‘And he always speaks as though when you go he’ll be with you,’ pointed out Hester.
‘He’d be a good husband,’ put in Grace almost pleadingly. ‘Quite serious… and reliable.’
Yes, thought Dorothy, serious and reliable; a good husband for her and a father for Frances.
Gentleman Smith went back to London. Almost daily Dorothy waited for a message, but none came.
If I were going to be asked, she thought, I should have been by now.
It was some time before she noticed that George’s visits to the lodgings were less frequent. She saw him often in the theatre as a matter of course, but he did not seem to be waiting for her when she came off to give her the usual congratulations.
Grace invited him to supper and he accepted with pleasure; and during that evening Dorothy realized what his devotion had been worth, for he talked of the precarious existence of stage folk, who could never be sure of financial security. He hinted that he believed it would be folly for impecunious actors and actresses to marry. How could they be sure when their playing would not separate them? But chiefly how could they be sure that they would keep a roof over their heads? It did not seem to him wise to bring children into such an uneasy existence.
Dorothy understood.
He was telling her that while he had considered marrying an actress who had a chance of a London success, he did not want to unite himself with one who was a provincial player.
When he had gone she gave vent to her temper.
‘That is an end of Mr George Inchbald!’ she cried. ‘Reliable… oh, very! Reliable in his desire for a wife who can bring home a good salary. Serious in his intentions! Oh, yes. In his intentions to marry a woman with money! Men!’ she went on: ‘They are all alike. I have not linked myself with one so far. That has been wise of me. I shall go on in that way.’
And she was not sorry, for she had never had more than an affection for him.
‘I shall have to be besottedly in love,’ she told Grace, ‘before I consider sharing my life with a man.’
It was Grace who was heart-broken. The longing to see Dorothy respectably married was the dearest wish of her life.
The next three years passed quickly. Dorothy devoted herself absolutely to the theatre, Cornelius Swan coached her and she was never too sure of her own ability not to learn from others. Her spontaneous generosity brought her the friendship of beginners; her talents brought her the envy of her rivals; she was careless of their enmity and devoted herself to her family.
Then one day the letter arrived. Dorothy could scarcely believe that she was being offered a chance to go to London and appear at Drury Lane that autumn.
She called to her mother and Hester. ‘Read this,’ she cried. ‘Read this. Tell me that I’m not dreaming.’
Grace snatched the letter from Hester; they read it, their cheeks flushed, their eyes round.
At last – the great chance. Gentleman Smith had not failed them.
The news spread rapidly through the theatre. Dorothy Jordan is going to Drury Lane. Those jealous actresses, Mrs Smith and Robinson, ground their teeth in fury, but there was nothing they could do about it. They were sure Mr Sheridan would be unmoved if they tried to pass on to him news of Dorothy’s scandalous life. What scandals could a provincial actress hope to create to compare with those which circulated about him? Dorothy was going. In spite of them she was the one who had been given the great chance. She was to act in the same theatre as the great Sarah Siddons.
It was unfair; it was favouritism; it was intolerable; but there was nothing they could do about it.
Tate Wilkinson grumbled. ‘No sooner do I train an actress and make her of some use to me than I lose her.’
Grace tried to put a sympathetic façade over her elation.
‘She’ll never forget what you did for her,’ she soothed. She believed that Tate Wilkinson’s reward would be posterity’s gratitude to the man who had helped Dorothy Jordan when she most needed it.
Dorothy could think of nothing but her London début; she played indifferently; she even forgot her lines.
‘My God,’ cried Mrs Smith. ‘Is this our London actress?’
George Inchbald came to offer his congratulations, his eyes alight with speculation. Dorothy received him coldly. ‘When I’m in London, George,’ she said, ‘I shall think of you playing in Leeds and Hull and York.’
He flinched; but he told himself an offer to play in London did not necessarily mean an actress’s fortune was made.
Dorothy dismissed him from her mind. She could not wait for the summer to be over.
She was in her dressing room preparing to play Patrick in The Poor Soldier when Tate Wilkinson came in.
‘There’s a distinguished visitor in the theatre tonight,’ he told her,
‘Oh?’
‘The great Siddons herself.’
Dorothy felt as she had never felt in the theatre before: nervous. The great Sarah had surely come to see her because she would know that in a short time they would be playing together in Drury Lane. It couldn’t be that Sarah would regard her as a rival – scarcely that – but all actresses were uneasy when someone younger and reputed to be very talented was about to share their audiences.
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Wilkinson.
When he left her she studied her reflection in the glass. She looked really scared. She would be all right once she trod the boards. She was actress enough for that.
But she could not forget that everything depended on what happened at Drury Lane. And Sarah Siddons, at this moment, was seated regally in her balcony box over the stage, come to pass judgement.
Dorothy played for the statuesque woman in the box which was poised above the stage – a place of honour for Sarah – but it was not one of her best performances. It was not the way to play. One did not act to impress. One forgot an audience when on the stage; one became the part which was the only way to play it. But who could forget Sarah? Sarah herself had no intention that anyone should.
The eldest daughter of Robert Kemble had acting in her blood. She was the Queen of the Drama and she intended to keep the crown until she died.
She was some thirty years old and had appeared at Drury Lane when she was seventeen and David Garrick had been the actor-manager, so she was not going to be easily impressed by the performance of a provincial player. And she made it quite clear that she was not.
When the performance was over she was escorted back-stage with the ceremony of royalty – for the part she played off-stage was that of a queen – and asked for her opinion of Mrs Jordan’s performance.
‘Since it is asked,’ said Mrs Siddons, pronouncing her words clearly as though to reach the back of the house, and striking the pose of a seer, ‘I will give my considered opinion.’ She never used one word when six would fit the same purpose. ‘I have come to a conclusion while watching this performance and it is this: Mrs Jordan would be well advised to remain in the provinces rather than to venture on to the London stage at Drury Lane.’
It was what Dorothy’s enemies had wanted to hear.
Dorothy herself laughed. Nothing Mrs Siddons could say could stop her. She was under contract now. It had been signed by Richard Brinsley Sheridan himself together with his business partners Thomas Linley and Dr James Ford. With such a contract in her pocket should she care for the attempts of any actress – even Sarah Siddons herself – to undermine her?
‘The woman’s jealous!’ declared Grace.
And although it seemed incredible that the Queen of Drury Lane could be envious of a little provincial actress as yet untried, Dorothy liked to believe this was so. After all she was some seven or eight years younger than the great tragedienne; and although Sarah was one of the most handsome women she had ever seen there was something forbidding about her.