Jean Plaidy - Goddess of the Green Room

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.’

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.