; he needed Dorothy… now.

Dorothy could not bargain when it was a matter of love; and she loved him. Only when she had seen George Inchbald again had she realized how much.

They would wait no longer. She had his solemn promise that as soon as it was possible he would marry her. In the meantime they could live comfortably enough on his private income and her salary.

It was not what they had planned but the next best thing.

So Dorothy and Richard Ford became lovers.

Grace was bitterly disappointed, for it seemed as though her greatest wish would never be realized.

‘They are in love, though, Mamma,’ pointed out Hester, ‘and it is time Dorothy had a little happiness. I began to fear that her terrible experiences with Daly had made her turn from men for ever. I think she needs to love and be loved.’

‘Well, she is earning well now and I daresay will always be in a position to keep herself.’

‘And us all,’ said Hester with a grimace.

‘And, Richard is not a pauper.’

‘I’m sure that when he can do so he will marry her,’ added Hester, ‘for he truly loves her and she loves him.’ So they had to be contented with that.

THAT SUMMER DOROTHY went on tour visiting the old theatres at which she had played in the past; and she could not help but enjoy returning to the old haunts and remembering her early struggles; some of the actors and actresses who had played with her in the past were still there.

She played The Country Girl and The Romp to overflowing houses in Leeds; she saw the envious looks and heard the references to her ‘luck’ and she smiled on them all, pitying these poor provincial players and understanding their envies.

She went to Edinburgh where she was received with some reserve. The inhabitants of Edinburgh did not care for frivolity and their idea of acting was that portrayed so admirably by Mrs Siddons. It was different in Glasgow. Here she was an immediate success and before she left she was presented with a gold medal.

When she returned to London it was to receive a letter from her brother George who longed to go on to the stage; he was asking if he might now join the family and try his luck.

In the autumn George arrived in London and Dorothy and Richard took number five Gower Street where they set up house together and Dorothy was known as Mrs Ford. It was understood that in a few years they would be married and because of their devotion to each other and the domestic atmosphere which they created at Gower Street she was accepted as Richard’s wife by their circle of acquaintances.

Grace referred to Richard as her dear son and refused to think of Dorothy’s position as anything but the desired married state.

Her eldest son Francis had joined the army but here was George in his place; and the aim of the family now – greatly assisted by Dorothy – was to get him parts in the theatre.

They were comfortably off – Dorothy’s salary seemed like near affluence; Hester’s occasional appearances and Richard’s private income added to the exchequer; and they were all content to wait for the day when Dorothy would become Mrs Ford in truth.

Dorothy was happier than she had ever been before. She had success in her profession and she loved and was loved.

What more could any woman ask? But there was always the echo to come back to her: Marriage.

The inevitable happened. Dorothy was pregnant.

Grace was inclined to be alarmed, remembering the lack of marriage lines, but Dorothy was serene.

‘I shall play till the last month. It’ll make little difference,’ she assured them.

‘There’s the tour,’ cried Grace aghast.

‘Never mind the tour. I shall go.’

‘But what if…’

‘Do stop fretting, Mamma,’ said Dorothy. ‘Babies are born in Leeds and Hull and York, you know.’

‘I don’t know. I wish…’

But Dorothy would not let her voice her wish. She knew that what she wanted was Dorothy to be respectably married and received by Dr Ford and allowed to have her confinement in luxury.

Dorothy set off and was in Edinburgh when she gave birth to her child – a daughter. She named her Dorothy but she was soon known as Dodee which avoided confusion. Dorothy loved her child from the moment she held her in her arms and she realized that although she had believed she had loved Frances in the same way, it was a fact that she could not forget the child’s father and the manner in which she had been conceived. How different was little Dodee’s coming.

She wanted lots of children. She imagined herself far away from the theatre, the thrills and depressions, the spite, the envy and the malice, the smell of guttering candles, the callousness of audiences with their boos and catcalls and their wild applause. Peace, she thought, with her children growing up round her. Perhaps a house in the country with lovely gardens and the children playing and Richard beside her. It was a pleasant dream, but not for her. And did she really want it? Could a woman, born to strut the boards, ever really do without the clamour and glamour, the glittering tinsel existence?

She laughed at herself. Why, I’d be aching to be back in less than a month. Having a baby made one sentimental.

The press was far from sentimental. It chortled over the adventures of its darling comedienne.

An advertisement in the Public Advertiser ran:

‘The Jordan from Edinburgh – a small sprightly vessel – went out from London harbour

laden

– dropped cargo in Edinburgh.’

The theatrical world was well aware that Dorothy Jordan had borne Richard Ford a child.

That spring rumour concerning the royal family was discussed in Drury Lane almost as much as theatrical events. There was always the relationship of the Prince of Wales and Mrs Fitzherbert, and the question: Was he married or was he not? was on everyone’s lips. Mrs Fitzherbert behaved as Princess of Wales and when the Prince came to the theatre it was always in her company. Sheridan received her with the utmost homage which she accepted with as much dignity as visiting royalty; and the Prince was clearly delighted with her.

Then a more extraordinary rumour arose which put that of the Prince’s marriage temporarily in the shade. It was the state of the King’s health. Stories of his extraordinary conduct leaked out from the royal household. He had tried to strangle the Prince of Wales; he had talked gibberish to the Prime Minister; he had shaken the branch of a tree under the impression that it was the King of Prussia.

Was it true? Was the King going mad?

There would be a Regency, said some. There were quarrels between the Queen and the Prince of Wales. The Whigs wanted the Prince to have the Regency; the Tories wanted the Queen. Mr Fox who had left England after his estrangement with the Prince – for the statesman had denied the Prince’s marriage to Mrs Fitzherbert in the House of Commons and by so doing had incensed Mrs Fitzherbert to such a degree that she had left the Prince, who had great difficulty in winning her back – returned to England to be beside the Prince should he become Regent.

There was a tension everywhere; people talked of the King’s illness in the theatre; they talked during the play itself if the players failed to hold their attention.

As for Sheridan, he seemed aloof from theatrical affairs. It was clear that he saw great things for himself through a Regency. The Prince was his friend and if the Prince became the King in all but name, that would be a good augury for those who had been his friends when he had scarcely any power against his antagonistic parents.

Sheridan had always preferred drinking and gambling to work; he squandered his genius in conversational quips instead of preserving them for posterity. He had written brilliant plays but that was years ago; he was too intent on carousing with the living to work for posterity.

Who knew what Sheridan might become? Who was there to stand in his way since Fox was out of favour and some said could never come back completely, for all his sly genius, while Mrs Fitzherbert reigned with the Prince, for Fox had offended her mortally when he had denied her marriage. ‘Rolled her in a kennel as though she were a streetwalker,’ she had said. She would never forgive him; and although it was really the Prince’s lack of courage which was to blame and Mr Fox had acted in the only way to save the Prince’s hope of the crown, Mr Fox must be the scapegoat. But Mr Fox was coming home. Great events were in the air. Life was stimulating, full of excitement; and no one knew what would happen from one day to the next.