Perdita's Prince

The reflections of Perdita

WHEN THE GUESTS had gone and Mrs Armistead was helping Perdita to bed she lingered over the night toilette longer than was necessary and Perdita did not deter her. It was pleasant to talk with someone – even a lady’s maid.

‘Madam’s success was complete,’ said Mrs Armistead, helping her mistress into her nightgown. ‘That much I gathered from the remarks. I could not help overhearing from the noble company.’

‘Yes, Armistead, the Prince quite clearly enjoyed the play.’

‘And admired Madam.’

Perdita laughed lightly. ‘He is a very young man.’

‘And a prince, Madam.’

‘As you say, Armistead, a prince.’

‘And the company tonight, Madam … it was more brilliant than we usually entertain.’

‘It was a special occasion.’

‘Madam will no doubt wish to hire a butler if er … if we are frequently to have such noble guests.’

Perdita drew her brows together. She had her commitments. A mother, a child and the ever demanding Mr Robinson who had to be paid to be kept in the background. Her clothes were a vast expense, but necessary, of course, to her profession. A woman with her reputation for beauty must never be seen in public except in the most becoming garments – and these were apt to be the most expensive. But Armistead was right. She would need to hire a butler as well as the footman. If one mingled in high society one must follow their customs. It would never do for them to regard her merely as a play actress. Every moment she must be on her guard that no one should forget she was a lady.

‘I will consider this, Armistead. I think you may be right.’

Mrs Armistead lowered her eyes and smiled discreetly. She was looking into the future no less than her mistress.

‘Thank you, Armistead.’ It was dismissal. And Mrs Armistead went to her own room where she looked at her face in her mirror, compared it with that of her mistress, and remembered the glance that Mr Fox had sent her way. He was a very discerning man. It might be possible that he recognized a clever woman when he saw one, even if she was dressed as a lady’s maid.

How could one sleep on such a night? Perdita asked herself. From now on she would think of herself as Perdita because Perdita was a princess – of the rank to match that of a prince.

This was surely the most significant night of her life and all sorts of glittering prospects were presenting themselves to her.

The Prince was undoubtedly more than ordinarily enamoured. He was young and impressionable and very romantic. That was what made him so enchanting and the situation so alluring.

She had heard rumours of palace scandals. Quite clearly he was interested in women, but from now on he must be interested in one woman only and to such an extent that he was ready to go to any lengths for her sake.

Delicious thoughts came into her mind. Impossible, she cried. But why? Suppose she insisted on marriage. Hadn’t the Duke of Cumberland married the Luttrell woman without the King’s consent? But she was of noble family. And so am I, cried Perdita angrily. But what was the use of proclaiming it. She had become convinced that she was the daughter of Lord Northington. Otherwise why should she have been taken to visit him when she was a child? But of course it was the wrong side of the blanket and she had had to own Mr Darby as her father. Well, Cumberland had married without the King’s consent – and although the lady was not received at Court she was married to the Duke and was a royal Duchess. The Duke of Gloucester had also married without the King’s consent – and Lady Waldegrave was illegitimate … and, it was whispered, a milliner’s daughter – yet that had not prevented her from becoming a royal Duchess either.

So … what of Mary Robinson? What of Perdita?

There was the Royal Marriage Bill which had been brought in not so long ago. And this was the Prince of Wales, the future King. Even Perdita did not believe she could become the Queen of England. Perhaps a morganatic marriage was the answer. She would be the Princess in the beautiful house he would provide for her and to it would come all the most noble and the most brilliant members of London society. And the Prince would adore her; they would have three butlers and six footmen and none of them would be hired!

It was a wonderful dream. It would not be the first time an actress had enslaved a monarch. The Prince was not that yet, but it would come. There had been Nell Gwyn who had enchanted Charles II and had kept her place in his affections from the moment he saw her until he died. Well, if she could not be the wife of the Prince – apart from his station there was also Mr Robinson, whom she had temporarily forgotten – she would be his cherished and respected mistress, for everyone knew that to be the mistress of a Prince or a King was no disgrace. It was an honour. It would bring the ton flocking to her doors; it would mean that the utmost respect was paid to her wherever she went. And her case would be different from that of Nell Gwyn, whom everyone knew was not a lady.

Luxurious thoughts. Was she wise to indulge in them after such a short meeting? Yes, she was certain of it. What a meeting! And everyone had declared that they had never seen the Prince so enamoured. Yes, this was certainly a beginning – from here she would go forward; she would forget everything that had happened to her before this night – all the doubts and fears, the horrors of existence with Mr Robinson, the great struggle which had brought her to where she was. Mary Robinson was finished; from her ashes had risen the fair Perdita.

But having started to think of the past she could not stop, and scenes which she would rather have forgotten kept coming into her mind, and she saw herself little Mary Darby going daily to school in Bristol and waiting for the return from the whaler on which he was employed, of the man who accepted her as his daughter.

From the first she had given herself airs. Perhaps she had been taught to. Her mother had been very proud of her, very anxious that she should be ‘a lady’.

Echoes of the over-refined voice: ‘Mary, sit up straight. Don’t slouch in your chair. Is that the way a lady would sit?’ ‘Now, Mary, go and wash your hands. Ladies always have clean hands.’

That had presented no difficulties. She had been very ready to sit up straight, wash her hands, do anything that a lady would do; for as long as she could remember Mary Darby had been determined to be a lady. She had known instinctively whether a dress required a blue or a red sash; she moved with grace; she dreamed fantastic dreams in which her father, some noble lord, came and claimed her and carried her away to his mansion and perhaps to Court. She had heard stories of the royal family, and it was all vitally interesting to her; she had longed to go to London and perhaps catch a glimpse of royalty and the great.

She was a romantic dreamer. She would build up legends about herself; it was inconceivable that she could be the fruit of a union between a Bristol whaler and his wife. Her mother was inclined to foster this belief and now and then gave out dark hints, and when Mary was taken to visit Lord Northington who showed a great interest in her, she was certain that he was her father.

Her mother she accepted, and although she had three brothers – obviously the whaler’s children – it was to Mary that Mrs Darby gave her attention. And small wonder, for Mary was very young when it became obvious that she was going to be a beauty and Mrs Darby was proud of her daughter.

The boys were of small account. Mrs Darby spent a great deal of her money on dresses for Mary; and when she visited friends Mary would sing or dance for the company, for she had a sweet singing voice and a natural grace, and if these were not up to professional standards, even as a child Mary had that quality which made people enjoy looking at her.

‘You’ll have a great future, Mary,’ prophesied Mrs Darby; and Mary would sit and daydream about Lord Northington who, alas, made no effort to claim her.

The family fell on hard times. The whaler went off with another woman and they heard that he had gone to America; he left his family unprovided for, but Mrs Darby was resourceful; she was connected with the philosopher Locke and she was very proud of this, and from her family came a little financial help without which they could not have managed.

But they could not go on living on their relatives indefinitely and one day when Mary came home from school Mrs Darby told her that something would have to be done.

Mary was downcast. She smoothed the muslin of her dress – so beautifully white and laundered. She had a picture of them begging in the streets. One could not beg in a muslin dress; one would have to wear something ragged and dirty. She would rather be dead, she decided. She would never suffer the humiliation.

‘I could run a school as well as the Mores,’ went on Mrs Darby, for Mary’s teachers were the sisters of Hannah More. ‘Why not? I’m as well educated. And you could help me and learn at the same time.’

To teach children was not Mary’s idea of a career. It was preferable to begging in the streets it was true, but she could feel no enthusiasm for it.

Then her mother said: ‘Not in Bristol, of course, where we are known. People would never come to us. We should have to start afresh somewhere.’

‘Where?’ asked Mary.

The reply enchanted her. ‘London, I think.’

London! Chelsea in fact. She could see the school clearly now. There were never enough pupils, but they had not made a had job of it. Her mother proved to be an excellent teacher – as for herself … no one would have guessed she was only thirteen years of age. She looked sixteen … possibly seventeen; she already had a well-developed figure and her face was growing more beautiful with every day.

Then her father came home. He had tired of his mistress and thought he would spend a little time with his family. With him came a captain in the navy who promptly did what men were to do from then onwards, fell in love with Mary. She shuddered to remember her innocence. What had she been taught of life and what time had she had to learn! She was thirteen and a half. She had perhaps been a little attracted by the captain. She could not remember very clearly now; and all her memories were rose-tinted so she saw rather as she would like it to have happened than as it had.

His embraces! His compliments! So rare then, so commonplace now. His talk of marriage and the grand life they would have. He had known how to tempt Mary, and he had almost succeeded in seducing her. Not quite, she insisted, and shut her eyes tightly so that she could not remember too clearly. Then it had been discovered that he was already married, that he had told her lies, had no intention of marrying her as he promised to do, and his one goal was the seduction of this tender maiden.

‘A fortunate escape,’ murmured Perdita. ‘Oh, what a fortunate escape!’

Mr Darby, after having left his wife and family to fend for themselves, suddenly decided to be righteously indignant because they had done so. He would not have his wife and daughter working, so the school, which had begun to be fairly prosperous, was closed and Mary was sent to a school in Chelsea which was run by a Mrs Lorrington. This lady was fond of the bottle but when she was not under its influence she was a very good teacher and she took an immediate interest in the strikingly lovely young girl who was so eager to learn.

At Mrs Lorrington’s Mary worked hard, received encouragement and learned fast; not only did she work at her lessons, but in deportment and elocution, for both of which she had a natural flair.

Her mother watched her development with pride and the utmost interest. Mr Darby, too, was interested in his daughter and, with a little prompting from his wife, agreed that she should go to Mrs Hervey’s Finishing Academy at Oxford House in Marylebone. And there she had met … what was the name of the man? He in himself was of little importance to her, except for the fact that he was the ballet master at Covent Garden and had introduced her to David Garrick. Hussey! That was his name. He had taught dancing at Mrs Hervey’s school and had immediately singled her out as his most promising pupil.

She remembered the day he had brought in Mr Garrick. A somewhat irascible old man he had seemed to her, although she had been overawed by his fame. Very sombrely dressed in brown he did not look in the least like any of the great romantic roles he had played in the past. He had been running Drury Lane then, for it was just before Sheridan had bought his share in it. He had grunted at her and made her recite and sing and dance and then he had walked away as though disgusted with her. She had felt so depressed that she had gone home and wept and her mother had been very angry that Mr Garrick should have failed to appreciate her daughter.

But the next day Mr Hussey had called her aside from the other pupils and told her she could be a very fortunate girl if she was prepared to work hard because Mr Garrick – although he found her raw and in great need of tuition – thought that there might be a small talent in her and he was prepared to give her a chance.

What a different story she had to take home on that day. But Mrs Darby was immediately thrown into a fluster. The theatre! But was it the profession for a lady? She was not at all sure. She was in a terrible dilemma. Mr Darby had disappeared again, having gone to America, and before he had gone, so impressed was he by the beauty of Mary which was growing more and more obvious every day that he had threatened Mrs Darby with dire punishment if any ill should befall her.

‘I do not think ladies become play actresses,’ she reiterated.

‘But what should I become, Mother? What can I become? Should I teach in, school?’

‘No, that is no good either. Oh dear. With looks such as yours …’

‘Mamma,’ implored Mary, ‘we must be practical. Some actresses have done very well. If one is clever …’

‘You are not yet sixteen. I should die of fear every time you went to the theatre. You are too young.’

‘One must begin. It is really a great stroke of good fortune. Mr Hussey tells me that Mr Garrick said I might be trained to play Cordelia to his Lear.’

‘How I wish I knew what to do.’

And then Thomas Robinson appeared. Perdita did not wish to think of Thomas Robinson. How much happier she would have been if she had never heard his name. But at the time her mother had rejoiced in that young man because he seemed to provide the soothing answer to her fears.

Marriage was the answer – marriage to a man with good prospects, a man who would provide for Mary, give her a good establishment, servants, and keep her in comfort for the rest of her life. Then this dream of theatrical fame could be thrust aside without regret.

And Thomas Robinson would provide these.

Her mother had heard of Thomas Robinson through an attorney whom she had once consulted, a Mr Wayman. He assured her that Thomas Robinson was a man with prospects. Although he worked in a solicitor’s office he was no ordinary clerk and had excellent prospects. His father, Mrs Darby was assured, was a Welsh nobleman who had sent his son to London because he believed it would be good for him to have something to do. In due course he would inherit a vast estate in Wales and maintain a large establishment in London.

Mrs Darby’s eyes glowed at the thought. It was exactly what she would have chosen for her daughter. As the wife of rich Mr Robinson there would be no need for her to show off her beauty every night on a stage and have people make all sorts of proposals to her.

The first thing was to arrange a meeting with Mr Robinson, which the obliging attorney was prepared to do.

And Perdita? How had she felt? She liked to think now that she had viewed the prospect with horror, that she had flung herself on her knees and implored her mother to allow her to take the more honourable line and play for Mr Garrick. She liked to picture herself weeping stormily, declaring dramatically that she preferred to sell her talents rather than herself.

And over the span of years … it was not really so many yet … she had forgotten so much; she had coloured here, tinted there, and even she was not quite sure how it happened. Yet even she could not sketch in pretty pictures of what followed.

She saw the meeting at the Star and Garter at Greenwich. She remembered the dress so well. That was the one aspect which remained clear to her in every detail. It was more pleasant to think of the dress – an evening dress, long and flowing, of pale blue lustring; and a big chip straw hat swathed with the same material as her dress.

Thomas Robinson had taken one look at her and was in no doubt. He was conscious of the many eyes turned in their direction – all in homage to the young girl’s beauty. Endless possibilities, thought Thomas Robinson, whose greatest ambition was, she had quickly discovered, to live in luxury with the smallest possible personal effort. Through the rich clients who came to his office and a knowledge of the difficulties in which they became entangled he saw a way in which this way of life might be accomplished through a wife of such extraordinary beauty.

So he was eager for the marriage. He was chivalrous and attentive, not only to Mary but to her mother. He visited their home; he made casual references to the family estate in Wales; he talked of running an establishment in London and the names of certain well-known noblemen were scattered lightly throughout his conversation until Mrs Darby was all impatience for the wedding, and when Mr Robinson suggested it should take place immediately, she agreed with alacrity.

It was an April day – five years ago. Was it only five years Perdita asked herself. Could one live through a lifetime of misery, despair and horrific adventure in such a short time? It was a wonder that she had come through with her beauty unscathed – and in fact more dazzling than ever.

St Martin’s Church – and Mr Robinson looking elegant in clothes for which she later discovered he had not paid – a presentable bridegroom, she had thought then; and knowing little of the obligations of marriage she had not been unduly downcast.

And so she had become Mrs Robinson.

Before the wedding he had explained that his father would have to be prepared for his marriage. ‘Of course once he sees Mary he will be reconciled … enchanted as everyone must be. But just at first we had better not set up house together.’

How gullible they had been. It had all seemed so plausible. After all, the heirs of vast estates did not marry penniless girls without some obstacles being raised by their parents. So Mary would continue to live for a while in her mother’s house in Great Queen Street and he would spend his nights there, keeping on his lodgings a few streets away. These humble lodgings were explained by the story that his father wished him to be independent for a short period, and he was proving that he could stand on his own feet and as soon as possible he proposed to go to Wales to inform his father of what had happened.

So during those weeks Mary had merely to receive him in her own bed in her mother’s house each night, which was no great pleasure to her. She was by no means sexually avid, preferring – now as then – romantic dalliance to consummation, and she quickly discovered that Mr Robinson’s habits in the bedchamber were far from romantic.

Perhaps she had begun to doubt him before her mother had. Perhaps some instinct warned her that this was not the way in which a gentleman behaved. Disillusionment, however, quickly set in. There was the discovery that Mr Robinson’s prospects were non-existent. He was soon proved to be a liar, being but the bastard son of a Welsh farmer who had no intention of leaving him even his small farm; all Mr Robinson possessed was his salary as a clerk and it was for this reason that he had been unable to set up an establishment for Mary; and until he could raise money through moneylenders to begin his projects it suited him that she should continue to live with her mother.

The truth gradually dawned on mother and daughter, but when they realized the trap into which they had fallen they were, after the first shock, philosophical.

They had blundered terribly, but they must now make the best of it.

Perdita closed her eyes now as though by so doing she could shut out the memories of the next two years – the shameful memories! She put her hands over her face. ‘I was so young,’ she kept repeating to herself. Better to forget those years before she became an actress. She had hated the life. It was … she shivered, besmirching. Even so she could not shut out memories of the joy with which she had contemplated a certain new velvet gown, the pleasure in an exquisitely quilted petticoat, or a hat trimmed with feathers or ribbons. It had given her great pleasure to study the reflection of herself in these garments – which would never have come her way but for the life they led. Whenever she went out people looked at her – so many men showed admiration, so many women envy. This was the tribute to her beauty and it was the knowledge of her beauty which maintained her through all her disasters.

Mr Robinson had rented a house in Hatton Garden and there had ‘entertained’. This meant bringing gentlemen to the place and introducing them to his wife. For this privilege he was able to mix in a noble but extremely rakish society, and because of these friendships was given credit by various tradesmen. Mrs Darby was allowed to come and live with them to save employing more than one servant and running two establishments. Mr Robinson had no need now to act so he appeared in his true character – a lecherous man without principles, apeing the nobility to which like his wife, he longed to belong.

And for a year or so they lived on the edge of this society. Men like the libertine Lord Lyttelton – something of a politician, artist and poet, was a constant visitor, his object being the seduction of Mrs Robinson. Another visitor was the notorious rake George Robert Fitzgerald, known as Fighting Fitzgerald, whose object had naturally been the same as that of Lord Lyttelton.

Because of his beautiful wife these men were ready to treat Mr Robinson as an equal which meant that they allowed him to accompany them to gaming clubs and brothels. Mr Robinson had very soon betrayed himself as an unfaithful husband – a fact which had not altogether dismayed his wife since it prevented his pressing his attentions on her too frequently, although she deplored the fact that he slept with their slut of a maid.

That had been a curious year or so … when they had lived on the edge of society and Mr Robinson had tried to make a high-class prostitute of her. She would never forget the occasion when George Robert Fitzgerald had tried to abduct her in Vauxhall Gardens. She had resisted him and Mr Robinson had appeared which put an end to the adventure because the last thing Mr Robinson wanted was to lose his wife.

Such a life could not go on. Her husband must have realized that. But he seemed not to be able to think beyond each day. Everything began to go wrong; she became pregnant; the creditors began to threaten; Thomas Robinson’s luck at the tables ran out.

No, she would not think of it. She had found a way out of trouble. By her own efforts she had provided for herself, her mother, her child … and the means of shutting Thomas Robinson out of her life. She was not to blame. She liked to see herself as virtuous, noble, unscathed by these humiliating adventures. And it was so … if she shut her eyes to certain moments … and she had shut her eyes; she had quickly learned the necessary art of doing so.

Then … the end of the gay life, waiting for the birth of her child, the fear every time the bills arrived. So many of them … and the child on the way. What could they do? The birth of little Maria was some comfort; the child was enchanting and although Mary had discovered that being a mother could never be her whole life, she loved the child. But the inevitable result of such riotous living had caught up with them and Thomas Robinson was sent to the King’s Bench Prison for debt.

She accompanied him there with her child and there was no doubt that he was a chastened man, although she guessed that if he ever were released he would act in the same way as he had before. He was weak and unprincipled! and it was the unhappiest day in her life when she had married him.

When she heard of the success of Richard Sheridan’s The Rivals she thought of the chance she had had to become an actress for which many ambitious young women would have given a great deal – and which she had foolishly thrown away. For what? Marriage with a rogue who had attempted to thrust her into a life of sin – and finally a debtors’ prison.

The misery around her filled her with horror; it was no use now pining for fine clothes, but there was one comfort left to her: her pen. She discovered then that in times of stress it could give her a great deal. She cared for her child and grew closer to it, and she wrote poetry.

It suddenly occurred to her that if she could publish this poetry, if people would buy it, this might be a source of income. It would not provide the means to live the grand life which she had once believed Mr Robinson would provide for her, but it would at least be dignified. She immediately built up a picture of the salon she would have. She would be the beautiful poetess. With this in mind she wrote feverishly and very soon she had enough poems to make a book. Now she needed a patron; she would not go to a man – she had had enough of men for a while – and she did not want it said that she was patronized for her beauty. She had heard of Georgina, Duchess of Devonshire, leader of fashion, lover of the arts.

Was it possible to obtain an introduction?

This presented some difficulties, but not insuperable ones. There were some admirers from that fantastic year who would not be averse to helping her now that she had fallen on hard times. She saw the way out of her troubles. When the introduction was made the Duchess was not only impressed by the poems but by the beauty of the poetess, and when the noble lady heard that she was living with her husband in a debtors’ prison and had one young daughter she determined to help such a deserving young woman out of her predicament. So the Duchess not only found a publisher for the poems but brought about the release of the Robinsons.

Free! She remembered the first day when she came out of the prison to find her mother, who had managed to keep the home going, was waiting for her.

There was no need now to placate Mr Robinson and both women showed their contempt for him. He had her permission, his wife told him, to sleep with any servant girl he cared for; his visits to brothels were no concern of hers; all she asked was that he made no demands upon her, and that was something she would insist upon.

Mr Robinson replied that he was not at all sure of that; but he had to remember that his wife had brought about his release from prison and that she was not the pretty puppet he had imagined her to be.

She and her mother ignored him, although he inhabited the house. He had gone back to his clerking but it was not easy to live on his salary.

‘I want independence from him,’ said Mary to her mother. ‘I should like to walk out of this house and never have to see him again.’

That, Mrs Darby had to admit, would be a desirable state of affairs. But how could it be achieved?

‘I shall never make enough money from writing poetry,’ said Mary. ‘What a fool I was to reject the offer Mr Garrick made to me.’

‘You’ll never have another like it,’ sighed her mother sadly; the guilt was hers, she admitted freely. She should have known better. One could not expect a fourteen-year-old girl to recognize a rogue … but she was a woman and a mother! What would her husband think when he came home. She remembered his threats before his departure! But he did not come home and Mary was right. The need to find money was urgent, for if they did not they would be back in that prison which they had so recently left and they could not expect such opportune deliverance again.

‘Why should I not?’ demanded Mary suddenly.

‘But … Mr Garrick would never give you another chance. He’d think you were a fool to have rejected him before.’

‘I heard that Mr Sheridan is going to buy him out of Drury Lane and take over Mr Garrick’s share in the theatre and that Mr Garrick, now that he is getting old, will retire.’

‘But you don’t know Mr Sheridan.’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Mary. ‘But why shouldn’t I?’

Her success with the Duchess of Devonshire had given her confidence. Why should she not offer her services to Drury Lane? It was a way of life – an exciting way of life; she who was so startlingly beautiful, could dance and sing tolerably well, had had elocution lessons and could recite well – and above all had a strong sense of the dramatic. Surely she was a born actress. She was immediately beginning to believe she was and was already preparing herself to convince Mr Sheridan, and Mr Garrick if need be, of this.

‘I see no reason why I should not have another chance,’ she told her mother. ‘I will seek an introduction to Mr Sheridan.’

‘But how?’

‘Well, Mr Hussey introduced me to Mr Garrick, did he not? I think Mr Hussey would be inclined to help me.’

And he had been. The ballet master was a little startled when she called on him, but, in the manner of everyone else, completely enslaved by so much beauty.

‘A stage career. Why, with looks such as yours you could not fail.’

‘If you would do me the favour of introducing me to Mr Sheridan …’

‘It is Mr Sheridan who will be favoured.’

And so to the meeting which was to change her life and to bring her to this night when she could dream of dazzling possibilities which did not seem absurdly out of her grasp.

The Green Room at the theatre. She could see it so clearly. Was she not familiar with every aspect of it? But then it had been new to her and there was the handsome Mr Sheridan taking her hand, kissing it and being so charming because she was so beautiful.

So she wanted to be an actress?

Mr Garrick himself, she told him, had once offered her a chance.

‘And you didn’t take it?’

‘I married instead.’

‘The old man will never forgive you that. In offering you a chance to act with him he thought he was giving you the keys to heaven. And you chose … marriage.’

‘Unhappily.’

Mr Sheridan was alert. She knew now, because he had told her, that all the time he was weighing her up, and that almost at once he made up his mind that he wanted her … for Drury Lane and himself.

No need now to hasten over her memories, to close her eyes and glide over the thin ice which could break suddenly and plunge her into horrid memory. From now on it was success.

At the theatre Mr Sheridan presented her to Mr Garrick. He had aged since she had last seen him but he remembered her well.

‘I offered you a chance in the theatre and you refused it,’ he accused.

‘It was madness,’ she admitted meekly.

‘Madness, folly, stupidity. None of these is a quality that makes a good actress.’

‘I know.’ She was meek and forlorn; but she knew that he would not have bothered to come and see her if he had not thought her worth a little effort.

‘Do you know, young woman, that there are thousands of would-be actresses who would give twenty years of their lives for the chance you had … and threw away.’

‘I know it well,’ she said. ‘It was the biggest mistake of my life.’

He turned away from her as though in disgust and said to Sheridan: ‘And you want this young woman to play Juliet.’

‘At least she’ll look the part,’ answered Sheridan.

Without glancing at her Garrick muttered: ‘Let’s hear you. Begin here:

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name …’

She knew it well. How many times since Sheridan had suggested she might play Juliet had she enacted the balcony scene before her mirror, seeing herself in some diaphanous garment leaning over the balustrade in moonlight, picturing the gasp of admiration from the audience when she appeared.

And as she began to say the words she was on that stage; she was the young girl in love for the first time.

‘Or, if thy wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’

And the old man beside her was suddenly transformed. The most beautiful voice that had been heard in the theatre for years – perhaps the most beautiful ever – was answering her:

‘Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?’

She went on:

‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy …’

Perhaps she was not word perfect, but she was over-dramatic; she would need a great deal of coaching, but the fire was there. He carried her through the scene and then she heard him murmur in that glorious voice of his:

‘… all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.’

She knew that she must succeed; that she wanted more than anything to play Juliet and to play her as she had never been played before.

Romeo, as if by magic, had become Mr Garrick – no longer the passionate and romantic lover but a carping old man.

He said nothing and had started to walk away.

Sheridan walked after him while Mary stood trembling.

‘Well?’ said Sheridan.

Mr Garrick stood still and seemed to consider. Mary thought he was not going to answer.

She ran to him. ‘If you will give me a chance I will work, I will study … I will learn …’

‘You’ll need to,’ said Mr Garrick; and walked out of the room.

But that was Mr Garrick’s way. He was not unimpressed; and although she was a mere novice he had discovered that sense of drama in her character without which he would not have considered her. But to Sheridan’s delight and her unbounded joy Mr Garrick said he would coach her himself and this meant that she would make her debut at Drury Lane in the exciting and all important role of Juliet.

Juliet! She would remember that night in every detail. It was worth remembering – even her stage fright just before the curtain rose. She. had worn pale pink satin trimmed with crepe and ornamented with silver and spangles; white feathers were in her hair; and for the tomb scene she had appeared in satin with a veil of transparent gauze; there had been beads about her waist on which a cross hung. She did not have to be told that there had never been a lovelier Juliet. This knowledge had carried her through; she was never unaware of her beautiful image and the very thought of it gave her courage.

She had been eighteen – a few years older than Juliet, but she looked like a child in the early scenes; later in the play when she was in love and loved she matured slightly. Garrick had said this miracle must be subtly conveyed; he had made her live Juliet, be Juliet, the innocent child and the girl who became a woman overnight. And because the genius of Mr Garrick was such that made all those whom he honoured with his advice determined to please him and win a word of praise from him, she, knowing he was in the audience that night, made up her mind that she would force the old man to admire her.

Oh, the glory of that never-to-be-forgotten night when she faced an audience for the first time! There had been a moment of silence and then an audible gasp from the audience. It was the expected homage to her beauty; and what better foil could there have been than the ageing figure of the old nurse!

‘How now, who calls?’

She had been afraid her voice would fail her but there it was, high and clear, the voice of Juliet.

She was launched. This was her métier.

What an evening, with the excitement rising higher with every moment. An audience that would not have missed a word she said, that could not take its eyes from her. It was Juliet’s night. It was an enchanted night. It was her night of triumph. She could not but be conscious of this. Mr Sheridan had caught her coming off the stage and taking her in his arms had kissed her with reckless passion.

‘You’re wonderful, Juliet. You’re all that I knew you would be.’

And she had laughed and been happy. ‘The happiest night of my life,’ she had cried; and he had said: ‘It’s but a beginning. You will see … Juliet.’

And back to play and to sense the excitement in the audience … on to the last scene in the tomb …

‘… oh happy dagger!

This is thy sheath. There rest and let me die.’

The great sigh as she fell beside Romeo’s body and lay there.

The play went on … and she was thinking: This is the end of our troubles. I shall make my fortune. I shall be a great actress. And I owe all this to Mr Garrick and Mr Sheridan … and to my own resolution.

‘For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’

The curtain had come down and the applause was instantaneous.

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

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

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

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

‘His Grace of Cumberland desires to be presented.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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