Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) (40 page)

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.