‘Sing for me now,’ said Wilkinson, expecting a moderately good voice, for had it not been so she would not have wished to use it.

But when she sang Melton Oysters she won his instant approval. This young woman had all the gifts an actress needed for success – an exciting personality which was entirely individual; a trim figure, neat yet voluptuous; a face that while not beautiful was piquant, jaunty and irresistible when she smiled; a voice that made her rendering of her lines a joy to listen to; and in addition she could sing with such feeling, charm and sweetness that she must enchant all who heard her. He was beginning to be glad her mother had brought her to the inn that day. But why had they left Dublin? Why hadn’t some manager there determined to keep such a talented creature?

He had billed her as Dorothy Bland and she told him that that must be changed. She was Dorothy Francis. She was talking of this to Grace when she suddenly realized that if she made a success of a part it was not unlikely that Daly would hear of it; and he would then know where she was.

‘I must change my name at once,’ she declared. ‘Dorothy Francis must not appear on a play-bill that could fall into Daly’s hands.’

Grace agreed that this was so and Dorothy who had in this short time found that she could talk over her problems with Wilkinson went to see him.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘I am to have a child.’

His face fell. Actresses constantly became pregnant and usually did not manage to lose much working time because of this event, but he had not considered this would happen to Dorothy and that it was already about to was a shock. On the other hand it might explain her flight from Dublin, and if it were an emotional entanglement that was not so disturbing to him as a theatrical upheaval.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘In six months’ time.’

‘Six months… well, that gives us a little time.’

She was relieved. ‘I shall work up to the last minute. But I wish to change my name.’

He nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be a great difficulty.’

‘In the circumstances I prefer to be known as Mrs.’

‘Naturally. You don’t want Bland?’

‘No, my father’s people object to that.’

‘And you can’t be Phillips because of your aunt. We don’t want two actresses of that name. It could be confusing. I might call you Jordan because you’ve just crossed the river.’

He had spoken jocularly, but she said: ‘Mrs Jordan. Dorothy Jordan. That’s as good as any other.’

So from then she was known as Mrs Dorothy Jordan.

She was a success. No sooner had she appeared in a simple muslin dress and a mobcap and had sung The Greenwood Laddie than she knew she had made an excellent start. What did it matter that the tragic Callista had died? She was resurrected in the enchanting form of Dorothy Jordan, and she sang for them so delightfully that they would not let her stop in a hurry.

She stood accepting their acclaim. One of these days, she thought, I’ll play comedy; I’ll sing and dance; and I’ll refuse to play parts like Callista.

For the time, though, she would be glad of what she could get; and she could not believe that it was a short while ago that she had been planning her escape from the villainous Daly.

If that man did not exist, if she did not carry the fruit of his lechery within her, she could be completely happy. But she would be happy. Although the child had been forced on her she would love it when it came. As for her contract with Daly, she would do her best to forget it. Tate Wilkinson was pleased with her.

Life in the theatre had taught her not to expect too much, and while her success pleased the family and Mr Wilkinson it was not received so enthusiastically by some members of the company. Who is this Dorothy Jordan? some of the female members of the company wanted to know. Why should she appear from nowhere and suddenly take the best parts? How had she managed to win public approval? Wilkinson has done more for her than he ever did for us.

The old envies were beginning to rise.

‘The devil take them!’ cried Dorothy. ‘They’ll get as good as they give.’

‘Mrs Jordan,’ said Mrs Smith, one of the leading ladies who had not only a following with the public but a husband to substantiate her right to the title of Mrs. ‘Where is Mr Jordan then – for I’ll swear the woman’s pregnant!’

Mrs Smith herself was in that condition and, as she said, proud of it. One did wonder about Mrs Jordan who had appeared suddenly in their midst with her faintly Irish accent which some people seemed to find so fascinating, and her forward ways. And if she were pregnant that might account for her sudden appearance. She was running away from the scene of her shame with some tale of having recently become a widow. Or at least if she had not deigned to tell such a tale, it was what she implied.

Mrs Smith would stand in the wings while Dorothy was on stage and criticize her acting audibly. Dorothy laughed. She could always do the same for Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith imitated Dorothy and went round singing Melton Oysters and Greenwood Laddie; but her singing voice was not of the same calibre as Dorothy’s and this attempt was a failure. She talked to her friends of the poverty of Dorothy’s acting. Grace was furious and joined in the battle on behalf of her daughter. She would come to the theatre and groan whenever Mrs Smith appeared, demanding of all within earshot what the theatre was coming to when people like that were allowed to perform. Tate Wilkinson turned away from these battles, which were familiar enough in the theatre.

Meanwhile Dorothy had scored her greatest success to that time as Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. There was no doubt that this was the kind of part in which she excelled. Small and dainty with great vitality and a rare ability to clown she had the house shrieking with laughter. She followed that with Arionelli in The Son-in-Law; and the fact that she wore breeches and took this male part enhanced her reputation. Audiences wanted to laugh and Dorothy Jordan could make them do so. They wanted to see a fine pair of legs and she could offer these as well. No member of Tate Wilkinson’s company looked quite so well in male costume as Dorothy Jordan.

‘In a few months it will be different,’ said Mrs Smith gleefully. She was delighted because though Dorothy might be able to get ahead of her during her enforced absence Dorothy would have one of her own to follow, when she could be reduced to her proper place.

Wilkinson was not entirely displeased with this jealous bickering; he remarked to Cornelius Swan, the theatre critic, that he believed it kept the company on the alert. Mrs Smith was so eager to excel Mrs Jordan’s performance that she gave of her best – and the same thing applied to Mrs Jordan.

‘Mrs Jordan is a great little actress,’ said Cornelius Swan. ‘She wants a little coaching here and there; but I think if she had it she might make London.’

‘I prefer to keep her up North.’

‘Ah, but you can’t stand in her way, my good fellow. Give me an introduction to the lady. I want to tell her how I enjoyed her performance.’

‘And suggest a few improvements?’

‘There is usually room for improvement in any performance – even Mrs Jordan’s; and I think you may well agree that I am qualified to suggest where.’

So Wilkinson introduced Cornelius Swan to Dorothy and she found him entertaining. He told her that he had even criticized Garrick and advised him how he might improve his roles. Would she listen to him?

Dorothy replied that she would with pleasure for she felt she had much to learn; and although she might not always feel that she could take his advice she would always be pleased to listen to it.

This reply delighted the old man, who came constantly to the theatre and watched Dorothy’s progress with great interest and his notices of her performance were eulogistic with just the right flavouring of criticism to dispel any accusation of favouritism.

The friendship meant a great deal to Dorothy during those months. Her pregnancy was becoming irksome; she blamed herself for not confessing to her mother earlier and leaving Dublin before this happened. If after that humiliating experience she had left she would have been able to pursue her career without this added encumbrance, but by remaining and submitting to his blackmail she had not only burdened herself with his child but had destroyed her own self respect.

But it was not in her nature to look back and she must not do so now. Her excuse was that she had been young and inexperienced; and she had paid dearly for that inexperience.

The company was to play in York and when they arrived in that town a message awaited Grace from her sister Mary.

‘I trust, dear sister,’ wrote Mary, ‘that you will come in time. I long to see Dorothy. I have heard reports of her acting and she is going to be a credit to us.’

Grace and Dorothy and Hester went to Mary’s lodgings and when they arrived there were horrified to find that she was on her death bed.

Grace embraced her sister and wept, thinking of that day long ago when they had run away from their father’s parsonage, of all their ambitious dreams which had come to nothing… or very little.

Mary understood her thoughts. She grimaced. ‘Well, Grace, this is the end of me,’ she said. ‘But it was a good life and I’ve no regrets.’

Her eyes were on Dorothy. She held out a trembling hand to her. ‘See,’ she said. ‘It’s the drink. Don’t let it get the better of you, dear, I’ve heard of your performances. They’re shaking up some of the dear ladies, I can tell you. Never mind, my dear. You go in and beat the lot of them. She’s going to make it worthwhile, Grace. One day you’ll say you were glad you ran away because if you hadn’t there wouldn’t have been a Dorothy Jordan.’