Life Mask (67 page)

Not having heard from you in so long, your Mother's most alarmed. My dear Girl, you mustn't allow these snivelling hacks to disturb your peace of mind. All true Friends turn a deaf ear to these fantastical inventions.

All true Friends,
yes, she thought ironically. But how many were true? And what if she cared for the untrue ones more than the true?

Your Mother's been rather thrown into the Blue Devils by the whole affair. You know how these Things affect her. Do come back to Park Place as soon as you can; no one else has your knack of livening her up.

Anne's stomach was heavy with guilt. The bleak atmosphere of Park Place in winter wouldn't help Lady Ailesbury's depression. Clearly the family would like Anne to spend the rest of the year scuttling between Park Place and Goodwood, listening to their
various Maladies
and staying out of the merciless gaze of the World.

There was a short note from Fox—bless him—simply asking after her health and assuring her of his good wishes, as always. Nothing from Derby and this confirmed what Anne had already suspected: that this old friendship had foundered at last. What an odd hole it would leave in her life. What had Eliza told him? Could he really be sitting darkly obdurate, across the Square at Derby House, picturing his once dear Mrs Damer as a snake in the grass? Her eyes swam, but she blinked away the tears.

A letter from Georgiana came next, asking her to
drop in to Dev. House for a dish of Tea;
the messy scrawl warmed Anne. Then a letter in unfamiliar writing. Her heart lurched; she hadn't been sure if the famous—and now retired—Mr Edmund Burke would reply to a letter from a lady he barely knew. She'd written it on impulse, at three in the morning, somewhere in Hampshire.

Dear Madam,
Let me begin by assuring you that I am honoured to have been the recipient of your Confidences on this painful occasion, & that I understand your shock & distress. However, I trust that the sense & fortitude that have always distinguished you will enable you on reflection perfectly to despise this calumnious Abuse.

It is true that a dozen years ago, when I objected in Parliament to the sentencing of two Sodomites (pardon my frankness) to the pillory, where they were stoned to death by the
mob, my reputation was subjected to Innuendo in a newspaper, whereupon I brought a suit of libel & won an Apology. However, in the case of a Lady, my view is that Silence is the only safe and dignified rebuttal. Your consolation, Mrs Damer, must be that the malicious lies of the envious will leave no mark on History's pages.

Your most obedient humble servant,
Edm. Burke

That afternoon she sat in the library at Strawberry Hill. Walpole normally never had a fire lit in here in summer; he must be pampering her. He apologised for the mess in the Hall, where workmen were patching up a wall. 'I don't think my dear niece, the Duchess of Gloucester, looks forward with any enthusiasm to inheriting my fragile plaything.'

'She doesn't want Strawberry Hill, the most charming house in England?' asked Anne, shocked out of her blank state.

'Oh, tush, you're too kind,' he said. 'She knows it'll take a deal of looking after, my little castle of straw spun into gold—a joke that's gone on forty years too long already! No, it'll fall to dust, in time, and only our letters will remain to tell the ages what delightful days we had.'

Walpole reported that their mutual friend General O'Hara must be still languishing in a French gaol, or at least his name hadn't appeared on the execution lists yet.
Lepauvre
Tonton had recently grown stone deaf and blind, he mentioned as he stroked the dog's black curls, but he still seemed to enjoy his existence.

A heavy silence seemed to fill the room and settle between the book-filled Gothic arches. 'My dear girl, come and sit a little nearer,' Walpole said, tapping the chair beside him.

'Girl? I'm forty-five years old,' said Anne, stern.

'Seventy-seven laughs at forty-five.'

She'd been expecting Walpole to increase her gloom today by shrill fretfulness, but it was going quite the other way. Her cousin panicked at small things, she realised, but when it came to serious problems he could be a rock.

'I fear you've been vastly unhappy this summer.'

'It shows, then. Is my loveliness quite faded?' asked Anne ironically.

He was shaking his shrunken head. 'It was a nasty thing that happened, but you mustn't take it so hard.'

'It wasn't a splinter in my finger,' she pointed out.

'Mm. The Berrys have been in Broadstairs, on the Kentish coast,' he remarked.

Ah, so Mary had fled from Yorkshire. Had she feared that Anne would pursue her? That thought gave the pain a fresh twist.

'But they're back in North Audley Street since Tuesday.'

Anne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched the fire.

'I saw the piece in the newspaper that wounded her so—'

'Can you tell me what it said?' Immediately Anne regretted asking. How tasteless, to make an old man repeat obscenities! But whom else could she ask?

'If you like,' Walpole said, wary. 'It claimed that there was not only one
prospective countess
whose prospects were being thwarted by an intimacy with a well-known sculptress, but two.'

Anne winced. 'It didn't actually name her?'

'Oh, as good as, I'm afraid. It added that while the Earl who was courting
Miss F.
was the ugliest in the country,
Miss B.'s
was surely the oldest!'

She put her face in her hands.

'I'd hoped to act as a peacemaker, as you did so kindly some years ago when she was so shocked by being linked with me in a newspaper. But when I pump her gently on the subject she runs from the room.'

'Perhaps Mary's shielding me,' said Anne with difficulty. 'Although she no longer wishes to be my friend, because her reputation has been irreparably wounded by association with mine, she may think it dishonourable to speak ill of me to others.'

'Oh, my dear, she's just distressed, in a tizzy. Her wits have gone astray. As yours did, may I say,' Walpole rebuked her fondly. 'What possessed you to go wandering around the countryside, where you knew not a soul?'

'That was the idea.'

He made a grunt of exasperation. 'You and Mary both, you reason most womanishly, if you'll pardon my saying so.'

Her eyebrows went up.

'All this talk of
irreparably wounded reputations.
Haven't you learned from the Ancients that your conscience is your own and so is your honour? Don't mistake the bubble of fame—or infamy, in this case—for anything solid. Don't you know your own heart?'

Anne managed a half-smile. 'I used to think so.'

'Now that I've reached the twilight of my life,' Walpole told her, 'I realise that what the World knows of one is no true evaluation, just some random associations. After my death, for instance, what'll remain of me on this earth?' For once, he spoke without a trace of self-pity. 'People may read
The Castle of Otranto,
perhaps misquote a bon mot or
aperçu
of mine, handle and bid low on one of my bibelots at auction; that's all. But am I to think my life amounts to no more than that?'

Anne shook her head. After a long silence she asked, 'Will you do me a service?'

'Of course, my dear. Anything that lies in my feeble power.' Walpole spread his hands wide.

'Could you find me someone to attend to the newspapers, and keep a sharp eye out and let me know if I'm mentioned or abused again? I mean the low papers.'

Walpole squirmed in his seat. 'Isn't that a somewhat ... unhealthy preoccupation?'

'I need to know,' she told him. 'I dread the thought of being ignorant of what's being said about me. I'd be happy to pay—'

Walpole waved that away. 'But in return you must promise me something.'

She knew what he was going to ask.

'Write to Mary,' he said and his face was crumpled like a paper bag.

Miss Farren
[said Sheridan's scrawl],
I'm mystified to hear that your strange fever continues & further postpones your first performance of the autumn season at Drury Lane. Surely never in the annals of History did a fever burn so long without extinguishing the life of its fair victim! If you or your loyal physicians feel it's likely to flame on for anotherfort-night, do be so good as to let me know, so I can distribute your parts (a tempting collection) between Mrs Jordan & a very talented Girl, newly hired. But I can assure you your audience misses its Queen of Comedy keenly—though its memory is short in other respects—& stands ready to welcome you back with lavish (and respectful) Applause.

Yr svt,
R.B.S.

He could banter and bully all he liked, but Eliza was still not ready. Irish audiences were one thing, but she felt sick at the thought of stepping out in front of a London crowd. What if someone shouted out
Tommy
again? A single catcall, a laugh in the wrong place, and she'd know that they hadn't forgotten the filthy story, no matter what Sheridan said about short memories.

For the first time in her career she thought longingly of retirement. But since she'd thrown Derby's ultimatum in his face last month, what prospects had she—what option but to go back to Drury Lane and earn her crust? He'd kept his distance since that interview, though his carriage still turned up outside the door of the Bow Window House for the Farrens' use.
He plays me on a loose line, like a fish.

She looked at Sheridan's letter again and indulged in a moment of pure hatred of Dora Jordan, who was said to have signed a new contract for 30 guineas a week. The worst of it was that Sheridan had somehow found
£200
in cash to pay Mrs Inchbald to write Dora a charming new comedy called
The Wedding Day
, as relief from Kemble's long string of unpopular tragedies.

Mrs Farren came into the room without knocking, with a glass of whey.

'I said I didn't want any,' said Eliza rudely.

Her mother set it down on the
secretaire.
'You hardly touched your dinner. You're looking shocking skinny.'

The word set Eliza's teeth on edge.

'This quarrel with Lord Derby—'

'How many times do I have to tell you, Mother, that I won't discuss it?'

The wrinkled lip trembled. Eliza eyed it coldly; Margaret Farren had always been rather a ham. 'Surely His Lordship doesn't believe you guilty of any nastiness?' asked her mother. 'I daren't believe he'd cast you off, after all these years, on such a whim. The whole scandal's the fault of that evil woman, besides!'

Eliza couldn't help being drawn in. 'Anne Damer is not evil.' The ring on her little finger seemed to stare accusingly. She remembered, with scarlet shame, pressing her friend's strong mouth to hers.

A rap at the front door and Mrs Farren scuttled down to see whom the footman was letting in.

'My dear,' said the Queen of Tragedy, advancing to take Eliza's hands.

'Mrs Siddons! Do sit down,' said Eliza. Though they'd moved in some of the same circles, her colleague had never called on her before. 'I hope you'll take some tea.'

'We've missed you sorely at Drury Lane,' said Mrs Siddons. 'Your health, I understand—'

'On that topic,' said Eliza, to change the subject, 'I don't believe I sent my felicitations on your confinement.' She couldn't for the life of her remember if this one had been a boy or a girl.

'Ah, yes, my dearest Cecilia—named for Mrs Piozzi's daughter, don't you know. She's almost three months old already! My seventh and, I trust, my last.'

The woman sounded tired; she must be
forty
by now, Eliza calculated.

'If it were not for financial necessity, how glad would I be to retire from the service of Thespis,' Mrs Siddons confided.

'I understand,' said Eliza with a sigh.

'Our New Drury—for all its glories—is not an easy place in which to perform. If I hadn't made my reputation in a smaller theatre, I doubt I ever would here.'

Eliza nodded eagerly. 'I confess, as the glamour's worn off, I've come to think it a wilderness. A circus tent for giants! Do you notice our costumes are getting gaudier? I have to boom to be heard at all—'

'And I've been obliged to change my whole way of moving,' Mrs Siddons complained. 'Every gesture must be from the shoulder, forceful and unmistakable. To command the attention of almost 4000 people—how it drains one's vital energies!'

Mrs Farren came in with the tea, bobbing and smiling, then excused herself again.

Eliza scissored two pieces of sugar cone into her colleague's cup. She was about to make some light conversation about Sheridan's mismanagement, but Mrs Siddons spoke first.

'Miss Farren, my visit today has a more serious purpose. There is something I would never have dreamed of mentioning to you except that it has come to press upon my conscience. Not,' Mrs Siddons added rather wildly, 'that I have committed any wrongdoing myself, but since man and wife are considered one being—'

What on earth was she talking about? Eliza put her tea down untasted.

'The calumny you have endured this summer past—I know, and you know, its ultimate origin.' Mrs Siddons's cheeks were purpling. 'Many years ago, in a spirit of reckless and drunken levity, my husband composed a certain rhyme—'

'Yes, Mrs Piozzi told me its authorship,' said Eliza to save her from having to spell it out. Silence.
I may detest William Siddons,
she thought,
but at least I'm not yoked to him.