Goddess of the Green Room

Royal courtship

DOROTHY JORDAN HAD no idea on that autumn night in the year 1790 that it was going to be the most significant of her life. Strangely enough she was feeling depressed and was heartily wishing that it was one of her free nights. Nothing would have pleased her more than to stay at home with the children.

While she sat before the looking glass in the bedroom she shared with Richard her eldest daughter came in and started playing with the articles on her dressing table.

‘Fanny, dear, pray don’t touch my rouge. You will make such a mess.’

Fanny scowled. She looked remarkably like her father when she did so. She had a quick and vindictive temper and Dorothy was rather afraid she was unkind to Dodee who was only three. Fanny was eight. Was it only nine years since that dreadful time when she had been the slave of that odious man? It seemed longer. But then so much had happened. An obscure actress had become a famous one and the mother of three little girls as well.

She thought of darling Lucy just over a year old and wished once more that she might have a quiet evening at home instead of facing an audience.

Fanny was dabbing rouge on to her cheeks and Dorothy looked at her daughter and burst out laughing. ‘You don’t need it, my precious.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re young and pink enough without it.’

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘Because I am not so young and not so pink.’ She bent over, took the pot from the child and kissed her. She always felt she had to be especially gentle with Daly’s daughter.

‘Mamma, what are you playing tonight?’

‘Henry Wildair.’

‘Is that a breeches part?’

‘Oh, Fanny, where do you hear such talk!’

‘From all the people who come here. Shall I go on the stage? I want to go on the stage. Would I be a good actress?’

‘I should think it likely. You have the theatre in your blood.’

‘Have I? Has Dodee?’

‘You are both my little girls,’ said Dorothy quickly. But it was more likely she thought that the daughter of Richard Daly should become an actress than Richard Ford’s.

And neither of them legitimate! she thought, with sudden bitterness. Since her mother’s death she had often considered her position. It was humiliating, for although most people accepted her as Richard’s wife it was widely known that she was not.

And for what reason? Why did Richard live with her openly and yet shy away from marriage every time she broached the subject? What could the reason be except that he did not consider her worthy to be his wife? And yet he was not averse to using her money. He had pleaded his father’s wrath as an excuse. He had said that he would be disinherited. He might as well have been for all he got from his father; he was not too proud, though, to live on her salary!

For she was rich – or she would have been if there had not been so many calls on her purse.

Her sister Hester came in carrying Lucy, with Dodee clinging to her skirt. Dodee flung herself at Dorothy.

‘Mamma is going to read to us.’

‘Not tonight, my darling, Mamma has to go to the theatre.’

‘Naughty old theatre,’ said Dodee.

‘Don’t be silly, Dodee,’ said Fanny. ‘It’s a good old theatre.’

‘It isn’t. It isn’t. It takes my Mamma.’

‘And gives her lots of money for us.’

Dorothy laughed. ‘You think that’s a good exchange, Fanny?’

‘Well, of course it is,’ retorted Fanny. ‘It gives us plenty of money so that Papa can have a new velvet coat and we can have sweetmeats – one after our dinner every day.’

‘So now you see, Dodee,’ said Dorothy.

‘I don’t want the theatre to have my Mamma,’ said Dodee, her lips beginning to quiver.

‘Don’t be a cry-baby, Dods,’ said Hester briskly. ‘I’ll sing you a song while you’re having your supper.’

I ought to be here with them, thought Dorothy. I ought to be singing a song to them while they have their supper.

Hester sat on the bed and said; ‘It’s Wildair tonight, I suppose.’

‘Wildair followed by Pickle.’

‘And you’ll come straight home after?’

Dorothy nodded.

‘Richard will be in the theatre.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘You seem tired.’

‘Oh, no. Just wishing that I could have an evening at home.’

‘You’ll feel differently when the curtain rises.’

‘It’s strange, Hester, but I always do. Now I feel depressed, and when I’m waiting my cue I’ll have that fluttery feeling inside. I never fail to get it; but once I’m on… I forget all about it and enjoy myself.’

‘There speaks the true professional.’

Fanny was listening eagerly to the conversation; she was vitally interested in everything connected with the stage. Dorothy thought: I don’t want that life for them. I’d like to see them all married happily and settled down in comfort. Would she ever realize that dream? In the first place they would have their illegitimacy as a drawback. Damn Richard! Why should he be such a coward? Why shouldn’t he defy his father for the sake of his family?

She would want dowries for the girls; and she would provide them if she could. But would she ever be able to? However much she earned she seemed to need it for her family’s expenses. She was beginning to realize that not only did she keep the children but Richard as well.

Hester was dependent on her; but what would she do without Hester, particularly now? Hester scarcely ever appeared on the stage because she was devoting herself to the children, and they looked upon her as a part of the household. They relied on Aunt Hester more than they did on their mother.

Richard came in and said: ‘You’ll be leaving shortly, I suppose?’

She looked at him with faint irritation. He was anxious for her not to be late at the theatre and was always worried when the quarrels between her and Mrs Siddons and the Kembles flared up. At the back of his mind was the fear that that powerful family. might oust her and that if she were turned out she wouldn’t be able to command the salary at Covent Garden, say, that she was getting at the Lane. Oh, Richard had his eyes to her salary. There was no doubt of that.

Hester seemed to be very sensitive regarding the atmosphere in this house. When she guessed trouble was rising between Richard and Dorothy she always endeavoured to be out of sight and earshot.

Now she said: ‘I’ll take the children off for supper. Come along. Fan.’

Fanny said she wanted to stay and talk to Papa and Mamma; but Dorothy said sternly that she was about to leave for the theatre and Fanny must go with the others.

Fanny pouted and stamped her foot, but Hester had a way with fractious children.

‘Now, Fanny,’ she said, ‘we don’t want to make a little idiot of ourselves, do we, before a famous actress?’

Fanny accepted the fact that her mother was a famous actress who had her name on play bills and at whom people stared in the streets and to whom they often called out a greeting and added that they had seen her in such and such and enjoyed her performance. She differentiated between her mother and that actress and while she displayed her temper to the one she was in awe of the other. Hester seized the opportunity to remove her.

When they had gone Richard said: ‘You spoil that girl.’

He often referred to Fanny as ‘that girl’ – and Dorothy resented this because it implied that he was remembering she was not his.

‘Poor child!’ said Dorothy. ‘Poor Dodee and poor Lucy! I wish to God they had a right to their name.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Richard, ‘are we on that old theme again?’

‘We are and we shall continue to be until you do your duty by those girls.’

‘Look here, Dorothy, we’ve gone over and over this. I can’t marry you. You know what the old man is. Are we going to throw away a hundred thousand pounds?’

‘Yes, gladly,’ said Dorothy, ‘for the sake of the girls.’

‘It’s for their sake that we want it and they’re perfectly happy now.’

‘Now they are because they don’t realize the position they’re in.’

‘Oh, nobody cares for those things.’

‘I care,’ said Dorothy. ‘When we set up house together you said we were to be married.’

‘And so we are as soon as it’s possible.’

‘I have a feeling that that moment will never come and that you are determined that it never shall.’

‘What a ridiculous thing to say!’

‘I suppose it is ridiculous to want a name for one’s children, to hate the insults which are thrown at me… constantly.’

‘Who throws these insults?’

‘You know very well how I am pilloried in the press. It is frequently happening.’

‘My dearest Dorothy…’

‘I am certainly not your dearest Dorothy. If I were you would grant me this small concession.’

‘My dear Dorothy then, you know that all famous people are pilloried. Look at the Prince of Wales, the Duke of York and young Clarence. They’ve only recently had this action against Walter.’

‘There is no reason why I should be humiliated for this cause.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dorothy, you are spoiling for a quarrel. I saw it in your face as soon as I came in. So did Hester. That’s why she left.’

‘She knows and you know that I have very good cause for my grievance.’

‘Listen, my dear, as soon as…’

‘As soon as it’s possible we’ll be married. You’ve been saying that for how long… ever since…’

‘Ever since we met and I fell in love with you and knew I couldn’t live without you.’

‘Providing it was not in wedlock.’

‘Oh, Dorothy, where is the difference?’

‘If there is no difference why do you hold out against it?’

‘You know my father…’

‘I know you. You are spineless, gutless… and I’m sorry you’re the father of my children.’

‘Two of them,’ said Richard. ‘Don’t forget you already had one before we met.’

She could have wept with rage and frustration; and this was no mood in which to go on the stage and play the debonair Harry Wildair.

‘Oh, go away,’ she said. ‘I’ll be late for the theatre.’

‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

‘Thanks, I can do without company.’

She stalked out of the room. She had been a fool, she told herself. She should never have agreed to live with him. She had loved him once, madly, passionately; and now that had altered slightly, but she still had an affection for him. He was weak, but perhaps she was fond of him for that very reason. Perhaps he had presented such a contrast to the brutal, bestial Daly.

She was unhappy. At the pinnacle of success she lacked what she most wanted: the warm cosy security of marriage. She was well aware why Grace had always wanted it for her.

If Richard would marry her; if she could feel that she was in truth his wife and the children were legitimized she would be happy. She would be able to face the jibes of the very respectable Sarah Siddons who never failed to remind her that not only was she superior to Dorothy Jordan on the stage but in her private life.

Life was niggardly; it offered freely with one hand and held back with the other.

Kemble was anxiously waiting for her when she reached the theatre.

‘I feared this was going to be one of those nights when you were too indisposed to act,’ he said with sarcasm.

‘I am in good health,’ she retorted.

‘I know that. But I still thought…’

She cut him short. ‘What’s the fuss about?’

‘You’re a little late.’

‘I’ll be on the stage in time, don’t worry.’

‘I hope so. We have a royal visitor.’

‘Oh?’

‘His Highness the Duke of Clarence.’

Dorothy felt disappointed; she had hoped for the Prince of Wales. On the nights he came it was a real gala evening.

She went into her dressing room; and while she was dressed she was thinking of Richard, his weakness and his obstinacy and her feelings towards him were so mixed that she found it difficult to analyse them.

From the moment she came on stage she was aware of the young man in the balcony box; he led the laughter when she played for laughs; he leaned forward to get a closer look at her; he applauded vociferously at the end of The Constant Couple and in accordance with custom she turned and curtsied especially for him. She was accustomed to appreciation but there was something more than usually ardent in the young man’s manner. Such enjoyment as he expressed and from a royal visitor was stimulating and she looked forward more than usual to playing Pickle.

It was a silly little farce really and yet played by her it never failed to amuse the house. It was an excellent idea to do it after the play so that the audiences went home laughing. It was something that had to be seen by the fashionable world; they called it a trifle, but if anyone had not seen Mrs Jordan as Pickle they were out of touch with London life.

Both Kemble and Sheridan knew that it would have been little use putting anyone else in the part. It had been written for Dorothy and only Dorothy had that special gift for clowning with a certain youthful abandon which alone could make the part possible.

The farce consisted in fact of one practical joke following on another which were all played by Little Pickle, the schoolboy hero. Dorothy’s small, neat and shapely figure was entirely suited to the costume which showed off her femininity to perfection and the very sight of her appearing on the stage in the Pickle costume set the audience cheering.

The Duke of Clarence leaned over his box and laughed at Dorothy’s antics until the tears ran down his cheeks.

He was heard to say: ‘George said I must see it, and, by God, he was right.’

Dorothy took her calls, made her obeisance to the royal visitor and retired to her dressing room, all depression gone. She had forgotten her anxieties for the girls and her quarrels with Richard.

Sheridan was at the door, smiling, slightly intoxicated. He could not take his drink as his cronies could. He was neglecting the theatre less nowadays and not leaving so much of the business to Kemble. He had had great hopes of political fame when the Regency Bill was being discussed, for a Regent Prince of Wales would have been a great fillip to his fortunes. As it was that avenue was closed temporarily, and the concerns of the theatre were once more a matter of urgency to him.

‘His Highness the Duke of Clarence wishes you to be presented.’

Dorothy grimaced. ‘I was hoping for an early night.’

Sheridan laughed. ‘His Highness is most excited. He’s been babbling to me about your performance. Now he wants to babble to you.’

‘I suppose I must.’

‘My dear, are you mad? Of course you must. We have to treat our royal patrons royally.’

Sheridan was smiling secretly. It was obvious that the young Duke’s admiration was great; and he had something of a reputation for his affairs with the ladies – not quite as great as that of the Prince of Wales or the Duke of York, but coming along very nicely. And a royal romance in the theatre was always good for business. Sheridan’s thoughts went automatically to Mrs Perdita Robinson. Dorothy was more of a business woman, with her eye to the cash. She had to be with all the hangers-on whom she kept about her – the children and Ford, who would never make a fortune, he was sure. No, Dorothy would not be as foolish as Mrs Robinson.

But His Highness was waiting.

‘I’ll bring him to your dressing room,’ said Sheridan. ‘He’s very impatient.’

He was standing in the doorway – smiling, young and rather charming with the unmistakable Hanoverian stamp on his features. Not as handsome as the Prince of Wales, not as tall as the Prince nor the Duke of York, but of medium height. There was a certain innocence about him which was appealing.

‘Your Highness,’ said Dorothy with a sweeping curtsey which she had perfected through many parts, ‘this is such an honour.’

‘No,’ he said, advancing and taking her hand, ‘the honour is all mine.’

‘Your Highness is gracious as well as kind.’

‘I was so enchanted by your performance. I never laughed so much as I did at your Pickle. Those tricks… reminded me of my days as midshipman. We were up to all sorts of pranks. I must tell you about them some time.’

Some time! So there were to be other times? Dorothy felt a twinge of alarm. These royal profligate brothers believed that actresses were fair game for a brief adventure. She would have to disillusion the young man quickly.

She guessed him to be about twenty-five; she herself was twenty-eight. But the brothers had always liked women older than themselves. Oh, yes, she would have to be very careful with Master Clarence and the best way of doing this was to disillusion him as soon as possible.

‘May I sit down?’

‘If there is anywhere suitable,’ she replied.

He laughed at that. Sheridan said he would send for a chair for His Royal Highness.

‘Don’t worry, Sherry. This stool will suit me very well, providing it is near enough to Mrs Jordan.’

Sheridan laughed. ‘If Your Highness will excuse me, I have theatre business.’

‘Certainly, certainly.’

Sheridan went out and they were alone.

‘I felt I had to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance.’

‘Your Highness did that in your box. I was most gratified. It was a wonderful house and that was due to Your Highness’s pleasure and appreciation.’

‘No, no. It was the beauty and genius on the stage.’

He was eyeing her with pleasure.

‘Stab me,’ he said, ‘you look no more than a schoolboy though I never saw such a pretty one.’

She smiled faintly and said: ‘It is surprising for I am the mother of three children.’

‘Then you are even more wonderful than I had thought possible.’

‘Your Highness would be surprised if you saw me in my home in the heart of my family. Mr Ford and I are a very domesticated couple.’

‘You are not only the most beautiful woman I ever saw, you are a good and virtuous one too.’ His eyes were softly sentimental. ‘You must know how I admire you.’

‘I do not think I am worthy of so much of Your Highness’s attention.’

‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘It is I who am not worthy to ask it. I knew as soon as I saw you that you were no ordinary actress. I want you to know that as soon as you came on the stage I was aware of this.’

She laughed; it was the merry sort of laughter she used in her tomboy parts. It was difficult, she thought, for an actress to get away from her parts. One played them off stage as well as on and these little theatrical gestures had often proved very useful in a difficult situation.

‘So kind,’ she said languidly. ‘So kind.’

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘where is your residence?’

‘In Somerset Street, Portman Square. It is not really near enough to the theatre. But I have a tiny place in Richmond. The children are often there. I think the air at Richmond is particularly beneficial.’

‘The air of Richmond is excellent,’ he said delightedly. ‘I have a place there. So we are near neighbours.’

‘I am more often in London,’ she reminded him. ‘Except of course when I play in Richmond.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he cried delightedly. ‘This is all so interesting.’

‘I am surprised Your Highness finds it so.’

‘But everything concerning you is of the utmost interest to me.’

‘That surprises me even more; but you will find your interest is misplaced. I am only interesting – at least I hope I am – on the stage. Outside that I am an ordinary mother and… wife.’

‘It is so… charming,’ he said. ‘And I long to know more of your interesting life. Could we have supper together?’

‘Your Highness is so gracious it seems churlish to refuse but…’

‘But?’ There was no hint of arrogance, only bitter disappointment.

‘My family is expecting me. I know Your Highness will understand.’

‘You would be anxious if you came, you would be thinking of them?’

‘I fear so – and no fit companion for such a gay young Prince as yourself.’

‘I shall be far from gay without you.’

‘So Your Highness excuses me.’

‘My dear Mrs Jordan, my dearest Mrs Jordan, I want you to know right from the start that your will must always be mine.’

He had charm, she had to admit it. She had heard that the Prince of Wales was the same; when he pursued a woman he subdued all arrogance and was the humble lover. The young brother evidently took his cue from the elder; but even if the humility was assumed, it made for smooth communication.

‘If Your Highness would excuse me… I must be leaving now.’

It was unheard of, she guessed – an actress to dismiss a Prince after refusing to sup with him. He must be furious beneath that charming grace. At least it would show him right from the start that she could not accept his advances. And she need not fear that he could harm her career. She was too firmly established with the theatre-going public for that.

‘Perhaps you would allow me to take you home. My carriage is waiting.’

‘Your Highness is insistent on showing me kindness which I do not deserve. Mr Ford is doubtless in the theatre having come to take me back to our home.’

He bowed. ‘Then I can only thank you for allowing me these few moments of pleasure.’

He did escort her to the Green Room where she was pleased to see Richard was waiting.

The Duke bowed and she curtsied. Then he left her and she went to Richard who was watching in some surprise.

‘We had the Duke of Clarence in the house tonight,’ she said. ‘He came back-stage to compliment me on my performance.’

‘Good,’ said Richard.

She went out with him to her carriage and she thought angrily: I played the virtuous matron to the young man tonight; and Richard could so easily give me the satisfaction of being exactly that in reality.

Was she a promiscuous woman? She most certainly was not! Yet she had three illegitimate children. One forced on her by Daly; the others the result of her union with Richard who had sworn he would marry her.

She felt angry with this man to whom she was ready to be the devoted wife, whom she had loved whole-heartedly and whom she now helped to keep in a comfortable if not completely luxurious manner.

And yet he would not do this one thing for her which he knew she craved.

He was cowardly and selfish; and for some reason her encounter with the Duke of Clarence had made this more apparent.

At least, she promised herself, she would have no more overtures from that young gentleman.

In that she was mistaken, for the next night the Duke was again in the balcony box and it was clear that he had come for the sole purpose of watching Mrs Jordan.

He came each night and afterwards back-stage. They talked as they had on the first occasion and then she would tell him that Mr Ford was waiting to take her home. He will soon be tired, she told herself. He is no doubt accustomed to easy conquests. But he did not get tired; he greeted her always with adoring looks and made no complaint that she refused to have supper with him. She could not be unaffected by his attentions and was aware that her performances were even more vivacious than before. She even wondered whether she was playing more to please the young man in the balcony box than the whole of the house.

One night, after the show, he said to her: ‘Do you find me not persistent?’

‘The most persistent playgoer in the house, I believe.’

‘It is not in my play-going that I am persistent but in my admiration for you.’

‘I am honoured.’

‘And yet you will not have supper with me?’

‘Your Highness, I wish you to understand my position.’

‘I do understand it. I have discovered everything I can about you. I know of your attachment to Mr Ford and that you have been faithful to him for many years.’

‘Then you will understand that I am of the faithful kind.’

‘I would not have it otherwise. I would be also.’

‘I have proved my fidelity,’ she said with a smile. ‘I shall go on doing so.’

‘I wish you would give me a chance to prove mine.’

‘Your Highness must understand…’

He put his hand over hers almost reverently.

‘I can remain silent no longer,’ he said. ‘I am in love with you. I have been ever since the first night I saw you. If it were possible I would ask you to marry me, but I cannot do this. I have to ask my father’s consent and he would not give it.’

Dorothy could not help smiling ruefully. It was the same story; but in his case it was true. As the son of the King he was in the line of succession to the throne and if the Prince of Wales and Duke of York did not marry and have children, this young Prince could be the King. It was different from Richard’s case. She granted him that.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘while I cannot marry without my father’s consent I can refuse to marry at all – and that I should do. With us it would be a marriage… as my brother’s with Mrs Fitzherbert. I want to live respectably… as married, and be faithful to one woman all my life; and now that I have met you, I know that there is only one woman who could fill that role in my life – and she is you.’

‘You are charming,’ she said, ‘but I am committed.’

‘Richard Ford is not your husband.’

‘We shall marry in due course and two of my children are his.’

‘We could have children, you and I.’

She shook her head. ‘I shall never forget the honour you have done me, but I consider myself married to Mr Ford and as you have said: I am faithful.’

‘I shall never stop loving you,’ he assured her. ‘And I shall not give up hope. Will you have supper with me tonight?’

‘I must say no,’ she said with a smile, ‘for I must go home to my family.’

William called at Carlton House and George received him in the library with his windows looking out on to the gardens.

‘What a lovely place you have here, George!’ cried William, throwing himself into a chair and gazing disconsolately out at the gardens.

‘It didn’t grow of itself,’ the Prince reminded him. ‘It has taken me quite a time, the advice of architects and the skill of artists, but I flatter myself I now have a worthy dwelling here and at Brighton. You haven’t been to the Pavilion lately, William. You must come. How is Clarence Lodge progressing?’

‘Very well, but I did not come to talk about houses, George.’

‘No? Then what?’

‘Women. Or rather a woman.’

‘Mrs Dorothy Jordan.’

‘How did you know?’

The Prince laughed. ‘My dear William, didn’t you realize that we are watched by a thousand eyes; we are listened to by a thousand ears and a thousand pens a day are taken up to ridicule or libel us in some way. I have been reading snippets concerning a certain exalted young gentleman and Little Pickle. I couldn’t help knowing to whom that referred. So you took my advice and went to Drury Lane and there you saw the delectable Mrs Jordan.’

‘You think she is charming?’ William smiled beatifically.

‘I think she is utterly delightful.’

‘I always said there wasn’t a man in England with better taste than you.’

‘I am inclined to agree with you. And I will say this, that if I were not so entirely and absolutely committed to my dearest love, my Maria, I would be your rival.’

‘Oh, don’t say that. I should be terrified. She would never be able to resist you as…’

‘As she is resisting you?’

William nodded wretchedly. ‘That’s what I wanted to see you about. I want your advice. You see, George, she is a wonderful woman. She considers herself married to this man Ford. And there are children. Two of his and one of Daly’s – some theatrical brute who forced his attentions on her. You see I have learned all about her. And because she considers herself married to Ford she is faithful to the fellow.’

‘What sort of fellow?’

‘A barrister of a sort… not very successful. Dorothy keeps the home going with her salary, so I hear.’

‘She is a good woman,’ said the Prince, ‘and believe me, there is nothing so important to a man – and to Princes like ourselves – as a good woman. If I could have married Maria openly I should have been the happiest man on Earth.’

‘But are you absolutely faithful to Maria?’

‘That is not the point. I would never leave Maria. She knows that. I should always go back to her and although I might stray now and then – for as you know I find it very hard to resist a pretty woman and there are so many of them and all so charming in their different ways – it is Maria whom I regard as my wife. I could not live without Maria nor she without me.’

‘That is how I feel about Dorothy, but I should always be faithful to her.’

‘But then you see, my dear William, I am a married man of some standing whereas you are about to be married. That is the difference in our points of view.’

‘About to be married?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking.’

‘George, she refuses me. Every time she tells me that she will be faithful to Ford.’

The Prince smiled reminiscently. ‘Maria would not consent for a whole year… and more. She went away… abroad… and I was faithful to her. I wrote the most heartrending letters.’

‘I haven’t your power with the pen.’

‘Nor do you need to have because she is here.’

‘But I can get no further with her.’

‘I had to attempt suicide for Maria.’

‘Do you think I should for Dorothy?’

‘Not at this stage. But don’t give up. Try to think what would appeal to her and you will win in the end. You have your royalty, and royalty is an asset which few women can resist. In addition you are young, tolerably handsome; you are not without charm; and I am sure you could please the lady more than this… what’s his name?’

‘Richard Ford.’

‘More than he does. Persistence is your line. Never give up. Now, since I knew of your interest in the lady I have been considering her and I have found many little items in the gossip columns about her. Actors and actresses are considered fair game for gossip – just as we are. I have gathered that there are often stormy scenes between Mrs Jordan and Mr Ford. I cannot believe he can offer as much as you can.’

‘But she is not to be bought.’

‘Everyone is to be bought by one thing or another. It may be love; it may be money; it may be fame. But there will be something. She has children. She is a good mother. Now if I were in your place… But then I am not. Through my tribulations I have come to happiness with my Maria and our circumstances were different from yours.’

‘George, you were saying… if you were in my place.’

‘If I were in your place I should ask myself where she was most vulnerable. It is through her children. It is because she is anxious for the welfare of her children that she clings to Richard Ford. They are his; he accepts them as his. Perhaps this is the reason. Suppose you were to agree to shoulder those financial burdens. Suppose there was some agreement… a real agreement drawn up by lawyers say… in which you undertook to provide for the children.’

‘Could I do that, George?’

‘Why not?’

‘But I should need money.’

‘Money!’ said the Prince of Wales, wrinkling his charming nose in the manner which was famous. ‘My dear William, Princes do not concern themselves with money.’

‘You and Fred are in debt to thousands, I know. I couldn’t be.’

‘Why should you? Just by providing for these children? My dear William, you are the King’s son. My brother. I think you forget that at times.’

‘Perhaps I do. It was all those years at sea when I was treated like a common sailor.’

‘How revolting!’ said the Prince with another wrinkle. ‘But don’t worry about money. It always comes from somewhere. Continue to see her. Let her know that you are sympathetic, that you love children, that you are concerned for hers. Win her confidence and let her see that all Richard Ford can do for her you can do – for it seems that he does not marry her.’

‘I think you are right, George. I knew you would be. How can I thank you.’

The ever-ready tears filled George’s eyes. He regarded his brother with affection.

‘There is one way you can thank me – by winning the delightful lady and being happy with her.’

Dorothy and Hester had put the children to bed. It was one of Dorothy’s free nights.

‘What are you playing tomorrow?’ Hester asked.

‘Beatrice in The Panel.’

‘I suppose he will be there.’

‘You mean the Duke of Clarence?’

‘Whom else?’ asked Hester.

‘He is always there when I play.’

‘You speak with some complacence.’

‘Well, it is not a matter for congratulation when the King’s son comes to the theatre every time one appears.’

‘I wonder where it is going to end.’

‘He will grow tired.’

Dorothy had seated herself in an arm-chair and Hester had taken the stool at her feet. It was a position they had occupied in those long ago days in Leeds when the whole family had looked to Dorothy’s skill – as they still did. But in those days it had had to be proved; now it was.

‘You will be sorry when he does.’ Dorothy hesitated and Hester added quickly: ‘You are growing fond of him.’

‘He is charming and he never shows anger because I continually flout him. He always tries to please me… far more than Richard ever did.’

‘Has Richard said anything?’

‘About marriage?’ Dorothy’s lips curled. ‘He has not changed his mind if that is what you mean.’

‘The Duke could not marry you.’

Dorothy laughed aloud. ‘Here I am between the two of them. One who swears he would if he could and one who could if he would. A fine state of affairs, Hester. And I think of the girls. What will happen when it is time for them to marry? Oh, Richard is cruel. After all, they are his children.’

‘All but Fan.’

‘And Fan… what will become of her? I worry about them, Hester. I know how Mamma felt about us. She longed for marriage and it was denied her. How odd that my position should be so like hers. She wanted marriage for me so much; and in the same way I want it for the girls. It will be a great hindrance to them if they cannot have their father’s name. Look at me: Mrs Jordan. A name given to me by Wilkinson! A name to which I have no legal right! I don’t want that for the girls. Surely Richard must understand this.’

‘He does and I am sure he would marry you if…’

‘If he were not afraid of his father! What sort of a man is he?’

‘What does he say about the Duke’s attention?’

‘Nothing. Precisely nothing.’

‘Perhaps it will force him to some action.’

‘I find the situation quite humiliating. I might…’

Hester was alert, but Dorothy did not go on.

Hester could not help visualizing what changes might be in store for the household.

Dorothy’s brother, George, called at Somerset Street with Maria Romanzini. George was doing fairly well and had had one or two minor parts; he was now a qualified actor but without pretensions to greatness, while Maria Romanzini’s fine singing voice was her great asset and made up for her somewhat squat figure and unfashionable swarthiness.

Dorothy guessed what they had come to say as soon as she saw them and she could not suppress a pang of envy although she was pleased for George’s sake.

‘Dorothy,’ said George solemnly, ‘we have come to tell you something.’

Hester laughed and said, ‘I don’t think you need to, George.’

‘So you’ve guessed,’ cried Maria, opening her great dark eyes which with her plentiful rippling black hair was her only beauty.

‘It’s written all over your faces,’ Dorothy told them. ‘So you decided to marry at last.’

‘At last!’ cried George. ‘It hasn’t been so very long.’

Dorothy kissed the bride and groom and told them that she wished them every happiness, and Hester brought out a bottle of wine so that they could drink the health of the newly married pair.

‘Neither of us is doing so badly now,’ said Maria almost apologetically, ‘so we thought that there was no sense in waiting.’

‘We want a family,’ added George.

‘Of course,’ agreed Dorothy. ‘It’s all very natural and God bless you both.’

They drank and talked excitedly of the future. George would not be playing small parts for ever; and Maria might go into opera. There was a growing popularity for opera, she believed. They would manage in any case.

They talked about parts and the theatre and how Drury Lane was doing better business than it had for years.

‘It’s your Pickle that brings them in, Dorothy,’ said George. ‘It must be wonderful to get on that stage and see that big audience and know that it has come to see you.’

Dorothy smiled. Yes, she thought, but there are more wonderful things. If Richard would marry her as George had married Maria that would give her more pleasure than all the full houses in the world.

Yet she was not in love with Richard any more. He had disappointed her. In the beginning she had felt as Maria and George so obviously did, but he had failed her. Solemnly he had promised. It was absurd to say that his father would object. He was not a boy any longer. They would do without his father’s money and approval.

Maria was looking at her with envy. Maria, who was a good actress, a fine singer, but who knew she would never rival the talents – some called it genius – of Dorothy Jordan. Dorothy was at the top of her profession; a royal Duke was in love with her; she was the mother of three children. And the one thing she wanted – respectable marriage, security for the girls – was denied her, and by the man who was supposed to love her and could so easily have given her what she wanted.

Her brother’s marriage had affected her deeply. It had made her consider the hopelessness of trusting Richard Ford.

The Duke was in her dressing room, humble, adoring as usual.

‘You are too kind,’ she said.

‘I want you to know that the only thing I ask in life is to be kind to you.’

‘I am grateful. How I wish that I could give what you ask.’

‘You do wish it?’ He was eager.

‘I could not help but be moved by such devotion.’

‘I shall go on waiting… and hoping. But I fear I weary you.’

He fancied he saw a faint alarm spring into her eyes. Did she think he was hinting that he was growing tired? Then although she would not give in she did not want him to give up trying. There was hope in that.

‘When I leave every night I think of you going home to your children. How I should love to be there! I am so fond of children. They are little girls, I know. Little girls are particularly charming, although I confess I should like a son.’

She told him of the children, of her anxieties over Frances, who was inclined to be wayward; she was less alarmed for Dodee and Lucy.

‘Dodee is named for you?’

She laughed. ‘We could not have two Dorothys in the family.’

‘I shall call you Dora,’ he said. ‘It shall be my name. You are Dorothy for the multitude of your admirers – you shall be Dora for this one.’

He told her about Petersham Lodge where he was now living. He should like to show it to her.

‘The gardens are splendid. Are you fond of gardens? I should like your advice about the flower-beds I am having planted. It’s large but not too large… and an ideal place for children to play in.’

What was he suggesting? That he would take her and the children?

‘One day,’ he said, ‘I hope to meet them. I hope to make them fond of me.’

‘So you really are fond of children?’

‘I adore them. I should like to have a large family and give them the happiness which I missed as a boy. We had a very strict upbringing, you know. Our father was a martinet. He believed in discipline and many were the canings we had to endure – particularly George, my eldest brother. He was so proud and so determined to have his own way. You will love him as I do – he’s the best fellow in the world.’

‘I doubt,’ she said, ‘that the Prince of Wales would be eager to… to… accept me.’

‘My dearest Dora, you are wrong. Absolutely wrong. I have talked to him of you. He thinks you are delightful. He longs to meet you. He bids me say that you would be very welcome in the family. He is interested too in your children. He says I should set your mind at rest concerning them…’

‘The Prince of Wales said that?’

‘Certainly he did. Did I not tell you he is the best brother in the world? Oh, my dear Dora, you have been reading these wicked scandals about him. Don’t believe them.’

‘I don’t need to be warned against the scandalmongers. I have suffered enough from them myself. But you say that the Prince of Wales…’

‘We discuss everything together and I have naturally spoken to him of what is the most important matter in my life. He says I should refuse to give in; that I should make you see that your children would lose nothing. He says that as you are a good woman this would be a matter of concern with you. He is right, is he not, my dear love?’

She was moved. He thought: George is right. Trust George. This is the way.

‘I am deeply moved by the Prince’s concern. I did not think… I did not know…’

He embraced her and for the first time she did not repulse him.

Oh, blessed George, who understood the ways of women as well as he did the cut of a coat and the arranging of a neck cloth!

She withdrew herself and said: ‘But I must go home now.’

He did not seek to detain her. The first battle was won – thanks to George, Prince of Wales.

‘George has married Maria Romanzini,’ said Dorothy sitting at her dressing table and combing her long beautiful hair.

‘I guessed he would,’ said Richard, yawning from his pillows.

‘He was determined that there should be no gossip about their relationship.’

‘Who would gossip about them?’

‘Certainly it would not be the same as it is about me.’

‘I’m tired,’ said Richard. ‘Come to bed.’

She stood up and threw the hairbrush on to the dressing table.

‘I’m tired too,’ she said, ‘tired of waiting for you to fulfil your promises.’

‘Oh, Dorothy, not tonight.’

‘Why not? Tonight is as good as any time. I want a plain answer. Are we to be married or not?’

‘Of course we are.’

‘When – on Judgement Day?’

‘In due course.’

‘The same thing,’ she said. ‘Listen, Richard, I have had enough. I want a plain answer to my question: Are you going to marry me or not?’

‘I will marry you as soon as I can conveniently do so.’

‘And what of the children – two of them illegitimate and all because you have failed to keep your promises.’

‘They will be all right. I’ll see that they’re all right.’

‘That is a promise. As reliable, I daresay, as that you gave me when you said we’d be married.’

‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it is His High and Mightiness who has put this notion into your head? You’ve been ten times more difficult to live with since you started your friendship with royalty.’

‘The Duke of Clarence is in love with me.’

‘And promised to marry you?’

‘Don’t be absurd. You know that’s impossible.’

‘And you accept that?’

‘I have accepted nothing from him because I consider myself married to you in every way except by signing my name on marriage lines.’

‘Well, of what importance is that? You and I are together for the rest of our lives. In spite of your wearying insistence on that ceremony and your rages because of it, I still want to go on as we have been.’

‘Well, I don’t. I want that ceremony – for the sake of my children. And if you won’t give it…’

‘You will go to His Highness?’

‘I have not said that. I am uncertain what I shall do. But I will not go on in this way. I want a definite answer. Will you marry me. Richard Ford? Will you marry the mother of your two little girls or not?’

‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk of it later.’

She lay at one end of the bed, he at the other. He was soon asleep, but she was not.

She knew that the moment of decision was at hand; and she thought of the advantages of living with a royal Duke. If he gave security to the children, if there need not be this continual preoccupation with money… how restful that would be. She would not be married, of course, but then she was not married to Richard – and she was beginning to wonder whether she ever would be.

William felt more hopeful than he had since Dorothy had refused to have supper with him. The Prince of Wales was right. Persistence was what was needed. He had to show her that he was determined, that he loved her completely, that he would do anything in the world for her except marry her and even that he would do if it were in his power. The Prince of Wales was on his side; and the Prince of Wales would one day be King. If she came to him she need have no more anxieties; she wanted a peaceful happy life with the knowledge that her children were secure.

He would give her that. He could give her so much more than Richard Ford could; and when he looked at that insignificant fellow he felt angry that he should have been accepted while he, Royal William, was not.

He met him one night back-stage and gave him a look of contempt. Ford did not seem to mind. Of course he did not. Dorothy shared his home – or he shared hers, for it was her money that paid for it – and she regarded him as her husband.

The Duke was jealous of the insignificant barrister.

He went to find Sheridan.

‘I say, Sherry,’ he said, ‘I don’t like that fellow prowling about back-stage.’

‘What fellow has dared offend Your Highness?’ Sheridan wanted to know.

‘That fellow Ford.’

Sheridan nodded. ‘He’s always had the run of the theatre. His father once had a very large holding of the shares.’

‘His father?’

‘Yes, rich old devil. Very careful with his money. Retired on a fortune and living in the country.’

‘And one day this fellow will inherit, I daresay.’

‘I daresay, if he behaves himself and keeps in Papa’s good books.’

‘Well, stop him going back-stage, will you, Sherry?’

‘I humbly crave Your Highness’s pardon, but I have no power to stop him.’

‘You’re the manager of this theatre.’

‘There are rules in the theatre, Sir, which have to be regarded. Tradition, they call it. Mr Ford has as much right to go back-stage as Your Royal Highness has. You see, he is… attached to one of our leading actresses. I can tell you,’ added Sheridan slyly, ‘that he comes to see Mrs Jordan. Perhaps if the lady liked him not to…’

William turned away, roused from his usual good humour.

Well, it would not go on indefinitely. He was not going to be kept from his desire by a second-rate barrister.

Dorothy was well aware that her affairs were moving towards a climax. So much depended on Richard. He had only to offer to marry her and she would accept… even at this stage. He had humiliated her by his constant refusals, but her main concern was the children. She wanted above everything else to legitimize them; and if she could not do that she wanted to make their futures secure.

She talked it over with Hester continually; and she knew that Hester believed in her heart that she should abandon Richard and accept the Duke. Richard had proved beyond doubt that he was a weakling. It was true that love-affairs with royal princes were of notoriously short duration. And yet there was something innocent about William. There was no doubt that he was sincere at this time. He believed his love would endure and because he did so whole-heartedly he had begun to make her think so too.

She was not in love with him. Sometimes she wondered whether she was capable of being in love again. Daly had disgusted her, had made her shrink from men until she met Richard, and Richard had disillusioned her. Between the brute strength of Daly and the weak indecision of Ford, she had lost the power to love passionately and exclusively.

They had between them turned her into a calculating woman; but at least she was not calculating for herself. Always her concern was for the children.

Then came the news that she was to play at Richmond.

She would stay in the little Richmond house with Hester and the children; Richard would stay in London. This, she believed, would give her the opportunity she needed to come to her decision.

William was delighted that she was to play at the Richmond Theatre. He immediately went down to Petersham Lodge, a delightful villa which he had recently bought from Lord Camel-ford. His father had helped him to do this, having had twelve thousand guineas assigned to him to be used for this purpose. ‘Must have a proper residence,’ said the King. ‘Eh? What? Good air. Pleasant. Not far from Kew.’

Residence at Petersham Lodge enabled him to be in attendance at the theatre on Richmond Green every night Dorothy played. The theatre was full but not so much to see the play as to watch Mrs Jordan and the Duke of Clarence, for his pursuit of her was now common knowledge.

Every day there was a piece in one of the papers about the progress of the Duke’s courtship. Has she submitted or has she not? It was the great question of the hour; and all were certain that it could only be a matter of time.

‘Little Pickle has been besieged at Richmond by a certain exalted youth whom at present she has managed to keep at bay.’

ran one paragraph.

‘The Duke of Clarence is in Richmond. He comes to compliment Mrs Jordan. His Highness has for some time been enamoured of Little Pickle’s playful frolics.’

‘We hear from Richmond [said one of the London papers that an illustrious youth has at length passed the Ford, yet is not likely to be pickled by a legal process.’

Dorothy read the papers and discussed them with Hester.

‘At least,’ consoled Hester, ‘it is bringing matters to a head between you and Richard.’

‘I don’t think he cares, Hester. He is too lazy to care. I’m sure if I went off with the Duke tomorrow he would let me go without a regret.’

‘He is so… timid,’ agreed Hester.

Meanwhile William was growing bold, being certain of eventual success. The Prince of Wales had suggested that he give a fête for the fashionable world of Richmond to which he should ask Mrs Jordan and show her quite clearly that she was the guest of honour.

‘Capital idea,’ cried William, and set about making preparations.

Soon there was another announcement in the paper.

‘The Duke of Clarence is to give a fête to all the Fashion. Little Pickle is to be of the party.’

Dorothy was alarmed. To attend a fête openly was to some extent to commit herself. She was growing more and more fond of the persuasive young man; and yet more than anything she wanted marriage with Richard, and the girls when they grew up to have a father, their own father.

A way out of her dilemma came to her in the form of an invitation to play in two benefits at the Haymarket.

Sheridan had long decided that Drury Lane was an antiquated building and not suited to modern theatrical requirements. He had planned to have it rebuilt and operations were started that summer; he had taken a temporary lease of the Haymarket Theatre while his new Drury Lane was being constructed; and it was in the Haymarket that Dorothy was to play.

When the Duke called at the theatre and told her of his plans for the fête, she said: ‘I am sure it will be a great success.’

‘If you are there it will be for me,’ he replied ardently.

She opened her eyes wide and acted surprised, for he had not formally invited her but had simply taken it for granted that she would be present.

‘I did not understand that I was to be a guest.’

‘My dearest Dora, there could be no other reason for having it.’

‘But… I shall not be here. I am playing at the Haymarket.’

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.

Prince’s 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.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘He’s charming,’ agreed Hester. ‘I couldn’t believe we were entertaining the King’s own son.’

‘He makes you forget it, doesn’t he?’

‘Oh, Dorothy, the things that happen to you! Everyone is talking about it.’

‘Let them. They must talk about something.’

‘What about the children? You won’t want them with you.’

‘But I do want them with me.’

‘You can’t embark on a love-affair with a royal Duke and a ready-made family.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘It is not fair to him. No, Dorothy, you want this to last, don’t you? It would be awful if you’ve given up Richard just for an affair of a few months.’

‘Hester! You think it will be like that?’

‘Not if you’re wise. He doesn’t believe it possible. Nor must you. You must keep it like that. But he will want your full attention. You have your work. Are you going to have the family at your heels, too? No. I have a suggestion to make. I’ll stay here and look after the children. You go with him to Petersham Lodge or wherever he wants you to. Start afresh. It’s the best way. And then if you have children… his children… they’ll naturally be with you both; but you can’t expect him to take on Fan, Dodee and Lucy. It’s too big a strain. Believe me, Dorothy.’

‘Richard might claim them.’

‘Not Richard. He’ll be glad to be rid of the responsibility.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘Richard is always glad to be rid of responsibility.’

‘Think about it. Leave the children with me.’

‘I know you’ve looked after them so much in the past, but you have played occasionally.’

‘I was never much of an actress. I’ll give that up to look after the children. You can pay me for it. He’s going to treat you very handsomely, I suppose.’

‘I’ll talk it over… with him. I’m sure he will do what I wish.’

‘He’s different from Richard,’ said Hester with a smile.

Dorothy’s lips tightened for a while, then she smiled.

‘Very different,’ she said. ‘I think I am going to be very fond of him.’

William agreed that it was an excellent idea for Hester to have charge of the children.

‘And I know you won’t object to my seeing them very often.’

‘We will see them together.’

‘You are so good to me,’ she said earnestly.

Hanoverian eyes filled with ever-ready Hanoverian tears. She was to learn that almost all the royal brothers were excessively sentimental. While they were in love they loved whole-heartedly and were not afraid to say so; it was the great secret of their charm and they were loved for it almost as much as for their royalty.

She was to have an allowance of a thousand pounds a year from him.

‘It is too much,’ she declared.

‘Good God,’ he cried. ‘It should be more.’

Then she would sign over six hundred pounds of her own for the present support of the girls under Hester’s care, and she would immediately transfer every penny she owned into a trust for their future.

‘It shall be as you say. I’ll get my lawyer William Adam to look into these things. Then it will all be signed and sealed and you’ll have not the slightest cause for anxiety.’

‘I only hope,’ she said, ‘that I shall be worthy of you.’

He was so happy, he told her, and all that happiness was centred in her.

It was perfect bliss for him; and for her? She had never in her life felt so secure before. She had never been treated with such generosity and courtesy; she had never been so loved; Richard had said he loved her; but Richard was not a demonstrative man. To be loved by a Prince was exhilarating, exciting and filled her with joy. For the first time in her life she did not have to worry about money; she felt free, without responsibilities; it was astonishing how light-hearted she could be.

For a while at any rate she would give herself up to romantic love, for that was what the Duke was leading her to believe this was.

‘I’m happy,’ she told Hester, ‘really happy… for the first time in my life.’

The press was delighted. The royal brothers gave them constant cause for pleasure. If it was not one knee deep in scandal, it was one of the others. The liaison of the Prince of Wales with Mrs Fitzherbert would always be a cause célèbre for the all-important question ‘Did he or did he not marry her?’ had never been satisfactorily answered. But that did not mean there was not a good deal of attention to spare for Clarence and his actress.

‘The comic syren of Old Drury has abandoned her quondam mate for the superior attractions of a Royal Lodge to which Little Pickle was long invited.’

was one comment. Another was:

‘A favourite comic actress, if old Goody Rumour can be trusted, had thought proper to put herself under the protection of a distinguished sailor who dropped anchor before her last summer at Richmond.’

Let them write of her. What did it matter? They had always applauded her or ridiculed her. An actress had to accept this. The famous were out in the arena to be shot at. She had long ago learned that.

In response to his brother’s request the Prince of Wales called at Petersham Lodge on his way to Windsor. Dorothy was nervous. It was one thing to play on the stage before this gorgeous personage; to receive him as a guest in the house of which she had recently become the mistress was quite another matter.

But she was soon put at ease.

‘George, I want to present my dearest Dora to you.’

He bowed – the famous bow which was said to be the most elegant in the world; his eyes were alight with admiration.

‘You are even more beautiful than William has been telling me,’ he said.

‘Your Highness…’

‘Oh, come, we are brother and sister now. William would wish it. Is that not so, brother?’

William, beaming love and good nature, was, he said, the happiest man in the world to see that the two whom he loved beyond any others had taken to each other on sight.

‘Not,’ he declared, ‘that I conceived it possible to be otherwise. Two such good and charming people! It was George who put me on the right lines, you know, Dora. But for him I should not have won you yet.’

‘Then we must both be grateful to His Highness.’

‘You flatter me… both of you,’ said the Prince lightly. ‘But I forgive you because it does me so much good to see two people as much in love as you two are. It is exactly so with my own dear Maria, whom you shall meet.’

The Prince’s eyes filled with sentimental tears and Dorothy was surprised because she had heard that he kept Mrs Crouch whom she knew slightly, for the woman was an actress who had played at Drury Lane and she had boasted of having a place in Berkeley Square and some £5,000 of jewellery which he had given her. Rumour had it that Mrs Fitzherbert was furious because of the liaison and it was only when she threatened to leave him that he had broken it off. There were even now rumours about Lady Jersey who seemed to attract him in the oddest way. She fascinated yet repelled; she was an extremely sensuous woman, wicked, some say, and as different from Maria Fitzherbert as it was possible for two women to be. It was true that the Prince wanted to keep Mrs Fitzherbert; but he was by no means faithful to her as he was implying now. But he did so with such a show of sincerity that it seemed he must believe it to be true.

Considering all she had heard of him Dorothy felt uneasy, fearful that William who seemed to have such a high opinion of his brother might take his cue from him.

But now the Prince was determined to be charming; he was completely at ease; he talked to Dorothy of the theatre and plays and playwrights of which he was very knowledgeable.

He told her how he admired her voice and begged her to sing for him; and she amused them both by singing the song which she often sang after playing The Spoiled Child with its line:

‘What girl but loves the merry Tar?’

The Prince sang it with her. His voice was good, quite strong and very pleasant. He was rather proud of it and said that as she had sung for him he would sing his favourite sentimental ballad for her.

It was Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill – a tribute to the absent Maria.

Then they all sang together and Dorothy forgot the high rank of her visitor, for indeed he behaved like an affectionate brother-in-law.

When he rose to go he expressed his regrets that he must do so.

‘I have to go to Windsor,’ he explained to Dorothy. ‘You can imagine nothing more dull.’

And he spoke as though she were indeed a member of the family.

When he had gone, William seized her hands and cried: ‘Well, what do you think of him?’

‘He is charming… even more so than I had expected.’

‘He is the best brother in the world. And he is fond of you already. I told him he must be or I should never forgive him.’

‘It is good to see such affection between brothers,’ she said; and she thought: he is affectionate by nature. I believe I am a very lucky woman.

But the lampoonists and the cartoonists were not going to allow Dorothy to enjoy her happiness if they could prevent her doing so. There was scarcely a day when some piece about her did not appear in the papers. Behind her back her fellow-actors and actresses called her ‘The Duchess’.

There was veiled criticism of her desertion of her children. One of the morning papers came out with the statement:

‘To be mistress of the King’s son Little Pickle thinks respectable, and so away go all tender ties to children.’

This was something which upset Dorothy more than all the coarse allusions to her life with the Duke.

She took the paper to Hester when she went to see the children and asked if she had seen it.

Hester had.

‘What if the children were to? I know Dodee and Lucy are not old enough, but what if Fanny should?’

‘Fan is bad enough now,’ said Hester. ‘She talks of you and the Duke constantly and is piqued because you have not taken her to live with you. You know Fan’s temper.’

‘That’s what I fear – that they should see these comments… and heaven knows they are everywhere.’

‘What of Richard?’

‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘He has taken it all very calmly.’

‘I never thought he would do anything else. I do believe he is glad to be rid of me.’

‘I think he was sorry to see you go, Doll, but he’s relieved that someone else is going to look after his children.’

‘I’m well rid of him. I often wondered how I could ever have wanted to marry him.’

‘It was not Richard you wanted, Doll. It was marriage.’

‘Mamma instilled that into us, didn’t she? And now I think it is something I shall never have.’ She sighed. ‘But I’m not going to allow this to be said. Richard will have to do something. He will have to make it publicly known that I have not deserted our children, that I am the one who is caring for them and that he is the one who has freed himself from his responsibilities.’

‘How can you make him do this?’

‘I am sure William can.’

William did.

He went to his lawyer William Adam and pointed out how the papers were abusing Mrs Jordan. He wished Adam to watch the papers and if anything was said which was actionable to be ready to take it on his behalf.

Adam’s advice was that Richard Ford should write to Mrs Jordan a letter in which he set out fully all that she was doing for their children. He would go and see Ford and advise him that it was a moral duty to do this without delay.

Ford agreed and Dorothy received a letter from him.

It ran as follows:

October 14th, 1791

To Mrs Jordan.

‘Lest any insinuations should be circulated to the prejudice of Mrs Jordan in respect to her having behaved improperly towards her children in regard to pecuniary matters, I hereby declare that her conduct has in that particular been as laudable, generous and as like a fond mother as in her present situation it was possible to be. She has indeed given up for their use every sixpence she has been able to save from her theatrical profits. She has also engaged herself to allow them £550 a year and at the same time settle £50 a year upon her sister. ’Tis but bare justice to her for me to assert this as the father of these children.

Richard Ford.’

She showed the letter to William who took it and gave it to William Adam. Adam promptly sent it to the Morning Post who published it.

When Richard Ford saw it he was astonished; he had written for Dorothy alone and was embarrassed for people to know that it was Dorothy who had taken on the responsibility of arranging their children’s future. But it was now clear to all that Dorothy, while becoming the Duke’s mistress, had by no means neglected her children, and it was said that had Ford married her – and after the respectable life they had led together he owed it to her – she would have remained faithful to him.

Opinion was veering round. Ford was going to be the scapegoat now.

He took action at once and left the country for France – scarcely the most peaceful of retreats at this time, with the monarchy dangerously tottering and where no person who did not wear ragged breeches and red cap was safe to go abroad.

Once Richard had gone the public lost interest in him. The famous actress and the King’s son were far more amusing than

Richard Ford.

The lampoons began to appear thick and fast. There was never a day which did not bring an allusion to them.

There were pictures of Dorothy and Mrs Fitzherbert together. ‘The pot,’ ran the caption, ‘calling the kettle black.’

The favourite story was that of the King sending for his third son and when he arrived at Windsor saying to him: ‘I hear you keep an actress.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ William is reputed to have replied.

‘Eh, what, how much do you give her, eh?’

‘A thousand a year, Sir.’

‘A thousand, eh, what? That’s too much. Five hundred… quite enough… quite enough.’

The story went on that the Duke wrote to Mrs Jordan telling her what the King had said, to which she replied by tearing off the bottom of a play-bill on which was written:

‘No money returned after the rise of the curtain.’

People pretended to believe the story; it was just one of the many coarse comments which were made about the lovers.

Domestic bliss

THIS WAS THE happiest time of her life. She often wondered what her mother would have said, had she been alive to see her now. Would she have been satisfied? Perhaps. The Duke behaved in every way like a husband. He wanted domestic happiness; he was most content when they were alone together; and there was nothing he enjoyed more than to sit with her in the evenings and talk to her about his life at sea.

‘I missed it you know, Dora,’ he told her. ‘I was badgering my father to let me go back to sea. But now that I have you it’s changed. Rather a life ashore with my Dora than at sea, I can say to myself. Of course I could take you with me. Oh, no. Too many dangers. A storm blows up, men are swept overboard… Stab me, I couldn’t let my Dora face that. I’d die of fright.’

He liked to hear her stories of the theatre.

‘Always attracted me,’ he said. ‘I reckon that if I’d not been born the son of my father I’d have been an actor. The footlights… the rise of the curtain… and that moment when the audience are quiet… waiting. It never fails to thrill me. And I’ll never forget that moment when you came swaggering on the stage in your breeches… Sir Harry Wildair. I was yours from that moment. No one else in the world would ever do after that. I was determined, you know. I wasn’t going to stop pestering you until you said yes.’

He smiled at her tenderly – the lover, the husband, the protector.

Oh, God, she thought, I’m happy. Let this last for ever.

‘There’s no one to touch you on the stage, Dora. George said so. And George is the connoisseur of the drama… literature… oh, of everything. He says they go to see Siddons because they think they should; but they go to see you because they want to. You can trust George to put his finger right on the point.’

‘The King and the Queen favour Mrs Siddons, I believe,’ she reminded him.

That made him laugh. ‘Now you’re one of the family I shan’t mince my words about them. My father is less like a king than any king has ever been. Now, George when the time comes will be a king every inch of him. But my father… If you could know what life at Kew is like. The little farm there… and all the fuss he makes about how the butter is made and the dairy run. Oh, God, he’s like a petty landowner. He’s carried away by little cares about where a chair is and how much fat you eat or how much exercise you take, and he’s prudish in the extreme.’

‘Then what does he think of us?’

‘Even he sees it’s inevitable. He spoke kindly of you. He knows we can’t marry and he sees that since we can’t, this is the next best thing. If George hadn’t been the Prince of Wales he would have thought it all right for him to settle down with Mrs Fitz. But you see George will one day be King. As for the rest of us… there are so many of us that we need not marry.’

‘And if you had to…’

He was at her side, taking her hands, kissing them. ‘There is only one woman on Earth I would marry – and I consider myself married to her already. Dora, my lovely Dora, if it had been worth anything I should have gone through the ceremony with you, we’d have taken our vows before a priest. But it would not count. My brother Augustus’s case proved that. It would be called no marriage in the eyes of the State. That is the only reason why we have not gone through our ceremony.’

Dorothy said: ‘I do understand these things – and I don’t know how I can deserve your love and devotion to me.’

‘It’s simple,’ he replied. ‘Go on loving me. It’s all I ask. It’s all I command.’

So it was a perfect union, she thought – at least as near perfect as that between an actress and a Prince could be.

Yes, even her mother would be satisfied.

There was a feeling of expectancy among the Drury Lane Company.

Every ambitious young actress who thought she had a comic genius to compare with Dorothy Jordan’s but merely lacked opportunity and good luck was surreptitiously studying the Jordan parts and in many a little room in dingy lodgings near the theatre rehearsals of Wildair and Little Pickle went on.

The mistress of the King’s son could not possibly continue with her career as an actress.

She was referred to ironically as ‘Her Grace’.

‘Has Her Grace been in the theatre today?’

‘Oh, yes, she came with His Grace. They have been in Mr Sheridan’s office. If you meet her you must curtsey right down to the ground because you have to stoop lower for a jumped-up Duchess than a high-born one.’

‘I saw Her Grace’s carriage yesterday.’

‘Her Grace’s tailor is in the theatre. He wants to measure Her Grace for Little Pickle’s breeches.’

They were envious of her happiness with a Duke and at the same time delighted that there was a possibility of stepping into her shoes.

Sheridan shook his head over them. It was no use their clamouring to him to play Little Pickle. There was only one Little Pickle in the world and that was Dorothy Jordan.

He was not at all sure that he was going to lose his actress; he fervently hoped not.

He called at Petersham Lodge to see her when he knew the Duke was not there. He kissed her hand and congratulated her on her good looks.

‘This life suits you, my dear,’ he said.

She bade him be seated and sent for refreshment. He watched her in his inimicable way and she secretly wished that she could have complimented him on his healthy looks. There were darker shadows under his eyes and in spite of his rakish appearance she knew he was concerned. He was constantly on the edge of financial disaster and the rebuilding of Drury Lane with its delays and setbacks was giving him many a disturbed night – when he returned home from his carousals.

‘I have been wondering what your plans are… theatrically speaking, of course.’

‘I have not yet discussed them with the Duke.’

‘An actress like you, Dorothy, has a duty to the public.’

‘Don’t you think I have done my duty now, Sherry?’

He was Sherry to William and the Prince of Wales and so to her now. He was aware of the change in her manner towards him. It amused him and reminded him of her elevation. He was a friend now as well as her theatrical manager. All to the good, he thought.

‘To your public yes, but what of yourself and the girls?’

‘It is all taken care of.’

‘There is the future.’

‘What do you mean? It is the future I’m thinking of.’

‘How can one plan for the future? How can one know what will happen? I know you, Dorothy. Improvident spendthrift that I am, I know you – and all the better because you are so completely different from myself. You can command high salaries in the theatre… none higher, even our Sarah. Are you going to throw it away? Why don’t you go on working? If you don’t want the money yourself, you have a family. There are those three girls.’

She was thoughtful.

‘I talked in this way to another young actress. Mrs Robinson. I said to her: “Now the public wants you. It will pay to see you now . . . and go on paying, no matter what happens. But if you stay away for a year or so… five years perhaps… ten years… there is no coming back. Or perhaps I should say that it is rarely one can come back.” The public will go on being faithful as long as an actress remains faithful to it. You understand me.’

Of course Sherry was a cynic. He did not believe her romance with the Duke would last. Of course he would not. What a romantic young man he must have been when he eloped with the lovely Miss Linley and no doubt swore eternal devotion to her. They had believed he was going to be the greatest playwright of all time. He had written The Rivals and The School for Scandal among other plays… and then he had become a theatre manager, a politician and the friend of Princes. He had thrown everything away for the sake of gay company; he had drunk too much, spent too much, had too many passing affairs with women. So that he had besmirched his marriage, not developed his genius and lived in constant fear of the bailiffs. It was natural that Sherry should take a cynical view of life.

And yet… she thought of the money she had been earning; she thought of special Benefit nights. The Duke was the kindest and most gracious of men, but like all the royal brothers he had little understanding of money. He would give her all he had, but he was too generous, not business-like enough. She would have to be the one who looked to the girls’ futures. She wanted them all to make good marriages and she would have to make up for their illegitimacy with big dowries.

‘I believe you are right,’ she told Sheridan. ‘I will talk it over with the Duke.’

Sheridan left smiling to himself. Something told him that all the second-rate actresses who were busy studying Jordan roles were going to be disappointed because he was not going to lose his biggest draw after all.

The Duke made no secret of his devotion. When The Country Girl was put on at the Haymarket with another actress in Dorothy’s place, the lovers occupied a box together and their tender exchanges during the performance were noticed. In fact the majority of the audience took no notice of what was happening on the stage; their entire attention being focused on the box.

They went out together, walking arm in arm through the streets like any devoted couple.

In the press the Duke was called ‘Pickle’s infatuated lover’. He sent for Romney to paint her. The artist had already done a portrait of her as The Country Girl but the Duke wanted a new one of her.

The excitement and pleasure of those few months were marred only by the envy of her fellow-actors and the frequent unjust comments in the press. But Dorothy decided to ignore them. They could not touch her now.

She had broached the matter of her continuing to play at the theatre and William considered it gravely.

‘And what do you wish, my love?’

‘I think I should do it. It may not be possible to resume later if I want to. And I would like to make sure of a good dowry for all three girls.’

‘You know you can leave these matters to me.’

‘You are the most generous man in the world, but you are a Prince and must live like a Prince. I have heard talk of the debts of the Prince of Wales.’

‘My God,’ cried William, whose life at sea had addicted him to strong oaths which he attempted to curb in Dorothy’s presence. ‘His debts are astronomical. Why, it was because of them that there was all that trouble in the House when Fox denied he was married to Mrs Fitz. and she nearly left him because of it. Yes, George is in debt… up to his ears now.’

‘And you too?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Well, to tell you the truth, my love, I haven’t given the matter much thought.’

That made her smile. ‘You have answered for me. I will go on acting providing you have no objection.’

‘I want to do everything you wish.’

‘You mean you will leave this decision to me?’

He took her hand and kissed it – a courteous gallant gesture. How different from brutal Daly, from indifferent Richard Ford.

‘Then I shall go on,’ she said. ‘And I shall try and save money so that in case you should be financially embarrassed when the girls come of age they will be sure of their dowry.’

‘You are a wonderful woman,’ said William.

So to Sheridan’s delight Dorothy agreed to appear again. The crowds packed the Haymarket to see her, and on the first night of her appearance after the brief lapse during which the papers were filled with accounts of her love-affair with the Duke, so great was the crowd trying to get into the Haymarket that a man was trampled to death and one woman was badly injured.

The Duke was present every night she played. He went back-stage and sat in her dressing room. He watched her all the time she was playing and scowled at any man who deigned to glance at her.

The public was amused. He seemed mightily pleased to see her perform. Was it because he was anxious to share in the profits? Everyone knew that the royal brothers were in perpetual debt.

The latest rhyme ran:

‘As Jordan’s high and mighty squire

Her playhouse profits deigns to skim;

Some folks audaciously enquire:

If he keeps her or she keeps him.’

Dorothy did not care; nor did William; they told themselves that they must expect these spiteful shafts. People were jealous because they had found what everyone was seeking: perfect happiness.

When Dorothy called to see the children she found Hester in a state of excitement.

‘Richard has been here,’ she said. ‘He says that he does not see why he should be kept from his own children.’

‘So he is back from France,’ replied Dorothy. ‘And having done nothing for his children he has now decided he wants to see them.’

‘Dodee at least. Lucy has forgotten him. But Dodee hasn’t.’

‘And you are suggesting that I should allow them to visit him?’

‘He is their father,’ Hester reminded her.

‘I am sure the Duke would not hear of it.’

‘But the Duke is not their father.’

Dorothy flew into a rage.

‘Listen, Hester, Richard had every opportunity of giving my girls a name. This he refused to do in spite of all his promises to me in the first place. I should never have agreed to live with him if he had not promised to marry me. And he failed me. He lied to me and betrayed me. I have finished with him. I am happy now and I am determined to remain so. I am not going to allow him to poison me in the minds of my children.’

‘He would never do that, Doll. He feels kindly towards you in spite of the fact that you have left him.’

‘You speak reproachfully.’

‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t presume to do that. But you did regard him as your husband and you have left him for the Duke.’

‘Oh, not you too, Hester! Isn’t it enough with the press! They are my children. I am providing for them. I want nothing more of Richard Ford.’

‘I think you are being a little hard.’

‘Hard! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I do. I am bringing up the children.’

‘Well, Hester, if you feel so critical of me and of the Duke perhaps I had better find someone else to look after them.’

Hester looked stunned and Dorothy’s anger subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

‘Oh, Hester, I didn’t mean that. Don’t let us be at cross purposes for heaven’s sake. The future of Dodee and Lucy… and Fan, means so much to me. I have to give them a good start in life. I want them to have all the advantages that we didn’t have.’

‘We had our mother with us all the time.’

‘They will have you and me, too. Both of us, Hester – to love them and care for them.’

Hester said somewhat mollified: ‘It is such a complicated household. One never knows what is going to happen next.’

‘Oh, why didn’t Richard stay in France. It would have been so much more comfortable if he had.’

‘I don’t think it would have been very comfortable for him. He said that the country is in a fearful state of revolution. No one is safe. He thinks that soon they’ll murder the King and Queen.’

Dorothy shuddered. ‘God forbid that such things should ever happen here.’

She was afraid suddenly. She thought of the King and Queen of France with their family being subjected to humiliation; she could well picture the mob roused to anger. She had seen a hostile audience which was not pleased with the play that was being presented to it; a pale shadow of course of what was going on across the Channel; but she knew the fury of mob violence. And to think that what was happening to the French royal family could happen to the English one. She was part of that family now. It was strange but it was true. She could not bear to think of William in danger, of contemplating losing him.

She was loving a man as she had thought she never would; she would not have believed that she had so much affection to give. Everything must go right now. Nothing must spoil this. She had waited so long for happiness and suffered so much, but if she could remain as happy as she was now everything would have been worthwhile. Richard Ford must not be allowed to disturb her.

‘So he has come back,’ she mused, ‘and discovered that he has some feeling for his children after all. Well, Mr Richard Ford has made his discovery just a little too late; and I suspect that he has made it now that he knows he will not be expected to support them.’

Hester lifted her shoulders.

‘I only want to do as you wish,’ she said. ‘And I do think of the welfare of the children.’

‘I know you do, my dear Hester. But all will be well with them. I merely want them brought up in quiet, peace and respectability; and I want to work hard so that when they come of age I can give them a good dowry. Dodee and Lucy are babies yet, but Fan is not so young.’ A shadow passed across Dorothy’s face. ‘And how has Fan been behaving?’

‘She has her tantrums.’

‘I’ll go and see her now. I expect she knows I’m here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hester, ‘there is very little Madam doesn’t know.’

Fanny was just a little like her father and when Dorothy caught that likeness as she did now and then, it always depressed her faintly; it repelled her; she could not help but remember him, with his lecherous face close to hers, demanding submission.

For the very reason that Fanny reminded her of him made her feel that she must be especially kind to her eldest daughter.

In the nursery she found Fanny dressed up in one of her own Harry Wildair costumes. It was quite a good fit for Fanny was almost as tall as her mother.

She was acting for the little girls who were seated on stools watching her.

She stopped when Dorothy entered.

‘So you are playing Wildair, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, Mamma. I wish I had a proper audience… not just silly Dodee and sillier Lucy.’

‘My darlings!’ Dorothy knelt and embraced three-year-old Dodee and two-year-old Lucy.

‘Mamma going to stay?’ Dodee wanted to know.

‘Yes, Mamma is going to stay for a while.’

‘Then you’ll go away,’ said Fanny. ‘I wish I could come and live with you. Shall I?’

‘One day, perhaps.’

‘Now!’ pouted Fanny; and Dodee took up the cry.

‘Now I am here,’ said Dorothy. ‘And I will play Little Pickle for you, shall I, and you shall all be my audience?’

Playing Pickle was the greatest fun and even Fanny lost her sullen looks, for Dorothy thought up all sorts of ridiculous tricks Pickle could play in the nursery and soon the children were shrieking with the same rollicking laughter that she was accustomed to hearing in the theatre.

‘When I’m big,’ announced Fanny, ‘I’m going to be an actress.’

‘Me too,’ added Dodee.

‘Perhaps you will, my darling.’

‘I’m going to marry a Duke,’ said Fanny.

And Dorothy asked herself: What do they hear?

Hester came and took the younger children away and when Fanny was left alone with her she took her mother’s hand, examined the diamond which the Duke of Clarence had recently put there and said that she wanted to live in a grander house than this and instead of having Aunt Hester to look after her she wanted to be with her mother and the Duke.

‘My dear, you couldn’t do that. You must live here and I will come and see you sometimes.’

‘Where is our father? He came here the other day. He wanted to see Dodee and Lucy… not me.’

‘Well, you see, darling, they are his and you have another father as I told you long ago.’

‘I know he was your first husband, and Dodee’s and Lucy’s papa was your second.’

Dorothy did not answer. There were going to be complications as the children grew up. If Richard had married her it would have been so much easier. Not that she regretted that now that she was in love with William and had her new life. She could face the complications.

She decided then that the children should no longer be known as Ford; they should all be Jordans.

Fanny said good-bye to her with great reluctance; she was petulant and inclined to sulk. They would have trouble with Fanny if they were not careful. When she reached Petersham Lodge she found the Duke at home eagerly awaiting her.

He embraced her with fervour as though they had been separated for a month. He was always afraid, he said, when she was out of his sight.

He had been to see Adam again, he told her. ‘An anonymous book is being sold in which you are mentioned… scandalously.’

‘In what connection?’ she asked faintly.

‘In connection with the Irish manager Daly. It’s supposed to be written by Elizabeth Billington, the singer. She declares she knows nothing of it and is taking proceedings against the publishers. I have authorized Adam to buy up all the copies he can find and if necessary I shall take action against the publisher.’

‘You are so careful of me,’ she said.

‘My darling, it is my pleasure to protect you from these… these villains.’

‘I wish they would stop persecuting me,’ she said. ‘I wish they would let me be happy.’

‘I’ll not let them stop that.’

She felt tired and tears came to her eyes.

‘Foolish of me,’ she said, ‘but I am not used to being so tenderly cared for.’

Life had formed itself into a pattern – pleasant and comfortable. Those people who had predicted an early end to the love-affair between Mrs Jordan and the Duke of Clarence now sneered at them because they seemed to have settled into a cosy domesticity.

As William said to her often: he needed no one else but her. To be with other people meant that they could not talk together, be close to each other. Now he preferred his own fireside.

She was working at the theatre and he must be there to watch her play and to bring her home. When he saw Richard Ford at the theatre he was angry and once again tried to prevent his going back-stage. He was afraid that the fellow, having lost his prize, would do anything to regain it; and if he were to offer Dorothy marriage, which was the only thing he himself could not give her that Ford could, he was afraid her desire for respectability and her sense of duty towards her children might make her accept.

He told her of this fear and she laughed at him.

‘Nothing would make me go back to him,’ she declared. ‘Even if I was not in love with the best of men, I would never go back to Richard Ford.’

That contented him.

His brothers smiled at him indulgently. Frederick, Duke of York, was married unhappily. He and his wife did not live together and in fact could not bear the sight of each other. Frederick had his mistresses and the Duchess of York her animals. Her place at Oatlands, William told Dorothy, was more like a zoo than a ducal manor.

As for the Prince of Wales, he was going through a difficult time emotionally. But then he invariably was; but this time there was serious trouble, for he had become so enamoured of Lady Jersey that there was real danger of a breach with Mrs Fitzherbert.

William discussed the matter with Dorothy, expressing his concern.

‘Poor George, he loves Maria. I have always known that.’

‘But if he loved her surely he would want to be faithful to her?’

‘He is under some sort of spell. I don’t know what that Jersey woman has but George cannot resist her. Maria is a proud woman.’

Dorothy conceded that she was. She believed that Mrs Fitzherbert had not been as friendly towards her as the brothers had hoped because she feared they might be compared. Mrs Fitzherbert was very anxious that no one should regard her as the mistress of the Prince of Wales, although if she were his wife it was enough to abolish George’s hopes of the crown.

The affairs of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York shifted the spotlight a little from William and Dorothy, and this increased their happiness.

But for his new experience of settling down as a husband William realized that he would have been restive. After a life at sea it was not easy to reconcile oneself to staying on land. He had hoped for a position in the Admiralty now that he had been made a Rear-Admiral but the Admiralty did not want him. He had a sense of duty which his brothers lacked, and was in fact more like his father than any of them.

He was often seen in the House of Lords and decided to take up the cause of the slave trade and work against the abolitionists. His speeches were long and verbose and when he rose to his feet a groan would go up throughout the chamber. He lacked the eloquence of the Prince of Wales, and his support of the slave trade brought him a certain amount of odium from those with more humane feelings.

‘I have seen the plantations,’ he had pointed out. ‘As a sailor I have visited these far off places. In Jamaica and America I have seen the system at work. To abolish the slave traffic will disrupt the plantations and will mean higher prices for certain commodities here.’

On and on and on with members promising themselves that when the Duke of Clarence was present they would make a point of slipping out.

William was no orator, no politician; and his understanding of state matters was not great. But because he wanted to be the family man, he must work. He was denied a place in his own profession, so he must do something.

He did not want to spend his time at the races, building extravagant residences like Carlton House and the Pavilion; he did not want to give fetes and balls. He wanted to live quietly and peacefully like a respectable country gentleman with one woman – as his father would have wished to do. But his father had his interest in the farm at Kew; he made his buttons; he had his duties as King of England, and much as he liked the homely life at Kew he must appear at St James’s when duty demanded that he should.

William, however – the third son – who, it was hardly likely would ever reach the throne, had had his career as a sailor brought to an end. He must do something. Therefore he decided to make his voice heard in the House of Lords.

Dorothy listened to his opinions, heard him rehearse his speeches. She knew the effect she was having on him. The gay young sailor he had been was being transformed into the uxorious husband; even his language had changed and the rather coarse oaths which he had picked up at sea were gradually disappearing. William was indeed settling down. And what could be more desirable than this cosy domesticity? Even George, the elegant adventurous Prince of Wales, had told William he envied him his peaceful existence.

William and Dorothy grew happier every day, and then Dorothy became pregnant.

During that spring Dorothy continued to play; her benefit was one of the most successful not only of hers but in the history of the theatre. She received £540 for one night’s performance and Sarah Siddons had only received £490.

William was delighted at her ability to earn money. When he remembered the pay he had received as a captain it seemed strange that his little Dorothy could earn so much in one single night.

‘And deserve every penny!’ he declared when he went back-stage to collect her.

There would be comments about this benefit in the press, he knew. The scribblers would sneer at him and suggest that Dorothy was keeping him. It rankled. He was constantly wanting to sue them. George had said he should try and forget it. It was the penalty of royalty; and if he had seen some of the lampoons on himself and Maria he would think these concerning himself and Dorothy very mild.

Then the irritation was forgotten, for Dorothy was ill. She had been working hard at the theatre and the pregnancy was proving a difficult one. Five months after conception she had a miscarriage.

William was in despair. He sent for the doctors. She would recover, he was told. She needed rest and care – that was all.

He was at her bedside throughout the day and night.

‘You must not fret, my darling. There will be more children… but only if you wish it.’

Dorothy was sad. She had wanted so much to have his child. And so she should, he assured her. But she must get really well first.

‘Oh, William,’ she said, ‘I feared I was going to die and I wondered what would become of the little girls.’

‘My darling, haven’t I given you my word to care for them? Besides, you have taken care of that.’

‘I worry about them, William. But this little one would have been yours, too. That would have been different.’

‘Don’t talk of such depressing things. You are going to get well. I am planning to take you to the Isle of Wight. The sea air is so beneficial. George swears by it. And I daresay you would like to see the children. I thought so. So I have told your sister to bring them here.’

They came with Hester. Dodee and Lucy happy to see their mother, Fanny taking in the details of Petersham Lodge.

‘Oh, Mamma,’ she whispered, ‘it’s so grand. When I grow up I want to live in a house like this.’

Fanny’s eyes hid secrets. What does she hear? wondered Dorothy. How could one shield children from the world? There was the gossip of servants, those pernicious paragraphs in newspapers.

But she must not fret. She must get well. William expected it of her.

George and Maria Bland came to see her and brought their twins – two healthy children; but Dorothy sensed Maria’s impatience with George. She was so much more successful than he was in the theatre and this was making a rift between them.

She was anxious. Since her mother’s death she had felt herself to be the guardian of the family and she could see trouble ahead for George.

Happiness was so elusive. How grateful she should be for William!

They did not go to the Isle of Wight for the Duchess of Cleveland offered them her house in Margate and they went there instead.

It was so pleasant to be by the sea and to live in the large and comfortable mansion as a simple country gentleman and his wife.

William was happy. His great task was to look after Dorothy; to make sure that she did not exert herself; it was, she believed, the happiest time of her life.

And when they returned to Petersham Lodge she did not take on any new engagements for a while. It was so comforting to be away from the competitive atmosphere of the theatre and while they remained out of the public eye the comments on them ceased to appear.

The Prince of Wales was the great target of attack on account of his debts, his love-affairs and the extravagant profligate life he led.

Dorothy was again pregnant and in the January of the year 1794 she gave birth to a boy.

He was big and healthy; and William was delighted with him. He carried him about the apartment insisting on calling everyone’s attention to his perfections; Dorothy from her bed smiled on them both. It was a picture of conjugal bliss.

They called the child George – after his uncle the Prince of Wales – and he was known from then on as George FitzClarence.

It was so pleasant to be simply a mother; and that was all she was for the following months. Her life was filled by William and the children, for she was soon driving over with young George to see the household at Richmond.

The three girls loved their half-brother, though Fanny was inclined to be jealous of him.

Why should he, silly little thing, be allowed to live in Petersham Lodge while they had to live in this little house with Aunt Hester?

Because Petersham House belonged to his father.

‘Oh, why wasn’t the Duke my father?’

How she wished that had been so. How happy she would be now if they were all William’s children. But life was not as simple as that. There was so much to be suffered before one reached happiness.

Sheridan called. He was in trouble. Drury Lane had not yet been rebuilt and he could not use the Haymarket this season because it was already leased to the Opera Company.

‘It’s the devil of a business,’ said Sheridan.

Dorothy was sure it was; but she could not greatly concern herself. Little George was proving to be a robust child, imperious and demanding. She adored him. So did William.

‘The New Drury Lane will be opening in April, I hope,’ said Sheridan. ‘Then, I trust you will do us the honour of coming back.’

‘The Duke insists that I take a long rest,’ she told him.

He grimaced and thought: We shall have to come along with some very attractive offers.

‘We shall doubtless open with an oratorio or something solemn,’ he told her, ‘and I hope for the attendance of Their Majesties.’

‘And the Prince of Wales?’

‘We don’t want a riot on the first night.’

‘Is he so unpopular?’

‘They’ve turned against him. That’s the mob all over. There was a time when he couldn’t put that charming nose of his into the streets without cries of Hurrah. It’s a different matter now. And then his Mamma and Papa are rather cross with him, you know. There’s always the big quarrel in progress. It’s handed down from generation to generation in the family.’

‘A pity,’ said Dorothy, and thinking of her beautiful little George she wondered how any mother could possibly quarrel with her son.

‘A great pity! There’s some anxiety because of the behaviour of our neighbours.’

‘Our neighbours?’

‘Across the Channel. Since they’ve cut off the heads of their King and Queen I don’t think those of ours rest any happier on their pillows.’

‘It couldn’t happen here.’

‘It happened there.’

‘But our King is so… so… He’s such a good man.’

‘Farmer George the Button Maker! There’s a certain tolerant contempt for him, it’s true. And Charlotte. They never liked her, though she has done no harm – except provide them with thirteen mouths to feed. I’m sorry, Dorothy. You’re one of the family now. William behaves with decorum since you’ve set up house with him. But George…’

‘The Prince of Wales, you mean.’

‘I’m sorry. I spoke disrespectfully. His unpopularity is a little… alarming at this time. Mobs are inclined to follow an example without knowing why. Debts! Building! Balls! Banquets! These were the grievances that were brought against the Queen of France. But I am depressing you, Dorothy; and you looked so charming when I arrived. So much the happy young matron. Don’t give what I’m saying another thought. I’ll just say there’s one thing which could make everyone happier… everyone except George himself, perhaps. And that’s if he married.’

‘Married… but isn’t he…?’

‘Maria! Well, he is and he isn’t. In the eyes of the Church but not those of the State. It’s the State that counts, Dorothy. If he takes a wife the people will be pleased. They prefer wedding celebrations to riots, I do believe. Then there will be children. And the people love children. They loved George when he was a child. Besides, he should marry. He’s no longer so young. He has to get an heir.’

‘I’m sorry for Mrs Fitzherbert.’

‘She’s been sorry for herself for a long time. You should be pleased if he married. Has it occurred to you that if he didn’t and if Fred doesn’t get children – and he’s not living with his Duchess, you know – your William might become a very important member of his illustrious family.’

She looked alarmed and he was quick to soothe her.

‘Don’t worry. It won’t happen. I’ll whisper a secret. Marriage is in the air… for George.’

‘But what if he refuses?’

‘He won’t. He’ll be caught in the net. It’s closing round him. Debts, Dorothy. They can govern a man’s life as certainly as any king ever did. I speak from experience… of the most bitter nature. George will be pressed into marriage by a gang of creditors. You see. Only not a word to William. It would distress him. I talk too much.’

‘You’re letting your imagination run on, Sherry.’

‘A habit of mine. It used to be a profitable one. Which brings me back to the theatre. It’s going to be sad at the Drury Lane without its comic genius. But you’ll come back to us.’

‘You’re very prophetic today, Sherry.’

‘In my profession it’s a useful gift,’ he told her.

She thought of what he had said after he had left. William… third in succession to the throne. The thought alarmed her. The Prince of Wales would be expected to marry; the people expected it. And if he refused and Frederick had no children…

William. No! No one ever thought that William could one day be King of England. And she refused to.

It was so much more comfortable to forget.

She called for her carriage to be brought to the door. It was a plain yellow one and no one would guess when they saw it who rode inside. She had made an appointment to call on her milliner, Miss Tuting, in St James’s Street. She would take little George with her. The airing would be good for him and the girls in the shop would enjoy seeing him.

It was a lovely day. Sunshine brightened the buildings and the trees seemed greener than they did during other years. It was foolish to be depressed by Sheridan’s gossip. William was the third son. If he were the second, there might be cause for alarm; but George and Frederick made a comfortable barrier between William and the State.

The carriage stopped before the milliner’s shop and Miss Tuting herself came out to welcome the important customer.

‘Mrs Jordan, this is a great pleasure. The girls have been excited all the morning. Your new hat is ready. It looks wonderful. And you have the baby. The girls will be beside themselves…’

And so into the shop where everyone was twittering with excitement. The news was carried to the work rooms. ‘Mrs Jordan is here. She has brought the baby!’

Miss Tuting went to the foot of the stairs which led down into the basement. ‘Girls, you may come up two by two to see Master George. I rejoice to say he is quite the bonniest child I ever saw.’

So Dorothy sat holding the imperious George who expressed lively interest in those who came to look and worship.

Miss Tuting’s right-hand, a middle-aged woman, was allowed to hold him while Dorothy tried on the hats which were being made for her and everyone turned their attention from young George to her.

‘I think the blue ribbon more becoming than the pink,’ twittered Miss Tuting. ‘And the roses… and the veiling. What does Mrs Jordan think? The young rascal is getting impatient for his Mamma. Oh, but how pretty she will look in her new hat, Master George. You will like that, eh? And the velvet… this silver colour gauze is most fetching.’

It was a pleasant morning. She was completely at home.

In an awe-inspiring silence she changed Master George’s linen in the shop and he, more comfortable, chuckled with glee as he was carried back to his yellow carriage by one of her grooms and carefully handed to his Mamma.

Riding home Dorothy felt that her life was pleasantly domesticated. She refused to consider Sheridan’s suggestions. Poor Sherry, he was perhaps a little envious. He had made such a failure of his life; while she had at last come to real success, which was not to be found in the applause of an audience, the glitter of jewels, the luxury of riches, but in a home – the shared love of a husband and wife and the family which between them they would raise.

A royal marriage

THE PRINCE OF Wales came to Petersham Lodge to talk over the disaster which was about to overtake him.

He sat in his chair, elegant even when he sprawled, one highly polished boot crossing another; his buckskin breeches moulded to his well-shaped though fleshy thighs; his green cloth coat of the most fashionable cut; his neck cloth a masterpiece of ingenuity to hide the swelling in his neck, the symptom of a distressing complaint which must always be hidden by the neck cloth which he had specially designed for the purpose.

He liked to talk to them and lately had become a frequent visitor to Petersham Lodge, where William and Dorothy were living in retirement because Dorothy was pregnant again.

The Prince was saying: ‘They have caught me. I have to marry. It is the condition they demand if my creditors are to be satisfied.’

‘How much do you owe?’ asked William.

The Prince waved his hand. ‘My dear William, I never keep account of figures. They bore me. Suffice it to say that I owe such a sum that these tiresome people will wait no longer for the settlement of their accounts and refuse to supply me and moreover will take action against me. What can I do? I have an intimation from our father of what is expected of me.’

‘Marriage?’ asked William.

‘You say it complacently. Oh, I am not surprised. You have made a very comfortable home for yourself with our dearest Dora. How fortunate you are!’

‘I always thought that you and Maria…’

‘Yes, yes. I was happy for a while. But Maria has the most devilish temper, you know. I did not want to leave her. It was she who made the decision. I have always regretted it. But I could not be… commanded. You understand?’

William understood perfectly.

‘My dear Dora,’ said the Prince, ‘I am going to ask you to sing for me presently. In the meantime you must forgive me if I weary you with the repetition of my so tiresome affairs.’

‘I am only sorry that Your Highness is grieved.’

‘Pray come and sit near me. It comforts me to see you. Oh, William, how fortunate you are! There is nothing like a happy home. And you have young George. How is the rascal? And why is he not here to see his uncle?’

‘I will send for him,’ said Dorothy.

‘Not just yet, my dear. I want to talk of this disaster which is about to overtake me.’

‘Perhaps it will prove a blessing,’ said Dorothy.

‘What a comforter you are! Is this how she comforts you, William?’

‘She is a great comfort to me,’ said William solemnly.

‘I have a choice of two – Germans both. The King’s niece or the Queen’s.’

‘And which are you choosing?’ asked William.

‘You don’t think I would give our mother the gratification of choosing hers?’

‘So it is to be the Princess Caroline of Brunswick,’ said Dorothy.

The Prince lightly touched her hand. ‘How delightful of you to concern yourself with my wretched affairs. Yes, the Brunswick one. What does it matter? One German hausfrau is very like another.’

‘I am sure Your Highness will be agreeably surprised.’

‘It would be churlish of me not to be comforted when you make such efforts to please me. What about our little song now. And I will join with you.’

Dorothy said it would delight her to sing for and with His Royal Highness.

She was sorry for him – Prince of Wales though he was. She was sorry for anyone who did not enjoy the domestic bliss she had discovered.

What should she sing? There was one song which would certainly not do. No Sweet Lass today. She was sure the ballad would reduce the poor Prince to regretful tears.

On a bleak March day Dorothy’s second son was born. Like his brother George he was young and lusty. He was named Henry; he was exactly a year and two months younger than his brother George, and his parents were delighted with him.

‘We now have our little family,’ said William fondly. ‘Two sons. I declare I’m a proud man. I wonder if I’m going to have as many children as my father had.’

It was so pleasant at Petersham Lodge, looking after her boys. Dorothy felt she could be happy living like this for the rest of her life. She found she was rather pleased to have an excuse to rest from the stage for a while, although of course when she was recovered she must go back.

These little FitzClarences would be well cared for, she had no doubt. They had royal blood in their veins; but she must not let her delight in them blind her to the fact that she had daughters.

Little Henry’s birth was scarcely noticed in the press. It had another matter with which to occupy itself. The coming marriage of the heir to the throne.

Events were moving too quickly for the Prince of Wales. Once he had agreed to marry preparations went ahead and by April Caroline of Brunswick had arrived in England.

Lady Jersey – the mischievous and malicious mistress of the Prince of Wales – went to Greenwich to meet her. She had learned that Caroline was much less likely to please the Prince than his mother’s niece, Louise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, and it was for this reason that Lady Jersey had done everything possible to persuade the Prince to take Caroline for she did not want him to have a wife for whom he might feel some fondness and who might lessen the influence of his mistress. She was delighted therefore when she saw Caroline, who was surely like no other Princess. Her head was too big; her neck was too short, she was plump and without grace; her complexion was florid and her teeth bad. She was overdressed, laughed too loudly and was none too clean. Lady Jersey felt hilariously gay when she considered the effect this female would have on the fastidious Prince of Wales. She had even taken the precaution of having a dress made for Caroline which would be as unbecoming as possible and persuaded the Princess to change into it for her meeting with the Prince of Wales. Caroline was foolish enough to do this but she rebelled against the hideous white turban which Lady Jersey had brought for her.

The meeting between the Prince and his future bride had been disastrous. He had taken one look at her and called for brandy to help him sustain the shock.

After that he was beside himself with indecision. He had promised to marry because Mr Pitt and the King said he must. The Princess of Brunswick had been brought over for him; she was already married to him by proxy; and the proper ceremony was to take place shortly.

He came to Petersham House. He paced up and down beating his forehead; he threw himself on to a couch and wept. Everything else must be set aside that they might talk of this terrible disaster which had befallen him.

‘I will not marry her,’ he cried, ‘and if I do not they will not pay my debts. Was ever a Prince in such a dilemma for… money?’

They were sorry for him; they wept with him. Dorothy was learning to weep whenever tears seemed the only polite response. Her years of acting enabled her to play a part as well as the Prince of Wales whom she recognized at once as an equal in the art.

‘My life is in ruins. I would die rather than marry this… creature. She is offensive to my sensibilities… to my heart, to my mind and… nose.’

‘Dear me,’ said William, ‘Is she as bad as that?’

‘Every bit as bad, brother. Every bit.’

What could they do to comfort him? There was nothing except to listen sympathetically when he told them that he knew he would never be able to go through with the ceremony.

And when he had left them, they congratulated themselves yet again on the felicity of their own position.

Throughout the royal households bets were being taken. Just as after the scandal of Mrs Fitzherbert it was a gamble on ‘Are they married or are they not?’ now it was a matter of ‘Will he or won’t he?’

On the eve of his wedding the Prince of Wales begged William to come to him.

‘Poor George,’ said William to Dorothy. ‘How sorry I am for him!’

‘Do you think he will go through with it?’

‘I really don’t know. But there’ll be such trouble if he doesn’t.’

‘And if he does,’ sighed Dorothy.

‘I wish you could come with me. You always cheer him.’

‘I doubt whether anyone would cheer him tonight. I daresay he wants to confide in you, William. Perhaps he is going to refuse at this late date.’

‘He daren’t. His debts are so great that if I told you the figure you wouldn’t grasp it. He must get Parliament to pay his debts and their condition is… marriage.’

Dorothy shivered. ‘I can imagine nothing worse than being forced into such a relationship.’

She thought of Daly who had forced her, but in a different way. She would never forget that man; he was like a menacing shadow over her life even now.

‘I shall convey your affection to him and tell him of your sympathy,’ said William. ‘I will tell him that you wanted to accompany me and if you had been well enough would have insisted.’

So while William drove to Carlton House Dorothy remained in the nursery to play with little George and to gaze with enraptured admiration on eleven-day-old Henry.

The Prince received his brother with mournful pleasure.

‘I knew you’d come, William.’

‘Of course. United we stand.’

‘And did you find it so hard to tear yourself away from that family of yours?’

‘My dear George, the family wanted to come and would have done… all four of them if Dora had been well enough.’

‘Thank her for me, William. Tell her I appreciate her goodness.’

‘She is most unhappy for you, George. She says she knows exactly what it is like to be forced into such a relationship. That man Daly, you know.’

‘Poor girl, poor girl! William, I don’t know which way to turn. I really don’t think I can marry that woman.’

‘My poor, poor brother.’

‘She is completely repulsive to me.’

‘Then refuse.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘Why not? If you refuse to take her they can’t force you to.’

‘They can’t exactly force me into marriage but they can force me into bankruptcy.’

‘Well, Parliament will pay up. Don’t they always.’

‘That fellow Pitt insists on marriage. He was always against me.’

‘I know.’

‘And our father supports him; our mother supports him; although she is going to hate this woman as much as I do.’

‘Perhaps you should have taken our mother’s niece instead.’

The Prince sat down on a couch and dramatically buried his face in his hands. ‘I should have done anything… anything rather than have been brought to this pass.’

‘You have till tomorrow to make up your mind.’

‘What can I do, William? What can I do?’

‘You can either marry her or refuse to do so,’ said William as though he was offering a bright idea.

George looked at him with veiled exasperation. Really, William was very like their father at times. He was not very bright. But one must not be annoyed for he was a good and loyal brother.

‘I cannot think what to do. Oh, William, how I wish that I might talk this over with Maria.’

‘With Maria Fitzherbert!’ cried William aghast. ‘Why, she is the last one… considering she thinks you’re already married to her.’

‘My dear William… it is precisely because they are trying to marry me to this… this… creature that I want to turn to Maria.’

‘But you couldn’t let it be known that you are married to Maria, George. There might be a revolution.’

‘Do you think the people care enough about me for that, William?’

‘No,’ said William. ‘But they care about the monarchy and they’d never have a Catholic Queen.’

George sighed. ‘Oh, what trouble I am in! To think of marrying that woman, going to bed with her. I feel sick at the very thought.’

‘Once she’s pregnant you can leave her alone.’

The Prince shuddered. ‘You express yourself somewhat crudely, William. It’s that seafaring existence of yours. But I know you feel for me just the same.’

‘I’d do anything for you, George. If I had the money to pay your debts…’

‘I know. Money! It’s such a sordid affair. Why should I be pestered like this on account of… debts.’

The Prince began to weep silently but effectively, and William sat disconsolately watching him.

‘George, if there is anything I can do…’

‘There is, William. I sent for you that you might do this for me. This evening I went to Maria’s house. I drove past. I expected she would make some sign. She must have been aware of me. Someone in her household would have known I was there. I drove past and back again and I repeated that. Then I did it again. I gave her every opportunity.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing, William, precisely nothing.’

‘And if she had come to the window; if she had called you in… what then?’

‘Why then, William, I believe I should have said I would not go through with this marriage. I would have asked Maria to take me back. I thought she would have had some sympathy. I thought she would have come to the window.’

‘Perhaps it is because you are still with Lady Jersey.’

‘It’s different, William, Maria should know that. Imagine yourself fascinated by some unusual woman – a wild and passionate creature who is different from all others, whom you do not exactly love but who fascinates you, so that you could not turn your back on her. Surely Dorothy would understand.’

William wrinkled his brows.

‘Wouldn’t she?’ demanded the Prince.

‘It could never happen. Dora and I are like a man and his wife.’

‘By God,’ cried the Prince. ‘So was I with Maria. But Frances Jersey… she was irresistible. Surely Maria could have understood that. But she was too virtuous, my Maria. It meant that she had little understanding. But what a devil of a temper. She was magnificent in her rages. And she was always so damned independent. It was always If you want to go, Go. But I never did want to go, William.’

‘But you did,’ persisted William. ‘You left her for Lady Jersey.’

‘This is not the time to remember it.’

‘Perhaps it is not the time to remember either of them.’

‘Oh, God, now you have reminded me of that… creature.’

‘I don’t think,’ said William, ‘that she has ever been far from your mind.’

‘William, what am I going to do?’

‘Either marry her or refuse.’

The Prince laughed aloud. ‘My dear William, you are brilliant, brilliant! But I have asked you to come here tonight for a reason. I want you to go to Maria. I want you to tell her that you have been here tonight. I want you to tell her what state I am in. And say this to her: “Mrs Fitzherbert, he asked me to tell you this: ‘You are the only woman he will ever love.’” Perhaps then she will have some regrets. Perhaps she will wish she took the trouble to come to the window, to comfort me in this nightmare, this terrible ordeal.’

‘I will take your message to her,’ said William. ‘And tomorrow…’

‘Tomorrow,’ said the Prince, ‘I shall have come to my decision. Good-night, William. Thank you for coming. Lucky William, with your happy home, with your dear Dora, your delightful children. Have you ever thought, William, what a lucky man you are.’

‘I often think it,’ said William. ‘And if you had kept with Mrs Fitzherbert…’

Dear William, best brother in the world, thought the Prince of Wales, but singularly lacking in tact.

The next day the Prince was married. He had fortified himself with brandy to face his ordeal and once during the ceremony he rose from his knees and made as if to walk away. But the King was beside him, forcing him to kneel again, determined that having gone so far there should be no turning back.

William discussed the ceremony with Dorothy and told her that it broke his heart to see dear George in such a melancholy state.

‘He was so drunk that it was hard to keep him standing, so Bedford told me, and he should know for he was one of the Dukes who stood on either side of him… very close, I can assure you, to prop him up. His eyes were quite glassy and he didn’t look at her once.’

‘Poor Princess,’ said Dorothy. ‘I wonder how she feels.’

‘Glad to have escaped that little place she comes from, no doubt. It’s a bit of a madhouse there, I hear; and she herself seems tainted with the family complaint. I can only hope that she’ll be pregnant in a few days and then he’ll be free of her.’

‘It makes one glad one is not a Princess,’ said Dorothy. ‘Not that I should wish to be anyone but myself.’

They heard the rumours later. The Princess Caroline of Wales let it be known that her husband had spent their wedding night under the grate, so drunk that he was oblivious of the world.

William called at Mrs Fitzherbert’s London house where her friend and faithful companion, Miss Pigot, took him into her pleasant drawing room with the blue satin-covered walls and told him that her mistress would attend on him immediately.

William bowed as Mrs Fitzherbert came into the room. His eyes filled with tears; he had always been fond of her, and like his brother, Frederick, had deplored the breaking up of her relationship with the Prince.

‘My dear William, how good of you to call on me.’

‘He asked me to come.’

‘The Prince!’ Her face hardened and the colour in her delicately tinted complexion, one of her greatest attractions and which owed nothing to rouge and white lead, deepened slightly.

‘He has been most distressed.’

‘To marry when one already has a wife would be disturbing to most people, I’ll swear.’

‘He looks upon you as his wife, Maria. He always did.’

‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that is why he is living with Lady Jersey and marrying the Princess Caroline. But pray sit down, William. I will send for some refreshment. You must tell me how life is with you.’

‘I came to talk of him… at his request.’

‘You mean he sent you.’

‘He asked me to come and tell you that you will always be the only woman he ever loved.’

She was moved but attempted to hide the fact. ‘He always loved drama.’

‘He meant it.’

‘Of course he did while he said it. He always means his parts. That is why he plays them so well. He should have been on the stage.’

‘He is suffering.’

‘If he is it is due to his folly.’

‘But that doesn’t make him any the less pitiable.’

Maria Fitzherbert thought: William is growing up. The crude sailor was disappearing; it was the effect of his life with Mrs Jordan, she supposed. Poor woman, how long did she think that would last? How long could Princes be expected to be faithful?

She said, ‘I heard you had another son.’

‘Henry. You should see Henry. And Master George is just a little jealous. He is at pains all the time to remind us that he is our firstborn.’

She smiled. The family man! And he was content. She sensed that in him.

Well, had not George been the same in the first years? These royal brothers had a certain charm – even William had – although he was not nearly as elegant, fastidious and civilized as George; but there was an unworldliness about William which was not unattractive. Perhaps he might settle into the life of domesticity which he had chosen to live with his actress. He would in any case not have to face the same temptation for he was, after all, not the Prince of Wales.

‘I am sure you are very proud of your little boys,’ she said; and she thought: If we had had children would it have made any difference? He was still the Prince of Wales and would have had to marry for State reasons.

‘You illuminated your house last night to celebrate the wedding,’ said William.

‘What did you expect me to do? Plunge into darkness so that all should say I had gone into mourning for the loss of a husband? Though in truth I had already lost him. He left me, you remember, for Lady Jersey.’

‘He is most unhappy. He talks of you continually.’

‘To the Princess Caroline? Or to Lady Jersey?’

‘He never talks to the Princess. He cannot bear to be near her and I am sure he would never discuss you with Lady Jersey.’

She turned to him. ‘My dear William, you have always been a good brother to me and I thank you for coming along to me today. You thought to comfort me, I know, but I have finished with him. He has gone from my life. I have started afresh and it is as though I had never known him.’

He looked at her disbelievingly. How could that ever be? Whenever romantic affairs of the Prince of Wales were discussed the name of Mrs Fitzherbert would always arise.

‘I could not tell him that now when he is in need of comfort.’

‘Dear William,’ she replied. ‘I will leave it to you to say what you will.’

When he took his leave he decided to write to his brother who was on honeymoon at Windsor – poor George, what a dreadful ordeal!

Maria Fitzherbert stood at her window watching his carriage drive away and Miss Pigot came into the room. This lady was no ordinary companion; she had been with Maria since the beginning of her relationship with the Prince of Wales and had suffered and rejoiced through all their vicissitudes. She loved them both and it was a great tragedy to her when they had parted.

‘So the Duke of Clarence came to see you. Did he bring a message?’

Maria turned round. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s like him, don’t you think! He sends his brother after the ceremony to tell me that I am the only woman he ever loved.’

‘It’s true,’ said Miss Pigot.’

‘We have had such proof of it,’ put in Maria sarcastically.

‘Yes, we have.’

‘Lady Jersey for instance. And now this marriage?’

‘Now, Maria, be sensible. The marriage had to be for State reasons.’

‘And Lady Jersey?’

‘Well, he wouldn’t have left you for her. It was you who left him.’

‘Did you think I was going to remain to be… insulted.’

‘No, I didn’t. But he would have come back.’

‘I don’t wish to discuss him and his affairs. Let him go to Lady Jersey. Let him marry. I’m just sorry for this poor Princess. I wouldn’t be in her shoes for anything.’

‘Nor would I… from what I hear. And seeing that he’s in love with another woman.’

‘Romantic old Piggy,’ said Maria affectionately. ‘I wonder how long it will last for Mrs Jordan?’

‘He’s a nice boy – William.’

‘They’re all nice boys, but not faithful boys, you know. They have another son – did you hear?’

‘Yes, and living very quietly there at Petersham Lodge.’

‘And she acts now and then for large sums of money so perhaps she’ll keep him out of debt.’

‘They say that her money keeps the establishment going.’

‘He’ll get into debt, never fear. It’s a family habit. Frederick will be the next. They were brought up to grow wheat and do worsted work. Did you know that? George told me about it once. I think all that discipline decided them to run wild when they had a chance. Perhaps that should be blamed.’

‘Well, I hope the poor Prince is not too unhappy, and that William goes on being as contented as he is now.’

‘My dear Pig, you always hoped for the impossible, didn’t you!’

‘You’re crying, Maria.’

‘Oh, leave me. I didn’t want you to see. I could have burst into tears when William told me. Then I should have had him weeping too. Living with the Prince taught me, I always thought, to restrain my tears. He shed enough for both of us, but his could be turned on and off at will and they never meant anything. He always wept so effectively, didn’t he? Oh go away, there’s a good woman.’

Miss Pigot lifted her shoulders and left.

She’s still in love with him, she thought. And he with her. He’ll come back one day.

The Queen came into the King’s study unannounced. It was something she would not have done before his illness. He was aware of this but he did nothing to stem the change in their relationship. It was inevitable. That terrible experience five years ago had left a mark on him which would never be eradicated. He faced the fact that for a few months of his life he had been insane. It was not the first lapse; and he lived in constant fear that there would be others.

It was a fear which the Queen shared with him; and such an emotion shared must bring them together. It was not out of affection for him that she worried; it was a case of what would happen to her and who would seize power. He understood a little of what had happened when they had thought he would never recover. There had been the battle in Parliament over the Regency Bill and the conflict between the Queen and the Prince of Wales. Then he had recovered and there was a return to normality – at least a show of normality. But the King’s mind was not so impaired that he did not know that nothing would ever be the same again.

There she was, the mother of his fifteen children – two had died so only thirteen were left to them – a woman whom he had never loved but by whom he had done his duty. He often remembered their marriage, when he had been in love with the beautiful, mischievous and inconsequential Lady Sarah Lennox and could have married her, he supposed, had he insisted. After all he had been the King at the time. But he had been under the rule of his mother and her lover, Lord Bute, and they had pointed out the need for him to marry a Princess and had chosen Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. He knew why now. It was because she was so plain, so unattractive that they believed she would never cast a spell on him and therefore would have no power to influence him; that she could not speak English was another point in her favour. They had been determined that he should not have Sarah, because in spite of being the most seductive creature for whom, as he wrote to Lord Bute, he ‘boiled’ she was related to the Foxes – that ambitious politically minded family who would have been ruling the country before long. Charles James Fox was her nephew – and the King was well aware of the mischief that fellow had done. He believed he had ruined the Prince of Wales, teaching him about drinking, gambling and women, and incidentally politics – Whig politics. So they had snatched Sarah from him and married him to this plain German Princess and meekly he had complied and they had lived together for more than thirty years, but he had never allowed her to have a say in anything; even in the nursery he had been the one to lay down the rules.

He had never really known her. He had thought her meek and content with her lot, bearing child after child; she had always seemed to be giving birth to a child or preparing to do so. But when he was indisposed, when he lost his reason, she had thrown aside her docility; the real woman had stepped out from behind the mask of meekness and disclosed an ambitious schemer. Pitt – the great Pitt himself – had been on her side, against Fox and the Prince; and she had shown herself formidable.

So now she did not wait to be summoned; she did not wait for her opinions to be asked: she volunteered them.

‘I’m hoping everything will go well with the bride and bride-groom,’ she said. ‘I thought he was going to refuse right up to the last.’

‘H’m,’ said the King. ‘Nearly did. Was on the point. At the altar. I had to act quickly. Otherwise… what would have happened. I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘He had a shock when he saw her,’ said the Queen; her wide mouth turned up at the corners in a sardonic smile. ‘I could have told him. In fact I tried to. My niece would have been so much more suitable.’

‘Caroline seems quite a handsome young woman.’

The Queen looked at him as scathingly as she dared. Was he a little attracted by his daughter-in-law? He was attracted by women and had been all his life, in spite of his fidelity. She suspected that he confined his erotic adventures to the imagination. She had little to be grateful to him for. But they must of course stand together against the Prince of Wales, the Whigs and the King’s threatened instability.

‘Settle down perhaps,’ said the King. ‘See reason. I was afraid he was going to say No… right there at the altar. Dreadful moment. Think of the scandal.’

‘I do hope,’ said the Queen, ‘that now that he is married he will realize his responsibilities. We don’t want scandal.’

‘No,’ said the King. ‘Dangerous. Lot of trouble. People protesting. Low wages. High price of food. Thank God for Pitt. Good young man… but arrogant… very arrogant, eh?’

‘I think we should be grateful for Mr Pitt,’ said the Queen.

‘Keep George in order. Seems to have lost some of his love for Fox, eh?’

‘Yes. He upset George in the House over the Regency Bill.’

The King winced. He hated references to the period when he had been unable to govern.

‘Mustn’t have scandals,’ he said. ‘Very bad. Can’t help thinking of what happened in France. The King and the Queen… executed. I dream of it sometimes.’

‘I will tell the doctors to give you something to make you sleep.’

‘Can’t sleep… thinking of those boys. Ten sleepless nights in a row I’ve had worrying about them. Did you ever know such boys for getting themselves into trouble? It’s always women… and money. I can’t think why. Eh? I’ve brought them up strictly…’

‘Perhaps too strictly,’ said the Queen coldly, but the King did not hear her. His mind was wandering back to the past.

The Queen said suddenly: ‘I’ve been thinking about William and his actress.’

‘That Jordan woman. They have another child. It’s disgraceful. They are living like a married couple in Petersham and she is acting on the stage and they are beginning to raise a family. Shouldn’t you speak to William?’

‘What could I say to him?’

‘You could tell him that it must stop. Isn’t it time that he settled down with a wife… a Princess whom we should find for him.’

‘He seems to be living… respectably.’

‘Respectably! Unmarried! And with an actress who appears in male costume on the stage for everyone who has the price of a seat to watch!’

The King’s mind had gone off again. He could see a very young man riding out to a lonely house in which there lived a beautiful Quakeress. They had loved each other tenderly; she had borne his children; and he was a young Prince of Wales and later a King. He understood William’s position. He did not want to be too hard on him.

The Queen was saying: ‘George lived with Maria Fitzherbert and no one knew whether or not they were actually married. Then he had love-affairs with other women and now he is married to Caroline. But I fear they have not settled down. There is Frederick who won’t live with that wife of his who keeps a zoo at Oatlands; I believe he has a host of mistresses. And now there is William… Whichever way we turn we are knee-deep in scandal. George is at last married; Frederick is married. It is time William was married.’

‘There’s George and Frederick. One of them is bound to provide some heirs. Eh?’

‘Do you think so? George already hates his wife; Frederick will not live with his. Who is going to reign when we are all gone?’

‘Everything will depend on what happens between George and his wife.’

‘You mean that if they have sons… daughters will do… if they have children then you will leave William in peace with his actress?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘So then everything depends on George’s wife giving us an heir to the throne.’

‘A great deal depends on it,’ said the King.

‘I tell you this,’ said the Queen. ‘I shall never stand by and applaud an illicit union of a royal prince with an actress.’

‘What do you propose to do then, eh, what?’

‘I shall choose the moment to rescue William from that woman. Obviously he must marry.’

‘We’ll wait and see,’ said the King.

Very soon news reached them that the Princess of Wales was pregnant.

The Prince of Wales rejoiced and made it quite plain that he would have nothing more to do with his wife.

The King was pleased that his daughter-in-law had shown such early signs of being productive. He was still less inclined to interfere with his son William’s arrangements.

But the Queen kept her eyes on all her sons; and she had determined that she would not tolerate for ever even a third son’s liaison with a play-actress.

Perdita’s Nobody

DOROTHY WAS AMAZED to receive a letter signed by Mary Robinson, who requested the pleasure of a visit from her that they might discuss Mrs Robinson’s new play in which she hoped Mrs Jordan would play the principal part.

Dorothy was surprised and a little curious for she knew this lady to be none other than that Mrs Robinson who had been known as Perdita when she had enslaved the Prince of Wales, and about whom there had been a great scandal.

She decided she could not refuse to see the lady and went along to her house where she was ushered into her study by her daughter.

Mrs Robinson held out a hand to Dorothy and begged to be excused for not rising.

‘I have to be lifted from my chair because I am paralysed with rheumatism.’ She glanced upwards in a most pathetic manner as she said this and Dorothy immediately recognized the tragic actress.

‘It is so good of you to come,’ went on Perdita. ‘But I knew you would. I have heard of your kindness. Ah, it does not seem so very many years ago that I was in a position similar to yours. So similar. The people used to flock to see me as they now do to see you.’

‘I know,’ said Dorothy. ‘Who has not heard of Mrs Robinson?’

Perdita fluttered her lashes. She was carefully painted and her gown was made of satin and lace – delicately coloured and very feminine. She must have been a very pretty woman in her youth, Dorothy decided.

‘I was known as Perdita because it was in The Winter’s Tale that I scored my big success. He was there in the box… the balcony box, you know. I shall never forget it. The Prince of Wales, and he had eyes for no one but me. How good it is to speak to someone of the theatre! I think so often of those days. And now you see me here, crippled. Thank God I have my daughter to care for me. You have daughters, Mrs Jordan. What a blessing! When we are alone… deserted… there is no one who can comfort one like a daughter.’

Dorothy said: ‘You seem to be so well looked after. But you wished to speak to me about your play.’

‘I am going to give it to you to read. My writing is very important to me now. We live on what I earn… with my pension of course. And you see we are not uncomfortable.’

‘That is a blessing,’ said Dorothy.

Perdita gave one of her theatrical shrugs. ‘You know how it is with us theatre folk. We learn to be extravagant and then we find ourselves alone, in debt,’ She shivered. ‘I feel I can confide in you, Mrs Jordan… because I was once on the stage.’

‘You think there is a part for me in your play?’

‘Undoubtedly. It was written with you in mind… and Sarah Siddons and Elizabeth Farren. There’s a part for Mrs Pope and Bannister too, so everyone should be satisfied.’

‘Good parts for all?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Excellent. This is a play with a purpose. I want to call attention to the terrible habit of gambling and do my small part in helping to abolish this vice.’

‘Do you think the audiences will like that?’

‘They will have to learn to like it. It is a lesson in itself. You look doubtful, Mrs Jordan.’

‘It is merely that audiences come to be entertained, not to learn lessons. And it is the players and the playwrights who have to please them rather than expect them to learn to like what they are given.’

‘Ah, my dear Mrs Jordan, I have advanced ideas. I have written a play on gambling and Mr Sheridan must put it on for me. I am sending a copy to him too, but I wanted to see you… in person. I felt a great desire to see you.’

‘That was kind of you.’

‘Perhaps it was curiosity. I have read so much about you.’

It was Dorothy’s turn to grimace. ‘I hope you have not believed all you heard about me?’

‘Ha! ha!’ Perdita’s laughter was stage laughter, high-pitched and artificial as everything about her. Dorothy felt as though she were playing a scene with this woman – perhaps it was because they were two actresses together. ‘You can tell me nothing about the scandal sheets. My dear Mrs Jordan, no one… but no one… has been libelled and slandered so much as I. You would be too young to remember…’

‘I was probably not in London. I did not come here until ten years ago.’

‘Ten years,’ she murmured. ‘Ten years. It seems but yesterday. I believed him, you know. When he wrote eternal faithfulness I was young and romantic to believe him. That is what we poor women do, is it not, Mrs Jordan?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Dorothy. ‘Do you want me to speak to Mr Sheridan when I have read the play?’

‘Only to tell him that you will enjoy playing the part. I thought it would go on for ever. I gave up the stage. The friend of the Prince of Wales could not go on playing, I was told. Sheridan said that if I left I would never come back. He said the public was fickle. They forget and will not welcome you when you return, he said. How right he was! And when it was over…’ She laughed. ‘Of course there were offers. So many offered. Mr Fox was my good friend and helped me to get my settlement. And then he went off with my maid, that Mrs Armistead. They say he has married her. Is it true, do you think? Do you think a man like Mr Fox would marry a lady’s maid? And how strange that she… who used to wait on me… should be Mrs Charles James Fox! Life is strange, Mrs Jordan.’

‘It is very strange,’ agreed Dorothy. She rose. She had a great desire to get out of this room. She felt uneasy. This woman was trying to say something to her. ‘You are looking at yourself in fifteen years’ time. The woman who gave up everything for love. The woman who did not consider the cost.’ But that was not true. Mrs Robinson had considered the cost. She had her settlement. She had bartered his letters for it. Everyone knew the story of Mrs Robinson and the Prince of Wales.

‘Pray do not go yet. I have asked my dear daughter to bring us in a dish of tea. It is not often that we have the pleasure of entertaining the famous Mrs Jordan.’ She called, ‘Maria! Maria, my dear. Pray bring in the tea.’

The daughter came at once.

‘Oh, Mrs Jordan, I am so pleased you are staying,’ she said. ‘Mamma gets so few visitors and she does love to talk. Are you comfortable, Mamma?’

Perdita smiled at her daughter. ‘You see how I am looked after, Mrs Jordan? Sit with us awhile, my dear. Mrs Jordan has promised to stay and talk to me.’

But it was Perdita who talked; she talked of that high-light in her life when for a brief time she had been the mistress of the Prince of Wales. She made Dorothy see the romantic meetings on Eel Pie Island, the entreaties of the Prince before she would give way. ‘And I gave all for love.’ She spoke in dramatic clichés. ‘And you will understand that, Mrs Jordan. I should have been wise, should I not? But who ever was wise in love? I loved not wisely but too well! And I did not count the cost. But I have my dear daughter and we manage to get along, do we not, my pet?’

‘We manage very well, Mamma. Have you talked to Mrs Jordan about the play?’

‘Mrs Jordan is going to speak to Mr Sheridan about it and she wants to play the main part. This play must run for years. There will always be those who need to be warned against the sin of gambling. It was gambling which ruined him, you know. Oh, he was handsome in those days! He has grown a little gross now… but still elegant… and of course, magnificent. But he could never be faithful. We heard so much of Mrs Fitzherbert.’ Her lip curled in contempt, but the envy showed in her eyes; she was not actress enough to hide that. ‘But she did not last, either. And this poor woman he has married. But it never lasts! It never lasts with princes.’

She is telling me to beware, thought Dorothy. What does she expect me to do, to keep his letters to use them as she used George’s?

‘ “Princes, princes,” ’ went on Perdita, ‘ “put not your trust in princes.” ’

Dorothy said the tea was delicious. She must discover their tea merchant. And now she must go. She would give Mrs Robinson an early report on the play.

‘It was good of you to come,’ said Perdita. ‘I had to see you. An actress like myself… It reminded me so much…’

Driving to her house in Somerset Street Dorothy could not shake off the mood of depression.

For the first time she felt insecure. She could not get out of her mind the memory of that poor woman with her painted face and her exaggerated gestures; she could imagine so clearly how beautiful she must once have been; she could picture so vividly her romance with the young Prince of Wales.

And then… the disillusionment and the end.

‘Put not your trust in princes.’

It was like a chilly wind blowing up on a lovely warm summer’s day.

Somewhat against his better judgement Sheridan decided to put on Mrs Robinson’s play which was under the uninspiring title of Nobody. The sentiments expressed, he knew, would anger many, for the theatre was patronized by gamblers and were they going to sit meekly in their places and listen to a diatribe against their favourite pastime? There would be a hostile reception, he feared. Besides, Mrs Robinson was no genius. On the other hand, she had been the central character in a famous scandal, and the fact that the principal actress was the mistress of a prince and Mrs Robinson had been the mistress of his elder brother did have a certain value. Moreover, he was desperate for new plays. The old favourites had been repeated so many times and although an audience would call for Little Pickle when he offered them something else – he did need to replenish his repertoire. Who knew, the controversial subject might catch on.

Nobody went into rehearsal and Sheridan promised himself that with such a cast it would have every chance of success.

It was impossible to keep its subject secret and the news went round theatrical circles that Sheridan was going to give them some tract against gambling. It would be drink next. Before they knew where they were they would be living in the sort of puritan society which had occurred after the Civil War and which, having once tasted, the people had decided they would never have again. They preferred their extravagant kings and their mistresses to that.

Sheridan was not only a theatre manager, he was a politician. Did this play reflect his own feelings? Impossible! There wasn’t a bigger gambler in the country unless it was the Prince of Wales. They had both been schooled in the art by Charles James Fox who had gambled several fortunes away. Sheridan was in debt – up to his eyes. He had reformed? Was it the case of the devil being sick and wanting to be a saint?

Whatever it was they were not having plays against gambling.

When Dorothy went into her dressing room after rehearsal there was a letter propped up on her dressing table.

She opened it and read: ‘Damn Nobody or you will be damned.’

She took it at once to Sheridan who shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re not the only one who has such a letter. We’re all getting them.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do. We’re in production. We can’t take any notice of lunatics like this.’

‘Lunatics can wreck a performance.’

He laid his hand on her shoulder.

‘We’ll have a full house,’ he said with a grin.

But she was afraid. She was immediately sensitive to the mood of an audience and hostility unnerved her. It had always been so. She lacked the absolute confidence of Sarah Siddons who could go on and forget everything but the magnificence of Sarah. Dorothy must have a friendly audience, an audience who loved her.

‘I don’t look forward to it,’ she said; and began to brood on it.

She stayed in London and did not go down to Petersham Lodge. The Duke wrote to her. He had expected her, he said with mild reproach.

She wrote and told him that she was concerned about Nobody and she felt she would be a hot-tempered irritable impossible-to-love creature, so she preferred to stay away. She knew the babies were well cared for, with him and the nurses.

She went to Hester to talk to her about it. It did not matter if she was irritated with Hester.

Hester thought she should make some excuse not to play. ‘After all,’ said Hester, ‘you could plead sickness.’

‘I could, but I keep thinking of that woman. I could see what it means to her. She wants this play to go on. She longs to be some sort of pioneer. It’s a kind of expiation for the past.’

Hester shrugged her shoulders. ‘The Prince of Wales didn’t feel the same need for repentance and he was the one who deserted her.’

‘But she threatened to publish his letters and this settlement was arranged. One would feel ashamed of that. I was sorry for her. She was so obviously living a part. I think she suffers a great deal in her private thoughts and that is why she plays this part… unconsciously.’

‘Some people can’t stop acting.’

‘I can’t get her out of my mind.’

Hester looked at her sharply. ‘Is all well between you and the Duke?’

‘Of course.’

Hester did not speak for some time but Dorothy knew what she was thinking. How long would it last? Already it had lasted longer than the affair between the Prince of Wales and Perdita. It was a different sort of relationship. Cosy, almost respectable. They already had two little boys and the Duke doted on them. He was meant to be a father and she a mother.

It is different… quite different, thought Dorothy.

She said resolutely: ‘No matter what happens, I shall play my part.’

When she returned to the theatre she learned that Elizabeth Farren had decided to give up her part in Nobody. A friend of hers had been libelled in it and she could naturally not give her support of it. In fact her lover, the Earl of Derby, had warned her that there would be trouble and she must not play.

As the first night of Nobody grew nearer Dorothy grew more and more nervous.

William called at Somerset Street in the morning of the day Nobody was to open.

‘We hoped you would come to Petersham Lodge,’ he told her coolly. ‘George was most disappointed.’

‘Darling George! Did you explain to him that I was so busy rehearsing?’

‘I did not. Do you think he would have understood? But he might have if I’d told him that you had been to see the girls.’

‘Understood?’ she stammered.

‘That you had time for the girls but not for the boys.’

‘But that is absurd.’ The terrors of the coming night were like dragons closing in on her, breathing fire and wrath; and she had to face them. She would forget her lines. She knew she would. It was going to be a nightmare; and her family for whom she was suffering all this, because always at the back of her mind was the need for money, were carping because she needed a little respite, and had wanted to talk things over with her sister – herself an actress who had known the terrors of going on a stage when one was overcome with fright.

‘That be damned,’ said William. ‘It’s a truth. Did you not go to see them?’

‘I went to see Hester to talk about this… this nightmare of a Nobody. And if you can’t understand what I’m going through now I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to anybody.’

‘Is that dismissal?’

‘If you have come to reproach me about something of which you are entirely ignorant, yes.’

‘I know something of the stage.’

‘The deck of the Pegasus is somewhat different from Drury Lane.’

Her face was flushed and angry. He had never seen her like this before.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go to your precious girls and leave the boys to me.’

With that he left her.

She could not believe it. It was the first time he had spoken to her in that way. She thought: It was my fault. I lost my temper – and I always had an Irish temper. I wish I’d never heard of Nobody. That woman had been like a sinister prophetess sitting with her rouge and white lead covering her wrinkles and those bows and ribbons which were too young for her.

From the moment she had seen Perdita Robinson the doubts and fears had come – and not only for the play. She passed the day in a state of nervous tension; and was almost glad when it was time to go to the theatre.

There she found the atmosphere explosive.

Sheridan was prepared for trouble. The house was full but several employees from the gambling houses were there and clearly they had come for a purpose.

As soon as the curtain rose and the play started the audience made its disapproval clear. Rotten fruit was thrown on the stage. Even the fine ladies hissed behind their fans, and comments – derisive and abusive – were shouted at the players.

Dorothy struggled through. It can’t last forever, she kept telling herself. This nightmare will end.

She was thankful for the support of her fellow actors on that night. Whatever petty rivalries took place behind the scenes once they were in action they were real professionals. They acted as though nothing was happening. She was grateful to them on that night.

How they stumbled through to the end, she was not sure, but they did; and the curtain fell to a storm of hissing and booing.

Poor Mrs Robinson, thought Dorothy, this is the end of Nobody.

She felt sick and ill. Perhaps she had acted too soon after her confinement. Perhaps this life she was living was too much for her. The life of a popular actress was enough in itself; one could not be the mistress of an exacting prince and the mother of young children at the same time. Perhaps she should retire. As Perdita Robinson had?

Only if a woman had a docile partner – like Will Siddons for instance – could one combine such careers as that of prominent actress and prince’s mistress.

Is this the beginning of the end? she asked herself; and she remembered his face cold, almost hating, as he had reminded her that she had been to see the girls.

She opened her dressing room door and as she entered someone stepped from the shadows and held her.

‘William!’

‘Of course I came,’ he said. ‘That dreadful play! The audience was in a nasty mood.’

‘You were out there?’

‘No! I was back-stage. I was going to get on to that stage and carry you off if anything started.’

She felt limp with relief and happiness.

‘Oh, William… and I feared…’

‘There is nothing to fear,’ he said.

‘But you thought…’

‘Jealous,’ he said. ‘Jealous fool, that is your William.’

It was over. Sheridan put on Nobody for the two following nights; the audience were hostile. On the third night he ran down the curtain on Nobody for the last time.

Dorothy was happy.

There was no rift. Everything was as it had been in the beginning between her and William. But she must remember that there must be no jealousy between her two families. She wished that she could have had them under one roof. But although she assured herself that William loved her and wished to give her everything she desired, that was something for which she dared not ask.

The attempted fraud

SHE WAITED FOR William to suggest that she give up the theatre, but he did not.

He expressed a great interest in all her parts; and although this necessitated her often staying in London while he, with the boys, was at Petersham, he accepted this too.

The money she earned was important. She was commanding the highest salary of any living actress; and always in her mind was the household presided over by Hester. She could not ask William’s support for the girls, particularly now that they had their own family. His delight in the boys was great; and although he raised no objection to her seeing the girls and even taking the boys to visit them and allowing the girls to come now and then to Petersham, it was obvious that he would not have wished them to be under the same roof.

She could understand that. It would be a constant reminder to him of her relationship with Daly and Ford, both of whom were still alive.

She needed the money her profession brought to her; and William, who had his brothers’ disinclination to consider the cost of what he wanted and was unable to come to terms with money, was constantly short of it.

She must work. She must make sure that her children were cared for.

It was a shock to learn that Richard Ford had married. His wife was a woman of some property and he had become a city magistrate. His father had approved of the marriage and Richard was on his way up in the world.

Dorothy was angry.

For all those years he had lived with her, enjoyed the comforts her salary had brought them and their children, and had evaded marriage – which was the one thing she had asked of him. And now… shortly after their parting he had married.

He was an opportunist. He was weak. Why had she ever believed she loved such a man? And he was the father of her two little girls!

It was humiliating – and only the devotion of William could comfort her.

One day soon after the Nobody fiasco, a visitor called at Petersham and asked for an audience with the Duke of Clarence and Mrs Jordan. It was on a matter which he was sure would be of great interest to them both. His name was Mr Samuel Ireland which they would not know, but when he imparted to them the news of his discovery he was sure they would welcome his visit.

His curiosity aroused, the Duke ordered that the man should be brought in to the drawing room where he and Dorothy were alone.

‘Your Highness! Mrs Jordan!’ said Mr Ireland, with a bow. ‘It is good of you to receive me. I will get to the point without delay. My son, William Henry Ireland, has made a great discovery. An old trunk has come into his possession which he is certain was once the property of the late William Shakespeare, and in this trunk are certain plays and deeds which, since they were placed in this trunk by William Shakespeare himself, have not seen the light of day.’

‘This is incredible,’ cried Dorothy. ‘Where is this trunk?’

‘It is in the house of my son, Madam. He believes it to be the greatest discovery of the age. He said I should come to you, Sir, as a patron of the theatre, and to you, Madam, as our greatest actress.’

‘But when can we see these… plays?’ asked Dorothy.

‘If Your Highness would give me an appointment, I and my son would bring one of the plays to wherever you wish.’

‘There should be no delay about a matter like this,’ said the Duke. ‘Bring them to my apartments at St James’s Palace tomorrow morning.’ He smiled. ‘You will be with us there, my love?’

Dorothy said she certainly would. She was filled with excitement about this great discovery.

So the next day in the apartments of the Duke of Clarence in St James’s, Mr Samuel Ireland arrived with his son William Henry, and they brought with them a folio inscribed Vortigern and Rowena by William Shakespeare.

‘You will observe,’ said William Ireland, ‘that the play is in the style of Shakespeare. I was inclined to think that someone might be playing a hoax, but as soon as I read on… I was convinced.’

The interview was interrupted by the arrival of the Prince of Wales who had heard the news and wanted to see the discoveries.

Dorothy had not seen him since his wedding and thought he looked less healthy than he had before. She had heard from William how eagerly he was awaiting the birth of his child and though he hoped for a son, a daughter would do, because it was freedom from his wife that he wanted more than anything; and if she could give birth to a healthy child he need never see her again.

‘This is fascinating,’ cried the Prince. He turned to William Ireland. ‘Pray tell me how the trunk was discovered.’

‘My father is a writer and engraver, Your Highness. His work took him to Stratford upon Avon, for he is producing a book called Picturesque Views of the Avon and he went there to make his engravings. I accompanied him and there made the acquaintance of an old gentleman whose name I have given my solemn word not to divulge. He showed me this trunk and gave me his permission to bring the papers therein to the notice of the public.’

The Prince had picked up a document which was signed by William Shakespeare in a handwriting similar to that of the poet. It was sealed in the Elizabethan manner; and the Prince declared the parchment to be that which was used at the time.

A page came in to say that Mr Sheridan was without and asking leave to come in. He, too, had heard of the play and had come to see it.

‘Bring him in,’ said the Prince.

When Sheridan glanced at the play, he saw that it was very long and written in blank verse in the style of the existing plays; the language was similar, and he decided that forgery or not he would have to have it or Covent Garden would get it and that would be a great calamity. In any case it was so long – he’d have two plays there for the price of one. He declared there and then that he would put on Vortigern and Rowena.

The whole theatrical world was excited about the discovery and the play went into immediate production with Mrs Jordan in the part of Flavia and John Kemble as Vortigern. At the first rehearsal Sheridan suspected it was a forgery; and as the company ploughed through their turgid lines it became increasingly clear that it had never been written by the Bard of Avon.

Sheridan considered the position. He had paid a good price for the play. The audience would flock to the theatre to see a new Shakespeare piece. Was he going to let the manager of Covent Garden laugh at him? No. They had been duped; they would feign ignorance of that and see if it were possible to dupe the audience.

Mrs Siddons failed to arrive for rehearsals. A message came to the theatre that she was indisposed and was so ill that she was afraid she must abandon her part.

The play was not going well. Dorothy was aware of that. The memory of Nobody was still fresh. Not another night like that, she prayed.

The actors were cautious. Kemble would doubtless have liked to throw in his part, but as Sarah had already done so, for him to follow in her wake would have proved disastrous.

The uneasy first night arrived. People waited in the streets for hours, all determined to get in to judge Vortigern and Rowena and the house was more than crowded; it was overflowing; many of those who usually went to the pit, finding it full, bought boxes; and discovering them to be already filled climbed down into the pit. Quarrels ensued over the possession of seats. It was a noisy, eager and excited audience when the curtain was raised on the first act.

The theatre audience knew its Shakespeare and did not take long to recognize the fraud. Lines of other Shakespearean plays were recognized with shouts of derision.

‘Be quiet!’ cried a man in one of the boxes who was obviously under the influence of drink. ‘Don’t you know you are insulting Shakespeare.’

There were howls of derision. Someone threw an orange at the man in the box and very soon he had to duck down to dodge a shower of them.

Kemble went on reciting his lines without fire, without enthusiasm or belief, while the audience laughed, jeered and hissed. Dorothy came forward and tried to make herself heard.

‘Take it off!’ screamed the audience. ‘It’s a miserable fraud!’

‘Fraud! Fraud! Fraud!’ chanted the audience. ‘Shakespeare – my foot.’

Back-stage William Ireland was almost fainting with fear.

‘Cheer up,’ said Dorothy. ‘They are sometimes like this.’

‘Little Pickle!’ cried the audience. ‘We want Pickle.’

It was as bad as Nobody; and she could never face such audiences with the nonchalance some could. She felt sick and ill and had to keep running off stage to prevent herself retching.

There was pandemonium; and when the curtain went down on Vortigern and Rowena it was never to rise again on that play.

Dorothy could not help feeling sorry for the frightened boy she found cowering in the Green Room. He dared not go home to his father’s house; he dared not go into the streets. He feared the people would tear him to pieces for what he had done.

He looked so young – not much older than Fanny – and Dorothy said he could have a night’s shelter in her house in Somerset Street and the next morning he would have to disappear and hide himself where no one could find him.

He slipped out of the theatre and when Dorothy returned home she found him already there.

‘You’d better tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘Why did you believe you could get away with such a thing?’

‘It seemed as if I would. My father believed me. Everybody believed me at first. Mr Sheridan bought the play.’

‘But did you really think you could hoodwink us all?’

‘People like what they think they ought to like,’ said young William stubbornly. ‘They go to see Shakespeare and sometimes sleep through the performance, but they feel some merit because they’ve been to something good. Then they will go to a farce and laugh themselves hoarse and apologize for it.’

‘It’s true,’ said Dorothy.

‘I wanted to show that it was Shakespeare’s name they admired as much as his plays.’

Dorothy was thinking of what William had said about the King who when he went to the theatre invariably saw Shakespeare because that was what the people expected, but secretly he thought it was ‘sad stuff’.

‘Tell me how you did it,’ she asked. ‘I suppose we could say it was a clever hoax.’

‘My father was a great admirer of Shakespeare and I wanted to give him a gift. There was nothing he would like so much as a relic of Shakespeare whom he admires more than any man. I had nothing, so I forged a document and put a seal on it from an old one. I work in a lawyer’s office and I can get old parchments and seals easily – and I made up this Shakespeare relic and gave it to him. He went wild with delight. And I thought if I could produce a document like that why not a Shakespeare play? So I wrote the play on paper I got from the office… and I knew it was the right sort because we have documents in the safes going back two hundred years and more. Then I made up this story about the trunk and everyone was so excited. I almost believed it was true myself.’

‘And now you are heartily wishing that you had not been so foolish.’

‘It didn’t prove what I wanted to prove.’

Dorothy looked at him sadly. Poor boy. She did not know what action would be taken against him. Fraud such as this was surely criminal; but Sheridan might not take action because he was going to look rather foolish if he did, and the last thing Sheridan the politician must do – even if the theatre manager did not mind – was to look foolish.

She told the boy this to comfort him. And he went on to tell her how he hated being a lawyer’s clerk; how he longed to be a writer. He had read about Thomas Chatterton the poet who had taken his own life at a very early age. Why? Because he was not appreciated. What chance had people to prove their ability? It was only after they were dead that they were appreciated.

‘And so what you wanted to do was to prove that it was not quality which won approval; that the public likes what it is told to like. Then I would say that you have learned a valuable lesson tonight. If you want the appreciation that is given to Shakespeare you must produce work like his.’

‘Why are you so kind to me, Mrs Jordan? Why do you shelter me here?’

‘Perhaps because you are young, and it is hard for the young. Perhaps because I have a daughter who is headstrong like you and wayward and envious… Who knows?’ She yawned. ‘It has been a tiring night. When you are rested I should leave this house. Go out of Town for a while and then when the affair is forgotten, which it soon will be, go back to your father’s house, confess everything and be a good lawyer.’

‘I shall never forget your kindness to me, Mrs Jordan.’

But she laughed wearily and said she was going to bed.

The next morning young William Ireland had left and she never saw him again.

An important birth

AS THE SUMMER passed into autumn everyone was eagerly awaiting the birth of a child to the Princess of Wales, but none more eagerly than the Prince. In his anxiety he was often at Petersham Lodge and would pace up and down in a state of the most desperate tension.

‘She must succeed, William,’ he would cry. ‘I do not know what I shall do if this fails. I cannot go near her again, and yet they will insist. Oh, how fortunate you are! You don’t know how fortunate. No one could who had not had to marry that… monster.’

He played with little George, his namesake. The child was excited by colourful Uncle George who had no objection to being climbed over and who answered the childish prattle of his nephew with an amused good temper.

‘The Prince loves children,’ said Dorothy to William. ‘He will be much happier when the child is born – not only because he so badly needs an heir, but because he will have a child of his own.’

A startling event occurred that November.

The King was on his way to open Parliament and the people lined the streets to see his carriage pass. It was not exactly a loyal crowd for many had gathered there to protest about conditions in the country and to remind the King that wages were too low, the price of bread too high. The King might be parsimonious in his household but he had the inevitable debts which had to be met through taxation. The Prince of Wales was notoriously extravagant. The amount of his debts which had been disclosed just before his marriage had shocked everyone deeply.

There was too much high living on one side; too much poverty on the other. The tragedy across the Channel was too close to be ignored. It was never far from the King’s mind and he could not help wondering how far it was from his people’s.

There were shouts of ‘Down with Kings’ as the King’s coach trundled along. He made no sign of having heard. He had never been lacking in courage and at the time of the Gordon Riots had appeared among the people in person and had himself taken the bold action which had quelled that mob violence. King George would always do his duty. His trouble was that he rarely knew what it was.

As the carriage passed an empty house a shot was fired. It missed the carriage but the King was aware of it.

He continued to sit upright, looking neither to the right nor the left.

‘Your Majesty,’ said his equerry who was riding with him in the coach, ‘do you think we should turn back?’

‘What for, eh?’ asked the King. ‘Because of a shot. Why, if my time has come then it has come. God disposes of all things and I trust Him to save my life. If he does not wish it to be saved then it will not be.’

His calm was an example to all and he went on to Parliament, performed the ceremony as though nothing had happened to disturb him and started on the journey back.

This was even more stormy. Stones were thrown at the royal carriage, one of which caught the King on the arm. A bullet whizzed past his ear and buried itself in the upholstery of the coach.

The King glanced at it.

‘A few inches nearer,’ he said, ‘and that would have been the end of George III.’

When he returned to St James’s, it was to find the Queen and her daughters in a state of agitation. News that the King had been shot had reached them and they had expected to see him carried home.

‘You see me unharmed,’ he said. ‘It was not God’s will that I should die yet.’

The Queen sent for William and when he arrived embraced him without much warmth. There was nothing unusual in that. The Queen had little affection for any of her children except the Prince of Wales; and although she insisted on spending a great deal of time in the company of her daughters it was because she liked to have them in constant attendance.

She was critical of William. William had to some measure escaped from the family. He was living a non-royal existence in that house of his at Petersham; and no one would guess that he was one of the King’s sons. He seemed to be perfectly content to live this life, hardly ever came to court unless summoned and behaved like a simple country gentleman.

It was due to that actress, thought the Queen – a connection which, as his mother and Queen of England, she deplored.

‘You have heard, William, that His Majesty suffered an unfortunate experience on his way back after opening Parliament?’

‘Yes. Everyone is talking about it. I trust His Majesty is not suffering from the shock.’

‘His Majesty will always do his duty and his duty in this case is to ignore the action of a maniac. I wish every member of the family were as conscious of his duty.’

‘Oh, I think we all are, Mamma, when the occasion arises.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so, for it could very well arise… for you!’

William looked uneasy.

‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘If your father had been killed by that bullet…’

‘God forbid!’ cried William.

‘Indeed yes. It could have been disastrous… and even now… in your father’s state of health…’

‘He is ill?’

‘Come, William, let us be frank within the family. Your father’s derangement six years ago gave us all great cause for anxiety. And you must know, as we all do, that he has never been the same since. It could happen again… and then…’

William was growing worried. It was a subject to which his mother had never referred before. There was some purpose behind this.

‘This child should soon be with us. If all goes well I shall be greatly relieved. If not…’

‘But surely, Mamma, all is well. I heard excellent reports of Caroline’s health.’

‘Child-bearing is always uncertain. I pray that Caroline will be delivered of a healthy boy… or girl. But if anything should go wrong…’

‘Please don’t mention it.’

‘You are a superstitious sailor! Don’t be foolish, William. We have to face facts. If something should go wrong, George will never live with her again. I can’t say I blame him. The creature is… impossible. Mad, I think. There cannot have been a Princess in the whole of Europe less suited to your brother. If he had listened to me… But it is too late now. He says he has done his painful duty. If this attempt fails there will never be another. And it would be heartless to expect it of him.’

‘Perhaps he will change his mind.’

The Queen’s burst of laughter was far from mirthful.

‘Frederick’s wife is barren and he won’t live with her. I wanted to remind you that you are the next in line. If Caroline fails, you will have to do your duty, William.’

‘I have other brothers…’

‘You are the next in seniority.’

‘I am sure one of the others…’

‘Why do you think you get a pension from the State, my son, if it is not for services which will be demanded of you? Your private life is a matter for scandal. Is there not one of you who can live decently?’

William flushed hotly. ‘I can assure you that I do that with my family.’

‘Your family! An actress who was never married but had children before you took up with her. Bastard children!’

‘Your Majesty, I must ask you to refrain from speaking of this lady in this way.’

‘Sentimental as well as superstitious. Very well, William. Be sentimental. Be superstitious – as long as you remember that if it is necessary you will be obliged to do your duty. That is really all I have to say to you.’

‘I should like to see my father before I leave.’

‘What? To ask him if it is necessary to pension off your mistress and seek a suitable bride?’

‘To ask after his health.’

‘He is not well enough to see you.’

‘I thought you said that he had suffered no ill effects from the shooting.’

‘My dear William, he is often unwell. These bouts appear at all times. I know my duty. And that is to preserve him from the anxiety the very sight of his sons sometimes arouses in him. No, William. You cannot see the King. But go away and think of what I have said. If Caroline fails to produce an heir to the throne you will have to consider your position very carefully.’

William bowed abruptly and left her.

Dorothy noticed that he was worried. She knew that he had been to see the Queen and she guessed that there had been some criticism of their relationship.

‘You had better tell me what it is, William,’ she said. ‘It concerns us, doesn’t it?’

He nodded glumly.

‘The Queen is urging you to break off our relationship?’

‘It is not quite that. She doesn’t approve, of course. She merely pointed out my duty to me. Even if Caroline miscarries George has sworn he won’t go near her again. Nothing will induce him to. There will be no hope of an heir. And it is the same with Frederick. He refuses to live with his wife. My mother pointed out that the country needs an heir to the throne… and there can’t be more delay. She says that I…’

‘William… but your two brothers come before you.’

‘George will refuse and so will Fred. That leaves me.’

‘Why should you not refuse?’

‘Because… one of us will have to…’

‘You mean that if there is no child…’

‘It would be my duty. I should have to do it… for George.’

‘What about Frederick?’

‘They believe the Duchess of York to be barren.’

‘But the Prince must live with his wife. It’s what he married her for.’

‘He won’t. He will expect me to make the sacrifice… My parents expect it. It was what my mother wished to say to me.’

‘And us…’ she asked blankly. ‘Our children, George, and little Henry…’

He began to kiss her frantically. ‘I would always care for you,’ he said. ‘But it won’t happen. Caroline must bear a child.’

‘And if she fails…’

Dorothy thought: It would be the end. I know it. He wants me to know it. He wants to prepare me. And yet not so long ago he said that nothing would induce him to marry. If they cannot let me marry whom I wish, he said, at least they cannot force me to marry if I don’t want to.

He had changed. She could see that if pressure were brought to bear on him by his parents and his brothers he would give way.

She was sad; he had changed. He was no longer the passionate lover to whom she had meant everything; he was devoted to her and the children; he would be a good husband and father if he were allowed to be. It was not quite the same.

She was afraid. The pattern was changing. Just a little here, just a little there – and by and by everything would be different.

My children, she thought – my three little girls, my two little boys. I must care for them and particularly the girls for surely he will always provide for his own.

She must continue to work. She must never lose touch with her audiences. She must build up a fortune so that her girls would never want.

She thought of that life of ease and comfort of which she had sometimes dreamed: living at home in the heart of her family, far from the smell of greasepaint and the candles, the triumphs and disasters, the applause and the catcalls, the compliments and the jealousies. Would it ever be hers?

She must be careful over money; she must bargain that she was paid the highest prices, and she must never give up; for how could she be sure when she would be without a protector and her girls in need.

William was a boy of nature. A little naïve and wanting to be honest, he had reasoned with himself that it was only fair to warn her; and having done so he now wished to dismiss the subject.

‘There is nothing to worry about. Caroline’s pregnancy is going just as it should. There’ll be a healthy boy, you’ll see.’

Perhaps, she wanted to say; but that will not alter the fact that you could contemplate a marriage of State. And if you did, what would become of us?

He wanted to forget the unpleasant subject. He had done his duty; that was the end of it. She refused to dwell on it. He did not wish to be depressed; he had been upset enough by his mother’s implications.

It was better to pretend to forget it, to pretend all was well.

On a cold January day the Princess of Wales gave birth to her child. It was a girl and they called her Charlotte.

They had hoped for a boy, of course; but there was no Salic law in England and girls could inherit the throne as easily as boys. There had been two great queens to prove that women rulers were no bar to a country’s greatness; under Elizabeth and Anne the country had expanded as never before. Charlotte was the heir-presumptive to the throne. If her parents had no more children one day she would be Queen.

She was a lusty young creature right from the start. The Princess of Wales was almost hysterical with joy to have a baby of her own; the Prince was delighted because he had done his duty; the country rejoiced for it had no prejudices against girls, and in fact preferred their rulers to be feminine.

Dorothy breathed more easily. There would be no plan to marry William off now. Strange to think that she owed her peace of mind to that infant at Carlton House who lay in her cradle all oblivious of her importance.

It was fortunate that the child was healthy for when she was three months old the Prince wrote a letter to his wife in which he suggested that they part amicably for he had no intention of living with her again.

There was one ominous phrase in the letter:

‘Even in the event of any accident happening to my daughter, which I trust Providence in its mercy will avert, I shall not infringe the terms of the restriction by proposing, at any period, a connection of a more particular nature.’

William was aware of this clause in the letter which his brother had sent to his wife. He told Dorothy of it. They both understood what it meant. If any accident befell the baby Princess Charlotte and she were to die, William would be obliged to marry.

It was an uneasy thought; but Dorothy knew that the period of complete happiness was over, that they had passed through the honeymoon and now the harsh realities of life had to be faced. How right her mother had been when she had warned her daughter to marry. Security was very necessary to peace of mind.

I shall never have it, thought Dorothy. But I must see that my daughters do.

Theatrical conflicts

MONEY! SHE MUST earn it; she must save it; it must be there for the girls when they married. They would need a bigger dowry than most to offset their illegitimacy.

She had a benefit night coming along and hoping to do well out of it decided that she would play Ophelia. This was a departure from her comedy roles, but she was sure she could do justice to the part; and made her announcement that she had chosen it.

She was unprepared for the storm this decision aroused.

When she arrived at the theatre it was to find John Kemble raging in Sheridan’s office. As she had received a message to go along there as soon as she came in she knew that something was wrong.

Kemble was shouting. ‘Ophelia! It is ridiculous! It’s quite out of her range.’

She cried: ‘Are you afraid I shall take attention from your Hamlet?’

Kemble drew himself to his full height and struck a pose which might have been Hamlet’s own. ‘Such fear has not occurred to me, Madam. I have not yet come to terms with the absurdity.’

‘And why should it be absurd? I am an actress. I believe there are few parts which would daunt me.’

‘One could not introduce comedy into Hamlet, nor could Ophelia rise from her watery grave to sing a ditty and do an Irish jig.’

‘I have no intention of doing either on my benefit night, as you will see.’

‘I shall not see, for you will not play Ophelia on your benefit night.’

‘And why not, pray, since I have chosen it? Is it not the custom for players to choose the plays for their own benefits? Mr Sheridan, I beg of you, explain this custom to Mr Kemble.’

Sheridan, who remained aloof from the quarrels of his actors and actresses, sat glumly, his arms folded; his mind was far from the theatre where he feared he would never make his fortune. He wondered what would happen if there was another attack on the King’s life and this time it was successful. A change in government, with the Whigs coming into their own and high place in that government for Mr Sheridan?

‘Eh?’ he said, rousing himself.

‘Mr Kemble is of the opinion that since he has chosen to play Hamlet for his benefit, I cannot play Ophelia for mine.’

Sheridan stood up. ‘I have work to do,’ he said. ‘This is a matter for you two to settle between yourselves.’

The antagonists glared at each other.

‘I am determined to play Hamlet,’ said Kemble.

‘I am determined to play Ophelia,’ retorted Dorothy.

When the two Hamlets were announced the public was interested and very soon news of the dispute between the leading actor and actress was well known. As usual sides were taken, but as Dorothy was more popular than Kemble the majority was with her.

Kemble dramatically threatened to resign and there was uproar throughout the theatre. Mrs Siddons supported her brother and declared there would be trouble if Dorothy insisted on playing Ophelia.

Sheridan could no longer close his ears to the dispute. He was after all the manager. It was absurd to play two benefit Hamlets; and he called the antagonists to his office and told them that they must both choose another play.

‘I must play Hamlet,’ declared Kemble.

‘My dear sir,’ replied Sheridan. ‘This dispute is over. You will not play Hamlet in my theatre. And if you are wise you will go away at once and make up your mind what you will play, for it will do you no good to resign as you well know. As for Mrs Jordan, she will go away and choose her play. Anything I say… anything you like… as long as you don’t both choose the same play.’

They were glad of his compromise. Kemble chose Coriolanus and Dorothy, rather unwisely, Romeo and Juliet. Whereas Ophelia would have been less demanding and she could have adapted her talents to the fey half-crazy girl, the young innocent Juliet was not suitable to an ageing woman who was the mother of five children.

But the benefit was profitable and if her Juliet was not highly praised by the press – it commented that she was not young enough nor was her figure, which had widened with the years of childbearing, quite suitable – she was actress enough to give a good performance.

But the public wanted Dorothy as The Romp. With Little Pickle it was the name she was known by. They wanted her to go on being just that.

It was not easy for a woman of thirty-five.

So the passing of the years was another anxiety.

Dorothy had received an offer to play in Dublin; as soon as she saw it she knew from whom it had come and she was as uneasy as the very thought of that man could always make her.

How dared he! she thought. Would she never be free of him?

She slit the envelope and read his terms. He would pay her more than she had ever been paid before if she would pay a return visit to Dublin.

Never, she thought. Not for all the money in the world.

She did not tell William of the communication but went to see Hester.

Fanny was fourteen now and she had a look of her father. She was wayward, vivacious but far from handsome. She had a talent for acting and was longing to go on the stage. It was not the life Dorothy had wanted for her. She had dreamed of her living quietly, the step-daughter of a lawyer, meeting others of that stratum – barristers, doctors or even army officers. Desperately she wanted for Fanny a good steady man who would marry her.

Every time she saw her daughter she doubted whether this would be achieved; and in any case it was well known that she was Daly’s daughter; there had been so much gossip about them all.

If Richard had married her and Fanny had taken the name of Ford it would all have been forgotten. But she was glad he had not now, for she had her happiness at Petersham.

‘I’ve had an offer from Daly,’ she told Hester.

Hester looked at it and whistled.

‘Are you taking it?’

‘Hester, what do you think!’

‘I know – but such an offer! The children all need new shoes and prices are rising. I think I’ll have to ask you for a bigger allowance.’

‘You shall have it.’

‘I daresay Daly would like to see Fan.’

‘I should never allow it.’

‘I hear he is doing very badly in Dublin. Philip Astley has opened at the Amphitheatre and is taking all his business.’

‘Serve him right.’

‘I daresay he thinks that you would set him on his feet again.’

‘He can think again.’

‘But all this money…’

‘It doesn’t tempt me at all. And William would never allow it.’

Hester grimaced. She was not very fond of William. She would have liked to live at Petersham Lodge with the girls; and it seemed to her that by keeping them in a separate establishment they were being slighted.

‘He might be interested in the money,’ she suggested.

‘What nonsense!’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘He would never consider it for a moment.’

Was that true? wondered Hester. Her sister with her vast earnings was a good proposition for any man – even a royal Duke, for like all royalty William was in debt.

Dorothy saw the children and listened to Fanny’s complaints. When was she going on the stage? Shouldn’t she begin soon? Did her mother remember that she was fourteen? Dodee and Lucy wanted to hear about George’s latest exploits and little Henry. And after an hour with them she left.

Daly wrote again begging her to reconsider, but she tore up his letter.

If I were starving, she thought, I would never go back to that man.

The Duke was excited. He had decided to move from Petersham Lodge which was hardly large enough for his growing family, and Dorothy was once more pregnant.

He had sold Petersham Lodge some time before – being in need of money – but had continued to rent the place and now that his father had offered him Bushy House he decided to leave the Lodge.

Dorothy must come with him and see the new place, he said, and this she was delighted to do. These pleasant domestic touches were the greatest happiness he could give her; and when she saw Bushy House she was charmed by it.

It was close to Hampton Court and situated in Bushy Park; it had magnificent gardens which would be ideal for the children to play in. Young George was such a strong little fellow; he was into everything.

‘George needs plenty of space,’ said Dorothy laughingly.

It was the perfect house. Gracious, red brick, it had been built in the reign of William and Mary, and the main central building was flanked by lower wings on either side.

‘Come, I want to show you,’ William said, excited as a boy and reminding her of young George in that moment as he drew her along.

She was enchanted by the gracious drawing room with its beautifully moulded ceiling and the pillars which supported it.

He took her over the main house and then they explored the two pavilions on either side – one of which consisted of a spacious ball-room, the other the chapel.

This was their new home, he told her. He hoped that they would be as happy in it as they had been in Petersham Lodge.

‘My father has presented me with this house because he has made me Ranger of Bushy Park – and as I’m also Chief Steward of the Honour of Hampton this place will be ideal. I shall be right on the spot.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ cried Dorothy. ‘The sort of house I’ve always dreamed of.’ Then she said: ‘It will need a fortune spent on the furnishings.’

‘Oh, I’m taking care of that,’ he told her easily.

She was momentarily alarmed. He had no idea of the value of money. She had her house in Somerset Street which was necessary for when she was working; he had his rooms in St James’s Palace; there was the separate establishment she must maintain for Hester and the girls – and now Bushy House. The cost would be great.

But this was not the day to worry about such matters.

Bushy House with its rural situation, its spacious rooms, its charm and grandeur was the ideal family home. The children would love it.

She said: ‘I know I am going to be happy here.’

Mrs Siddons in distress

AND SHE WAS happy at Bushy House.

Almost immediately she settled in to prepare for the birth of her child, and this time she had a little girl, Sophia.

How pleasant it was to rest after her confinement; to sit in the garden with the baby on her lap and the little boys playing on the lawns. Young George was getting remarkably like his uncle, the Prince of Wales. He swaggered about, sure of the approval of nurses, parents and younger brother.

‘You’ll have to watch young George,’ was the constant admonition. ‘He has the strength of two boys of his age, and the mischief.’

When his father came he would clamber all over him and fight him with his fists because the Duke wanted to make a fighter of him. William delightedly declared that he did indeed have to defend himself.

Young Henry stood by watching with admiration.

If only we could go on like this for ever! thought Dorothy.

But there was always anxiety about money and the fact that William did not greatly concern himself tended to make her more anxious.

Her brother George was not happy in his marriage. His wife Maria, who was so much more successful in the profession than he was, bullied him and was unfaithful to him. He was constantly short of money and naturally turned to Dorothy. Her brother Francis who was in the Army, and whom she had believed to be happily settled, had also run into debt. He wrote to his sister, knowing her strong family feeling, and when he had heard of the vast sums of money she was paid merely for appearing a few hours on a stage, he had been sure he could rely on her to help him.

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.

‘You wished to see me, Mr Siddons?’

‘Ah, Mrs Jordan. I have come on behalf of my wife.’

What trouble now? wondered Dorothy, for she could not imagine it was not trouble between herself and the queen of tragedy.

‘We are in great distress, Mrs Jordan. Our second daughter, Maria, is dying.’

Dorothy was immediately sympathetic.

‘The doctors are with her now. They hold out no hope. She may pass from us this very night… or she may live for a few more weeks.’

‘I am so sorry. Pray convey my sympathy to Mrs Siddons. Tell her I understand her feelings.’

‘You are a mother yourself, well I know; and it is for that reason that I come to ask this favour.’ He hesitated miserably. ‘I know there has been little friendship between you and the family…’ Poor little man, thought Dorothy, it was not his fault that the Kembles had treated her so badly.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is but the usual rivalries of our profession,’ she said. ‘What favour did you wish to ask?’

‘Mrs Siddons has committed herself to play on Friday night. She cannot refuse to play unless someone will take her place. You understand that she cannot bear to leave our daughter, and in the circumstances hesitates to face an audience.’

Dorothy nodded. She was thinking that instead of driving down to Bushy she would have to stay in London to play.

‘Sarah sent me to ask… oh, I know it is asking a great deal… but if you would take her place on this occasion she would be most deeply grateful.’

‘Tell her I will do it,’ said Dorothy. ‘And give her my sympathy.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Jordan.’ There were tears in his eyes.

‘Pray think no more of it. It is the least I can do.’

When he had left and she was driving home to Somerset Street she could have wept with disappointment.

What is the matter with me? she asked herself. It was due to the fact that she was pregnant, she supposed. But she felt weary and longed poignantly for Bushy, the children and William.

Soon it will be time for my confinement, she promised herself, and then I shall go to Bushy; and when the new baby comes I shall be forced to rest awhile.

And tomorrow? Perhaps she would go down to Bushy in the morning and come back for the evening performance. And Friday would be a day of rehearsal to enable her to play that night.

The children would be disappointed; but they were accustomed to her frequent absences. William would be, too. Was she right to leave them all so often? Yet she must for the money was so important to them all.

Oh for that day when she would say goodbye to the stage and spend day after peaceful day in beloved Bushy House.

She wrote to William:

‘2 o’clock. I have just returned. You will be surprised to see me advertised to play on Friday night, but I trust not angry when you know the reason. Mrs Siddons has bound herself to play that night, but since she is in constant fear of losing her second daughter, Mr Siddons came here to request I would play otherwise Mrs Siddons would be obliged to quit her child. On such a serious occasion I thought it would not be humane to refuse and hope you will agree with me… I got fifty pounds last night… If you want this money let me know that I may not dispose of it…’

She lay on her bed and thought about the family at Bushy and the girls with Hester; and greatly she wished that she could gather them all under one roof and never leave them.

The child was born in November – another girl. This one was Mary. There were now four little FitzClarences as well as her three girls.

This was a happy time. It was no use thinking about money and the theatre. She simply must rest awhile until the baby was ready to be weaned.

‘I am growing fat,’ she thought, ‘and lazy. I shall have to give up soon. I’m too plump now for The Romp and Little Pickle.’ It was strange how audiences still demanded those parts – and her in them. It was no use trying to give them solemn characters – although they loved her Angela in The Castle Spectre. It was all very well for Sarah Siddons. Her roles did not demand a youthful figure. In fact Sarah was far fatter than Dorothy, only being tall she could carry her weight better. But the Tragedy Queen was finding it difficult to get out of a chair once she had sat in it and was demanding that she be helped out; and lest this should call attention to her bulk all females on the stage must be helped out of their chairs as though it was some new fashion invented by the author.

The arrogance of Sarah was supreme. But Dorothy was sorry for her at this time for she had lost her little daughter who had that October died of congestion of the lungs.

The girls came over to Bushy to see her. Fanny was now sixteen, Dodee eleven and Lucy nine. Fanny was the one who worried her – Fanny always had. Conceived in hatred, Dorothy thought. Was that the reason? If so, she must make sure that she gave more care and attention to Fanny than to any of the others. Fanny frightened her. Was it because she could never forget her father? She was quick-tempered, could not learn as easily as the others and was vain and selfish.

Four-year-old George was delighted by his half-sisters. Dodee and Lucy adored him, but Fanny of course cared for no one but herself. Young Henry followed George in everything so he was always pleased by the girls’ visits.

What was so pleasant was that William did not resent them as much as he once had appeared to, although she sensed that he was always rather pleased when they left. It was good of him, she told herself, not to put any barrier in the way of their visiting her.

Those days would have been perfect but for Fanny.

‘Mamma,’ she would demand, ‘why can’t we live here? Why do we have to live in a little house while you and the boys have this lovely place? There’s room for us all here.’

It was difficult to explain. ‘Well, you see, Fanny, this house belongs to the boys’ Papa.’

‘Is he not our step-father?’

‘Y… yes.’

‘Well then he should look after us, too.’

‘He does.’

‘But he doesn’t let us live here.’

Oh, dear, what could one say? Then Fanny would behave towards William in a way he did not like. How could one say to her: You must be particularly careful how you treat the Duke for he is the King’s son and used to special deference.

One moment he was the King’s son and another he was their step-father.

Fanny declared that he was a selfish old beast and she hated him because it was quite clear that if Mamma could have arranged it they would all have lived at Bushy House.

There was another matter which put Fanny into a sulk.

‘Why can’t I be a famous actress?’

‘Because there is no need for you to be.’

‘Why not. You are?’

‘I had to earn money when I was a girl. You do not.’

‘Then what am I supposed to do?’

‘When you are old enough I will give a big coming-out ball for you. I hope you will love someone and marry and live happily ever after.’

Fanny was mollified – but only temporarily.

Hester said Fanny would never be satisfied. Nor it seemed would Hester. She, too, would have liked to live at Bushy House.

Now that she was getting older she asked herself – and Dorothy – what sort of life she had had. She had been subservient to her famous sister all the time. She was perpetually being obliged to ask for more money to run the household. Dorothy was ready to provide it – if she had it. William, though, had now overcome all his scruples. She realized that as in the case of his brothers, money was merely a symbol that passed from hand to hand; whose it was did not matter as long as it was there.

The need for money was like a heavy cloud always likely to appear and overshadow the sunshine of Bushy Park.

But chiefly she was happy when she could be with the children and William in that pleasant state of domesticity enjoying a brief rest from the theatre and caring for the latest babies. They were arriving regularly, and no sooner was one weaned than another was on the way. Frederick was born in December 1799 following exactly a year and a month after Mary.

Five little FitzClarences and the three girls. Eight children in all.

‘No wonder I am getting too fat to play Pickle,’ she remarked to William.

William laughed at her. ‘You still look the same as you did when I first saw you romp on the stage as Pickle.’

That made her laugh with contented derision. So it was when one was observed through the eyes of love.

Danger in Drury Lane

SINCE THE BIRTH of Princess Charlotte the tension within the royal family had considerably lessened. It was true that the Prince of Wales had grown most unpopular. The situation between him and his wife was considered to be unnatural and he was blamed for it. The Princess of Wales was a heroine who was cheered wherever she went; and the people always loved a child. Indeed the little Princess Charlotte was a bright engaging child and although little was seen of her there were anecdotes about her quaint sayings and her charm which pleased the people.

The King doted on his granddaughter and although he deplored the fact that George and Caroline did not live together he had to admit that George had done his duty and provided the heiress to the throne. As long as the little girl continued to thrive the brothers need not be harried into marrying.

Money was a subject which recurred constantly in the royal household, where expenses always exceeded income. The Princes – every one of them – were in debt. Every now and then there would be a piece in one of the papers about the Prince of Wales or one of the royal Dukes having to be dunned for money.

Money! It was the need for it which had driven the Prince of Wales to marry Caroline, and that was a disaster, if ever there was one. The Queen could never think of it without a certain smug satisfaction because George had ignored her advice and taken the King’s niece Caroline of Brunswick instead of her own, Louise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. At the same time she realized that it was a disaster which she should deplore. Caroline was eccentric to madness – and there would most certainly be more trouble there. As soon as Charlotte was a little older she should be taken from her mother’s care and put under that of the governess and tutors. chosen for her by the King or her father.

‘We are not seen in public enough,’ said the King. ‘We should perhaps go to the theatre now that they’ve opened this new Drury Lane.’

‘Well, you know how you always disliked Mr Sheridan.’

‘I always disliked Mr Sheridan and I always shall,’ said the King. ‘He is a profligate, eh? He is a man who drinks too much, gambles too much, spends too much and is unfaithful to his wife. Do you expect me to admire a man like that, eh, what?’

‘I do not. But George is fond of him and thinks him very clever.’

‘Hand-in-glove,’ said the King. ‘It was that fellow Fox. He was the one. Between him and this Sheridan they made George what he has become. And I say I don’t like Sheridan and you understand that, eh, what? But I shall not go to Drury Lane to see Sheridan. I shall go to see a play. And the people expect us to go. They like to see us. We should all go… you and I and the girls.’

‘That woman of William’s will doubtless be playing.’

‘Well, well, I hear she’s a good actress.’

‘You would sit in a box and watch William’s mistress?’

‘I would watch a good actress in a play and I hear she is that.’

‘But to live as they do.’

‘They live in the only way they can be expected to. I hear they are very respectable there at Bushy, that William does not drink to excess and I have noticed he no longer uses those coarse oaths he came back from sea with. I know he should be married to some German Princess – legitimately married – he should produce a son or two… but not too many to be a drain on the exchequer…’

The King looked worried. Once it had seemed so admirable for Charlotte to produce a child every year or so. And now look at them – all these sons living dangerously on the edge of some scandal that could erupt suddenly like an active volcano, all in debt, all leading irregular lives with women – and the girls no longer young, spending their lives waiting on their mother, fretful because they were not allowed to go out into the world. Too many of them, thought the King; and passed his hand over his brows. Too many worries, eh, what? But where were we. Theatre!

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘We should go to Drury Lane. The people expect it.’

‘To go would be in a way to show our approval of William’s… connection.’

‘You think William should marry?’

‘He’s the third son and George will have no more legitimate children and Frederick will have none. Shouldn’t William have a family… in reserve.’

‘Think of the cost of bringing a German Princess over for him? Our ambassador to go to negotiate… a wedding… And for a third son! No. It’s not as though this actress of his costs him a great deal. She’s a rich woman herself… earns large sums, so they tell me. And some of these have paid William’s debts.’

‘So in Your Majesty’s opinion Mrs Jordan is a good financial proposition?’

‘Has to be considered, eh, what?’ said the King. ‘Seems a good woman… All those children. Never hear of a scandal. As for William, better for him to be living like a husband at Bushy than racketing around with George and Fred.’

‘I see the point of that,’ said the Queen. ‘But it keeps him from court and he scarcely lives like a royal Prince.’

The King looked a little sad. These days his mind took strange journeys into the past which often seemed more real to him than the present. He tried to hide this from the Queen, but there were occasions when he lost track of time and was not sure whether he was in the past or the present. Now he was thinking of the beautiful Quakeress whom he had loved secretly and often it seemed to him that he had been happier then than ever since; and if he could have lived quietly like a country gentleman in a house like Bushy Park with a good woman whom he loved and their children about him he would have been a very happy and contented man. No ceremonies, no state occasions, no pressing responsibilities. Colonies! he thought. Gordon Riots! Mr Pitt and Mr Fox! Addington and Burke, Canning and the rest… all like a lot of wild beasts snarling at him behind the courteous homage they paid to the King. And sons to plague him… with their debts and their gambling and their erotic adventures with women which he had never been able to enjoy and which he might have done… as well as they did. There were the girls, his girls, with whom he would never part. He would keep them all, particularly Amelia, the youngest, the best loved, his darling, affectionate Amelia who sometimes made everything seem worthwhile. But even she added to his anxieties with her delicate health. What had life brought him: a crown that was too heavy for him, a plain German Princess whom he could never love but by whom he must do his duty, a family of fifteen with thirteen now living who plagued him and gave him sleepless nights.

Where were they? The theatre.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we will go to Drury Lane and take the eldest girls with us. They shall send me a programme and I will choose the play.’

William was amused.

‘Dora,’ he said, ‘you are to be honoured, my darling.’

‘What is this?’ she demanded to know.

‘My father is coming to see you play.’

‘Why William… is that really true?’

‘Yes, he has sent for Sheridan and he is choosing the plays. He will pay several visits and every one is to be a play in which you perform.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means that he does not think badly of us, I suppose.’

She was elated. Somewhere at the back of her mind had always been the fear that there would be some royal command to whisk William away from her. She knew that William’s brothers were sympathetic; the Prince of Wales never failed to treat her as a sister; but she could not expect approval from the King and Queen. But now it seemed she was to have, if not that, acceptance.

When she arrived at the theatre it was to find Sheridan in a merry mood, and she guessed the reason.

‘Royal Command performance,’ he told her with a bow.

‘I know. The Duke told me the King and Queen were coming.’

Sheridan nodded. ‘They have chosen three plays – and all in which you appear. Now that seems significant to me. Oh, Mrs Jordan, you are rising in the world! To have won the approbation of a Royal Highness is an achievement, I grant you. But of a Majesty – that is very rare. This is the wish of His rather than Her Majesty, I’ll guess.’

‘It is good news. I confess I shall be a little nervous.’

‘Not you, my dear. Believe me, His Majesty is more easily pleased than any of their Royal Highnesses. He has accepted your situation. I don’t doubt for a moment that he will be enchanted with your person… and your acting, of course.’

‘What has he chosen?’

‘Three plays, if you please. The Wedding Day, Love for Love and She Would and She Would Not.’

‘I should have thought he would have chosen Shakespeare.’

‘On this occasion he has clearly chosen what he likes, not what he thinks he ought to like. Which gives a pleasant family flavour to occasions, do you agree?’

He looked at her sardonically and wondered whether even at this time she was carrying a little grandson or granddaughter for His Majesty.

Playing Lady Contest in The Wedding Day she was conscious of the pair in the royal box. The watery protuberant eyes of the King were on her all the time – kindly and benevolently.

She would have been surprised if she could have read his thoughts. Pretty woman, he was thinking. Lucky fellow, William. Fine figure… a little plump but all the better for that. And they live there at Bushy with those children. I hear little George FitzClarence is a fine young rascal. Like to see him. Shouldn’t send for him, though. The Prince of Wales goes and sees them. Takes presents for the children, Why should he have everything? Making a mess of it, though. Back with that Mrs Fitzherbert now. Wishes he’d never left her. Did he marry her? Good woman. Lovely woman. Catholic, though. What a mess, eh, what? He must remember he was in public. Must think of what was happening on the stage. Must watch William’s woman. Not difficult. Easy to watch. Good actress. Pretty creature. Small and womanly. Charming. Lucky fellow, William.

He glanced at the Queen’s sour face beside him. Why should they have pretty women while he had to remain faithful to Charlotte?

The play was over. Pretty little Mrs Jordan was taking the bow. She curtsied charmingly at the royal box. The King smiled, nodded and clapped; and everyone cheered. They liked him for liking their Mrs Jordan.

The Queen clapped perfunctorily.

But the evening was a success.

‘The King thought you a first-rate actress,’ William told Dorothy delightedly. ‘He sent for me to tell me so. He said: “Pretty woman, charming creature…” and I answered: “The best in the world, Sir.” ’

Yes, that was triumph.

Love for Love went off with equal success and the next month the Command performance of She Would and She Would Not was scheduled to take place.

On the morning of the day an unfortunate incident occurred in Hyde Park. The King was reviewing a battalion of the Guards when one of the spectators who was standing quite close to him was hit by a ball cartridge. After assuring himself that the victim was not fatally wounded and giving orders that he should be attended to without delay, the King continued with the review. But speculation was great. The attempt had evidently been made by one of the soldiers who had fired the volley but it was impossible to discover which one.

The King’s cool courage made it possible for the incident to pass off lightly, but it seemed certain that the cartridge had been intended for him.

That evening there was a full theatre. The people might laugh at Farmer George, the Royal Button Maker, but he had an aura of royalty and that was enough to give glamour to any occasion.

But the fact that he had escaped assassination that very morning made people all the more eager to see him.

Sheridan rubbed his hands together gleefully and remarked that the would-be assassin could not have timed his attempt more to the advantage of the theatre.

Dorothy was playing the role of Hypolita in the play and it was one of those which she had made very popular. In her plumed hat, with her quizzing glass and her breeches she was still attractive, although her increasing weight did worry her and, dressed as she was, she could not help wishing that the King could have seen her in this costume as she had been when she had first made the role popular; but she must console herself with the truth that although her figure might not nowadays fit so well into such a costume she could make up for that by the finesse of her acting.

The King and Queen with the four eldest Princesses were in the foyer. Sheridan was greeting them, bowing, smiling, murmuring that the whole company was honoured.

The King glared at him, his face slightly redder than usual, his eyes seeming as if they would pop out of his head.

The Queen acknowledged Mr Sheridan’s greeting unsmiling. The man who had helped lead George to his downfall – not, she was ready to admit with something between exasperation and admiration, that George needed a great deal of leading. George would always go his own way; and if Mr Sheridan had not been there to lead him someone else would. But she did not like this clever gentleman who was reputed to be the greatest wit in London.

The four Princesses could not take their eyes from him. The wicked author of The School for Scandal, the man who created scandals of his own, who had eloped with his beautiful wife and then betrayed her a hundred times with other women, and above all was the friend and confidant of their fascinating brother the Prince of Wales – who was even more startling in his adventures than Mr Sheridan.

‘If Your Majesties will allow me to conduct you to the royal box…’

‘Lead the way,’ said the King.

When Sheridan threw open the door of the box, bowed and stood aside for the family to enter, shouts and cheers rang through the theatre.

The King, always moved by a show of affection from his people, went to the front of the box and stood there bowing and smiling.

Then suddenly a man stood up and pointed a horse-pistol straight at the King.

There were shouts of: ‘Stop him!’ And at that moment the shot was fired.

The Princesses screamed; the people in the theatre shouted and leaped to their feet; the man with the pistol was seized by some members of the audience and the orchestra. Everyone was crowding round him.

The King stood erect.

‘I am unhurt,’ he said.

Pandemonium had broken out in the theatre. The man who had tried to kill the King was hustled away but the noise continued until Mrs Jordan came on to the stage.

‘Your Majesties,’ she said, holding up her hand for silence. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. The man who fired the shot has been taken away. There is nothing more to fear.’

The Queen said: ‘Perhaps we should leave.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the King, ‘we came to hear the play and we shall stay to hear it.’

Mrs Jordan was looking at the royal box. No doubt waiting for the royal assent for the play to continue.

He nodded to her smiling; she curtsied and cried: ‘Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen, we shall now play for your enjoyment She Would and She Would Not.’

It was an evening to be remembered. No one could help but admire the cool courage of the King. He looked younger and in better health after the shooting than he had been before. In such a situation he had full confidence for he knew how to act. Courage was a quality he had never lacked; it was statecraft that baffled him.

Dorothy played as well as she ever had. She held the audience which was not easy after such a scare. Everyone wanted to talk about it, to ask who the man was, why he had shot at the King, how near he had come to killing him. It all seemed so much more interesting than the fate of characters in a play.

Behind the scenes the Duke of Clarence was waiting for Dorothy when she came in between playing. It was a man called John Hadfield, he told her. He was obviously another of those madmen who got it into their heads from time to time that they should kill the King.

‘His Majesty is magnificent,’ said Dorothy emotionally. ‘I feel tonight that I have indeed played before a King.’

Sheridan said that such an event in his theatre must not go un-noted. When the last curtain calls had been taken he came on the stage to say how happy everyone present was that there had been no tragic outcome of that unfortunate affray. No one need be alarmed. The culprit was under arrest. But they were a happy house tonight because they had His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen with them and what might have been a tragedy had turned out to be merely an incident. His Majesty’s cool courage was an example to them all and he believed that they should all stand up and sing the national anthem with special fervour.

Because they would all wish to show their loyalty and devotion to His Majesty he had this very evening composed an extra verse which he was sure every man and woman present tonight would feel, and want His Majesty to know they felt, so he had had the new verse printed and it would now be handed round that they might all rise and sing another verse to the national anthem.

They rose and sang and the King stood up, tears falling from his eyes while his loyal subjects expressed their delight in his escape by singing from the bottom of their hearts the national anthem with Sheridan’s additional verse:

‘From every latent foe,

From the assassin’s blow,

God save the King!

O’er him thine arm extend,

For Britain’s sake defend,

Our father, prince and friend,

God save the King!’

People were weeping openly, embracing each other and smiling up at the royal box.

The King had not been so happy for many years. His people loved him. A madman had tried to shoot at him and because he had failed his dear people were rejoicing. Pretty little Mrs Jordan – William’s woman – was on the stage leading the singing in her enchanting voice; even the Queen was touched.

It was an inspiring evening and he would not let them be too hard on the man who had shot at him. A madman, they said; he had a great desire to be kind to madmen.

And when he returned to St James’s it was to hear that the Princess Amelia when she had heard that he had been shot at had fallen into a fit and could not be comforted until she saw for herself that her dear father was safe.

He went to her at once. He embraced her – his darling, the best loved of them all.

‘I’m safe,’ he said. ‘No need to fret. I’m back. All went well. Mrs Jordan is a delightful woman. Plump and pretty. Acts well, sings even better. And even that villain Sheridan composed a very nice addition to the national anthem and they all sang it most loyally. Nothing to fret about, eh, what?’

So in spite of what might have been tragedy the night the King saw Dorothy in She Would and She Would Not was a great success for all except poor John Hadfield.

After that incident the relations between the King and his sons improved. They had all called at Buckingham House the following morning to take breakfast with their parents and to congratulate them on their lucky escape.

‘We don’t see enough of you, William,’ said his mother. ‘You must not forget your position entirely, you know.’

William thanked her for her kindness. He wanted to say that it was difficult for him to appear as much as he would wish when the lady whom he considered his wife could not be received at court as such.

The Queen understood perfectly and was implying that he should come without her.

The Prince of Wales was also affable to his father and the King to him, but the Queen could not help wondering what her son’s real feelings were. She had a notion that his fingers were itching to take the crown. And the poor King’s mental state was not improved by incidents like that of last night, however bravely he might stand up to them.

William was thoughtful as he left Buckingham House. He would go to some functions; he owed it to his parents and to his position. As long as it did not interfere too much with life at Bushy. George was happily reunited with Mrs Fitzherbert and was enjoying one of those honeymoon periods during which he was promising himself that they would never be parted again.

He was not very good company at such times.

William left his brothers and went down to the House of Lords where Lord Auckland’s bill on divorce was being discussed. He made one of the long boring speeches for which he was becoming notorious, full of allusions and quotations which made him feel he was indeed a statesman.

He spoke against divorce and everyone listened to him in amazement for they knew that when he left the House of Lords he would drive down to Bushy to live in comfortable domesticity with the kind of woman to whom he referred in his speech as ‘lapsed’.

It was scarcely likely that this would pass unnoticed. His speech on that day gave rise to a fresh spate of lampoons which once more called attention to his irregular union and the affairs of all the brothers, so that the popularity which had risen through the incidents in Hyde Park and Drury Lane was forgotten.

The royal family was making itself ridiculous again.

On the road to Canterbury

DOROTHY WAS WORRIED about Fanny, and William was a little irritated because of her preoccupation over the girl.

‘I declare,’ he said petulantly, ‘that in your eyes Madam Fanny is more important than the rest of us put together.’

She assured him that it was not true. But he was often sullen about Fanny.

She had to think of Fanny’s dowry and when he needed money she became, as he said, almost a usurer, making a bond with him, so that she might be sure that the money was paid back by him when Fanny would need her dowry.

‘It’s simply that I feel I must do the best for poor Fanny,’ she said.

‘Poor Fanny!’ grumbled William. ‘I’d call her rich Fanny.’

How could she make him see that Fanny had always been the outsider? Richard Ford had loved his two little girls – not enough to marry their mother but still he had cared for them. As for the FitzClarence family they were petted by everyone. Their father concerned himself with them; their uncles came to see them; and the Prince of Wales himself was particularly fond of young George, his namesake. The point was, she tried to make William understand, Fanny did not get the attention that the rest of them did.

‘I always feel I have to make it up to poor Fanny.’

Fanny had taken a great fancy to Gyfford Lodge, a house on Twickenham Common, which stood in pleasant gardens surrounded by a high wall. It had belonged to the Marchioness of Tweedale before her death and it was now empty and to let. The rent was fifty pounds a year. Not a large sum. And how pleasant for Fanny to have a house which she could call her own!

She should choose her own decorations and they would select the furniture by degrees. It should be Fanny’s own house and she should live there with a servant or two; Dorothy guessed that she would want to invite her sisters to stay with her now and then, but the invitation would come from her.

Fanny was enchanted with the idea and for a while she was happy with Gyfford Lodge.

William did not like it, though.

‘Damned unnecessary expense,’ he said, and a quarrel flared up before Dorothy realized it.

‘It happens to be my money.’

William was angry because he had lapsed with the allowance he had pledged himself to pay her.

She was talking like some low scribbler, he said. He’d be damned if he’d ever ask her to lend him another penny, even though he was prepared to pay back anything he had from her. Did she ever consider what she’d had from him? What he’d given up for her? Why he was cut off in a way from his own family. He ought to be going to court; he ought to be serving with the Navy. Why did she think he was denied a place in the Navy? Because he was out of favour with his father. And why? Because he had upset them all by living with an actress who displayed herself on a stage in breeches for anyone who had the price of a ticket to gloat over.

This was too much for Dorothy.

‘Did I want to go on acting? I should have been happy to give it all up. Why do I have to go on? Because we’d be in debt… more than we are already… if I didn’t. You may be a royal Prince but you still need money… my money!’

It was too much. The Duke walked out to the stables, took his horse and rode off in a rage, while Dorothy sat down and wept. Her head was aching, her eyes ablaze with anger. And when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she said: ‘I’m growing old and fat. He no longer cares for me.’

She lay on her bed and wept until he came in and found her.

He saw the traces of tears on her cheeks; she saw those on his. Like all the brothers he shed tears when disturbed, though not as readily – nor as elegantly – as the Prince of Wales.

She rose from the bed and went to stand close to him. He put his arms round her.

‘We must not quarrel, Dora,’ he said.

‘It was my Irish temper.’

‘It was my arrogance.’

‘Oh, my love. What is there for me without you and the little ones?’

‘And for me? There would be nothing in my life without you.’

‘You are a King’s son. You could be at court. There could be a great future for you.’

‘My future is here. You are a successful actress. Without us you could be rich, feted. You need not work so hard.’

‘I would throw it all away – all the success and applause – if I might live here in peace for the rest of my life.’

They laughed and clung to each other.

‘I could not believe that we were really quarrelling. It was like the end of the world.’

‘It would be the end of my world if we could not mend our quarrels.’

‘What was it all about? Something silly… something of no importance.’

‘So it is over.’

‘It is over.’

And afterwards she thought: It was money. It’s always money… money and Fanny.

She was back to the old routine. Working at Drury Lane, snatching what time she could to go down to Bushy. Now and then doing provincial tours because they were profitable and they needed the money.

She was soon pregnant again.

‘I must be the most fertile woman on Earth!’ she told the Duke.

‘I know one to equal you – the Queen!’

‘She had fifteen, I believe.’

‘Elizabeth was your sixth.’

‘You’re forgetting Fanny, Dodee and Lucy. Nine with them.’

It was often that he forgot those three, she thought a little resentfully and then chided herself inwardly. It was natural. It was his own little FitzClarences who counted with him.

‘And this new one will make ten. Not a bad tally.’

‘It’s time I stopped having children. It’s time I gave up the theatre.’

‘It won’t be long now. We’ll work towards it. I look forward to it, too. How pleasant it will be when you’re not constantly running away from us.’

‘I long to be home more. Just think, little George is eight now. I feel they are growing up a great deal of the time without me.’

But when the time of birth grew near it meant an enforced rest and how happy she was to drive down to Bushy and say to herself: Now for a few months I shall be with the family.

She came down in January of that year to await the birth of the child and on a bleak February day the seventh little FitzClarence was born – another boy to delight his father. They called him Adolphus and caring for him, having the others about her, with frequent visits from the girls, Dorothy was happy again.

But she could not enjoy the peaceful existence for long. There were more engagements to be filled; and two incidents in the next months made her wonder whether she and William should not try to make some arrangement whereby their expenses could be cut by half and to save her from having to work so hard and continuously.

He was deeply in debt, she knew. He was going more often to Windsor and appearing in court circles as his mother wished. He visited the Prince of Wales in Brighton and he as the Prince’s brother must be as fashionably dressed as others. There were fetes at Carlton House. To these Dorothy would be invited for the Prince of Wales never treated her as anything but the Duchess of Clarence.

It always came back to a question of money.

I will give myself another year, Dorothy would say to herself. I will complete this contract. Then we must cut expenses. Fanny was now twenty, most certainly of a marriageable age; Dodee seventeen and Lucy sixteen. It could not be long now before they were married; and then once their dowries were paid she would be relieved of great expense and anxiety. This would be the turning point – when the girls married.

One of the most profitable engagements she was getting was to play in the theatre at Margate – a pleasant seaside resort which though small was becoming more and more fashionable. Like all such towns it sought to emulate Brighton but without the personality of the Prince of Wales that was not possible. Yet Margate was growing more populated every year; houses were being built and rapidly sold; and its great advantage was that if it lacked the high fashion of Brighton it was less costly. It had a good theatre and Dorothy had had several successful visits there.

William was always uneasy when she went on what she called her ‘cruises’ and he had prevailed on her to take with her as companion the Reverend Thomas Lloyd, one of the chaplains he had taken into his employ when he moved into Bushy House.

Dorothy was paying the Reverend Thomas four hundred pounds a year to teach the children but now that the girls were growing up she felt that he could well be spared – and they left to their governesses and tutors – and could act as companion to her. The chaplain was an interesting and amusing companion and Dorothy was always glad of his company.

This was particularly so when she received the first of her frights.

The journey to Margate was taken in easy stages; she was to play in Canterbury for a few nights before going on to Margate. They had changed horses at Sittingbourne and were within a few miles of Canterbury when Lloyd looked out of the window and said: ‘I think we are being followed.’

Robbery and violence were commonplace on lonely roads; and as dusk was falling it was very alarming to be followed. She looked out of the window. She had seen the two black-clad figures gradually gaining on the carriage; there was no other vehicle on this lonely road but hers – and she was here with the chaplain, the post boys and one man, Turner.

‘Speed the horses,’ she said.

‘I fancy I see lights ahead. It could be Canterbury,’ said Lloyd.

One of the men had ridden on ahead of his companion and was now level with the carriage. He glanced in. Dorothy shivered; she thought: This could be the end. Did he know who she was? Did he expect that she would be carrying large sums of money? If they had waited until she was on her way home she would certainly have been carrying a great deal.

The man in black had ridden up to Turner and struck him. Turner’s horse reared and threw him. The carriage had come to an abrupt halt which threw Dorothy and the chaplain out of their seats.

‘Are you hurt, Mrs Jordan?’ cried Lloyd.

The man in black was looking into the window and staring at Dorothy. For a few seconds she believed she was looking into the face of death for he carried a blunderbuss.

It was strange how in such a moment she could think of nothing but Bushy House and the children who would now be in the nursery, the younger ones in bed, George protesting that it was not his time to go and leading Henry and Sophie into rebellion. She pictured their receiving the news… and the girls… would they get their dowries? All this in the space of a terrifying second.

She had closed her eyes, and when she opened them the man in black was still staring at her.

Then he acted very strangely. He bowed to her and said: ‘I am a gentleman.’ And turning he went to his companion who had now come up and whispered something.

Then they both rode off in the direction from which they had come.

Turner had picked himself up and was rubbing his head.

‘Are you hurt, Turner?’

‘No, Madam. Just a few bruises, I expect. He got me before I saw it coming.’

‘Then get up and we’ll go with all speed to Canterbury.’

She lay back in the carriage. Lloyd looked at her anxiously.

‘A close thing,’ he said. ‘It was lucky they recognized you.’

‘You think that’s what it was?’

‘I can’t imagine anything else. They were all set for robbery… perhaps murder. And then they suddenly changed their minds. How do you feel?’

‘Very shaken. And you?’

‘The same,’ he said. ‘There was a desperate look about them.’

‘We must never travel after dark again.’

‘I do agree it is most unwise.’

They came into Canterbury and while she was washing off the grime of the journey before going down to eat the meal she could smell being prepared – ‘something special in honour of Mrs Jordan,’ said the host – it occurred to her that the post boys and Turner would be talking of their adventure and that news would reach London and in the nature of such news it would doubtless be greatly exaggerated. It would probably be rumoured that she had been murdered – or at least so mutilated that she would never walk again.

So before anything she must write to William and tell him exactly what had happened and that she was alive, well and only suffering from the shock of it all.

‘Canterbury, half past ten.

… We got here about half an hour ago safe after a very narrow escape of being robbed…’

She tried to describe it all – the lonely road, the growing darkness, the moment when the Rev. Thomas had first been aware that they were being followed.

‘I feel the effects of the fright now more than I did at the time. My hand shakes and I can scarcely hold the pen. It has determined me to stay here the night and never travel after dark. Lloyd and Turner behaved very well. God bless you all. Kiss the dear children for me. I would not have mentioned this but I feared you might have heard it with additions. Be so good as to write to the girls for the same reason. They may be alarmed. I’m afraid you will hardly be able to read this – but I am a good deal agitated – but this a good night will remove.

‘I set out tomorrow at seven for Margate. Once more God bless you all.’

She played for two nights in Margate to appreciative audiences but the weather was hot and the theatre stifling and she was glad when a violent thunderstorm broke up the heat wave. From Margate she made the short journey to Canterbury to do The Belle’s Stratagem there and return the next day for another brief spell in Margate.

These journeys were tiring but so very profitable; and it was necessary to work when there was no London season.

She played to a house so full in Canterbury that she knew it was going to be more than usually profitable and she thought gleefully of telling William how much she had earned on this ‘cruise’. Half the proceeds of the house were to be hers and part of the pit had been turned into boxes to bring in higher prices. There was no doubt that the theatre-goers of Canterbury were delighted to have Mrs Jordan with them.

To play before such an audience, to step on to the stage and sense the thrill of excitement that ran through the audience, to throw oneself into the part, to take the audience into one’s confidence, as it were, and know that one was in theirs, was a thrilling experience and one for which she would always be grateful. But she wanted to know how the children were. She could not help imagining all sorts of accidents that might have befallen them. George and Henry were far too adventurous and Adolphus too young to be left.

But while she was paid so highly for her work she knew she must go on. There were so many – too many – purposes for which the money could be used.

Before leaving Canterbury that morning she had a happy hour buying presents for the children: a writing case for George, a lanthorn for Henry and a very pretty work-box for Sophie.

It would not be long, she kept reminding herself, before she was back with them.

Had Death determined to catch her? It seemed so.

She was playing Peggy in The Country Girl in the Margate Theatre when a draught blew the train of her dress over one of the lamps. The flimsy material caught fire immediately and one side of her dress was in flames.

There was uproar in the audience and several people rushed on to the stage. In a matter of seconds the flames were extinguished.

She was shaken; she knew that she might easily have been burned to death. But there was only one thing to do since she was unharmed apart from the shock and that was to go on playing.

When the play ended she was given an ovation such as she had never had before. But she was trembling, and as soon as the curtain finally fell felt ready to collapse.

Back in her lodgings she lay in bed and thought of the night’s misadventure. It was only two weeks earlier that she had faced the highwayman on the Canterbury Road.

It was strange – twice in such a short time to have come close to disaster.

It seemed like a warning.

Enjoy life while it is left to you. Time is running out.

The brief intrusion of Master Betty

EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the Delicate Investigation, that inquiry which the Prince of Wales had set in motion in the hope of proving that his wife Caroline had had an illegitimate child. Sir John and Lady Douglas, her neighbours, had brought this accusation against her and since Caroline had a child, William Austin, living with her, on whom she doted and treated as her own, the Prince had hoped he would find reason for divorce.

William talked often of the matter to Dorothy. He hoped his brother would get his wish and prove his wife guilty that he might divorce her and marry again. If he did, he would have more children doubtless; and the one hope of the House would not be young Princess Charlotte.

Dorothy knew that William hoped for his brother’s release not only for the Prince’s sake but for his own. While there was but one young heir in the family the position of the brothers was uncertain.

William wanted nothing, he told her, but to go on as they were. Bushy was his home. She was his wife and with the FitzClarence children made up his family.

The Prince of Wales, however, did not get his wish. Adultery could not be proved. A woman named Sophia Austin came forward to testify that William Austin was her son and that the Princess of Wales had adopted him. The Prince fumed and cursed the woman he had been trapped into marrying; but there was nothing he could do about it.

But Princess Charlotte existed in health, vigour and high spirits to plague her aunts, her grandmother and her governesses and provide that bulwark between the brothers and their duty to the State. Life went on as before. Playing at Drury Lane, going for strenuous provincial tours, bringing in the money and spending it on ever increasing expenses. The FitzClarence family grew every year – or almost.

Molpuss, as Adolphus called himself, was no longer the baby. Augusta had been born a year after Adolphus, to be followed sixteen months later by Augustus. There were now nine FitzClarences and George was only twelve years old.

As they grew up so did they become more expensive. Such a large family needed servants and tutors, a constant renewal of wardrobes and quantities of food. They were a healthy, lusty brood, with the exception of Sophia who was apt to be fretful; and in addition there were the three elder girls.

Fanny continued to be the chief cause for concern. Dorothy had given at Gyfford Lodge a great fête champêtre for her coming out and in spite of the fact that it had poured with rain it had been well attended. But Fanny did not make friends easily. She was without the good looks of the rest of the family, lacking in charm and overloaded with self-pity; in addition she was quick-tempered, not as intelligent as the other girls and inclined to be coquettish in a way which sent men scurrying from her side.

Dorothy was often in despair about her prospects. She was no longer very young and there had been no offers of marriage. This was, she had to admit, a mixed blessing, for she had lent William the money which was to provide the dowries and if Fanny had wanted to marry she would have had to ask William for it.

Then oddly enough an elderly gentleman named William Bettesworth offered marriage to Fanny. He was a theatre-goer and Dorothy had been long aware that he came often when she was playing. Sometimes he came to the Green Room and if he could have a word with her was very happy indeed. He admired her greatly; he was in fact in love with her; and one day when Fanny came to the theatre to see her mother he was introduced to her, and since she was Dorothy’s daughter, he was deferential and extremely attentive.

He seemed to have come to the conclusion that since he could never aspire to being Dorothy’s lover, her daughter was the next best thing, as he desired above all things to be connected with the genius of his favourite actress. He proposed to Fanny and was accepted.

Dorothy was uneasy; but then she would always be uneasy about Fanny.

She would have to produce the dowry which fortunately would be paid over a number of years. This would mean broaching William to honour the bond he had given her, She hated doing this because she knew that William was getting deeper and deeper into debt with each passing year. He had suffered some bad attacks of gout and this had depressed him, so she did not want to ask him for money.

Then Mr Bettesworth died suddenly, but before his death he had made a will in which he left a little money to Fanny providing she would take his name.

So Fanny became known as Fanny Bettesworth which gave rise to rumours that William Bettesworth had in fact been her father and that she was not the daughter of Daly as had been supposed. Another rumour was that Dorothy had had two illegitimate daughters before she met Ford – Daly’s and Bettesworth’s.

It was all very unpleasant but the press could not let such an opportunity pass.

One blessing was that Dorothy did not have to provide the dowry; but she very much wanted the girls to marry. Like her mother she was becoming obsessed by the idea of marriage. She felt it was the only secure and respectable way of life.

There were also Dodee and Lucy to be considered.

The theatre world was startled into incredulity by the sudden appearance in its midst of a boy of about thirteen to fourteen years who after playing briefly in the provinces came to London and took over many of the tragic roles. He was hailed as a genius and people flocked to see him.

Dorothy first met him when he was brought to her dressing room by his father. She was immediately struck by his unusual good looks and charm of manner; he had a certain diffidence about his abilities and seemed not greatly impressed by all the clamour which his acting aroused.

His name was William Henry West Betty known generally as Master Betty, the young Roscius; and no other actor nor actress on the stage was in such demand as he was.

The whole theatre-going world seemed to dote on him. When he began playing Kemble’s Shakespearean roles, Kemble was furious. No one wanted to see Kemble any more; they preferred Master Betty in his roles. When Kemble attempted to speak a prologue he was hooted off the stage with cries of ‘We want Betty’. Kemble retired temporarily on a plea of ill health; it was beyond his dignity to stay and be looked upon as inferior to a mere boy. The dignity of Sarah Siddons was also impaired. A pleasant state of affairs, she grumbled, when a mere boy came in and all the years of service were forgotten.

Dorothy was the only leading actress who was not affected. Comedy roles were not for Master Betty.

He might enchant all with his Hamlet but he could not play Peggy in The Country Girl nor Nell in The Devil to Pay, and the public continued to want these parts.

But when Betty played the streets were filled with people trying to get into the theatre; many people fainted and inside the theatre there was chaos. People paid for boxes and when they arrived found that others who had paid pit prices had climbed into them and taken possession. There was pandemonium throughout the theatre.

Sheridan was delighted, for Betty had saved him from ruin. In the month the boy played at Drury Lane he brought in more than seventeen thousand pounds.

The public was mad for Betty. Everything he did was wildly applauded. His father managed his affairs and demanded high prices for him which were readily paid. There was no actor or actress in London who could fill a house like this wonder boy.

William went to see him and was enchanted by his acting like everyone else. Dorothy sat with him in his box and was not so sure of young Betty. It was true that he had passion for acting; he lived the part, but her professional eye could detect faults and she doubted whether when he lost his youth he would seem so wonderful. It was in fact his youth which made him a phenomenon. He could not play Hamlet as Kemble could. His tragedy could not be compared with that of Sarah Siddons. The public were in fact worshipping youth and the ability of a boy so young to act as he did – which Dorothy was prepared to admit was remarkable. But William declared the boy to have genius and Dorothy, not wishing to be accused of professional jealousy, did not protest. William sent for him to come to the Green Room and then invited him to St James’s Palace. Such genius must not be set aside, he declared to Sheridan, who listened sardonically.

Really, Clarence was an old fool, he thought. Just because he lived with a famous actress he thought he had a place in the dramatic world. And he was deluded like the rest. Let him be. The more young Betty was feted the better for Drury Lane; and Sheridan had no illusions at all – he had lost them all twenty years before. He saw quite clearly that what Master Betty had which greater actors lacked was that most desirable and transient gift of Youth.

‘We will have young Betty’s portrait painted,’ declared William.

‘He must be painted as he is now… at this stage. I will arrange it.’

And he did and even went to James Northcote’s studio to watch him at work.

For the whole of that winter season there were few the public wanted to see but Master Betty.

But the next year when he came back the play-goers had lost interest. Master Betty was a little older; he was no longer a novelty.

They preferred Kemble. They no longer crowded the streets to get in to see Betty. They were critical of him.

Betty was wise. He had made a fortune. He retired to obscurity to enjoy it; and that was the end of the nine days’ wonder of the young Roscius.

Bliss at Bushy

WILLIAM HAD FOLLOWED the course of the war against France with great interest and as great a resentment. Through the years he had kept up a friendship with Nelson and he followed the latter’s exploits with admiration and delight.

‘I should have been a Nelson,’ he told Dorothy, ‘if they had not stopped me.’

William, Dorothy admitted to herself, was inclined to see himself rather larger than life. In the Lords he believed himself to be a Chatham when in fact his verbose speeches were yawned over by his fellow peers and ridiculed in the press. But he was never meant to be a politician. It might have well been that he would have been a great Admiral.

When Nelson was wounded and lost an eye and arm William had mourned with him; and he had been the first to congratulate him when he came to England and insisted on his visiting Bushy that William might fight over his battles with him in his imagination while Nelson drew plans and explained how everything had taken place.

William would rage and storm after Nelson went because he was not going to sea with him. He was rather difficult to live with at such times; particularly when he suffered from one of his gouty turns.

When he heard that Nelson had fallen at Trafalgar his joy in the great sea victory was diminished by his grief. He came to Bushy to be comforted by Dorothy. He took Frederick on his knee and George and Henry stood beside him while he talked of the glorious sea battle which crippled the wicked Napoleon’s power and how Admiral Lord Nelson had saved England from the tyrant. He told of how he himself had served under the great man and that if he had not been his father’s son and been held back from following his career he would have been with Nelson on that great day.

The boys listened bright-eyed. They had all decided they would be sailors or soldiers.

Dorothy, watching and thinking of Lord Nelson dying in Hardy’s arms on the flagship Victory, rejoiced that they were so young. The war would be over before they were of an age to fight.

William asked that the bullet which had killed Lord Nelson be given to him; it was brought to him by Nelson’s surgeon and he declared he would treasure it for ever. He had a bust made of the great sailor and kept it in his study at Bushy House.

He was sad for a long time and talked to Dorothy of Nelson and how he had been present at his marriage to Mrs Nisbet, that marriage which had not made Nelson a happy man for the rest of his life, as he had thought it would. But then he had not known he was to meet Lady Hamilton.

But the battle of Trafalgar which was so important to the country brought relief to William in his pecuniary difficulties.

The King sent for four of his sons and when they arrived at St James’s he received them all together.

William thought how feeble the old man was getting, and his speech was becoming even more rapid and incoherent. He glared at his sons with those wild protuberant eyes of his and watching him William could not help wondering whether the madness still lurked in him.

The two elder sons, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York had not been summoned. The King was going to speak of their debts and those of the two elder brothers were so vast that this matter could bring but little relief to them.

William’s three brothers, who had joined the group, were the Dukes of Kent, Cumberland and Sussex.

The King glared at them. ‘I’ve had reports,’ he said, ‘reports I don’t like. Debts! Why are there these debts? Why can’t you live within your income, eh, what? Every one of you… Scribblers… lampoons. Criticism. It’s not good for the family. Don’t you understand that, eh, what?’

None of them spoke. They knew that the King’s questions were merely rhetorical. He would probably go through a list of their sins. They all led irregular lives, it seemed, except Cumberland. William could not remember any scandal about Cumberland. Perhaps he had not been discovered. But Kent had been living with Madame de St Laurent for years in much the same state of respectability as he himself maintained at Bushy; and Sussex had married without the King’s consent when he was about twenty and there had actually been a court case to prove that he was not married at all even though he had gone through the ceremony, because a marriage of a royal person under twenty-five without the King’s consent was no marriage in the eyes of the State no matter if it might be in those of the Church.

The King thought of them all and particularly William with that nice actress and all those children. Why did his sons have to be perverse? Why couldn’t the Prince of Wales be the father of a brood like that… a legitimate brood.

‘Too much talk about your extravagance,’ he said. ‘The people don’t like it. People can turn… against royalty. Look at France! What if it happened here, eh, what? It would be the fault of libertines and spendthrifts. You… all of you. With your debts and your women. What have you got to say to that, eh, what?’

Sussex began to protest that he had wanted to live respectably but the King said: ‘Don’t interrupt me. I’ve brought you here to tell you these debts must be settled… without delay… and then there must be no more. Now at Trafalgar we captured several ships and these have yielded us a certain sum of money. I have £80,000 which I am going to distribute among you four and it is for one purpose, understand me, eh, what? It is to pay off your debts, you understand? Not to be used for jewels and women… or banquets and drink and gambling. No, nothing like that. Those debts are to be paid. Understand, eh, what?’

They did understand. They would be delighted. It would not settle everything, of course, thought William, but creditors were satisfied with a little to go on with if it came from a royal duke.

He went down to Bushy in an excellent frame of mind. £20,000 to settle some of his debts. Moreover, recently Parliament had voted him an extra £6,000 on his income. He was better off than he had been for some time.

When he reached Bushy it was to find Dorothy there. He had not expected her so soon and when he discovered the reason he was alarmed.

She had felt too ill to go on playing and had decided she must have a short rest. The pain in her chest which recurred when she was tired had been worse than usual. And when she coughed there was a little blood on her handkerchief.

William was all concern.

‘You’re going to retire,’ he said. ‘We’re going to settle down, both of us. We’ll live quietly at Bushy. I have this extra income and I have to tell you why the King sent for me.’

Listening to the good news Dorothy felt better.

This was her dream come true. She would retire and devote herself entirely to the family.

Retirement was all that she had dreamed it would be.

Each morning she awoke to a sense of freedom; no more rehearsals, no more rivalries; no more long and tiring ‘cruises’, no more sighing as she forced herself into Miss Hoyden’s costume and worried whether she had put on more inches about the waist. Now she could grow fat at her ease. She was pleasantly plump, she decided; plump and motherly; and after all that was what she was now: a mother.

They had started a farm on the estate and William enjoyed it as much as his father would have done. The boys liked to make the hay and ride the horses round the fields, even milk the cows. They played games in which William joined – usually of a nautical character; though George who was all for the Army introduced a military note. Fanny, Dodee and Lucy came often to Bushy and were now beginning to regard it as one of their homes. William tolerated Fanny but was quite fond of Dodee and Lucy; and Dorothy was delighted to see how the two families mixed and behaved towards each other as brothers and sisters.

Fanny’s inability to find a husband still worried her; she had taken a house in Golden Square where the two younger girls lived with Hester still and she often made the journey there and stayed with them so that they should not feel that that was not her home too.

But it was Bushy she loved – Bushy with its gracious rooms and its lovely gardens and its noisy military and nautical FitzClarences. Even little Molpuss had decided on his career and toddled about in the sailor’s hat which William had bought for him.

William announced that on his forty-first birthday they would have an elaborate party.

It was a sunny day. William and Dorothy were awakened early by the young children coming into their bedroom, headed by Elizabeth.

‘Happy birthday, Papa.’

Molpuss, wearing his sailor’s hat, scrambled on to the bed and saluted his father. Dorothy lifted up little Augustus and they were all chattering excitedly about Papa’s birthday and the party.

‘You cannot have your presents yet, Papa,’ said Molpuss sternly. ‘George said we were all to wait until breakfast.’

William pretended to look disappointed which made Molpuss shriek with laughter; but Augustus put her arm round his neck and whispered: ‘Shall I go and get mine so that you can have it now?’

William whispered back that he thought he would wait for fear of offending George.

Dorothy, lying back with little Augustus in the crook of her arm, thought: This is perfect happiness.

They were up early to make sure that everything was in order by the time the guests arrived. William had spent a great deal on having new bronze pilasters fitted up in the hall and new lamps which hung from an eagle fixed to the ceiling. Several new adornments had been added to the dining room, including some beautiful lamps at the doors, of which he was very proud. ‘George will be interested in these,’ he said. ‘Not that we can compete with Carlton House or the Pavilion, but I think he’ll be impressed. The servants look magnificent in their new liveries.’

His brothers York and Kent had offered their military bands to play in the grounds and this offer had been gratefully accepted.

At five o’clock the party was opened by the arrival of the Prince of Wales, whose glittering presence added grandeur to any celebration. With him came his brothers York, Kent, Sussex and Cambridge and other members of the nobility. They walked about the grounds commenting on the excellence and tasteful displays of the flowers while the bands played Haydn’s Oratorio of The Creation.

This promenade continued for two hours when the bells rang for dinner.

The Prince of Wales had been at Dorothy’s side during most of the promenade and when the bells rang he took her hand and led her to her place at the top table in the dining room. He sat on her right hand and the Duke of York took the place on her left.

There could not have been any more obvious indication that in the Prince’s eyes Dorothy was his sister-in-law the Duchess of Clarence. William looked on with misty eyes at those two whom he loved so well engaged in pleasant animated conversation while he himself took his place at the extreme end of the table.

The discourse about the Prince of Wales continued witty and light-hearted while the most sumptuous foods were passed around and the bands continued to play in the garden just outside the open windows.

The Prince of Wales congratulated Dorothy on many of her performances and talked knowledgeably of the theatre so that it was a pleasure to discuss the merits of plays and players with someone of such discernment. She appreciated the more intellectual approach he could bring to the subject than William was able to; but looking at her lover at the end of the table she believed she was indeed fortunate to have won his affection.

The Prince wanted to hear about the children, particularly George.

‘I daresay they are stationed somewhere not far off,’ said Dorothy, ‘listening to everything that is going on down here.’

‘Could they not come down… for a little while… just to have a look at the company – and to give the company the pleasure of looking at them?’

‘If Your Highness would not be bored with them…’

‘My dearest Dora, bored with my enchanting nephews and nieces! But I adore them… every single one.’

So Dorothy called to one of the liveried attendants and told him that it was the Prince’s wish that the children come to the dining room.

And very soon there they were – all eight of them, led by the intrepid George with Henry marching like a soldier – Sophia, Mary, Frederick, Elizabeth, Molpuss and Augusta. A round of applause, led by the Prince, greeted them. Dorothy found herself weeping with pride in them. They were a healthy, handsome band indeed. They came and made their bows and curtsies to the Prince of Wales who had a word with each of them, and Molpuss almost succeeded in removing the royal diamond shoe buckles so the Prince took the young miscreant on to his knee and fed him with sweetmeats from the table until he was rewarded with a sticky kiss which seemed to please him. Augusta preferred to view her glittering uncle from her mother’s knee, and the children made a delightful domestic contrast to all the grand ceremony of the occasion.

The Prince asked about the youngest of the children, and Dorothy sent a servant to tell the nursemaid to bring down the baby; and young Augustus appeared, somewhat startled, from his bed and everyone exclaimed on his beautiful white hair.

William sat back in his chair, the proud father of such a family.

The public had been allowed to come into the grounds for the occasion and while this pleasant scene was enacted they strolled round and looked in at the windows. They saw the Prince of Wales with a FitzClarence on either knee and the rest of the family amusing the guests. The band went on playing. And the people of Bushy said how pleasant it was to have the Duke of Clarence for a neighbour.

The dinner over, the children retired and the Prince of Wales rose to announce a toast.

‘The Duke of Clarence.’ And when this was drunk he gave ‘The King, the Queen and the Princesses’, followed by ‘The Duke of York and the Army’. When the toasts were drunk the bands played once more and the guests strolled in to the gardens where they mingled with those members of the public who had come in to see them.

It was a happy day, they decided, a worthy celebration of a forty-first anniversary.

When all the guests had gone William and Dorothy together went into the nurseries to see their children, all fast asleep.

‘God bless them and keep them safe,’ murmured Dorothy; and she wondered what Grace would have thought had she been present on this occasion.

It was not the marriage for which she had hoped, but surely even Grace would have been satisfied.

It was hardly to be expected that the birthday party would have been allowed to escape without comment. The extravagance of the entertainment for one thing was taken up by the press.

Cobbet, the editor of The Courier who was constantly attacking the royal family, wrote:

‘The representing of the oratorio of

The Creation

applied to the purpose of ushering in the numerous family of the Duke of Clarence whereby the procreation of a brood of illegitimate children is put in comparison with the great works of the Almighty, is an act of the most indiscreet disloyalty and blasphemy. We all know that the Duke of Clarence is not married and that therefore if he has children those children must be bastards, and that the father must be guilty of a crime in the eyes of the law as well as of religion…

‘I am confirmed in my opinion when I hear that the Prince of Wales took Mother Jordan by the hand… taking his place upon her right hand, his royal brothers arranging themselves according to their rank on both sides of the table, the post of honour being nearest Mother Jordan, who the last time I saw her cost me eighteenpence in her character of Nell Jobson.’

The King read of the party and almost wept rage and frustration.

‘I help him to pay his debts and what does he do, eh, what? He immediately sets about incurring some more. What can I do with these sons, eh? All very well to honour Mrs Jordan in private… nice little woman… good actress, good mother, so I hear, eh, what? But an affair like this. Think of the cost! What was the cost of that, eh? He’ll be in trouble before long if he goes on like this. Nine children to keep, eh? That place at Bushy. He’ll be in debt, you mark my words, and then who’s going to get him out of trouble, eh, what?’

The Queen replied: ‘There’s one thing he can do.’

‘What’s that, eh, what?’

‘He’ll do what George did before him. He’ll have to marry. Then the Parliament will settle his debts and his income will be increased and he’ll be in time, I hope, to give the family some legitimate children.’

‘But it won’t do. Debts. Extravagance. The people are not so fond of us. There was that bullet. It wouldn’t take much… I think of France. Sometimes I don’t sleep all night thinking of France… and those boys. Could be a difficult situation. Should be careful. Shouldn’t have parties. Shouldn’t drink and gamble. Shouldn’t show off their women. People don’t like it.’

‘I can see the day coming,’ said the Queen, ‘when William will be in the same position as George was. Then he will have to marry – and marry the wife who is chosen for him.’

The Queen’s warning

THE IDYLLIC SCENE at Bushy was too good to last. The usual troubles arose. William could never understand that what he bought would eventually have to be paid for. The cost of his birthday party had been enormous; he had had no idea it would be so expensive.

Dorothy frowned over the bills. ‘You couldn’t possibly have spent so much.’

‘It’s all there, all set out,’ he replied irritably. His gout was bad that morning. It always was when he was agitated.

‘But we’re almost as much in debt as we were before you paid off that £20,000.’

‘Am I to be blamed because the price of things is so high?’

The decorations to the house had not been necessary. It had been beautiful as it was. So much of the expensive food had not been eaten.

She pointed this out.

‘My dear Dora, I fancy I have more experience of entertaining Princes than you have. Not to have given of the very best would have been an insult to the Prince of Wales.’

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders. It was no use continuing with recriminations. They had to find the money – or some of it – enough to keep their creditors quiet for a time.

There was only one thing to do.

She must return to work. On a cold January day she opened at Drury Lane as Peggy in The Country Girl.

She was as popular as ever in the early parts, which was amazing considering she was almost fifty years old. She often felt ill; the pain in her chest had grown worse and she was spitting blood again. But the audience was faithful. She could still charm them; she had that indefinable quality which the years could not destroy. Dorothy Jordan was a draw again.

There was the money – always the money. They would manage somehow as long as she worked.

One evening she found Fanny in the Green Room, an excited Fanny, with a secret she was bubbling over to tell.

‘Mamma,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be married.’

Dorothy embraced her daughter. At last she had found a husband! Poor Fanny was about to enter that state which Dorothy herself for all her genius, for all that she had thirteen children – little Amelia had been born to bring the FitzClarence children to ten in number – had never been able to achieve.

‘Who is he?’ she asked.

‘Well, Mamma, he is not in a very good position. He has a post in the Ordnance Office.’

‘A clerk.’

‘Oh, I know that is not to be compared with a duke, but at least he can marry me. And a clerk in a government office like the Ordnance is no ordinary clerk.’

‘That’s true,’ said Dorothy. ‘And are you happy, my darling?’

Fanny nodded. Of course she was happy. She had found a man willing to marry her. She had thought she never would and she was twenty-six years old.

‘Then I am happy, too,’ said Dorothy.

She was less contented when she met Thomas Alsop; she could not rid herself of the uneasy feeling that he had heard of the dowry which was to be Fanny’s when she married. He would know of course that she was the daughter of Dorothy Jordan and there had too been all that publicity when she had inherited the Bettesworth money.

However, Fanny was happy and determined on marriage so preparations must go on.

When she told William of the forthcoming marriage he was not so pleased. The dowry would have to be provided, £10,000 in all. £2,000 was to be paid to the husband on the marriage and the rest at £200 a year. Dorothy had managed to invest in an annuity which would provide for Fanny, but she had been obliged to lend the money which she had saved for the other girls to William; and the fact that she would have to ask for this in the event of the others marrying worried her – and him.

His gout flared up, he was touchy and irritable. A gloom had settled over Bushy House.

But the marriage of Fanny to Thomas Alsop took place and it was arranged that Hester with Dodee and Lucy should share a house they had acquired in Park Place.

This was settled, but somewhat uneasily; and as she was now working hard in the theatre and not feeling very well, Dorothy was beset by fears of the future.

Soon after Fanny’s marriage Dodee was betrothed to another clerk of the Ordnance Office, whom Thomas had brought to the house. He was Frederick Edward March, a natural son of Lord Henry Fitzgerald.

‘We plan to get married soon, Mamma,’ said Dodee.

Dorothy said she was delighted to see her daughter so happy; and then she began to think about the money.

She had found Fanny’s dowry but Dodee’s would be another matter. It was going to be necessary to ask William to return the money he had borrowed.

He was not well, and he always hated talking of money. There was something undignified, he always felt, when a member of the royal family was asked to pay. The Prince of Wales felt the same; but he dismissed these matters with an elegant shrug and allowed the debts to mount until they were of such proportions that only the Government could settle them for him. Then they came up with conditions. It was such a condition which had brought him to marriage with the wife he loathed.

Marriage, thought William. What if they were to demand it of him!

Perhaps Dorothy did not understand this.

‘I have promised the girls this money,’ cried Dorothy in distraction. ‘I must have it. Everything else must be put aside but I must have it.’

‘They will have to wait for their money like everyone else.’

‘Not the dowry, William. They must have it.’

‘What about their father?’

She drew back as if he had struck her. It was not like William to refer to those unfortunate incidents in her life. She had thought he understood them. She had told him of the persecution of Daly, her devotion to Richard Ford and the latter’s promise to marry her.

‘I could not ask him now.’

‘Why not. He’s comfortably placed. Sir Richard now – and didn’t he marry a rich wife?’

‘I would not ask him,’ she said. ‘I have promised this dowry. You must let me have it. I have your bond.’

There was nothing that could infuriate him more than the reference to a bond. He owed her money, he admitted it. He believed it was somewhere in the neighbourhood of £30,000, but to think that she could refer to the bond in that way. As though she were a moneylender.

‘So what will you do?’ he demanded. ‘Send me to a debtors’ prison?’

‘William, I only meant…’

‘I know full well what you meant, Madam Shylock. I have had money from you… which you were pleased to give me and now I must repay it. It says so in the bond.’

She was distraught. So was he. He hated to see her so worried. But he thought of all the creditors who were crying out to be paid. So how could he let her have the money he owed her?

His frustration whipped up his temper. He was saying things he did not mean, unkind things which were untrue; and she had turned and hurried away.

They were reconciled afterwards but the question of money was between them. It hung over them and would not be dismissed.

He would find the money, he declared, if he had to go to the moneylender he would find it.

‘I must take more engagements,’ she said. ‘I shall work all through the season if I can get them.’

George was now fourteen and William had said he should join the Army as a Cornet.

‘He’s far too young,’ she argued.

‘Nonsense!’ retorted William. ‘I was sent to sea when I was thirteen. It did me no harm.’

So she lost her darling George, and not only did he become a soldier but one on active service. She was distracted when he was sent out to Spain to join Sir John Moore’s army. This made a further rift between herself and William, because she blamed him for sending George away at such an early age.

There was the continual round at the theatre. She had to go on stage and play parts like Miss Hoyden, for which she felt far too old and tired when all the time she was conscious of great anxieties. What was happening in the Alsop household? Would Dodee be happy? Would William be able to find the money? What when Lucy’s turn came? What of George – such a boy to be thrust into battle!

In May of that year there were riots among the weavers of Manchester. The military were called in to deal with them and two people were killed while several were wounded.

In September Covent Garden was burned down and the rumour was that the fire had been started on purpose. The roof collapsed and nineteen people were killed; the losses were tremendous and a shudder of horror ran through the theatrical world.

Dorothy was concerned about George, for young as he was he was engaged in the battle of Corunna where Sir John Moore the commander was killed. As news of the battle reached home she was frantic with anxiety and so was William until news came of George’s safety. This brought them close together again; and Dorothy was at least grateful for that.

That January there was another spectacular fire. It occurred in St James’s Palace and this was declared to be very strange following on the burning of Covent Garden; and as that part of St James’s which suffered was the royal apartments, some significance was attached to this.

The Queen said: ‘It was done purposely. I always said people would not endure the Princes’ behaviour. Our sons will not do their duty. Just think – there is not one who is respectably married. At least the King and Queen of France were that. At least they had legitimate children.’

The Princesses were in a state of nervous anxiety. Amelia was growing steadily more and more feeble and the King asked every few minutes what the doctors had said about her and had to be told, untruthfully, that she was in good health. The tension in the royal household was mounting; it was very bad for the King.

At the beginning of February the New Sessions House at Westminster was burned down. There was clearly a dangerous arsonist at work. But was this the work of one person? Was it intended as a warning? The Queen was sure that it was. The King was becoming so vague that he was not sure of anything.

Then there was real panic in the royal family for the biggest scandal since the Delicate Investigation broke upon them.

The trouble had begun with the startling revelations that a woman named Mary Anne Clarke, who had been a mistress of the Duke of York, had been selling commissions in the Army – which his position as Commander-in-Chief of the Army gave her the opportunity of doing.

What would the royal brothers do next? The subject of the Duke and Mary Anne Clarke was discussed in every club and coffee house. The affair could not be hushed up. The truth must be brought to light. The profits may have gone into Mary Anne’s pocket, but how deeply was the Duke of York involved?

The publicity was enormous and when the case was heard in the House of Commons the Duke’s love letters – ill-spelt and naïve but intensely revealing – were read during the hearing. People were talking about the ‘Duke and Darling’ and quoting from letters; and although the Duke was acquitted of having been a party to the sale of commissions and it was judged that he was ignorant of what was going on, he could no longer hold his position of Commander-in-Chief.

George came home for a short leave – full of vitality and eager to talk of his adventures as a soldier. General Stewart, whose aide George had been, called at Bushy and told the proud parents that George was going to be a fine brave soldier and that there was no one he would prefer as his aide de camp. William was delighted, but Dorothy was apprehensive, fearing that George would be leaving them soon; and she was right.

The next fire broke out in Drury Lane itself. It started in the coffee room on the first floor which led directly to the boxes; and as the safety curtain did not work all the highly inflammable material on the back-stage made a mighty conflagration when the walls crashed in and the crowds were in danger of being suffocated by the smoke.

Sheridan was at the House of Commons at the time, where the reflection from the fire could be seen through the windows. On the Surrey side of the river people could see the glow for miles; and from Westminster Bridge the effect was startling.

When it was known that it was the Drury Lane Theatre which was ablaze it was proposed that the House should adjourn since the tragedy so deeply concerned one of the House’s most distinguished members.

Sheridan would not allow this, although he himself left the House with a few friends and made his way to the burning building.

His theatre in flames! But what could he do to save it? He saw his financial difficulties increased, for the theatre was insured only to the extent of £35,000 which could not cover the entire loss.

Sheridan turned into the nearest coffee house and ordered a drink.

‘Mr Sheridan, how can you sit there so calmly?’ asked one of his friends.

To which Sheridan replied: ‘May not a man sit and drink at his own fireside?’

The remark was repeated with the pleasure that was taken in all Sheridan’s witticisms; but no one else could joke about this great calamity.

And when later there was a fire in Kensington Palace, happily soon put out, and the Prince of Wales received anonymous letters that more fires would follow, it was clear that there was some purpose behind these conflagrations.

Almost immediately afterwards there was a rumour that Hampton Court was ablaze. This proved to be false, but this was not the case in the Quadrangle of Christchurch College, where fire did £12,000 worth of damage.

‘There is mischief in the air,’ said the Queen, and it was the Queen who was becoming more and more influential at court. ‘We shall have to consider carefully what should be done.’

The fires stopped suddenly and soon everyone ceased to expect them. In September there was great excitement in the theatrical world because the new Covent Garden was about to be opened with Macbeth, and Kemble was to speak the address.

Carriages blocked the street and people jostled each other to get into the theatre; but when it was discovered that prices had been increased they were indignant; they had paid the prices and gained entry but they had no intention of accepting them for the future.

During the weeks that followed they crowded into the theatre for the purpose of creating what were known as the Old Prices Riots; and the fear that the new theatre would be wrecked if they persisted caused the management to relent and to declare that the boxes should remain at seven shillings and sixpence and the pit three shillings and sixpence and that there should be no more private boxes.

It was an uneasy year for Dorothy. William was ill again, suffering as he did from his periodic gout; he had developed asthma and this grew worse as the Queen harped on the damage he did the royal family by living openly with an actress. She pointed out the comments of that man Cobbett whom William knew wielded great influence.

He should abandon his mistress; or at least he could pension her off; and as for all those children, he would have to make provision for them, but that should not be an insuperable task.

He tried to explain that he regarded Dorothy as his wife.

‘An actress,’ retorted the Queen. ‘A woman who parades stages in men’s clothes for anyone to pay to go to see!’

‘She is the best and most generous woman in the world. I cannot tell you how often she has given me money.’

‘You should have been ashamed to take it. That’s another thing I’ve heard about you. They say you keep her working to keep you. That’s a very unpleasant thing to be said of His Majesty’s son, I must say. You should put an end to that connection as soon as possible… and in view of all that is happening the sooner the better. Your sister Amelia is very ill. If anything should happen to her it would completely turn the King’s mind. And all these fires and that bullet at the theatre. Where do you think all this is leading? And you – making an exhibition of yourself with an actress!’

‘The people love her. They crowd to the theatre to see her.’

‘Yes, to see the actress who is keeping a royal Duke. You should think about this. You should think about us all.’

William went to Brighton for the birthday celebrations of the Prince of Wales while Dorothy, taking a rest from the theatre, was at Bushy with the family.

She was sitting on the lawns with the young children playing about her when Fanny arrived with Thomas Alsop.

They had driven over to see her, they said, because of the news.

‘What news?’ she wanted to know.

Hadn’t she heard that there had been a battle at Talavera?

‘Talavera,’ she cried. ‘That is where George is.’

‘Yes, Mamma,’ said Fanny. ‘There were five thousand killed.’

‘Oh, God!’ she whispered.

‘George will be all right,’ said Fanny. ‘George would always be all right.’

‘I must know.’

‘Where is the Duke?’ Fanny asked.

‘At Brighton. It’s the Prince’s birthday. He has gone to help him celebrate.’

‘He’s with the royal family more than he used to be,’ commented Fanny, a little maliciously. She had always felt that she with Dodee and Lucy were slighted compared with the FitzClarence children – herself especially.

‘I wonder if he has heard,’ said Dorothy. ‘If so he will come at once.’

‘Perhaps the celebrations will be too exciting to miss.’

Dorothy did not answer.

‘Mamma, are you ill?’

‘I feel my old pain… here.’ She touched her chest.

‘You should be resting. Let me help you to your room. Then I’ll stay awhile and play with the babies.’

Dorothy lay in her room. She had been awake all through the night.

They shouldn’t have let him go. He was only a boy. Henry was training to be a sailor. They were too young to be sent from their homes. She should have refused to allow it. After all they were her children.

She rose from her bed and paced up and down and sat at her window looking out across the gardens.

Five thousand dead! So many. And among them one young boy?

It was five o’clock in the morning when she heard the sound of carriage wheels.

Her heart began to beat madly. It was William, she knew. He had driven all the way from Brighton and had come as soon as he had heard the news, for he would know how she was feeling.

She ran down to meet him. He looked tired and haggard, but he was smiling.

Surely he could not look like that if George were dead?

‘William!’ she cried. ‘I heard…’

‘I knew you would,’ he said. ‘That’s why I came right away. He’s safe, Dora. There’s no need to fret. He’s been slightly wounded – his leg grazed by a shell splinter, but he’s safe. He’ll be home to see you soon and tell you all about it.’

She was sobbing with relief.

‘Oh, William, my good, good William. I knew you would come.’

Another scandal occurred in the royal family – and this was the greatest of all.

The Duke of Cumberland’s valet was found murdered in the Duke’s apartment at St James’s in most mysterious circumstances. The popular theory was that the valet had found the Duke in bed with his wife, had attacked him and then either been murdered by the Duke or committed suicide.

This was the greatest scandal of all. The Prince of Wales might be guilty of profligacy, Frederick of dishonesty – and all of the Princes of immorality; but this was the first one who had been involved in murder. Of course the Duke was exonerated but the general opinion was that there was one law for a duke who committed murder and another for ordinary men.

‘Such terrible scandals,’ groaned the King. ‘I never knew the like. What does it mean, eh, what? What will become of us all?’

The Queen sent for William to discuss the affair.

‘I do urge you to show some sense,’ she said, and added ominously: ‘Before it is too late.’

Dodee had married and an arrangement had been made that William should pay the dowry – borrowed from Dorothy – by instalments. He found the position humiliating but he saw no way out of it. He was deeply in debt – more so than he had ever been. When he confided this to his eldest brother the Prince advised him to forget about it, but it was not easy. William knew the reckoning must come.

Meanwhile Dorothy had undertaken extensive tours to bring in more money. For some time Fanny had been talking wistfully about a chance to go on the stage; she had always wanted to act, and married life, she confided to her mother, was not all she had hoped it would be. She would welcome the opportunity of being separated from Mr Alsop for a while and would Mamma consider taking her with her when she went on tour?

‘Think, dearest Mamma, I should be company for you and it would give me the chance I never had.’

Dorothy considered this and finally agreed to take Fanny with her.

It turned out to be not such a bad arrangement for Fanny proved herself to be a tolerable actress. She would never be great and she was not pretty enough nor was her personality charming enough for her to succeed to any great extent with audiences, but she could manage a small part and Dorothy was delighted to see her momentarily satisfied.

The tour took them to Bath, Bristol, Chester, up to Liverpool and over to Ireland. It was exhausting and she was constantly thinking of Bushy and home and longing to be there. She was terrified that something would befall George and she had five sons with whom to concern herself. Henry had started off in the Navy which had disappointed him and had begged to be transferred to the Army; and even little Molpuss was being sent to a nautical school to prepare him for his future.

She wanted them to stay young and be babies for ever.

In any case, she told herself, they are too young.

When she returned home it was to receive the news that Lucy was engaged to be married.

Pretty, charming and modest Lucy had been the most amiable of the three girls and had consequently been more welcome at Bushy House than the two elder ones. She could not remember the time before her mother had been the mistress of the Duke of Clarence and being nearer to the age of the FitzClarence children she had been more at home with them than Fanny and Dodee.

It was at Bushy House that she had met Colonel Hawker of the 14th Dragoons. He was fifty, married, with a daughter of Lucy’s age, but he had always been fond of her. As aide de camp to the King he was often in the company of the Prince of Wales and was a frequent visitor at Bushy. When his wife had become ill Lucy had comforted him and on Mrs Hawker’s death the Colonel asked Lucy to marry him which she consented to do.

Dorothy was not sure whether to be pleased or not. She liked Colonel Hawker; he was a man of good family, but he was so much older than Lucy. Still, Fanny’s marriage was far from successful and she had married a young man. Dodee, however, seemed happy and was expecting a child. As for Lucy and Colonel Hawker they had made up their minds and Lucy seemed contented.

So that April Lucy was married to her Colonel in the parish church at Hampton and Henry and Sophia with their mother were witnesses to the ceremony.

The three girls were now settled, but once more there was the tiresome problem of the dowry with its resultant scenes and humiliations.

Dodee’s daughter was born in May and Dorothy was delighted to become a grandmother; Dodee and Lucy were happy; it was only Fanny who was disgruntled. But then had she not always been?

Money was the predominant need, so she must undertake more tours. She was growing more easily exhausted and longed for the peace of Bushy.

I will retire definitely next year, she promised herself.

William was suffering from his periodic attacks of gout and asthma; he was very often at Windsor and St James’s because the King’s health was giving the family great cause for anxiety. The alarms over the fires had subsided but one of the Queen’s favourite themes was the need for reform throughout the family.

She took every opportunity of pointing out to William that he was living a most unsatisfactory life.

‘You are no longer a boy,’ she would tell him. ‘Mounting fifty!’

William protested at that. He was only forty-five.

‘There is not much time left for you to get a legitimate heir,’ the Queen warned him. ‘When I think that the only heir all my children have been able to give to the country is Charlotte I despair.’

‘Charlotte is a very lively heir,’ William reminded her.

‘The child is not as strong as I would wish.’ The Queen’s lips tightened. Charlotte was a wayward child who more than once had expressed her dislike for Grandmamma. Her famous remark which had been bandied about the court was, ‘There are two things in the world I dislike – apple pie and my Grandmother.’

‘Only this child… and a girl.’

William liked his niece, who had a somewhat difficult time because she was denied the company of her father and mother; her mother was often forbidden to see her and her father could never look at her without remembering that she was her mother’s child. He was sorry for her. She was a hoyden but bright, intelligent and an interesting child. She was rather fond of his own young Fred and was always glad when Fred paid visits. They went riding together and she would order Fred about, telling him that she was his future sovereign, which Fred seemed to enjoy.

He wondered what the Queen would say if she knew of Charlotte’s friendship with her cousin, the son of an actress.

‘I always hope,’ said the Queen, ‘that you will see reason one day… and it will have to be soon. I think you should consider this… very seriously.’

Dorothy had no idea of the Queen’s determination, for William never mentioned it to her.

She continued with her tours, going from one provincial city to another, earning money, trying to ease the financial situation; but she had no idea how deeply in debt William was.

It was a momentous year.

That November, the King’s best-loved daughter, the Princess Amelia, died. The King was overcome with grief, and this loss, with the fears and scandals of the last years, sent him tottering to insanity.

The King was mad, and incapable of ruling. The Prince of Wales became the Prince Regent.

‘For the last time’

WILLIAM WAS ON his way to Carlton House where the Prince Regent was giving a fête. This was his first as Regent and although he could not say it was to celebrate his accession to the Regency, for to do so might seem that he was rejoicing in his father’s misfortune, that was in fact what it was.

Everything would be different now, William mused. The tiresome restrictions which the King had imposed on the court would be swept away. The court would be gay and carefree. That ridiculous Marriage Act would be annulled. George had always sworn that one of the first things he would do would be to abolish that, Their sisters would be allowed to marry, if they could find husbands. Poor things, it was a bit late. He was sure that George would see that they had allowances of their own which would give them some measure of independence from the Queen. What lives they had led! The men had been the fortunate ones, although the King would have liked to restrict even them.

And now the poor old man, who for years had been on the edge of madness, was a raving lunatic.

He would be well looked after so there was no need to waste sympathy on him. The fact was that George, his dear friend and brother, was now in all but name ruler of the realm.

The Queen had realized this and had decided to ally herself with her eldest son this time – not work against him as she had before.

The Queen was wise.

Dorothy could not accompany him to the fête – it was a very different affair from the birthday party when the Prince had led her in to dine and sat at her right hand. This was an official occasion, and the Regent would have to be more careful than the Prince of Wales had been. Perhaps that was why he had broken with Mrs Fitzherbert, and Lady Hertford was the reigning mistress now. It was sad in a way when one considered what Mrs Fitzherbert had meant to George; their relationship had been like that of himself and Dorothy, but his and Dorothy’s had been on a firmer basis; all those years, all those children. Twenty years with one woman! It was as good as a marriage. But it was not a marriage. Royal princes could not marry actresses and there was only one legitimate heiress, the Princess Charlotte – the only one they had produced between them.

He was reasoning like the Queen.

Carlton House in all its splendour! No one could design a house like George! The Pavilion was different from any residence anyone had ever seen before and there wasn’t a house in Europe which was more magnificent than Carlton House – as there was no prince more courtly, more elegant, than the Regent.

He was proud of his brother.

Poor George, he was a little sad about Maria Fitzherbert, but their connection was severed and he was devoted to Lady Hertford.

George had explained to William. ‘I love Maria,’ he had said. ‘I always shall. It’s this damned religion of hers. If she hadn’t insisted on marriage… But the main point of contention is that she’s a Catholic. How could the Regent have it said that he was married to a Catholic? It would be enough to shake the throne. We have to consider that, William. All of us.’

Was he reminding William that like the rest of them he had his duty?

George was receiving his guests, magnificent as ever, the diamond star glittering on his coat. Then he led the way into the banqueting hall with its treasures, its works of art. The table was a work of art too, with a stream running down the centre in which gold and silver fishes swam.

It was during the banquet that William became aware of the beautiful young woman. She was exquisitely gowned, animated and in conversation with a young man who appeared to be paying court to her.

‘Who is the young lady?’ asked William of his neighbour.

‘Did not Your Highness know? She has caused quite a stir since she has come to court. She is Miss Catherine Tylney-Long, daughter of the late Sir James Tylney-Long.’

‘I’m not surprised that she causes a stir. She is very beautiful.’

‘Oh, it is not her beauty which causes a stir, Sir. It is her fortune. She is worth £40,000 a year.’

‘£40,000 a year!’ cried William. ‘She must be one of the richest young ladies in England.’

‘That is the general opinion, Your Highness.’

‘And who is that who is talking to her so earnestly?’

‘Wellesley-Pole, Your Highness. Lord Maryborough’s son.’

‘Is he related to the Duke of Wellington?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Interesting,’ said William; and he thought: £40,000 a year. And a beauty too. Young, lovely and rich.

When the banquet was over he asked that Miss Catherine Tylney-Long be presented to him. He found her even more charming than he had believed possible. Witty, amusing, not the least impressed by the interest of a Royal Highness, in fact very diverting.

He insisted on keeping her at his side, much to the chagrin of Wellesley-Pole, but the young lady seemed to enjoy this; and it was a gratifying experience.

He was very loath to leave her and when he said good-bye he had discovered what functions she would be attending and decided to making a point of being there.

He did not go to Bushy afterwards, but to his apartments in St James’s.

I have been leading a strange life for a royal prince during twenty years, he thought. I have forgotten what it is like to be in fashionable society. People noticed it and did not like it. A prince should live like a prince not like some bourgeois gentleman dominated by domestic concerns.

Everywhere he went there too was Catherine Tylney-Long. So beautiful, so enchanting and so… rich. He could not think of her without thinking of £40,000 a year, and what it would mean to him.

He realized that he was in love. He was in love with the beautiful face and figure of Miss Tylney-Long and her beautiful income.

When thoughts of Bushy crept into his mind he pushed them away. Twenty years was a long time to be faithful to one woman and princes had more temptations than most men.

He could not expect Miss Tylney-Long to be his mistress; her family would never agree to that, but doubtless if he offered marriage they would be overcome with delight. Their heiress would become a Duchess and no ordinary Duchess because it was just possible that if anything happened to Charlotte, one day Miss Tylney-Long would be Queen of England.

William remonstrated with himself. What am I thinking of? What should I tell Dorothy and the children? How could I possibly go down to Bushy and say: ‘I’m going to be married.’

And yet… he was a Prince and he had his duty. His mother was constantly instilling that into him. His duty… his duty… to marry a beautiful young girl and £40,000 a year!

Debts were mounting. He dared not think what he owed. If he married he would get a settlement and his debts would probably be paid by a government grant. They would be delighted, for everyone must be rather uneasy while there was only a young girl to follow her father. If Charlotte died without offspring what would happen to the House of Hanover?

It was his duty to marry… and to marry Miss Catherine Tylney-Long.

He went to Carlton House to see his brother.

George had changed since he became Regent. He was very much aware of his greater responsibilities, and less approachable. Matters of State occupied him a good deal. He was keeping the old government in power, much to the disappointment of his friends, and it was clear that he was going to act cautiously at first. He had made an impression among the artistic section of the public by letting it be known that he intended to support them as his father had so lamentably failed to do. He was serious, aware of new responsibilities, but none the less ready to listen to William’s troubles, good brother that he was.

‘I am in a dilemma, George,’ said William. ‘It sounds incredible and foolish at my age. But I have fallen in love.’

‘It is never incredible or foolish to fall in love,’ said George.

‘Do you think that? I am relieved. She is young and very beautiful. Miss Catherine Tylney-Long.’

‘And rich,’ said the Regent.

‘I admit that that is no bar to marriage.’

‘So you want to marry her?’

‘There would be no other way of gaining her favours…’

‘Or her money,’ added the Prince. ‘Forgive me. There is so much talk of money about me that it is constantly in my mind. So you have fallen in love with this delightful girl and want to marry her. What of Dora and the children?’

‘That is what worries me. But I think Dorothy would see reason. She is very fond of me.’

‘Perhaps for that reason she would be reluctant to let you go.’

‘I have long been disturbed because I have failed to do my duty by the State. The Queen is constantly making it clear to me that I should marry. It would be my duty to make sure that Dorothy and the children were well taken care of and then…’

‘So you really want to marry Miss Tylney-Long?’

‘I am aware,’ said William, ‘that I should need your consent. But somehow I don’t think you would withhold it. You have always deplored the Marriage Act.’

‘If you wished to marry Miss Tylney-Long of course I should not withhold my consent.’

William was suddenly light-hearted. ‘George, you have made up my mind for me.’

‘I hope not. I hope your feelings for the young lady have done that.’

‘Of course. Of course. But you have always been the best of brothers… kind and helpful… always ready to make my concerns your own.’

The Prince looked sad and William knew he was thinking of Dorothy and the children. He had always been fond of them all.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you will be very gentle with Mrs Jordan.’

‘George, you know I will. I have a great affection for her.’

The Prince nodded. He was thinking how sad it was that so many men found it impossible to be faithful to one woman; and he was thinking of himself as much as William.

‘There is one thing,’ he said at length. ‘Before you begin your courtship of Miss Tylney-Long you should make your arrangements with Mrs Jordan.’

‘You mean… tell Dora now?’

The Prince looked sadly at his brother and nodded.

‘It is the only way,’ sighed William.

It was inevitable that Dorothy should hear rumours. The name of Catherine Tylney-Long was constantly being mentioned. Who was this lady? she wanted to know. One of the richest heiresses in England, was the answer. There was a great deal of angling going on among the fortune hunters, and no wonder. Such a prize was not to be won every day.

Wellesley-Pole was reckoned to have caught her fancy, but the Duke of Clarence seemed to be at those functions which she attended, which was strange when it was considered how he had been hiding himself from society for years.

One day Dorothy went in a library to read the papers; she did not go out much when she was on tour because she was so well known that it was difficult for her to evade the stares of passers-by; on this occasion she had evidently remained incognito, for two women were discussing the Duke of Clarence and Dorothy Jordan.

‘It’s over,’ said one to the other. ‘Fancy! After all these years.’

‘Has he left her, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Left her and the children.’

‘Ten of them. Fancy. What a family!’

‘And now he’s chasing that young girl, that heiress. She’s very beautiful, they say, and the Jordan is now fat and fifty.’

Dorothy was unable to resist the temptation of speaking to them. She said: ‘I could not help hearing you mention my name.’

They stared at her, overcome with confusion.

‘I was very interested to hear your comments,’ she said. ‘You know so much more of these matters than I do.’

With that she left them.

There had always been these scandals. It was not the first time she had heard that William was considering leaving her; and more frequently the gossip had concerned her. There had been many occasions when she had been accredited with lovers.

William was writing to her regularly, sending her news of the children. Everything must be as usual.

She was not sleeping well. She would wake in the night and think of the acrimonious words they had exchanged over the girls’ dowries. William had never forgotten that she had made a legal matter of his debts even though she had explained again and again that it was only the girls’ money that had to be treated in this way. Everything else he had had from her he was welcome to.

Money. It had been the constant theme of their life together. Was it to be the reason for their parting? Money! She dreamed of it; and when she awoke the words were ringing in her ears: ‘One of the richest heiresses in England.’

She was playing at Cheltenham when she received a letter from William.

He believed that her engagement there had finished but she had arranged to stay one more night to play Nell in The Devil to Pay for the benefit of one of the actors, and she was about to go on when the letter arrived.

She read it and could not believe it. It was as though all the rumours she had overheard came echoing back to her. It’s not true, she thought. It can’t be true.

Feeling sick and faint she gripped a chair for support. There were the words written in William’s familiar handwriting. He wanted to see her immediately and he wished her to meet him at Maidenhead for the last time.

For the last time. Oh, God, she thought. What does it mean? She thought of the women in the library, all the gossip of the last months, all the sly allusions in the papers.

It couldn’t be. There was some other explanation.

She must go to him at once. She could not play tonight. But what of Watson’s benefit.

She must play tonight, but as soon as the play was over she would go to Maidenhead, for she could not endure the terrible suspense longer than was necessary.

‘Mrs Jordan on stage!’

The familiar cry. The call which must always be obeyed.

She stumbled on. Strangely enough she did not forget her words; she played so that no one would guess that her thoughts were far away. At Maidenhead. At Bushy with the children. With William.

She thought: My carriage is at the door. As soon as the curtain falls, I shall not stop to change my clothes. I will go in Nell’s costume. I must know… soon or I shall die.

She felt near to fainting; but she tried to think of poor Watson who was so urgently in need of his benefit.

The audience did not notice her abstraction. So many times had she played Nell that she could play her absentmindedly. But when she came to the scene when the character of Jobson says: ‘Why, Nell, the Conjuror has made you laughing drunk!’ before which words she fell into fits of laughter, she found it impossible to laugh and to her dismay – and that of Jobson – she burst instead into tears.

Jobson’s presence of mind saved the scene.

‘Why, Nell,’ he said, ‘You’re crying drunk.’

Such quick wits brought her relief, reminded her of the need to go on playing no matter what the trouble.

And so she played through to the end and when the curtain fell hurried out to her carriage and drove through the night to Maidenhead.

He was impatiently awaiting her arrival in the inn at Maidenhead which he had chosen for their rendezvous.

‘Why, William,’ she cried, when she saw him. ‘What has happened? You are ill.’

He looked at her and shook his head. He was almost weeping.

‘I did not understand your letter. “For the last time.” What does it mean?’

He hesitated, seeking for words and failing wretchedly to find the ones he needed.

‘It has to happen, Dora… dear Dora, it has to be.’

‘You mean we are to… part?’

He nodded.

‘But why… why… after all these years?’

‘It… it has to be.’

‘You have been ordered? The Regent has… ?’

He said: ‘Dora, we have to bear this… together.’

‘We have borne so much together, William, these last twenty years. If we are together I can endure anything.’

‘But not… living together. We have to separate. I have to marry. My mother, Her Majesty the Queen… has made my duty clear to me.’ He started to speak very quickly. ‘There is only Charlotte. The Regent has refused to live with his wife. Fred’s wife is barren… They tell me that it is my duty…’

‘To marry…’

‘Before it is too late.’

‘And that means…’

‘That we must part.’

She thought: I am going to faint. But I must not. I must be strong. I must try to understand. I must be brave.

‘The children…’

‘They will all be taken care of. You will be taken care of.’ Again that almost pathetic eagerness to assure her that all would be well.

‘But now… after all these years…’

‘Dora, believe me, I shall always love you. But I have my duty to the State… to my family. This has been gradually borne home to me. I have to do my duty.’

She was silently groping her way to a chair that she might sit.

‘So you will marry.’

‘I must, Dora.’

‘And you wish to marry?’

‘It is no wish of mine. I am in debt. I cannot go on like this. My creditors will not allow it. And I must do my duty to the State and my family.’

It was like a theme. Duty to State and family; and if that were not enough: Money.

‘I see,’ she said slowly.

He came swiftly to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I knew you would. You have always been a wonderful woman. Dora will understand, I told myself.’

Understand? she thought wildly. That this is the end of my life? I cannot lose him, for to lose him is to lose everything… everything that I care for. She had always known that it was not fame she wanted. It was her home, her husband, her family.

‘The children,’ she said faintly.

‘All taken care of. You must not worry. It will all be drawn up legally. There is nothing to worry about.’

‘Nothing to worry about! I am to lose you… and there is nothing to worry about?’

‘I shall not separate the children from you,’ he said. ‘You shall see them whenever you wish. You will have an income. I shall see to this. I shall have it all drawn up… You are all right? You are feeling ill?’

‘I am feeling,’ she said, ‘as though my life is ended.’

‘The lovely little nice angel’

THERE HAD, SHE reflected, never been a time in her life for happiness; now there was no time for grief. How often during those happy hours she had spent at Bushy had she been reminded of the transience of the peace she was enjoying? Always there had been the contracts to fulfil, the money to earn. Now sick and weary, wanting to do nothing but to shut herself away from the world, she dared not give way to the momentary comfort of mourning; she must think of the children’s future.

The elder boys were away from home, but the younger ones were there. She had their future to think of. William had said it would be secure, but how far could she trust William? All the time when she had believed him to be the faithful husband – in every way but one – he had been planning to leave her.

Bushy – with its lovely lawns, its gracious rooms, the home that she had loved as she would love no other, was where the happiest days of her life had been spent. It had changed – with her life. The servants were different. They looked at her covertly. They knew. Did they always know… before one knew oneself?

The little ones shrieked their joy to see her.

‘Mamma is home,’ cried nine-year-old Molpuss. He hugged her. How long, she wondered, shall I be able to keep him? How long before he is taken away to train for the Navy?

Elizabeth, Augustus, Augusta and Amelia. She kissed them all in turn.

‘And where is Sophie?’ she wanted to know.

‘She went away with Papa,’ she was told, and her heart sank.

Was he planning to take the children away from her, too?

Her lips set firmly. She would never allow that. Oh, yes, there was no time for grief. She had to fight.

That day the girls and their husbands came over. Fanny with Alsop, her eyes alert with speculation. She distrusted him and had always known he had married Fanny for what he could get. Poor Fanny! Then Dodee and Edward March. She liked Edward best of all her sons-in-law although she thought that perhaps Colonel Hawker would be a better friend to her. He was after all most knowledgeable of affairs; he had moved in the circle which she had frequented with William. It would be different now, she supposed.

Lucy kissed her fondly – always the most affectionate of the girls.

‘Oh, Mamma, we have heard the news. I couldn’t believe it. That’s why Samuel said we must come over and see you at once.’

Fanny said spitefully: ‘He’s like all men. He’s not to be trusted. I never liked him. He couldn’t forget he was the King’s son. He pretended he forgot it but it was all a sham. When you think of the money he’s had…’

‘Hush,’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘I do not want to hear a word against the Duke. He has always behaved with courtesy and kindness. This has ended… for State reasons.’

Fanny looked at her mother in amazement.

‘You believe that? Why, he’s been chasing this heiress all through the summer.’

‘Fanny, I said be silent.’

Colonel Hawker laid his hand over Dorothy’s.

‘What is done is done,’ he said. ‘Now we have to make sure that everything is taken care of.’

Yes, thought Dorothy, she had reason to be grateful to Samuel Hawker.

William could not wait to continue his courtship. He had made with all speed to Ramsgate, taking his fifteen-year-old daughter Sophie with him to show that there was nothing clandestine in his courtship.

William had always been seen in the lampoons and cartoons as the rough sailor and although it was long since he had been to sea he was known as the ‘royal tar’, and was reputed to be without finesse and the courtly graces of his brothers.

He now started to prove this picture of him to be true. His courtship of the heiress was clumsy in the extreme; so was his gesture in taking Dorothy Jordan’s daughter with him to Ramsgate to witness it.

Sophie was bewildered and therefore sullen. She had been brought up in the homely atmosphere of Bushy where she had believed harmony reigned between her parents. Now she was suddenly exposed to the antics of an ageing father paying court to a young girl.

She was bewildered, bad-tempered and uncertain whose side to be on. She wanted to be with her mother to ask what this was all about; and on the other hand she liked the gaiety of all the festivities at Ramsgate that were to celebrate the naval fête which was in progress and was the reason why fashionable society was there.

Catherine was amused by the Duke’s pursuit. She thought him old and scarcely attractive, but he was a royal duke, and her mother had pointed out the glorious possibilities which marriage with him could bring.

Lady Tylney-Long, widow of Sir James, had had two sons and three daughters – the two sons having died and Catherine being the eldest of the girls, as one of the wealthiest heiresses in the country, was certain to have a host of suitors. Lady Tylney-Long hoped her daughter would choose wisely; but Catherine was a girl who would have her own way.

William could not help being a little piqued. He had expected that his title would have bemused Catherine to such an extent that she would have accepted him immediately.

Her mother was aware of what marriage with him could mean; but she was also aware of the difficulties of achieving it. The consent of the Prince Regent was essential; the Queen would have to approve, she supposed, and it was the custom of the family to marry German princesses.

She talked this over with Catherine.

‘It would be absolutely necessary to know that a marriage could take place before you accepted him,’ she said.

‘My dear Mamma. I am by no means certain that I am going to accept him – so we need not concern ourselves at this stage.’

‘He is devoted and impatient.’

‘And you must admit a little ridiculous. A man with a left-handed wife living – an actress who has borne him ten children! Oh, Mamma, it is an extraordinary situation in which to find oneself.’

‘You are very frivolous and thoughtless, Catherine.’

‘On the contrary, Mamma, I am both serious and thoughtful. That is why I shall keep my Lord Duke dangling for some time yet.’

And she did.

She was fascinated by William Wellesley-Pole, who was young, handsome and much more suitable than that other William of Clarence.

But a duke! her mother continued to remind her. Did she realize that there was a possibility – a remote one admittedly – of her becoming the Queen of England? The Duke of Clarence was fourth in the succession to the throne. She did think Catherine should consider that.

Catherine retorted that there was only one thing she would consider and that was her own inclinations.

Her aunt, Lady de Crespigny, who was on very friendly terms with the Duke and to whom he wrote of his passion for Catherine wrote to Catherine and to her mother to tell them that the Duke’s intentions were of a very serious nature; and she thought Catherine would be foolish not to give them the utmost consideration.

But Catherine was perverse.

‘Marriage,’ she said, ‘is a serious undertaking. I should be no more impressed by the possibility of his having a crown than he should be about my fortune. But I admit,’ she added judiciously, ‘that these considerations will not be ignored on either side.’

Meanwhile she continued to flirt with her admirers at the head of whom were William Wellesley-Pole and the Duke of Clarence.

While Dorothy waited at Bushy House for William to come and discuss the settlements which would have to be made on their separation, William stayed on at Ramsgate, behaving like a young and ardent lover.

He was writing frequently to Lady de Crespigny giving her accounts of the progress of his courtship.

‘Dear Lady Crespigny,

‘I write at this singular moment because I have just left your ladyship’s lovely and truly amiable niece after having had the happiness of dancing with Miss Long the whole of the evening…

‘Of course my attentions are clearly pointed to Miss Long, and I really flatter myself the lovely little nice angel does not hate me…

‘I went to Lady Catherine’s in the evening and escorted over to the library Miss Long. She had promised to dance two dances with Pole. I had previously obtained Lady Catherine’s consent for the whole night, and made her promise in future whilst we remain here to dance with me, and to cut the matter short I told Pole very civilly I would not give her up to any man…

‘Her dear consent is all that is wanted. Her relations wish it and so do mine. Mrs Jordan has behaved like an angel and is equally anxious for the marriage. Miss Long therefore cannot be afraid of any éclat from that quarter…

‘My two elder brothers are married and I am therefore at this moment the first unmarried man in the kingdom… The character of the third son of the King cannot be a secret and I know she likes what she has heard of me… She must be persuaded I really love her; why come to this place but to see and converse with her? In short, can Catherine Long love the Duke of Clarence?’

But in spite of his devotion and his assurances to her family that his intentions were honourable William was obliged to continue his courtship and Miss Long kept her suitors waiting on her decision.

Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, who liked to meddle, called at Bushy House. He was smarting from the affair of the murdered valet which had happened only a year or so before and it was pleasant to have the limelight turned on one of his brothers. The Dukes of Kent and Cumberland had never been on the same terms of friendship as the rest of the royal brothers. The Duke of Kent, it was said, had been in some way responsible for the exposure of the Duke of York over the Mary Anne case; now Cumberland wanted to play his part in Clarence’s affair. It was for this purpose that he went to see Dorothy.

‘My dear,’ he cried, embracing her, ‘this is terrible news. I came to commiserate with you on the misdeeds of my brother. I am ashamed that he could treat you so.’

Dorothy immediately came to her lover’s defence.

‘I am afraid it has been forced on him.’

That made Cumberland laugh.

‘Did you not know that he has been angling for Catherine Tylney-Long all through the summer? He is declaring himself passionately in love with her.’

‘All through the summer,’ she echoed, thinking of those affectionate letters he had written to her at that time, telling her about the children, never giving a hint that he was courting this girl. She thought of the money she had sent him, money earned by her performances when she was far from Bushy and longed to be there but dared not give up because they needed what she could bring in to the home.

‘As for the family’s wanting him to marry. They might think it advisable for him to marry a German Princess, but do you think they will give their approval to marriage with Miss Long? They might… as she is so rich and he’s in debt up to his ears… but I thought you should know that he is treating you shamefully. And you should make sure that you get a good allowance from him. He should pay for his sins. I am sure the Regent will be of this opinion.’

Dorothy was overcome with grief. This changed everything. He was deceitful as well as unfaithful. She felt weary of everything.

If it were not for the children she would go right away, go abroad, hide herself, prepare to die for she felt so ill that she could not believe that death was not far off.

Cumberland went on to give her details of the gay doings at Ramsgate. Clarence was not there because it was a naval occasion but because the Tylney-Longs were there. He had deceived her completely. He made a point of dancing throughout the evening with the heiress; he never left her side; he was quarrelling incessantly with Wellesley-Pole because he was one of Miss Long’s favoured suitors.

It was too humiliating.

But it was true. Cumberland had brought the papers to show her.

There was one cartoon in which was portrayed a boatman bringing his boat to shore. The boatman was clearly the Duke of Clarence and standing on the shore was a girl, her apron full of gold coins. Beside the girl was another figure – Wellesley-Pole – and in the background Dorothy herself surrounded by ten children. From her mouth came a balloon in which were the words: ‘What, leave your faithful Peggy?’

A verse reputed to be Miss Long’s response to the importuning of the Duke ran:

‘Sir, if your passion is sincere,

I feel for one who is not here;

One who has been for years your pride,

And is, or ought to be, your bride;

Shared with you all your cares and joys

The mother of your girls and boys

Tis cruelty, the most refined

And shows a mean, ungenerous mind,

To take advantage of your power

And leave her like a blighted flower

Return to Mistress Jordan’s arms,

Soothe her and quiet her alarms;

Your present difficulties o’er,

Be wise and play the fool no more.’

‘So you see,’ said Cumberland, ‘I tell you only the truth. I feel it right that you should know it. Don’t trust him, but make sure he does what is right by you and the children. I am sure the Prince Regent will agree that this should be.’

Dorothy thanked him. She wanted to be alone with her misery.

After a while her grief gave way to anger.

To be so deceived! After all these years, how could he do this? She remembered how ardent he had been when he had sought her. Then she had regarded herself as Richard Ford’s wife, and who knew he might have married her. How much happier she might have been as Lady Ford, the respected wife – and widow now – of Sir Richard.

But she had loved William; she had borne his children, her own beloved family.

What would become of them all if he married this heiress?

He was making a fool of himself. The writers said so. ‘Be wise and play the fool no more.’ An ageing man, chasing a young girl… and for her fortune. It was too humiliating to be endured – for him and for her.

She sat down and wrote two letters, one to William in which she told him that she was aware of his antics at Ramsgate and that she knew that he had lied to her about being forced to make a State marriage. She realized that it was Miss Long’s money he needed – for she could supply him more liberally than an actress, however hard the latter worked.

Then she wrote to Cumberland and thanked him for calling on her and telling the truth of what was happening in Ramsgate.

In her agitation she put the letters into the wrong envelopes, so that Cumberland received Clarence’s and Clarence Cumberland’s.

Everyone was talking about the great quarrel between Clarence and Cumberland. It was whispered that the elder would challenge the younger to a duel.

There were always spies to report royal actions and the great joke was that Cumberland had told tales of his brother to Mrs Jordan who, naturally indignant, had written to her ex-lover telling him what she thought of his conduct… but the letter had gone to Cumberland and her letter of thanks for his revelations to Clarence.

What a joke! What a genius these brothers had for supplying the gossip writers with exactly the material they needed.

Miss Tylney-Long did not care to be involved in such a controversy. Her name was constantly in the newspapers and she was always depicted with her arms full of rent rolls of gold coins on which the lusting eyes of the Duke rested – not on her pretty face.

She refused to take the advice of her friends and family who saw that her fortune might purchase a crown.

She accepted William Wellesley-Pole. She preferred him in any case.

So William was the rejected suitor.

The refusal of Miss Tylney-Long did not deter William from looking for another heiress; and almost immediately he was seeking to make Miss Mercer Elphinstone his bride.

Miss Elphinstone was less rich than Miss Tylney-Long, but only a little less. She was young and good-looking and had ingratiated herself so completely with the Princess Charlotte that she almost controlled all the Princess’s actions.

She pretended for a while to consider the Duke of Clarence, but never seriously. William was hurt and bewildered. He had thought that royalty was a passport to marriage with any woman who could only achieve it through marriage with a member of his family.

He was mistaken. The young ladies saw William as a ridiculous old man; he had not waited long to mourn the loss of Miss Tylney-Long. He was determined on an heiress obviously and had not the wit to pretend that he wasn’t.

Miss Elphinstone was not the sort of woman who cared to be ridiculed and she soon made it clear that she had no intention of taking the Duke seriously.

To be rejected so publicly was humiliating to the family and the Prince Regent was displeased.

‘Good God,’ he cried, ‘aren’t we unpopular enough? Do you have to make us ridiculous! You would have done better to have stayed with Dora.’

William agreed, but he would try again. He would find one heiress who was glad to have him.

Dorothy meanwhile had done her best to put the Duke in a good light, but insisted on his paying her an adequate income with which she could support the younger children.

The Duke knew he must concede to her request and promised to allow her £1,500 every year for the maintenance of his children, and £1,500 for herself; for her house and carriage she should have £600, and £800 to make provision for Fanny, Dodee and Lucy.

There was a condition. Should she return to the stage the £1,500 a year paid for the maintenance of her children should not be paid and the children should return to their father.

The settlement was completed.

Dorothy found a house in Cadogan Place and decided that this should be her new home. To this she took the younger FitzClarences, the Alsops, the Marches and the Hawkers. At least she had all her children under one roof.

And there she proposed to live quietly for the rest of her life.

The choice

DOROTHY WAS TRYING to settle down in Cadogan Square and make something of her life. She had lost William; she would not wish to have him back now. He had disappointed her; he had not only deserted her but had made a fool of himself publicly. Why had he thrown away everything they had built up over the years for the pursuit of a young girl whom he could not have cared greatly about since as soon as she had refused him he was courting Miss Elphinstone?

Why did people whom one believed one knew thoroughly suddenly become as strangers? For the sake of what looked like a whim he had broken up and brought great unhappiness into the family.

She would do without him. With the help of her children she could reshape her life. She had engaged a governess for the children, a Miss Sketchley, who was a great comfort to her and favourite throughout the household. She heard regularly from George and Henry who were together now in the Army. Only Sophia was remiss, but then Sophia had always been unpredictable. She wondered what her daughter had thought when she had to watch her father dancing attendance on Miss Tylney-Long as she had had to do at Ramsgate.

What had possessed William to behave in such a way? Perhaps it was because he had suddenly realized that he was no longer young. He had, as some people did, tried in vain to rekindle his youth.

Oh, the folly of it!

But as the months passed, although she was not exactly happy, she was at peace. For one thing it was pleasant to be shut away from public life. Her name was appearing less and less in the scandal sheets. She was living within her own family; and she had the three eldest girls all married and settled, beside the little FitzClarences who had always been a joy to her.

She was very fond of her son-in-law Frederick March, and Colonel Hawker was very good to her and looked after her affairs. She could not endure Thomas Alsop, but she was not so foolish as to hope for perfection. Thomas could be endured when she had two such sons-in-law as Frederick and the Colonel.

When the children were in bed and her daughters with their husbands, for she had made it quite clear that she had no wish to intrude into their privacy, she and Miss Sketchley would sit together and she would gossip to the governess of her theatrical adventures and it was the pleasantest way of reliving them because she would laugh over her misfortunes and enjoy her triumphs afresh.

Yes, life had become bearable.

But it seemed that peace must always be denied her. For some time she had noticed that Miss Sketchley was uneasy. She realized how much the governess meant to her when she feared that perhaps she wanted to leave.

She broached the subject one evening as they sat together.

‘Miss Sketchley,’ she said, ‘have you something on your mind?’

The governess started guiltily.

‘I hope you are not planning to leave us.’

‘No,’ said Miss Sketchley. ‘Never.’

‘That is a weight off my mind,’ said Dorothy. ‘But something is worrying you.’

Miss Sketchley hesitated. ‘I… er…’

‘Come now, please tell me. I’d rather know the worst.’

‘I… I don’t think all is well between Mr and Mrs Alsop.’

Dorothy laughed. ‘My dear Miss Sketchley, all has never been well between Mr and Mrs Alsop. I can say this to the dear friend you have become. The marriage was a great mistake.’

‘I fear so,’ said Miss Sketchley.

‘Pray tell me what you have discovered.’

‘I think that Mrs Alsop is taking laudanum every night.’

‘Laudanum!’

‘I have seen quantities of it in her room. I know I should not have opened her drawer. But I was alarmed because I suspected… and I found a very large bottle of the stuff there.’

‘Oh, my God, what does this mean?’

‘I fear that she is taking drugs for some reason.’

‘For what reason? Is she unhappy? She is here… I care for her. What can be wrong?’

‘Perhaps she will confide in you.’

‘Oh, Miss Sketchley, that girl has been a great trial to me. I would do anything on Earth for her – but somehow I fear she will never bring happiness to me or to herself. I blame myself. When I think of her coming into the world… But you know the story. I loathed her father and when I knew I was to have his child… perhaps I loathed her too… before she was born. As soon as she arrived I loved her… but perhaps it was too late then.’

‘No mother could have done more for a child than you have done for Mrs Alsop.’

‘Oh, God, how I’ve tried! All my quarrels with the Duke began through Fanny. They did not like each other. There was always conflict when she was at Bushy. But I must find what is wrong. I will go to her now. Fanny has always terrified me.’

Fanny was in her room, sitting at her mirror, idly twirling a lock of her hair.

‘Fanny, my child, is anything wrong?’

Fanny swung round to face her mother. ‘What… do you mean?’

Dorothy leaned forward and opening a drawer took out a bottle of laudanum. Fanny had turned pale.

‘Fanny, what does this mean?’

‘I had to have it,’ cried Fanny hysterically. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I felt so miserable. I wanted to take an overdose.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t talk like that. Tell me what’s wrong. You know that I will put it right if it is humanly possible for me to do so.’

‘It’s Tom… he’s in debt. We can’t pay. He’s lost his job. They’ve turned him out. There is nothing we can do. And we owe £2,000.’

‘£2,000! How could you owe so much as that?’

‘You don’t know Tom. He’d double that in a week or two. He only wants time.’

‘Where is he going to find this £2,000?’

‘I don’t know. He’ll be in the debtors’ prison. He’s threatened with it… and that’ll be the end.’ Fanny picked up the bottle.

‘I will take this away.’

‘No,’ cried Fanny. ‘I’d die without it!’

‘How long have you been taking this?’

‘For months. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d kill myself. I had to… I had to…’

‘Now listen,’ said Dorothy, ‘we’re going to be sensible. As soon as Thomas comes in bring him to me. We have to find that £2,000 and he will have to live within his income.’

Fanny burst into wild hysterical laughter. ‘But Mamma, he has no income to live within.’

This nightmare, thought Dorothy, this nightmare of money!

She thought she had escaped it, but as she had feared the Duke was finding it difficult to pay the income he had promised. Perhaps she had always guessed he would.

And she desperately needed £2,000.

If she did not find it quickly Thomas Alsop would be in a debtors’ prison, and she knew what that meant. Disaster and degradation, and once people were incarcerated in such a place how could they ever earn the money which would buy their release?

And if she did not act, what would happen to Fanny? Hysterical and unbalanced, already familiar with drugs, drinking too freely whenever the opportunity arose!

She must find £2,000 and how could she? There was one way. She could return to the stage. But if she returned to the stage she could not keep the children, for William would not permit the mother of his acknowledged children to act on a stage when she was not living with him. She had always known that he would have preferred her to retire at the beginning of their liaison; but he had wanted the money. Now that the money she earned would be of no concern to him he was determined that she should not earn it and keep their children.

For days this was the great question in her life. She could give up the young children to their father’s care and go back to the stage by which means she could soon earn the money she needed to save Thomas Alsop from disaster. Or she could keep the children and let the Alsops take care of themselves.

There was no middle way. It was one or the other.

What could she do? She lay tossing on her bed and thought of the laudanum which she had seen in Fanny’s room.

Then she thought of the little children with whom she must part.

She talked over her trouble with Miss Sketchley.

‘You see, the children will be well cared for. They will have the best governesses and tutors; they will be received in royal circles as they always have been but more so without me. It is a matter, dear Miss Sketchley, of who needs me most. When I look at it like that I have no doubt. I could never abandon Fanny. I must always do my best for her no matter what it costs me. I feel I owe it to Fanny… more than anyone else in the world.’

‘If the children go,’ said Miss Sketchley, ‘I will remain with you.’

So the decision was made. Dorothy parted with the children and went back to the stage.

She was playing again in the new theatre of Covent Garden. The audience went wild with joy. They were determined to show her how glad they were that she was back.

The Morning Post wrote:

‘She was greeted with reiterated bursts of the most ardent applause. Her performance throughout was such as fully to merit the warm testimonials of approbation by which in every scene in which she appeared she was honoured. She is increased in size but there is no abatement of her natural vivacity or that wonted gaiety of deportment and sweetness of expression which have ever formed so distinguished a characteristic of the performance of this inimitable and most favoured votary of Thalia.’

She was back on the stage. She was back in the news, for naturally there were those to detract as well as those to applaud.

They were delighted with her. They had missed her – theatre and press. And they were glad that Dorothy Jordan was back.

She played her light-hearted comedy roles with zest; but she was sad at heart.

She had lost her lover and her young children. But she had saved Fanny and her husband from disaster. That must be her reward.

Treachery in the family

WILLIAM WAS PENITENT. He knew why Dorothy had returned to the stage. She was not doing it for herself but for that family of hers – that ungrateful Fanny and her worse than ungrateful husband.

He wished that he could go back to her. But how could he now? The parting was too far behind him; too much had happened; and he was determined to marry. He must. It was for this reason that he had given up Dorothy; so he must have a wife to justify his act.

Was it his fault that Catherine Tylney-Long and Mercer Elphinstone had refused him? He had forgotten what they looked like now. Yet he could see Dorothy’s face as clearly as though she were beside him.

He must not think of Dorothy. It was a phase of his life which was over. But he would put no obstacle in the way of seeing the children; and although they could not live under her roof while she followed her stage profession they could visit her and write to her when they cared to.

George was a constant correspondent. So was Molpuss who was very interested in the theatre and wanted to know all about it.

Her children’s letters were her greatest comfort and she wrote to them in the same prolific way in which she had once written to William.

William wrote to her suggesting that he might help over Alsop. Lord Moira, who was an old friend of his and the Prince Regent, had been appointed Governor-General of Bengal and it had occurred to William that there might be a place for Alsop on his staff. It would be an excellent post for Alsop whom he understood had no employment; and would at the same time remove him from Dorothy’s roof so that he would cease to be a burden to her. In due course his wife could follow him there. If she thought it was a good idea and let him know he would speak to Moira and do what he could to arrange it.

Dorothy was gratified – not only because it seemed a good prospect for the Alsops but because William and she were friendly again.

When Alsop heard of the offer, he was delighted. Most certainly he would take it, he said; and if Dorothy would take over his creditors, as she was doing, there was absolutely no reason why he should not go to India.

Alsop had left, to Dorothy’s great relief. Fanny talked of going out after him but with no real intention of doing so, and Dorothy believed in her heart that if her eldest daughter did go there might be a chance of that peaceful life for which she had craved.

She had settled Alsop’s debts and if she went on commanding the high prices which theatre managers were willing to pay her she reckoned that in a year or two she would be able to retire.

She had lost he children, but several of them wrote to her regularly and she carefully followed all their activities. Sophie was the only one who never wrote; she was always in her father’s company; but George and Molpuss were good letter writers although George’s spelling was a little wild and she often jokingly rebuked him for not using his dictionary. The household in Cadogan Square was a tolerably happy one. Colonel Hawker was the strong man who looked after her affairs and Frederick March was her favourite son-in-law; he was affectionate to her and to Dodee and as far as possible he made up for the loss of the FitzClarence boys. Then there was Lucy and Dodee with dear Miss Sketchley who was so good and useful and who had become as one of the family.

Fanny was a problem. Her addiction to drugs was growing alarmingly and she was behaving oddly. One rainy day she was missing and they were very alarmed and not greatly comforted when she returned home, her clothes soaked, her shoes letting in the water. She would give no reason for her disappearance; and after that she would walk about the streets in the oldest clothes she could find, a torn dress, a bonnet with ribbons that looked like rags and stockings which she had dyed bright pink.

Fanny was decidedly odd and needed especial care. It would be a great relief if she joined her husband. Sometimes she would grow quite excited about this; at others she would shrug the idea listlessly aside.

But it seemed there was no lasting comfort. Dorothy was horrified when she heard that George and Henry were in trouble and were to be court-martialled. This angered her because, as she saw it, it was no fault of the boys. They had done what they thought was their duty and she was amazed at the sternness of the Commander-in-Chief of the Army, the Duke of York, who had been reinstated by the Regent about a year or so after he had been forced to resign as a result of the Mary Anne Clarke scandal.

During the fighting against the French in which both brothers had been engaged – George as Captain and Henry as Lieutenant – in their opinion, and those of some other officers, the Commander, Colonel Quentin, had been negligent. A complaint was lodged by these officers and Colonel Quentin was court-martialled.

But the Duke of York was incensed. He wanted to know what right junior officers had to question the actions of a commanding colonel. He declared that discipline was at stake and action must be taken.

Since two of the officers concerned were his own nephews he believed that they had taken advantage of their relationship with him and he decided on drastic punishment. All the officers concerned were dismissed from their regiment of the 10th Hussars and their swords confiscated and the two FitzClarences were to be sent to India.

When Dorothy heard this she was overcome with grief. George was her eldest son and if he was her favourite it was understandable. He had always been devoted to her and during those heartbreaking months when she had first been separated from the Duke it had been his letters which had helped to sustain her.

When George wrote to her and told her that he was shortly to leave the country she wept with despair. To Miss Sketchley who was accompanying her on her tours as companion, secretary and in fact filling any post that was needed, she said: ‘This is the only letter I have ever had from George that did not fill me with happiness.’

That night she was taken ill on the stage and her part had to be taken over by her understudy. It was the first time that had happened.

The trouble which had fallen on George and Henry resulted in William’s writing to Dorothy. He too was worried about the fate of the boys and had tried remonstrating with his brother; but the Duke of York, who had previously been an easy-going and good-hearted man, was adamant. However, the Regent was sympathetic and so was the Queen and it was for this reason that they were being transferred to another regiment for the Duke’s first intention had been to dismiss them from the Army. His instructions had been that when they arrived in India they were to be treated by the commanding officer there to the utmost discipline; but the Regent had made it known that it was his wish that this should not be so.

It was pleasant to hear from William and to know that her concern for their sons was shared by him. But she did wonder whether there was an inclination in the royal family to disown the FitzClarence children now that their mother and father were separated and to treat them as any other illegitimate offspring – which owing to the long-standing relationship and the respectability of its nature had not been so before.

She must not fret too much and so upset the boys when they came to see her. And perhaps as the Regent was kindly disposed and she had never had any reason to doubt this, they would soon be home from India.

The case of Colonel Quentin and the part the young FitzClarences had played in it naturally called attention to their parents and there was a further spate of comments.

William was extremely unpopular, and Dorothy, although subject to criticism and ridicule, was a public idol. Now she was the deserted woman; and her two sons had been unfairly – most said – sent to India, just when the war was over and she could have hoped to be freed from anxiety concerning them.

Dorothy was away again on tour, working hard, trying to accumulate money for her retirement.

‘If only this hadn’t happened,’ she often said to Miss Sketchley, ‘I could have become reconciled. Why is it that as soon as I believe myself to have emerged from my difficulties another one appears?’

‘It is often so with families,’ said the practical Miss Sketchley. ‘And you have a large one. But remember that while there are some to give you anxiety there are others to bring you joy.’

‘How right you are!’ said Dorothy. ‘And I have had a great deal of happiness in my life. I know Alsop was a trial but I have two good sons-in-law. Samuel is so firm and strong… such a rock and dear Frederick so reliable. And the dear girls… Fanny, of course.’

‘Fanny’s place is with her husband,’ said Miss Sketchley firmly.

‘I wonder whether she would be happy there.’

Miss Sketchley did not answer. She knew that Fanny would never be happy anywhere.

It couldn’t be true. Was there not enough trouble. How could Fanny do this? Had she not caused enough anxiety already?

The letter reached her while she was playing in Carlisle and it was from Frederick. He did not know how to begin to tell her but there had been trouble in Cadogan Place.

Fanny had been writing threatening letters to the Duke of Clarence – letters which carried a hint of blackmail. She had threatened if he did not give her mother more money that certain facts of their relationship of which she was aware would be given to the newspapers.

As a result the Duke had sent his lawyer to Cadogan Place and there had been an alarming scene.

Frederick was outraged because, as he said, the Duke suspected him of being concerned in these threats. He had not believed that Fanny could have composed the letters herself but that Frederick had helped her.

‘I was able to prove my innocence,’ wrote Frederick, ‘and not only that, but let it be known that I had tried to prevail on Fanny to stop doing this foolish thing.’

‘Oh, God, what can I do?’ Dorothy demanded of Miss Sketchley. ‘I really begin to wonder what will happen next. I must go home.’

‘You cannot break your contracts,’ Miss Sketchley pointed out, ‘or you will be sued. You don’t want further financial worries.’

‘How can I go on acting? What can I do? Fanny will have to go away. I wonder if she would go to India. Perhaps I could send her to my brother in Wales. Anything… anything to get her away.’

‘Frederick is capable. He should be able to manage this in your absence.’

‘I will write to him. What can we do for poor Fanny? For she is ill, you know. That is the trouble. My poor, poor Fanny! First, she must be stopped writing these letters.’

‘I daresay she had been thoroughly frightened out of that by the lawyers.’

‘As soon as I get home I shall have to make some arrangement for her. In the meantime I am asking Frederick to increase the premiums on the life insurance I took out for Alsop, so that if he should die out there Fanny will be all right for the future. My head is simply whirling. I don’t know what I should do without you. How I long for this tour to be over!’

‘Frederick will manage everything,’ soothed Miss Sketchley.

‘Thank God for Frederick.’

Frederick told Dorothy that he had control of affairs in Cadogan Place and she could trust him to carry out her wishes. So she wished to raise the insurance on Alsop’s life; he would deal with the matter. He was not sure of the amount but if she would send him a blank cheque he would fill in the amount required. He was also advising Fanny that she should, after the trouble with the Duke, make plans immediately to leave for India, or if she did not wish to go so far he was sure it could be arranged for her to go to her relations in Wales.

Fanny said she would consider which appealed to her more. And one day she went out and did not return.

When Dorothy – still on tour – heard the news she was heartbroken; but Miss Sketchley said that Fanny would always fall on her feet and she probably had been making plans to leave home for some time. It was clear that she would not go to her husband; and now that she had made everything so uncomfortable at home, preferred to leave.

It was very likely, added Miss Sketchley, that she had gone to Wales.

Dorothy remained in a state of great unhappiness. It was all very well for others to say that all would be happier without Fanny. Dorothy could not forget that she was her daughter and she loved her in spite of all the trouble she had caused.

‘What will become of the child?’ she asked distractedly of Miss Sketchley.

‘Child! She is scarcely a child. If it were not for her and her husband you would not be here now working yourself into a state of exhaustion. You would be living peacefully at Cadogan Place.’

‘She did not ask to come into the world. Nor did I ask that she should. It’s that man Daly… he has been an evil shadow across my life from the day I met him. If I had never known him, everything would have been different.’

‘Fanny would never have been born, but would the Duke have remained faithful?’

‘It might have been different. Who knows? We had quarrels and I think I irritated him beyond endurance with my preoccupation with money and it was for the girls, I suppose.’

Miss Sketchley did not think highly of the Duke and conveyed it in her silence when he was mentioned. But Dorothy insisted on defending him. ‘He was always good and generous. It was money which separated us.’

Miss Sketchley said nothing. She was maliciously amused by his inability to find an heiress. She hoped that one day he would realize what he had lost.

Dorothy was waiting anxiously for news. There was none. Touring was so exhausting particularly when one felt so ill. She was spitting blood more frequently now and the pain in her chest was recurring. She must go on playing the old roles. Peggy in The Country Girl, Prue in Love for Love and Letitia Hardy in The Belle’s Stratagem. She could no longer play Priscilla Tomboy or the Little Pickle. Those days were over, but there was some satisfaction in knowing that audiences felt very lukewarm about anyone else’s playing of the parts.

So weary she was after a performance that Miss Sketchley had to help her to bed where she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Every day she would wait for news. ‘Any news of Fanny?’ she would ask, fear showing in her voice and eyes. What next? she was wondering. What else could happen?

The next blow came from an unexpected quarter and was all the more cruel for that.

She was deeply in debt. Someone had been drawing on her account; bills which she had believed to have been paid had been left outstanding. Her creditors were threatening that they could wait no longer.

She read the letter from Frederick several times and Miss Sketchley who was always alarmed when the mail arrived came in to find her sitting staring blankly before her.

‘May I?’ she asked, picking up the letter.

Dorothy nodded.

‘Good God!’ cried Miss Sketchley. ‘This can only be Frederick March.’

‘Impossible.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Miss Sketchley sadly, ‘that it is the unexpected that often happens.’

‘I must go home,’ said Dorothy.

‘You are certainly in no fit state to go on the stage. Leave it to me. I’ll make all our arrangements. We must leave at once for London.’

That very day they drove out of Margate; and when Dorothy returned home it was to find Frederick in a state of near dementia.

He threw himself at her feet. He deserved her reproaches. Nothing she could say or do to him would be hard enough punishment.

Yes, he had been wicked. He had been criminal. He had needed the money. He had stolen from her. He had filled in the blank cheques she had given him for double and treble the amounts she had intended.

They were ruined.

That it should be Frederick, her favourite son-in-law!

She did not know what to do. She could only think of her poor mother who had feared insecurity and so longed for the respectability of marriage. Marriage! What had it brought to Fanny? And now Dodee’s husband had done this to her!

Colonel Hawker offered to help but how could he? He was not a rich man. He had not the sums at his disposal which they would need.

She read through the demands for payment. The veiled threats if the bills were not met. She understood them well. They pointed to the debtors’ prison from which there was no escape, for how could she earn money while in prison to pay her debts, and how could she escape from prison until she did?

What to do? Where to turn?

She thought of the one man who had been good to her. Yes, he had, she insisted, until his family had demanded that he marry for State reasons and pay his debts.

William would never desert her.

But she could not plead to him personally. She would write to his agent, John Barton, who had arranged the settlement. He would most certainly inform the Duke and everything that could be done to save her would be done.

It was a relief.

She wrote to Barton and waited.

When John Barton received Dorothy’s appeal for help he began to see how he could use the position to the advantage of his master.

Since his desertion of Dorothy the Duke of Clarence had become a figure of fun to the people. They did not approve of the desertion. He had lived with Dorothy for twenty years. They had had ten children and then like a silly lovesick schoolboy he had started to court young women. Heiresses, of course. There was something ridiculous about an ageing man pretending to be a young one; and the fact that the heiresses had the good sense to refuse him made him all the more ridiculous.

The people did not like this treatment of one of their favourite actresses; and while she appeared on the stage and was constantly in the public eye, they could not forget.

After being refused by Miss Tylney-Long and Miss Elphinstone, William had tried for royalty. The Princess Anne of Denmark had declined to marry him, so had the sister of the Tsar, the Duchess of Oldenburg.

William was depicted in all the cartoons as the lovelorn suitor who could succeed nowhere and on these cartoons Dorothy was invariably in the background with her ten children about her.

Barton had a brilliant idea. He might extricate his master from this humiliating position and win his eternal gratitude.

With this plan in mind he went to see Dorothy.

‘I know,’ he told her, ‘that the Duke would wish me to do everything possible to ease your situation. I beg of you show me all the accounts.’

This she did and when Barton had calculated how much money was needed he made a wry face.

‘It will take months to raise this money,’ he said. ‘And in the meantime your creditors will take action.’

‘What am I to do?’

‘There is only one thing. You must get out of the country.’

‘What?’

‘It’s the only way you will be safe. You must slip quietly away. Leave these bills with me. I will settle your affairs as speedily as I can and when I have done so send word for you that it is safe for you to return.’

‘Do you mean… ?’

He looked at her intently.

‘I mean, Madam,’ he said, ‘that from the threatening tones of your creditors they will have you in a debtors’ prison within the month. I should say you have at most three weeks to get out of the country.’

Dorothy was aghast.

She thought of that day long ago when Daly had threatened her with a debtors’ prison. She had given way and as a result there had been Fanny… and because of Fanny she was in her present dilemma, for she believed deep down in her heart that it was their differences over Fanny which had begun to make the rift between her and the Duke and that had it not been there he would never have deserted her no matter what family pressure had been exerted. It was as though she had completed a circle.

‘I could not face prison,’ she said. ‘It is so… impossible. How should I ever get out… and what would become of my family?’

‘Take my advice,’ said Barton. ‘Get away. I will do all I can to help. Sell up everything you have here and go. I shall be in touch. Your allowances will be paid… and in a short time you will be able to settle your debts and come back.’

She trusted Barton. There was no one else to trust.

Barton went away satisfied that he had done an excellent thing for the Duke. He would not tell him at present for the Duke was a sentimental man. But he would never regain the dignity of his rank, nor would he find a bride, while Dorothy Jordan remained in the public eye.

Dorothy frantically started to sell her furniture at ridiculous prices; she disposed of the lease of her house, and with the faithful Miss Sketchley as her company set out for France.

The order of release

THE LITTLE COTTAGE at Marquetra was small but the surrounding country was green and reminded her poignantly of England. There were two cottages side by side and in the second lived her landlady Madame Ducamp, the widow of a gardener. Madame Ducamp’s maid Agnes also looked after Dorothy and was soon charmed by her. So beautiful although she was no longer young; so graceful although she was no longer slim; so different from anyone Agnes had ever known.

Agnes would talk of Dorothy continually to Madame Ducamp and to Miss Sketchley.

‘I have never known anyone like the dear sad English lady,’ she said. ‘I am sure Madame James has been a grand lady in England. Of course, I do not believe Madame James is her real name. Ah, I can see it is not, Mademoiselle Sketchley. I believe she is a princess… or a duchess. She has the airs of one for all that she is so kind.’

Why did she wait so eagerly for the mail which did not come to her direct but had to be collected?

‘When it is time for it to come,’ said Agnes, ‘she becomes so anxious that I am afraid she will die if she does not get what she wants. I hear her coughing at night and I fear for her. Is she very ill? How I wish that the letter she longs for would come.’

Miss Sketchley gave nothing away. Calm, discreet, she looked after Dorothy who often wondered what would have happened if this dear good woman had not come to her.

One day she was wildly happy. It was due to a letter. Agnes wondered but Miss Sketchley did not tell.

It was not the letter for which she had hoped; the letter from Barton to say that it was safe for her to come home. But it was from sixteen-year-old Frederick FitzClarence who although he did not know her address did know that she was living in France under the name of Mrs James and that he must address letters to her in this name c/o the Post Office at Boulogne.

Frederick was already in the Army and had written: ‘If you want money… take my allowance because with a little care I could live on my father’s.’

She wept over the letter, kissed it and slept with it under her pillow.

The children loved her. Dodee and Lucy were in despair because she had left home; George had always been a good son and so had Henry, but they were in India, and now dear Fred had offered his allowance.

She felt that she was not entirely forgotten.

‘I feel,’ she told Miss Sketchley, ‘that soon release will come.’

After a few months she left Marquetra for Versailles and there found rooms. She spent her time writing letters and reading, and each day she would ask herself: Will the letter come today – the order of release?

She longed to be with her family. Dodee and Lucy wrote regularly. Dodee was sad because of the disaffection of her husband. They missed her and longed for her return.

She wrote to Frederick telling him not to worry, that she understood his difficulties; she was sure he had hoped to repay her before the deficiencies were discovered; and when Mr Barton had so settled her affairs and she could return to England they would all set up house together.

Versailles did not suit her and she went to St Cloud and took rooms in the Maison du Sieur Mongis, a gloomy place with a dark overgrown garden and shabbily furnished rooms. It was ill-heated and as it was winter she felt chilled and thought longingly of the comforts of Bushy House.

She would lie on the shabby old sofa and say to Miss Sketchley: ‘Sometimes I feel that this old sofa will be my death bed. One day I shall lie down on it and never get up. Do you know, I don’t think I should greatly care.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Sketchley. ‘What of the girls? They are expecting you to go back and make a home for them.’

Yes, the girls. She must always think of the girls.

A new year had started. 1816. One weary day followed another, bringing no letter of release.

‘Have they forgotten me?’ she asked Miss Sketchley.

Her health did not improve with the coming of the spring. She developed jaundice and her skin turned yellow. Miss Sketchley, alarmed, wrote to Dodee.

She waited for the reply.

Meanwhile Dorothy was growing worse. The coughing fits were frequent and alarming.

‘Are there any letters from England?’ she asked constantly.

Miss Sketchley could only shake her head miserably.

‘My dear, ask them to go to the Post Office… let them go now… There may be some waiting for me.’

Miss Sketchley knew it was useless, but nevertheless, to satisfy Dorothy, she sent the messenger.

She sat by Dorothy’s side at that old sofa. She thought: ‘Will her daughter come? Is none of her family – for whom she lived, and for whom she is dying – to be with her at the end?’

Someone was knocking at the door. But it was only the messenger.

‘Are there any letters?’ asked Dorothy.

‘No, Madame, nothing at all.’

In weary resignation she sank back on the sofa and turned her head to the wall.

Miss Sketchley sat still, afraid to look at Dorothy because in her heart she knew.

The July sun filtered through the window showing the dust on the furniture and Miss Sketchley sat listening as Dorothy had listened for the family to come to take her home, for the letters which would never come.

The favourite exponent of the Comic Muse had died from an inflammation of the lungs at St Cloud in France, so said the English papers.

She was buried with only Miss Sketchley and strangers to mourn her; but one of these strangers put up a granite slab to her on which he had the words inscribed:

‘Sacred to the memory of Dorothy Jordan, who for a series of years in London as well as other cities of Britain pre-eminently adorned the stage. For Comic Wit, sweetness of voice, and imitating the manners and customs of laughing maidens as well as the opposite sex, she ranked second to none in the display of that art. Neither was anyone more prompt on relieving the necessitous. She departed this life, the 5th July 1816. Remember and weep for her.’

Bibliography

Mrs Jordan and Her Family: being the Unpublished Correspondence of Mrs Jordan and the Duke of Clarence, later William IV edited by A. Aspinall

National and Domestic History of England William Hickman Smith Aubrey

The Life of Mrs Jordan including Original Private Correspondence James Boaden

In the Days of the Georges William B. Boulton

George III; His Court and Family Henry Colburn

Life and Times of George IV The Rev. George Croly

The Good Queen Charlotte Percy Fitzgerald

Life of George IV Percy Fitzgerald

Mrs Jordan, Portrait of an Actress Brian Fothergill

George IV Roger Fulford

Unsuccessful Ladies Jane-Eliza Hasted

The Life and Reign of William IV Robert Huish

The Story of Dorothy Jordan Clare Jerrold

George IV Shane Leslie

George III J. C. Long

The Sailor King William IV, His Court and His Subjects Fitzgerald Molloy

A History of the Late 18th Century Drama Allardyce Nicoll

The Four Georges Sir Charles Petrie

The House of Hanover Alvin Redman

George IV Joanna Richardson

Mrs Jordan Philip W. Sergeant

The Dictionary of National Biography edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee

Portrait of the Prince Regent Dorothy Margaret Stuart

The Four Georges W. M. Thackeray

The Patriot King, William IV Grace E. Thompson

British History John Wade

Memoirs and Portraits Horace Walpole

Memoirs of the Reign of George III Horace Walpole

George III Beckles Wilson