The King had interrupted: ‘Yes it must be Shakespeare, Mr Sheridan. The people expect it of us.’

Sheridan sighed. ‘I believe Your Majesty does not greatly care for tragedy, so I will not suggest Macbeth.’

‘Can’t stand the stuff. People killing each other all over the stage, eh, what? I call that even worse than the rest of the fellow’s plays, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Then Your Majesty would perhaps care to see The Winter’s Tale. A charming story of virtue rewarded, Sir. And we have a very good production of this play. It is a favourite of mine, if Your Majesty would allow me to express my opinion. It is a play for the family, Sir. One could take one’s children and not be dismayed.’

‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘The Winter’s Tale. I remember it. A silly story, but as you say nothing to offend.’

‘I have an excellent actress in the part of Perdita, Your Majesty. She has been delighting my audiences for some little time and I am sure will please you.’

The King grunted, implying that he was not interested in actresses. But the voices in his head were telling him that he would enjoy seeing this beauty perform.

She made quite a name for herself as Juliet, Your Majesty; and since then has been a favourite of the public.’

‘Good. Then let it be The Winter’s Tale, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Sir, the players will be enchanted … and a little nervous, I dare swear. I shall take the first opportunity of letting them know the honour that awaits them.’

The King smiled, in a good humour. He liked giving pleasure and discussing the visit of his family to the play was more comforting than those interviews with his ministers.


* * *

Sheridan went back to his house in Great Queen Street … that house which was far more expensive than he could afford. But he was by nature reckless and extravagant.

He went straight to the drawing room for he knew that he would find Elizabeth there at the harpsichord. She invariably was because it was essential for her to do a great many hours practice a day. She was reckoned by the musical world to have one of the most enchanting voices of all time.

He was right. She was there; and she rose at once to greet him, coming forward her arms outstretched. Even now her beauty struck him afresh and he had to stifle a feeling of shame for the infidelities he had practised since their marriage. Not that she would not understand. Not that she would ever withdraw the comfort of her serene presence. Elizabeth was a saint – and how could a man like Richard Sheridan live up to the high ideals of a saint?

‘Elizabeth my love.’ He kissed her hands; he did not have to feign affection; it was there, rising up, swamping all other emotions temporarily whenever he saw her. ‘What do you think? I have just come from the presence of His Majesty, King George III.’

‘A royal command performance?’

‘You have guessed rightly, my dear.’

She drew him on to the sofa and said: ‘Come, tell me all about it.’ Her lovely face was framed by soft dark hair, the sweet mouth and the lovely long-lashed eyes under delicate but beautifully arched brows, glowed with interest.

Sheridan then gave an imitation of his interview with the King, exaggerating it, mocking both himself and the monarch so that Elizabeth laughed immoderately and begged him to stop.

‘The outcome of this historic interview is, my love, that we are to play The Winter’s Tale for the royal family. And the Prince of Wales himself will be present.’

‘This is a sign that the Prince will be seen more frequently in public.’

‘Papa holds the knife that will cut the apron strings. It is poised, but the cut has not yet been made.’

‘I am sorry for His Majesty. He is so good, really, Richard.’

‘Alas for the good! They suffer so much. Unfair of fate is it not? It’s the wicked who should suffer.’

He looked at her wistfully and she understood; but she smiled brightly. She would not show him that she often wondered where he was when not at home; that she trembled when she saw the accounts which came too frequently to Great Queen Street. She did not reproach him for those gambling debts which sucked up most of the profits from Drury Lane. But she was constantly worried about money.

‘Well, my love,’ he said, ‘this should bring in the cash. You know what a help these performances are. Everyone will want to see The Winter’s Tale because the royal family did. And, by God, we need the money.’

She knew it. She helped with the accounts at Drury Lane; and she knew too that they could have lived in comfort – indeed, luxury – but for her husband’s wild extravagances.

There could be a way out of their difficulties. She herself could earn money. Her voice could have been her fortune and was on the way to becoming so before her marriage. She had been offered twelve hundred guineas to sing for twelve nights at the Pantheon but her husband’s pride would not allow her to do this.

It was something Elizabeth could not understand. How much more dishonourable to run up bills which one could not pay than to allow one’s wife to sing for money. But Richard had his pride. Pride indeed. One of the seven deadly sins. Pride insisted that he must consort with rich men, that he must gamble with them, that he must do all that they did, though they were rich and he must needs earn his living.

But she could not understand Sheridan; she could only love him.

She did not remind him that the theatre was doing well, that he himself had a brilliant future before him. She would have been happy to live as they had in those ecstatic days of their honeymoon in the tiny cottage at East Burnham; but that of course was not what Richard wanted. He needed the gay life of London – the theatrical world, the literary world, the wits, the men and women of brilliance to set off the sparks which lighted his talents.

‘It will have to be a superb performance,’ he said; and she was astonished at the manner in which he could throw aside all financial anxieties at the thought of the production. ‘We must go into rehearsal right away. Nothing but the best, Elizabeth.’

‘And will Mrs Robinson perform?’

He did not meet her eye. He wondered how much she knew of his relationship with the beautiful actress. He felt angry suddenly. He was a man of genius, wasn’t he? She could not expect to apply ordinary standards to him. She should know that however much he strayed he always came back to her. He would never cease to love her; he knew there was not a woman in the world like her. Wasn’t that enough? Mary Robinson was beautiful … in a different way from Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s beauty was of the heavenly variety – ‘as beautiful as an angel’, they had said of her. But a man of genius must experience the world. He cannot spend his life among angels.

He spoke irritably. ‘Of course. Of course. Why not? She’s our biggest draw.’

‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth calmly. ‘I merely wondered whether she was experienced enough.’

‘Experienced? She’s been playing for more than three years. Her Juliet was an immediate success.’

‘I see. So she will play Perdita.’

‘Perdita it shall be.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t delay. I must tell them of this great honour. We must begin our preparations at once.’ He stood up uneasily. Was she wondering whether his affair with the actress was still going on? Did she know it had ever existed?

That was the trouble with these good women. One could never be sure how much they knew because they met all calamity, all disaster and the deceits of others, with a calm tolerance which, although it smoothed out the difficulties of life, could be damnably exasperating.

He embraced her with fervour and her response was immediate. She had sworn to love him and naturally she kept her vows.

‘I had to come home to tell my Elizabeth first of all,’ he said.

Then he was out of the house and as he called for his chair his anxieties fell from him. It was only when he entered the house that he remembered what it had cost and that a great deal of the furniture was not yet paid for. It was only when he was in the company of his wife that he remembered his sins.

Now to Mary Robinson. He imagined himself telling her the news.


* * *

When he had gone Elizabeth returned to the harpsichord, but instead of singing sat silent, thinking of her romantic elopement, of the transcending joy of those days when she had believed that when she and Richard were married they would live happily ever after. At least, she could console herself, she would never be happy without him.

Yet before he had come into her life she had lived serenely in her father’s house where everything was subservient to music. All day long the sounds of music had filled the house. Bath was such a gracious city; often here in London she dreamed of Bath. But Richard must be in London, naturally, for London was necessary to him. Here he had his theatre and he was in the centre of the gay life; here were the gaming houses, the clubs which he could not resist; here were the brilliant men like Charles James Fox whose company he so enjoyed.

But the old days had been sweet. She smiled to remember singing with her sister Mary; and her brother Tom’s playing of the violin when he was in the nursery had been declared nothing short of genius.

And how proud her father had been of his brilliant children – perhaps particularly of her! His ‘song bird’, he had called her, and she remembered well the day when he had said to her: ‘Elizabeth, I believe there never has been a sweeter voice than yours.’ How happy that had made her! And she had become famous – or almost – when she had sung in an oratorio before the King. Everyone had been talking of her voice then. And her sister Mary who had a beautiful voice of her own had said it was only a pale echo of Elizabeth’s.