Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series) (11 page)

‘You are flattering me, Mr Fox. I daresay he was merely carried away by the play.’

‘Carried away by so much beauty, Madam. And it would not be possible to flatter you, for whatever hyperbole one employed one could not praise you more than you deserve. I shall now give a toast to the whole company.’

Mr Fox had risen and raised his glass. All were silent, listening.

‘I give you the Prince – and the beauty and genius he has tonight had the wit to admire. Ladies and Gentlemen: the Prince and the fair Perdita.’

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.