Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) (47 page)

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.