I ought to be here with them, thought Dorothy. I ought to be singing a song to them while they have their supper.

Hester sat on the bed and said; ‘It’s Wildair tonight, I suppose.’

‘Wildair followed by Pickle.’

‘And you’ll come straight home after?’

Dorothy nodded.

‘Richard will be in the theatre.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘You seem tired.’

‘Oh, no. Just wishing that I could have an evening at home.’

‘You’ll feel differently when the curtain rises.’

‘It’s strange, Hester, but I always do. Now I feel depressed, and when I’m waiting my cue I’ll have that fluttery feeling inside. I never fail to get it; but once I’m on… I forget all about it and enjoy myself.’

‘There speaks the true professional.’

Fanny was listening eagerly to the conversation; she was vitally interested in everything connected with the stage. Dorothy thought: I don’t want that life for them. I’d like to see them all married happily and settled down in comfort. Would she ever realize that dream? In the first place they would have their illegitimacy as a drawback. Damn Richard! Why should he be such a coward? Why shouldn’t he defy his father for the sake of his family?

She would want dowries for the girls; and she would provide them if she could. But would she ever be able to? However much she earned she seemed to need it for her family’s expenses. She was beginning to realize that not only did she keep the children but Richard as well.

Hester was dependent on her; but what would she do without Hester, particularly now? Hester scarcely ever appeared on the stage because she was devoting herself to the children, and they looked upon her as a part of the household. They relied on Aunt Hester more than they did on their mother.

Richard came in and said: ‘You’ll be leaving shortly, I suppose?’

She looked at him with faint irritation. He was anxious for her not to be late at the theatre and was always worried when the quarrels between her and Mrs Siddons and the Kembles flared up. At the back of his mind was the fear that that powerful family. might oust her and that if she were turned out she wouldn’t be able to command the salary at Covent Garden, say, that she was getting at the Lane. Oh, Richard had his eyes to her salary. There was no doubt of that.

Hester seemed to be very sensitive regarding the atmosphere in this house. When she guessed trouble was rising between Richard and Dorothy she always endeavoured to be out of sight and earshot.

Now she said: ‘I’ll take the children off for supper. Come along. Fan.’

Fanny said she wanted to stay and talk to Papa and Mamma; but Dorothy said sternly that she was about to leave for the theatre and Fanny must go with the others.

Fanny pouted and stamped her foot, but Hester had a way with fractious children.

‘Now, Fanny,’ she said, ‘we don’t want to make a little idiot of ourselves, do we, before a famous actress?’

Fanny accepted the fact that her mother was a famous actress who had her name on play bills and at whom people stared in the streets and to whom they often called out a greeting and added that they had seen her in such and such and enjoyed her performance. She differentiated between her mother and that actress and while she displayed her temper to the one she was in awe of the other. Hester seized the opportunity to remove her.

When they had gone Richard said: ‘You spoil that girl.’

He often referred to Fanny as ‘that girl’ – and Dorothy resented this because it implied that he was remembering she was not his.

‘Poor child!’ said Dorothy. ‘Poor Dodee and poor Lucy! I wish to God they had a right to their name.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Richard, ‘are we on that old theme again?’

‘We are and we shall continue to be until you do your duty by those girls.’

‘Look here, Dorothy, we’ve gone over and over this. I can’t marry you. You know what the old man is. Are we going to throw away a hundred thousand pounds?’

‘Yes, gladly,’ said Dorothy, ‘for the sake of the girls.’

‘It’s for their sake that we want it and they’re perfectly happy now.’

‘Now they are because they don’t realize the position they’re in.’

‘Oh, nobody cares for those things.’

‘I care,’ said Dorothy. ‘When we set up house together you said we were to be married.’

‘And so we are as soon as it’s possible.’

‘I have a feeling that that moment will never come and that you are determined that it never shall.’

‘What a ridiculous thing to say!’

‘I suppose it is ridiculous to want a name for one’s children, to hate the insults which are thrown at me… constantly.’

‘Who throws these insults?’

‘You know very well how I am pilloried in the press. It is frequently happening.’

‘My dearest Dorothy…’

‘I am certainly not your dearest Dorothy. If I were you would grant me this small concession.’

‘My dear Dorothy then, you know that all famous people are pilloried. Look at the Prince of Wales, the Duke of York and young Clarence. They’ve only recently had this action against Walter.’

‘There is no reason why I should be humiliated for this cause.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dorothy, you are spoiling for a quarrel. I saw it in your face as soon as I came in. So did Hester. That’s why she left.’

‘She knows and you know that I have very good cause for my grievance.’

‘Listen, my dear, as soon as…’

‘As soon as it’s possible we’ll be married. You’ve been saying that for how long… ever since…’

‘Ever since we met and I fell in love with you and knew I couldn’t live without you.’

‘Providing it was not in wedlock.’

‘Oh, Dorothy, where is the difference?’

‘If there is no difference why do you hold out against it?’

‘You know my father…’

‘I know you. You are spineless, gutless… and I’m sorry you’re the father of my children.’

‘Two of them,’ said Richard. ‘Don’t forget you already had one before we met.’

She could have wept with rage and frustration; and this was no mood in which to go on the stage and play the debonair Harry Wildair.

‘Oh, go away,’ she said. ‘I’ll be late for the theatre.’

‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

‘Thanks, I can do without company.’

She stalked out of the room. She had been a fool, she told herself. She should never have agreed to live with him. She had loved him once, madly, passionately; and now that had altered slightly, but she still had an affection for him. He was weak, but perhaps she was fond of him for that very reason. Perhaps he had presented such a contrast to the brutal, bestial Daly.

She was unhappy. At the pinnacle of success she lacked what she most wanted: the warm cosy security of marriage. She was well aware why Grace had always wanted it for her.

If Richard would marry her; if she could feel that she was in truth his wife and the children were legitimized she would be happy. She would be able to face the jibes of the very respectable Sarah Siddons who never failed to remind her that not only was she superior to Dorothy Jordan on the stage but in her private life.

Life was niggardly; it offered freely with one hand and held back with the other.

Kemble was anxiously waiting for her when she reached the theatre.

‘I feared this was going to be one of those nights when you were too indisposed to act,’ he said with sarcasm.

‘I am in good health,’ she retorted.

‘I know that. But I still thought…’

She cut him short. ‘What’s the fuss about?’

‘You’re a little late.’

‘I’ll be on the stage in time, don’t worry.’

‘I hope so. We have a royal visitor.’

‘Oh?’

‘His Highness the Duke of Clarence.’

Dorothy felt disappointed; she had hoped for the Prince of Wales. On the nights he came it was a real gala evening.

She went into her dressing room; and while she was dressed she was thinking of Richard, his weakness and his obstinacy and her feelings towards him were so mixed that she found it difficult to analyse them.

From the moment she came on stage she was aware of the young man in the balcony box; he led the laughter when she played for laughs; he leaned forward to get a closer look at her; he applauded vociferously at the end of The Constant Couple and in accordance with custom she turned and curtsied especially for him. She was accustomed to appreciation but there was something more than usually ardent in the young man’s manner. Such enjoyment as he expressed and from a royal visitor was stimulating and she looked forward more than usual to playing Pickle.

It was a silly little farce really and yet played by her it never failed to amuse the house. It was an excellent idea to do it after the play so that the audiences went home laughing. It was something that had to be seen by the fashionable world; they called it a trifle, but if anyone had not seen Mrs Jordan as Pickle they were out of touch with London life.

Both Kemble and Sheridan knew that it would have been little use putting anyone else in the part. It had been written for Dorothy and only Dorothy had that special gift for clowning with a certain youthful abandon which alone could make the part possible.

The farce consisted in fact of one practical joke following on another which were all played by Little Pickle, the schoolboy hero. Dorothy’s small, neat and shapely figure was entirely suited to the costume which showed off her femininity to perfection and the very sight of her appearing on the stage in the Pickle costume set the audience cheering.