For the last time. Oh, God, she thought. What does it mean? She thought of the women in the library, all the gossip of the last months, all the sly allusions in the papers.
It couldn’t be. There was some other explanation.
She must go to him at once. She could not play tonight. But what of Watson’s benefit.
She must play tonight, but as soon as the play was over she would go to Maidenhead, for she could not endure the terrible suspense longer than was necessary.
‘Mrs Jordan on stage!’
The familiar cry. The call which must always be obeyed.
She stumbled on. Strangely enough she did not forget her words; she played so that no one would guess that her thoughts were far away. At Maidenhead. At Bushy with the children. With William.
She thought: My carriage is at the door. As soon as the curtain falls, I shall not stop to change my clothes. I will go in Nell’s costume. I must know… soon or I shall die.
She felt near to fainting; but she tried to think of poor Watson who was so urgently in need of his benefit.
The audience did not notice her abstraction. So many times had she played Nell that she could play her absentmindedly. But when she came to the scene when the character of Jobson says: ‘Why, Nell, the Conjuror has made you laughing drunk!’ before which words she fell into fits of laughter, she found it impossible to laugh and to her dismay – and that of Jobson – she burst instead into tears.
Jobson’s presence of mind saved the scene.
‘Why, Nell,’ he said, ‘You’re crying drunk.’
Such quick wits brought her relief, reminded her of the need to go on playing no matter what the trouble.
And so she played through to the end and when the curtain fell hurried out to her carriage and drove through the night to Maidenhead.
He was impatiently awaiting her arrival in the inn at Maidenhead which he had chosen for their rendezvous.
‘Why, William,’ she cried, when she saw him. ‘What has happened? You are ill.’
He looked at her and shook his head. He was almost weeping.
‘I did not understand your letter. “For the last time.” What does it mean?’
He hesitated, seeking for words and failing wretchedly to find the ones he needed.
‘It has to happen, Dora… dear Dora, it has to be.’
‘You mean we are to… part?’
He nodded.
‘But why… why… after all these years?’
‘It… it has to be.’
‘You have been ordered? The Regent has… ?’
He said: ‘Dora, we have to bear this… together.’
‘We have borne so much together, William, these last twenty years. If we are together I can endure anything.’
‘But not… living together. We have to separate. I have to marry. My mother, Her Majesty the Queen… has made my duty clear to me.’ He started to speak very quickly. ‘There is only Charlotte. The Regent has refused to live with his wife. Fred’s wife is barren… They tell me that it is my duty…’
‘To marry…’
‘Before it is too late.’
‘And that means…’
‘That we must part.’
She thought: I am going to faint. But I must not. I must be strong. I must try to understand. I must be brave.
‘The children…’
‘They will all be taken care of. You will be taken care of.’ Again that almost pathetic eagerness to assure her that all would be well.
‘But now… after all these years…’
‘Dora, believe me, I shall always love you. But I have my duty to the State… to my family. This has been gradually borne home to me. I have to do my duty.’
She was silently groping her way to a chair that she might sit.
‘So you will marry.’
‘I must, Dora.’
‘And you wish to marry?’
‘It is no wish of mine. I am in debt. I cannot go on like this. My creditors will not allow it. And I must do my duty to the State and my family.’
It was like a theme. Duty to State and family; and if that were not enough: Money.
‘I see,’ she said slowly.
He came swiftly to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I knew you would. You have always been a wonderful woman. Dora will understand, I told myself.’
Understand? she thought wildly. That this is the end of my life? I cannot lose him, for to lose him is to lose everything… everything that I care for. She had always known that it was not fame she wanted. It was her home, her husband, her family.
‘The children,’ she said faintly.
‘All taken care of. You must not worry. It will all be drawn up legally. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about! I am to lose you… and there is nothing to worry about?’
‘I shall not separate the children from you,’ he said. ‘You shall see them whenever you wish. You will have an income. I shall see to this. I shall have it all drawn up… You are all right? You are feeling ill?’
‘I am feeling,’ she said, ‘as though my life is ended.’
‘The lovely little nice angel’
THERE HAD, SHE reflected, never been a time in her life for happiness; now there was no time for grief. How often during those happy hours she had spent at Bushy had she been reminded of the transience of the peace she was enjoying? Always there had been the contracts to fulfil, the money to earn. Now sick and weary, wanting to do nothing but to shut herself away from the world, she dared not give way to the momentary comfort of mourning; she must think of the children’s future.
The elder boys were away from home, but the younger ones were there. She had their future to think of. William had said it would be secure, but how far could she trust William? All the time when she had believed him to be the faithful husband – in every way but one – he had been planning to leave her.
Bushy – with its lovely lawns, its gracious rooms, the home that she had loved as she would love no other, was where the happiest days of her life had been spent. It had changed – with her life. The servants were different. They looked at her covertly. They knew. Did they always know… before one knew oneself?
The little ones shrieked their joy to see her.
‘Mamma is home,’ cried nine-year-old Molpuss. He hugged her. How long, she wondered, shall I be able to keep him? How long before he is taken away to train for the Navy?
Elizabeth, Augustus, Augusta and Amelia. She kissed them all in turn.
‘And where is Sophie?’ she wanted to know.
‘She went away with Papa,’ she was told, and her heart sank.
Was he planning to take the children away from her, too?
Her lips set firmly. She would never allow that. Oh, yes, there was no time for grief. She had to fight.
That day the girls and their husbands came over. Fanny with Alsop, her eyes alert with speculation. She distrusted him and had always known he had married Fanny for what he could get. Poor Fanny! Then Dodee and Edward March. She liked Edward best of all her sons-in-law although she thought that perhaps Colonel Hawker would be a better friend to her. He was after all most knowledgeable of affairs; he had moved in the circle which she had frequented with William. It would be different now, she supposed.
Lucy kissed her fondly – always the most affectionate of the girls.
‘Oh, Mamma, we have heard the news. I couldn’t believe it. That’s why Samuel said we must come over and see you at once.’
Fanny said spitefully: ‘He’s like all men. He’s not to be trusted. I never liked him. He couldn’t forget he was the King’s son. He pretended he forgot it but it was all a sham. When you think of the money he’s had…’