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.