How gullible they had been. It had all seemed so plausible. After all, the heirs of vast estates did not marry penniless girls without some obstacles being raised by their parents. So Mary would continue to live for a while in her mother’s house in Great Queen Street and he would spend his nights there, keeping on his lodgings a few streets away. These humble lodgings were explained by the story that his father wished him to be independent for a short period, and he was proving that he could stand on his own feet and as soon as possible he proposed to go to Wales to inform his father of what had happened.
So during those weeks Mary had merely to receive him in her own bed in her mother’s house each night, which was no great pleasure to her. She was by no means sexually avid, preferring – now as then – romantic dalliance to consummation, and she quickly discovered that Mr Robinson’s habits in the bedchamber were far from romantic.
Perhaps she had begun to doubt him before her mother had. Perhaps some instinct warned her that this was not the way in which a gentleman behaved. Disillusionment, however, quickly set in. There was the discovery that Mr Robinson’s prospects were non-existent. He was soon proved to be a liar, being but the bastard son of a Welsh farmer who had no intention of leaving him even his small farm; all Mr Robinson possessed was his salary as a clerk and it was for this reason that he had been unable to set up an establishment for Mary; and until he could raise money through moneylenders to begin his projects it suited him that she should continue to live with her mother.
The truth gradually dawned on mother and daughter, but when they realized the trap into which they had fallen they were, after the first shock, philosophical.
They had blundered terribly, but they must now make the best of it.
Perdita closed her eyes now as though by so doing she could shut out the memories of the next two years – the shameful memories! She put her hands over her face. ‘I was so young,’ she kept repeating to herself. Better to forget those years before she became an actress. She had hated the life. It was … she shivered, besmirching. Even so she could not shut out memories of the joy with which she had contemplated a certain new velvet gown, the pleasure in an exquisitely quilted petticoat, or a hat trimmed with feathers or ribbons. It had given her great pleasure to study the reflection of herself in these garments – which would never have come her way but for the life they led. Whenever she went out people looked at her – so many men showed admiration, so many women envy. This was the tribute to her beauty and it was the knowledge of her beauty which maintained her through all her disasters.
Mr Robinson had rented a house in Hatton Garden and there had ‘entertained’. This meant bringing gentlemen to the place and introducing them to his wife. For this privilege he was able to mix in a noble but extremely rakish society, and because of these friendships was given credit by various tradesmen. Mrs Darby was allowed to come and live with them to save employing more than one servant and running two establishments. Mr Robinson had no need now to act so he appeared in his true character – a lecherous man without principles, apeing the nobility to which like his wife, he longed to belong.
And for a year or so they lived on the edge of this society. Men like the libertine Lord Lyttelton – something of a politician, artist and poet, was a constant visitor, his object being the seduction of Mrs Robinson. Another visitor was the notorious rake George Robert Fitzgerald, known as Fighting Fitzgerald, whose object had naturally been the same as that of Lord Lyttelton.
Because of his beautiful wife these men were ready to treat Mr Robinson as an equal which meant that they allowed him to accompany them to gaming clubs and brothels. Mr Robinson had very soon betrayed himself as an unfaithful husband – a fact which had not altogether dismayed his wife since it prevented his pressing his attentions on her too frequently, although she deplored the fact that he slept with their slut of a maid.
That had been a curious year or so … when they had lived on the edge of society and Mr Robinson had tried to make a high-class prostitute of her. She would never forget the occasion when George Robert Fitzgerald had tried to abduct her in Vauxhall Gardens. She had resisted him and Mr Robinson had appeared which put an end to the adventure because the last thing Mr Robinson wanted was to lose his wife.
Such a life could not go on. Her husband must have realized that. But he seemed not to be able to think beyond each day. Everything began to go wrong; she became pregnant; the creditors began to threaten; Thomas Robinson’s luck at the tables ran out.
No, she would not think of it. She had found a way out of trouble. By her own efforts she had provided for herself, her mother, her child … and the means of shutting Thomas Robinson out of her life. She was not to blame. She liked to see herself as virtuous, noble, unscathed by these humiliating adventures. And it was so … if she shut her eyes to certain moments … and she had shut her eyes; she had quickly learned the necessary art of doing so.
Then … the end of the gay life, waiting for the birth of her child, the fear every time the bills arrived. So many of them … and the child on the way. What could they do? The birth of little Maria was some comfort; the child was enchanting and although Mary had discovered that being a mother could never be her whole life, she loved the child. But the inevitable result of such riotous living had caught up with them and Thomas Robinson was sent to the King’s Bench Prison for debt.
She accompanied him there with her child and there was no doubt that he was a chastened man, although she guessed that if he ever were released he would act in the same way as he had before. He was weak and unprincipled! and it was the unhappiest day in her life when she had married him.
When she heard of the success of Richard Sheridan’s The Rivals she thought of the chance she had had to become an actress for which many ambitious young women would have given a great deal – and which she had foolishly thrown away. For what? Marriage with a rogue who had attempted to thrust her into a life of sin – and finally a debtors’ prison.
The misery around her filled her with horror; it was no use now pining for fine clothes, but there was one comfort left to her: her pen. She discovered then that in times of stress it could give her a great deal. She cared for her child and grew closer to it, and she wrote poetry.
It suddenly occurred to her that if she could publish this poetry, if people would buy it, this might be a source of income. It would not provide the means to live the grand life which she had once believed Mr Robinson would provide for her, but it would at least be dignified. She immediately built up a picture of the salon she would have. She would be the beautiful poetess. With this in mind she wrote feverishly and very soon she had enough poems to make a book. Now she needed a patron; she would not go to a man – she had had enough of men for a while – and she did not want it said that she was patronized for her beauty. She had heard of Georgina, Duchess of Devonshire, leader of fashion, lover of the arts.
Was it possible to obtain an introduction?
This presented some difficulties, but not insuperable ones. There were some admirers from that fantastic year who would not be averse to helping her now that she had fallen on hard times. She saw the way out of her troubles. When the introduction was made the Duchess was not only impressed by the poems but by the beauty of the poetess, and when the noble lady heard that she was living with her husband in a debtors’ prison and had one young daughter she determined to help such a deserving young woman out of her predicament. So the Duchess not only found a publisher for the poems but brought about the release of the Robinsons.