The curtain had come down and the applause was instantaneous.

Up it went and there they all were with herself in the centre, smiling, taking the bow.

Flowers were thrown at her feet, exquisitely dressed men were crowding to the front of the stage. Down went the curtain to howls of protest, and up again … and there she was alone and the whole of the theatre going wild with joy.

And in the Green Room, later, they had crowded about her. Names she had heard Mr Robinson mention with awe. There had been Lord Maiden, friend and equerry of the Prince of Wales, in black velvet trimmed with gold. ‘Mrs Robinson, it’s an honour to kiss your hand …’

His Grace of Cumberland had eyed her with appreciation. The King’s own brother! What society she was climbing into! And being paid for it – not falling deeper and deeper into debt.

‘His Grace of Cumberland desires to be presented.’

Lecherous eyes examined her. His Grace had never seen a Juliet he so admired. He trusted she would grant him the pleasure of seeing more of her.

Oh no, my lord, she had thought; I must tread warily. You and others will have to learn that even though I am a play actress I am a lady.

Sheridan was watchful of her. He looked upon her as his creation. He had seen her possibilities; he had persuaded Garrick to coach her; she was going to add to his fortune and his personal happiness.

‘Mrs Robinson is fatigued, gentlemen. I know you will wish her to have the rest she so well deserves.’

And so home to the house in Great Queen Street where she had sat with her mother talking of that night and the triumphs to come.


* * *

They had come, so quickly and in such number, but she would never again know the excitement of that first night. The theatre became her life. Her mother took charge of little Maria; Mr Robinson lived in the house but he had no say in the running of it now. He had to be quiet; he had better keep out of his wife’s life or he might ruin her chances which would be of little use to him, for with her salary she was able to pay his card debts and make him a small allowance which she told him scornfully, added to his salary, would have to suffice for him and his mistresses.

Mr Robinson was a subdued man. He had been wise to marry Mary; he had always known it; and now he was proving how right he had been. It was disconcerting to be pushed into the background, but at least she provided him with money and he preferred the kitchen sluts to his ladylike beauty.

‘The bad days are behind us,’ Mary told her mother.

And so it seemed. With each role she played she improved her acting ability and she grew more and more beautiful. The costumes she wore on the stage delighted her and she gave a great deal of thought to them, and whenever a new play was to be put on playgoers would ask themselves what Mrs Robinson would wear this time. Of one thing they could be certain; it would be unusual and becoming.

She appeared in public places – the Pantheon and the Rotunda, Vauxhall and Ranelagh, always exquisitely gowned, gaped at, stared at, quizzed – the famous Mrs Robinson, dressed as no one had ever dressed before.

Sheridan delighted in her and she in him. She had found him irresistible and she could never forget that he had given her her chance. To him she confided her troubles; he knew how she was plagued by Mr Robinson and the fear of what debts he would accumulate; to him she confided of the horrors she had suffered in the debtors’ prison. He knew that that memory would never entirely leave her and being the brilliant playwright that he was, he understood Mary better than she understood herself.

She was a born actress; in fact she acted all the time, offstage as well as on. Her life story was one big part in which she was always the wronged or admired but always honest and virtuous heroine. Her motives were always what they should have been, not always what they were. He knew his Mary and she fascinated him. Besides, her beauty was unique. He could not compare it with his own Elizabeth’s. Elizabeth’s was of the soul. Ah, his saintly Elizabeth! He loved Elizabeth, but he was in love with Mary Robinson and, as he would say, he was not a man to pamper himself with noble sacrifice. She became his mistress. She was coy, feigning reluctance. She felt uneasy about this relationship, she told him, because he had a wife.

And she a husband, he reminded her. ‘Which makes us eligible.’

‘You jest about a sacred matter.’ Dear Mary had little appreciation of humour. But he was enchanted with her faults as well as her virtues.

She had met Elizabeth and that, she had declared, filled her with dismay.

He wondered whether Elizabeth knew. He could not be sure. But Elizabeth had become disillusioned long ago. He would have explained that what he felt for Mary Robinson was a transient emotion. His life was bound up with Elizabeth; he was sure he could have explained it to her had she asked. But she did not. At this time she was obsessed by their baby son, young Thomas; that, her singing, reading plays for him which came into the Lane in hundreds from would-be playwrights, and helping with the accounts. What time had Elizabeth for suspicions?

But perhaps her family would tell her. Her brother Thomas was musical director of Drury Lane and worked closely with its manager. Thomas was a brilliant musician like all the Linley family and had composed the songs for The Duenna. Then there was sister Mary, wife of Richard Tickell, who knew almost everything that was going on and was constantly with her sister.

But Elizabeth gave no sign and the affair went on while Mary Robinson rapidly climbed to fame. She and Elizabeth Farren were the leading actresses of the day; when they played people flocked to see them; they were favourites both of the young bucks and the more sober-minded. To the former they were the loveliest girls in town; to the latter they were ladies. It was the pleasure of both these ladies to bring a new refinement to the stage and to show that the theatre could be entertaining without vulgarity.

What days! What triumphs! She remembered her part of Statira in Alexander the Great when she had enchanted the house with her Persian draperies of white and blue, her dark hair unpowdered; and she had played Fanny Sterling in The Clandestine Marriage, and Lady Anne in Richard III. All successes, every one. What a triumph she had scored in The Relapse and All for Love! and then Viola in Twelfth Night. Only one failure and that was not hers. Sheridan had been at his wits end for a new play and to deceive the playgoers had put on The Relapse under the title of A Trip to Scarborough. The audience had quickly detected the deception and had immediately expressed their indignation by catcalls and hissing. What a horrible moment – standing there on the stage and for the first time realizing that the audience no longer loved her.

But even that had turned into triumph, for the Duke of Cumberland, who came often to the theatre to ogle her from his box and to see her in the Green Room afterwards, leaned over and shouted to her: ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. It’s not you they’re hissing. It’s the play.’ Then Sheridan had come to the front and told the audience they would get their money back and a riot was so averted.

Yes, she could look back on three years of success; and now … Perdita.

In future, she told herself, I shall always think of myself as Perdita.

Incident at Covent Garden

PERDITA GAZED ANXIOUSLY at herself in the mirror but lack of sleep had had no effect on her appearance. Her eyes looked brighter and there was the faintest flush in her usually pale cheeks. Well, although she had not slept she had not been tossing and turning with worry. She had been lying still and relaxed in a haze of contentment and excitement – certain that something miraculous was going to happen while she went over the events which had led up to this day.

Mrs Armistead would soon arrive to help her dress. How wise she had been to set up this separate establishment with her mother and her child not far off so that she could see them frequently without having them living under the same roof. Of course the pay of an actress was not so great that she could afford many luxuries. Luxury could have been hers had she been prepared to pay for it. The Duke of Rutland had offered her six hundred pounds a year and a smart town house if she would become his mistress. The Duke of Cumberland had promised even greater remuneration. But she had refused them all, explaining to Sheridan: ‘What do they think I am? A superior kind of prostitute because I’m an actress?’

Sheridan had helped her write the letters to these noblemen. ‘We won’t be too severe,’ he had told her. ‘The theatre can’t afford indignant virtue. We’ll be a little coy – perhaps hold out hope … but not yet … not yet … This should ensure their regular attendance at the theatre.’

Sherry was a charming rogue. She was ashamed really that she had succumbed to him; but during those early days in the theatre she had needed support. But when she had known Elizabeth … Yes, that was how she saw it. It was nothing to do with his refusing her the part of Lady Teazle. It was because of her refinement of feeling over Elizabeth.

The point was that they remained great friends although they were no longer lovers.

Mrs Armistead was at the door – neat and discreet as ever.

‘Madam has rested well, I trust?’

‘I slept very little, Armistead.’

‘It is understandable. What will Madam wear today?’