Jean Plaidy - Goddess of the Green Room

His disappointment was so acute that she felt almost inclined to cancel the benefit. She must be growing fond of him.

‘But the fête was for you.’

‘How very generous you are to me! But you see, I have my career.’

‘You won’t need a career, when…’

‘I have a family to support. I shall always need a career.’

‘I am going to take care of your family.’

She closed her eyes. In that moment she was near to surrender. But she must be cautious. Men had treated her badly; she must not make another mistake.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. ‘Oh, I have learned to rely on myself.’

‘There shall be settlements on the children,’ he said. ‘It shall all be arranged. They shall go short of nothing. They shall have dowries when they marry.’

She turned away. It might be the answer, she thought. But not yet. She must wait. She must talk it over with Hester. She must give Richard another chance. Perhaps when he knew she was on the point of leaving him he would relent.

‘But you understand,’ she said, ‘that I cannot attend your fête.’

‘There will be no fête,’ he said. ‘It is all cancelled.’

‘Just because I have to be at the Haymarket?’

‘And because I have to be there, too.’

‘You, but…’

‘Where you are,’ he told her, ‘I have to be. That is how it is going to be from now on.’

Richard came driving over to Richmond. When she saw him she gave a cry of pleasure for she thought he had been reading of the Duke’s constant attendance at the theatre; but it was nothing of the sort. She might have known it. Richard had come to tell her that there was a letter from Wilkinson which was urgent and this doubtless meant an offer to play at Leeds or York.

‘Wilkinson should pay you well,’ said Richard. ‘I shouldn’t accept less than Sarah Siddons did when she was up there. I hear Elizabeth Farren had the same, too.’

Richard was very good at making arrangements for her to bring in the money; he could draw up her contracts and insist tenaciously on the best terms. Oh yes, Richard was very good at getting her to work for more and more money so that they could all live in comfort.

She was unhappy. She felt that she had treated William badly by making him cancel the fête; and yet if she could get away from him for a while she believed that she would be able to make her plans.

She read Tate Wilkinson’s letter.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s a good offer. One hundred and fifty pounds for a week’s work.’

Richard’s eyes sparkled and she gave him a contemptuous look. But she was glad of the opportunity to get away. When I come back, she thought, I shall know what I have to do.

The northern tour was the most unhappy she had ever had.

The strain of the Richmond tour and the emotional turmoil of trying to come to a decision had exhausted her. She was in no mood for work.

Moreover, it was several years since she had played in York and the audience was inclined to be critical of the smart London actress she had become. They were not going to applaud an actress just because she was popular in London. In fact they were going to be hypercritical for that very reason.

On the opening night she was to play Peggy in The Country Girl and Nell in The Devil to Pay, but she felt disinclined to play the two.

‘I can’t do both,’ she told Wilkinson, ‘I feel too ill. They’ll have to be content with Peggy.’

‘They won’t like it. They’ve been promised The Devil to Pay; and this is not a London audience, you know. The Country Girl doesn’t always go well up here. They’re inclined to think it immoral.’

She laughed.

‘You’ve forgotten them,’ said Wilkinson. ‘But they’ll love Nell.’

But she insisted and as a result the theatre was half empty and the audience unresponsive. She was fully aware of the sniggers of provincial actresses who demanded of each other, ‘Who does she think she is? It’s only luck that she’s where she is. First she got round Daly, then Richard Ford whose father almost owned Drury Lane and now the Duke of Clarence. We know how she “got her place”.’

There was nothing worse than playing to a listless house; she would almost have preferred a hostile one. When the applause for Peggy was lukewarm and she came off-stage in a fury she found Wilkinson waiting for her.

‘If you’d go on and sing for them, it might be different.’

‘Why should I? I’m tired. They’re not worth it, anyway.’

Wilkinson took her hand and said, ‘Do you remember when you all came to me in Leeds… you and your family, and I gave you the chance you wanted?’

‘I’ll never forget it.’

‘Do something for me now then. Go on and sing.’

So because she could not resist such an appeal she went back and sang some of her songs; and as Wilkinson had expected the response was immediate.

They may not have cared for her Peggy but they loved her songs. Wilkinson, smiling in the wings, heard the thunder of the applause and the cries for more.

So the situation was saved.

But York was indifferent to her acting; she was affected by this and was glad when the week was over.

John Kemble was to play the following week in York and it was arranged that during that time Dorothy should take his place in the company which John’s brother Stephen was bringing to Newcastle.

Dorothy left York for Newcastle feeling depressed, but when she arrived at Newcastle it was to run into further trouble.

Stephen Kemble’s company was not there. Richard immediately busied himself in making inquiries and a cool note was received from Stephen Kemble to the effect that as his brother John had not consulted him about substituting Dorothy Jordan for himself, he had made other plans for the company which he could not break. He could not in the circumstances bring them to New-castle.

To think that she could be so insulted infuriated her.

What were they trying to do? To tell her that in spite of her success on the London stage they cared nothing for her?

‘We shall leave at once for London,’ she told Richard.

‘There’s nothing else to be done.’

‘I have never been so humiliated in my life. It’s deliberate, I know. John Kemble knew exactly what would happen when he asked me to substitute for him.’

‘They’re jealous,’ said Richard. ‘It’s obvious.’

So back to London, her problems unsolved.

When they arrived at Somerset Street she had made up her mind that she would give Richard one last chance.

‘Richard,’ she said, ‘tell me honestly, do you intend to marry me?’

‘You are tired out with this disastrous tour,’ he replied.

She laughed at him. ‘That tells me all I want to know,’ she retorted.

‘But I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ she told him. ‘I am going to bed now. I am too tired to argue with you.’

And she lay in bed thinking: I will let the Duke of Clarence know that if he will provide for the children I will become his mistress.

WILLIAM LOST NO time in bringing his schemes to fruition. Dorothy had given in. Now they could begin to plan their lives together. He wrote to the Prince of Wales:

‘Allow me now to return you my sincere thanks for your friendship and kindness on this occasion, and believe me I shall ever be grateful for your advice. You may safely congratulate me on my success. They never were married. I have all proofs requisite and even legal ones. I have as quiet, full and ample possession of the house in Somerset Street as if I had been an inhabitant for ten years. No letter could possibly contain the particulars: Suspend then judgement until we meet. On your way to Windsor come here Sunday… I am sure I am too well acquainted with your friendship to doubt for a moment you will, my dear brother, behave kindly to a woman who possesses so deservedly my heart and confidence…’

He was so happy. He brought her to Petersham Lodge. She should never have another care in the world, he promised her. Everything – yes, he meant everything – was taken care of.

He was a most appealing lover. Neither of the others had had such concern for her. He could be both passionate and tender and in every way played the husband. He acted always as though theirs was to be a permanent relationship. He did not seek the so-called gay life, he told her. Did she? His idea of bliss was to live at home, graciously it was true, in the utmost comfort, but in a home.

She told him that they were of one mind. She had been his mistress only a few days when she began to love him. It was impossible not to do so, she told Hester. He was charming and modest, but there was an inherent dignity about him – the dignity of royalty, and it was different from anything she had ever known before.

She continued to play at the theatre; he was there every time she performed, waiting to take her home in his carriage. But, he said, they must settle the tiresome legal side for he knew how she felt about the dear children.

He met the children. Fanny, on her best behaviour, tried to charm him and he was ready to be charmed by anything that belonged to Dorothy. Little Dodee and Lucy were naturally charming and he knelt on the floor and played with them, having brought little models of ships for them which he sailed in a tub of water and shouted orders as they pushed the boats around to the excited pleasure of the children.

Later in the little house at Richmond Dorothy talked over the future with Hester.