It was when King’s successor was appointed that she began to feel uneasy. For Sheridan had chosen none other than John Kemble to act as manager; and Kemble, as the brother of Sarah Siddons, could scarcely be a partisan of Dorothy Jordan.

No sooner had Kemble taken over than trouble began. He made it clear that in his opinion the greatest draw at Drury Lane was Sarah Siddons and every other actress must be subordinate to her.

Sarah immediately suggested that her salary was not enough and Kemble arranged to pay her thirty pounds for each performance. This meant that if she only played once a fortnight she would be more highly paid than Dorothy who might be playing every night, for she was still getting only her twelve pounds a week.

This rankled and Dorothy had made up her mind not to accept it.

Since the birth of Dodee she had suffered from minor indispositions and there had been occasions when she had found it impossible to appear. Kemble always made the most of this and set a rumour about that Mrs Jordan was becoming so autocratic that she would only appear when she felt in the mood to do so and made the excuse of illness.

This was accepted by the public who had been disappointed once or twice, hoping to see Mrs Jordan and being fobbed off with some lesser light.

Kemble was determined to show Dorothy in what little esteem he held her and that although he was prepared to accept that she had a certain following he regarded her as in no way the equal of his great sister.

One night when she was playing, her brother George went behind the scenes and Kemble, finding him there, demanded to know what he was doing. Was he playing? George was not. Then what right had he to go behind the scenes while the play was in progress?

‘You’ve forgotten my sister Mrs Jordan is playing.’

‘I had not forgotten and that does not give you a right to be there. You are fined five shillings.’

Kemble strode off and George was discomfited to hear the titters of Sarah’s adherents. The incident would be talked of in the Green Room that night and be all over Town by tomorrow. It was an insult to Dorothy. It was hinting that she was of no more importance than the humblest player, and her friends and family had no right to be anywhere but in the front of the stage and in a seat for which they had paid.

Dorothy paid the five shillings but the matter became an issue in the press which was forming itself into factions for and against one or the other side in the Jordan–Kemble dispute, and it was becoming quite clear to Dorothy that she would have to make a stand or leave Drury Lane. Harris of Covent Garden, who had done his best to denigrate her, would doubtless change his tune if she showed her willingness to work for him; but she had no desire to do so. She could not forget the insults he had flung at her and was certainly not going to forgive him for the sake of expediency if she could help it.

She could of course appeal to Sheridan who was her partisan, but he was so little in the theatre and so completely absorbed with his own affairs and his grand friends – and it must be admitted very often a little bemused by too much wine and spirits.

She would fight her own battles. And they were arising on all sides. Most important was her relationship with Richard, who was so content in their present circumstances he made no effort to change them. His father had retired from the theatre to his comfortable country establishment with a fortune – so rumour had it – of £100,000, and surely now was the time to tell him of their desire to marry.

‘No,’ cried Richard vehemently. ‘He’d be so incensed he would cut me right out of his will.’

‘Let him.’

‘My dearest, do you understand what this would mean? He would cut off my allowance and what I get from my briefs wouldn’t go far.’

‘You must get more briefs and I must get a higher salary. I’m a bigger draw than Siddons. I’ll not endure this much longer.’

Richard tried to evade the question at issue by going on at length about the injustice Dorothy suffered at the theatre, but she would not allow this.

‘It’s true,’ she said, ‘and I shall not endure it much longer. But there is no reason why we shouldn’t marry. The Kemble set are starting rumours about the immoral life I lead and that might harm me with audiences.’

‘Not a bit of it. They like their idols to have a bit of excitement in their lives.’

‘You call this exciting! I have all the responsibilities of marriage without the standing that goes with it.’

‘I’ve been happy. I couldn’t have been happier.’

‘I could have been… if I had been married.’

‘My poor darling, as soon as the old man agrees…’

‘Which he never will.’

‘He can’t live for ever, Dorothy. Then I shall have all his money… providing I don’t displease him in the meantime.’

‘To hell with his money,’ cried Dorothy. ‘We’d manage.’

Richard shook his head. She looked at him and tried to see him afresh – not as the man she had loved and still did love, though in a different way from that in which she had at first. She saw him now in all his weaknesses. Weak! that was the word that best described Richard. He was weak – content for her to be humiliated; content for her to provide the bulk of their income – anything rather than that he should face an irate parent and possibly incur the loss of his father’s money.

She was nervous and touchy and she gave way to her disappointment in him, her anger against circumstances. She had to fight her way through life and the man she had chosen to stand beside her was a weakling.

There were tears and reconciliations, but that did not alter her opinion of him.

‘It’s these Kembles,’ she said. ‘They’re determined to plague me.’

‘They can’t harm you,’ he soothed. ‘It’s you the people come to see. You’re twice as popular as Siddons.’

‘It’s true,’ she admitted. ‘But they feel they ought to like Siddons and there are many people who will insist they like what they ought to like. To weep and moan is somehow intellectual; to laugh is vulgar. They’ve got this fixed in their silly heads and Kemble and his crowd are going to see that it sticks there.’

‘We’ll fight it, Dorothy,’ he said, stroking her hair.

He’d fight it! she thought. When had he ever fought for anything? Even in his own profession he couldn’t make his mark.

But she did not want friction; she was still deluding herself that one day they would marry.

‘And I’m worried about Mamma,’ she said. ‘She hasn’t looked well lately.’

Yes, that was a period of great uneasiness.

Dorothy decided that she could no longer accept the position into which Kemble was thrusting her when it was suggested that she appear in The Romp on the same evening as Mrs Siddons played in Macbeth.

Dorothy laughed aloud when she heard.

‘I understand,’ she cried. ‘The people come to see me and it will be said that they have come for Mrs Siddons. Oh, no, no. She’ll play one night and I’ll play on another – but I’ll not draw the people in for her to get the praise for doing it.’

‘You over-estimate yourself,’ said Kemble.

‘Then it’ll make up a little for your under-estimation.’

‘So you refuse to play in The Romp.’

‘On the same night as your sister plays her tragedy, yes.’

‘What is it going to be this time – indisposition?’

‘By no means. It’s simply that I won’t be the draw for her to get the praise… and the money.’

The last word was ominous but Kemble shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

The next day a paragraph appeared in the Morning Post which ran:

‘Mrs Jordan and Kemble, according to Green Room reports, are not on the most amicable footing. It is supposed that the lady takes advantage of her popularity to be ill when she pleases and has refused to perform in a farce when Mrs Siddons performs in a play and for this modest reason “that she will not fill the house and let Mrs Siddons run away with the reputation of it”. If this be true it is proper to tell this lady that this higher province of the drama will prevail when dowdies and hoydens are forgotten or despised.’

When Dorothy read this she had no alternative but to see Sheridan, and as soon as she had an opportunity she presented herself to him.

He was a little absent-minded. His thoughts were outside the theatre. The Prince of Wales was now relegated to a position without great influence; and although he continued in affection for his dear Sherry, there was no great political advantage on the horizon. Sheridan’s dreams had been too rosy; he had thought longingly of the Great Seal; and he knew that there came a moment in a man’s life when it was possible to seize the coveted prize and that if that moment passed without bringing the reward it might never come again. The King could not last for ever; the Prince must come to the throne; but where would Sheridan be then?

It was a sobering thought.

And here was Dorothy Jordan – dissatisfied, as all actresses always were. Not getting her dues. When did they ever believe they were? She was not being treated fairly. Was it not the perpetual cry?

‘I won’t endure it,’ she was saying. ‘Kemble is a fool. I know Sarah Siddons is his sister and a little bias is natural, but in his efforts to ruin me he’s ruining the theatre. He’s going to turn away people to Covent Garden if he’s not careful.’

‘Eh!’ cried Sheridan, coming out of his reverie at the mention of his rivals. Whatever his dreams of grandeur he had to face reality now and then – and the theatre was his reality. So were the bills which came every day with wearisome regularity. He had his debt to Norfolk. He had to make the theatre pay. And one of the people he depended on in this was this little actress.