What could she do? How explain? She could say: I do earn large sums of money but I have so many dependent on me.

Even William was embarrassed now and then.

‘A fellow demanding payment of a paltry four hundred pounds or so. I can’t lay my hands on it for the moment.’

So she must provide it. And all the time she was thinking of the girls and the dowry she must have ready for them. She had set her heart on ten thousand pounds apiece. It was expected of her. She was a famous actress and the mistress of a prince. She could never make them understand how difficult it was to keep the money she earned – although she spent so little on her own needs.

But she was happy at Bushy House. Happier, she kept telling herself, than she had ever been. If it could only go on like this for the rest of my life, she thought. Living here in this gracious house, with the children gradually growing up around me, I would ask nothing more.

The domesticities of life were so happily uncomplicated. If only she could have devoted herself to being a wife and mother! Wasn’t it what her mother had always wanted, what she had taught her to want for herself?

The baby began to cry. Little Sophie was not so contented as the boys had been. Dorothy rocked her to and fro and watched young George attempting to climb one of the chestnut trees. He could come to no harm for he could not possibly climb it.

She would write to William and tell him all the news of the children. He was at St James’s now; he was most concerned about the country’s affairs. She knew that he longed for a command at sea and very much resented the fact that the King would not give it to him. The country was at war, and he was powerless. But she was glad he must stay at home. What anxiety if he had been at sea at such a time!

But it was natural that he should wish to serve the country and he had been brought up to be a sailor so he would want to do it in the manner in which he could be of the greatest use. It was no desire to leave his family that made him long to fight for his country. He was devoted to them. Since they had come to Bushy House there had been an even closer unity. When he was not at home he wanted constant news of the children and took a great interest in the smallest details concerning them. When she had to go away to play in London he contrived to be with the children at Bushy. The children should always if they could possibly manage it have one parent with them.

She thought of the royal brothers. Edward, Duke of Kent, was faithful to his mistress Madame de St Laurent; they were devoted to each other and an aura of respectability surrounded them. There was William and herself, and even the Prince of Wales had been happy with Mrs Fitzherbert for a few years – and he had had so many temptations. There were rumours now that he was tiring of Lady Jersey and was writing impassioned letters to Mrs Fitzherbert begging her to take him back.

So perhaps there was a streak of fidelity in the brothers – and she had been fortunate indeed to have William.

He had shown her a letter he had written to Thomas Coutts, his banker, in which he had said:

‘I have long known Mrs Jordan’s generosity but have never had so favourable an opportunity of making her merits public. In short, I may be permitted to be partial, but I cannot help thinking her one of the most perfect women in the world…’

That after seven years together! He had watched her read it with an almost boyish pleasure.

‘There, you see how I speak of you when you are not present.’

He did love her – sincerely, deeply; and if he was not forced for State reasons to marry they could go on happily together for the rest of their lives, rejoicing in their children and their grandchildren.

It was a pleasant dream, to picture them on this lovely lawn – growing old together. The theatre would be a part of her past. She would not wish to go on playing when she was old. Her parts in any case were young parts.

Thinking of it she could almost wish she were old with all the tribulation behind her.

She laughed at her thoughts and said: ‘Come, George, my darling. Come, Henry, my pet. We are going in because I have to write to Papa. He will want to know what you have all been doing while he is away.’

‘Will you tell him that I jumped down four steps?’ asked George.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘And I did one,’ said Henry.

‘I shall tell him everything. So come along in now.’

So she went in and wrote to him.

‘I hope I need not say how I wish your return… The children are as well as possible. I shall wean Sophie tomorrow. George’s new boots are excellent ones. I expect the others to arrive tomorrow. Sophie has been very cross but now she is composed and easy.’

She smiled. George had come to kneel on a chair beside her.

‘Is that a letter to Papa?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

‘When is he coming to see me?’

‘As soon as he can, I am sure. Will you put a kiss in this letter for him?’

‘Yes I will,’ said George, and bending over spat on to the paper.

‘Do you call that a kiss?’

‘Yes,’ said George, ‘It is a kiss for Papa.’

She kissed him; and taking his hand guided it for him to make a cross. Then she wrote:

‘I asked George if he would put a kiss into this for you. He immediately spat in it.’

William would be amused. It would remind him while he was in London of his family; and she knew that he would be eager to return to them.

With Sophie weaned and debts mounting Dorothy could not linger in idleness at Bushy House. Her audiences were demanding that she return and reluctantly she did so, dashing home to Bushy whenever possible, sometimes arriving at midday and leaving again in the afternoon for the evening performance.

Monk Lewis had written a new play in the Gothic tradition entitled The Castle Spectre and Dorothy had the part of the heroine, Angela. The play was an immediate success largely because of an unusual ghostly scene in which Angela’s mother rose from the grave to bless her daughter. The lighting effects were such as the playgoers had never seen before. They applauded madly and Sheridan was inundated with requests for more of The Castle Spectre. Dorothy’s portrayal of Angela pleased audiences and they would have no one else in the part.

Sheridan was delighted to have such success in the theatre again; but he was so deeply in debt that he made excuses not to pay his actors and there were often angry scenes in the theatre. He had never attempted to withhold Dorothy’s salary. He was too fearful of losing her; nor did he want the Duke to talk of his deficiencies in this respect to the Prince of Wales. More and more Dorothy thought longingly of retirement to her family in Bushy. She was once more pregnant; this always meant that she grew very tired and after a performance would sink into bed and wish that she could stay. But in the morning if it were possible she would be riding out to Bushy if only for a short glimpse of the children.

She was now often helping William financially.

In spite of the comparatively quiet life he led at Bushy he was always short of money and because of the intimacy between them he had no compunction in using hers. He had taken to reading all her contracts; he was at the theatre as often as possible to see her perform; he would criticize her performance and that of the other players, and was beginning to think of himself as a theatre critic. He was a constant visitor to the Green Room. ‘Royal patronage,’ Sheridan called it slyly; but Dorothy was delighted; it pleased her that he should take such an interest in her career, and she refused to consider the fact that the money she earned was so important not only to her but to him. Often she had to go away on tours but she made them as brief as possible. These were the most unhappy times of her life.

She would ask him whether or not she should accept certain engagements; if it was out of London he would always shake his head although he gave in later when she reminded him how much they needed the money. She would write to him ‘I received fifty-two pounds’ – or whatever the sum – ‘for tonight’s performance. Let me know whether you need it before I spend any of it.’

Sometimes she remembered the rhyme:

‘Does he keep her or she keep him?’

But she put it from her mind. There was nothing mercenary about William. It was simply that he could not keep within his income.

It was their hope that one day she would be able to leave the theatre and devote all her time to her family. It was what she longed for; and William assured her that he did, too. She might be one of the leading actresses of her day, but she was first of all a wife and mother. Her own mother had been the same, which was the reason why she had been so eager for Dorothy to marry.

It had been an exhausting day and she had been looking forward to leaving London on Friday morning and going down to Bushy House for a few days. Tomorrow night she must work and then there would be that brief respite.

As she was about to leave her dressing room a messenger came to her to say that Mr Siddons was at the theatre and asking if she would see him for a few moments.

‘Mr Siddons!’

That was correct, she was told.

‘Then tell him I will see him in the Green Room in five minutes.’

He was waiting there when she arrived. She was always rather sorry for poor Will Siddons. Sarah was so brilliant, so dominating, that she made him seem even more insignificant than he actually was.