‘You jest about a sacred matter.’ Dear Mary had little appreciation of humour. But he was enchanted with her faults as well as her virtues.
She had met Elizabeth and that, she had declared, filled her with dismay.
He wondered whether Elizabeth knew. He could not be sure. But Elizabeth had become disillusioned long ago. He would have explained that what he felt for Mary Robinson was a transient emotion. His life was bound up with Elizabeth; he was sure he could have explained it to her had she asked. But she did not. At this time she was obsessed by their baby son, young Thomas; that, her singing, reading plays for him which came into the Lane in hundreds from would-be playwrights, and helping with the accounts. What time had Elizabeth for suspicions?
But perhaps her family would tell her. Her brother Thomas was musical director of Drury Lane and worked closely with its manager. Thomas was a brilliant musician like all the Linley family and had composed the songs for The Duenna. Then there was sister Mary, wife of Richard Tickell, who knew almost everything that was going on and was constantly with her sister.
But Elizabeth gave no sign and the affair went on while Mary Robinson rapidly climbed to fame. She and Elizabeth Farren were the leading actresses of the day; when they played people flocked to see them; they were favourites both of the young bucks and the more sober-minded. To the former they were the loveliest girls in town; to the latter they were ladies. It was the pleasure of both these ladies to bring a new refinement to the stage and to show that the theatre could be entertaining without vulgarity.
What days! What triumphs! She remembered her part of Statira in Alexander the Great when she had enchanted the house with her Persian draperies of white and blue, her dark hair unpowdered; and she had played Fanny Sterling in The Clandestine Marriage, and Lady Anne in Richard III. All successes, every one. What a triumph she had scored in The Relapse and All for Love! and then Viola in Twelfth Night. Only one failure and that was not hers. Sheridan had been at his wits end for a new play and to deceive the playgoers had put on The Relapse under the title of A Trip to Scarborough. The audience had quickly detected the deception and had immediately expressed their indignation by catcalls and hissing. What a horrible moment – standing there on the stage and for the first time realizing that the audience no longer loved her.
But even that had turned into triumph, for the Duke of Cumberland, who came often to the theatre to ogle her from his box and to see her in the Green Room afterwards, leaned over and shouted to her: ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. It’s not you they’re hissing. It’s the play.’ Then Sheridan had come to the front and told the audience they would get their money back and a riot was so averted.
Yes, she could look back on three years of success; and now … Perdita.
In future, she told herself, I shall always think of myself as Perdita.
Incident at Covent Garden
PERDITA GAZED ANXIOUSLY at herself in the mirror but lack of sleep had had no effect on her appearance. Her eyes looked brighter and there was the faintest flush in her usually pale cheeks. Well, although she had not slept she had not been tossing and turning with worry. She had been lying still and relaxed in a haze of contentment and excitement – certain that something miraculous was going to happen while she went over the events which had led up to this day.
Mrs Armistead would soon arrive to help her dress. How wise she had been to set up this separate establishment with her mother and her child not far off so that she could see them frequently without having them living under the same roof. Of course the pay of an actress was not so great that she could afford many luxuries. Luxury could have been hers had she been prepared to pay for it. The Duke of Rutland had offered her six hundred pounds a year and a smart town house if she would become his mistress. The Duke of Cumberland had promised even greater remuneration. But she had refused them all, explaining to Sheridan: ‘What do they think I am? A superior kind of prostitute because I’m an actress?’
Sheridan had helped her write the letters to these noblemen. ‘We won’t be too severe,’ he had told her. ‘The theatre can’t afford indignant virtue. We’ll be a little coy – perhaps hold out hope … but not yet … not yet … This should ensure their regular attendance at the theatre.’
Sherry was a charming rogue. She was ashamed really that she had succumbed to him; but during those early days in the theatre she had needed support. But when she had known Elizabeth … Yes, that was how she saw it. It was nothing to do with his refusing her the part of Lady Teazle. It was because of her refinement of feeling over Elizabeth.
The point was that they remained great friends although they were no longer lovers.
Mrs Armistead was at the door – neat and discreet as ever.
‘Madam has rested well, I trust?’
‘I slept very little, Armistead.’
‘It is understandable. What will Madam wear today?’
Perdita was thoughtful. What might happen today? Who could say? She must be prepared. Pink satin. Blue silk?
Mrs Armistead had taken out a white muslin dress trimmed with blue ribbons. It was one of her simplest.
She held it up so that above the dress her own face appeared and it was as though she were wearing it. What a handsome creature she would be … dressed! thought Perdita.
‘One of Madam’s simplest but most becoming,’ said Mrs Armistead.
A simple dress for a special occasion. How did she know it would be a special occasion? It was a feeling in her bones perhaps.
‘I will wear it, Armistead.’
And strangely enough Mrs Armistead seemed satisfied. As though my triumph were hers, thought Perdita, which in a way, of course, it was. For if I fell on hard times how should I be able to employ her, and if rich people come to my house she might ingratiate herself with some and find herself serving a lady in a very great household. It would be a blow to lose Armistead.
‘Armistead, you looked very well when you held the muslin up … as though you were wearing it. It would become you.’
‘Thank you, Madam.’
‘There is that other muslin … the one with the lavender coloured buttons. I caught it … and there is a little tear in the skirt.’
‘I saw it and mended it, Madam.’
Oh, excellent, Armistead! It would be a great loss if she went.
‘With a little alteration it could be made to fit you. You may have it.’
‘Thank you, Madam.’ No show of pleasure. Just a cool thank you. One could never be sure what Armistead was thinking; all one knew was that she was the perfect lady’s maid.
As soon as Perdita slipped on the white dress she knew it was right for the occasion. If there was a visitor she could play the lady surprised in this dress to perfection. A simple morning gown – and in its simplicity as becoming – perhaps more so in the cold light of morning – than satin and feathers.
She waited for Armistead to put on her powdering wrap, but Armistead said: ‘Madam’s hair worn loosely about the shoulders unpowdered is so becoming.’
Of course; she sat at her dressing table and Armistead dressed her hair. A curl over the left shoulder. How right she was.
Armistead stood back to admire her handiwork and Perdita said: ‘Thank you, Armistead. Now pray bring me a dish of chocolate.’
Mrs Armistead scratched lightly on the door. Perdita knew it was a visitor because she had seen the chair arrive.