‘Well,’ said Dorothy, ‘I hope next time His Royal Highness, the obliging Duke, condescends to visit the theatre, I’ll be there to play for him.’

Shortly after that George played Sebastian to Dorothy’s Viola in Twelfth Night. The critics were not very kind to him. He lacked his sister’s genius, they said; and he was too much like her to play with her. But George had shown himself to be an actor.

The first one to congratulate him was Maria Romanzini. She herself was already half way up the ladder to fame and fortune, but she followed George’s progress with intense interest.

‘Was I good?’ he asked her.

‘You were very good.’

‘You wait,’ he said, ‘very soon now they’ll be crowding in to see me.’

‘It’ll be wonderful,’ she said; she knew that once he felt secure he would ask her to marry him.

With the spring it was necessary to go on tour again and Dorothy was uneasy; she did not like to leave Grace who had grown more feeble in the last weeks; Hester stayed behind to look after her and the tour began.

Now that she was pregnant once more she thought longingly of the home life. To play occasionally at Drury Lane would always be a pleasure, but the exhausting tours with all the difficulties of travel and facing provincial audiences was something she would gladly abandon.

It was necessary, though. She needed the money. It was amazing how even her salary was swallowed up. Thirty pounds a week had seemed affluence at first but with so many calls on her purse it did not go far. Richard’s briefs were infrequent; his father, in spite of his vast fortune, had not increased his allowance; and the bulk of the expenses must be met by Dorothy. She simply could not afford to give up these tours even though, as now, she was expecting a child.

She passed through Leeds and Harrogate and went on to Edinburgh playing all her roles to which she had added Nell in The Devil to Pay which had become one of the most popular. Rosalind in As You Like It, Roxalana in The Sultan, Lucy in The Virgin Unmasked, Peggy in The Country Girl were among others and of course she included the most popular of them all, Sir Harry Wildair in The Constant Couple, Miss Hoyden in A Trip to Scarborough and Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp.

She was playing to big houses in Edinburgh when news came from Hester that Grace had taken a turn for the worst and was constantly asking when Dorothy would be back. Hester thought that if she wished to see her mother alive she should return without delay.

In the middle of the season Dorothy left Edinburgh and returned to London.

The sight of her mother’s wasted frame appalled Dorothy and she was glad that she had ignored the threats of an irate manager and come home.

‘You came, then,’ said Grace, tears filling her eyes.

‘Of course I came. What did you expect?’

‘And the theatre…’

‘Can do without me for a while.’

‘So you are going to stay with me till the end.’

‘Oh, Mamma, do not say that. You are ill and will get better.’

But Grace knew differently.

‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a good girl to me, Dorothy.’

‘We belonged together. You were good to me… to us all.’

‘I tried,’ said Grace. ‘I never forgave myself for bringing you into the world without a name… but when I think of what I should have been without you I know that the best thing I ever did was to give my Dorothy to her public.’

‘Oh, Mamma, don’t think of all that now. It’s no use reproaching ourselves for what we do.’

‘I feel happy to leave them all in your hands. You’ll look after them.’

‘I would, Mamma, but they don’t need me. They can look after themselves. George is doing well. He’ll be marrying soon, I expect.’

‘Ah… marriage…’

‘I know, Mamma, and I’m sorry, but Richard says one day…’

‘It was what your father said, Dorothy. “One day, Grace,” he said, “my father won’t have the power to stop me.” But he never really did have the power, did he? And then he went away and married that woman… leaving us all.’

‘It’s long, long ago and best forgotten.’

‘He would have been proud of you, Dorothy.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Well, we came through, didn’t we? Do you remember when we heard you were to come to Drury Lane?’

‘I shall never forget it, Mamma, nor shall I forget your help and love. Throughout my life nothing has helped me more than that.’

Grace nodded, smiling. ‘I’d like to think it’s so,’ she said.

They were silent for a while.

Then she said: ‘Dorothy, you’re going to have another child.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘It’s so like… so like…’

‘Don’t fret, Mamma. Rest. I’m here with you. Hester’s near, too. We can send for all the children if you wish.’

Grace closed her eyes. ‘I’m happy,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to the end… and I’m happy. Richard’s a good man. He’ll marry you, Dorothy… one day.’

‘One day,’ repeated Dorothy and her mouth curled a little cynically; but she did not allow Grace to see this.

Let her die happily believing that one day her daughter would reach that status which she had always longed for her to possess.

Dorothy was inconsolable for some months after the death of her mother. She was almost unaware of the threats of Jackson the Edinburgh manager who sued her for breaking her contract. This was one of those occasions when Richard could act for her. He dealt with Jackson to her satisfaction and although she declared that she would never perform in his theatre again the matter was settled without too much expense.

The imminent birth of her child meant an absence from the theatre and the coming of the baby – another little girl whom she named Lucy – did much to console her.

That autumn Richard Daly came to London. Naturally he was in the theatre to see Dorothy act.

Maria Romanzini came into Dorothy’s dressing room to tell her.

‘He’s here,’ she said, her lovely dark eyes round with horror. ‘He’s actually in the theatre.’

When she was told to whom Maria referred, Dorothy too felt a tremor of alarm. Foolish, she told herself. What harm can he do me now? She turned to Maria. ‘You look as though you’re afraid he’s going to carry you off,’ she said.

‘He used to terrify me,’ Maria replied, shivering.

‘You’re a big girl now, an important actress at Drury Lane Theatre, How can an Irish manager harm you?’

‘I don’t like to think of him here, Dorothy.’

‘George will protect you now as your mother did before. Not that he’d be such a fool as to attempt to harm you. Everything is changed for us both, Maria.’

That was true and yet she had to remind herself continually of it, and when one of the theatre servants came to tell her that Mr Daly from Dublin was in the Green Room and was requesting her to meet him there she said sharply: ‘Pray tell Mr Daly that I cannot see him.’

She had never thought for a moment that that would silence him. He called at Gower Street but she had guessed this would happen and her servants had been warned that she was not and never would be at home to Mr Daly.

He wrote to her. He wished to see little Frances. She could not deny him a sight of his own daughter.

She was terrified. She gave instructions that Frances was to be closely guarded. The doors were to be kept bolted all day and Mr Daly was never to set foot inside the house.

Now she realized how deeply he had scarred her youth. She dreamed of that horrifying experience in the attic; she would awake from nightmares of fleeing from Dublin, recalling it all – the cold of the boat, the nagging anxieties that no one would employ her in England, the humiliating experience of carrying a child of a man she hated.

All this came back vividly from the past and she cried: ‘Never, never will I tolerate him near me.’

He did not give in easily. He wrote congratulating her on her success. He had always known she had a talent that was near to genius. He offered her large sums of money if she would appear in Ireland. Her answer was No. Never again will I accept Richard Daly as my manager, she kept assuring herself. Never again will I willingly speak to him.

And at last even he had to accept her answer and he went back to Dublin without having spoken to Dorothy or having had a glimpse of his daughter.

When he had left Dorothy laughed at her fears. There was no need to have been so frightened. He was the evil genius of her youth; he could not harm her now.

Another year. More parts to be played. More triumphs to be won.

She was going to play Letitia Hardy in The Belle’s Stratagem and a new piece had been offered to her – a short play to be performed after the main event. It was one of the farces which the public had come to expect from her called The Spoiled Child and the main part was Little Pickle, a schoolboy, which seemed to have been written for Dorothy. It was the sort of part the public liked best from her; in the first place it put her into breeches; in the second it allowed her to do all sorts of clowning, some of which she thought up on the spur of the moment; and there were some catchy songs – the sort she sang with such verve that in the space of a few moments she had the audience singing with her.

Dorothy threw herself wholeheartedly into rehearsals for The Spoiled Child for she knew that this was the piece which would bring in the crowds. As a play it had no merit; it was sheer knockabout farce; but in Dorothy’s hands it was a masterpiece. She knew she would have the audience shrieking with laughter over Little Pickle’s pranks, such as sewing a courting couple together with a needle and thread while they were unaware of it; and putting his aunt’s parrot on the spit in place of the roasting pheasant, and pulling chairs away when people were going to sit down. It was the sort of practical joke type of humour which could send audiences wild with delight.