‘Advise caution to a lover, Madam! And such a lover!’
She sighed and turned away. Then gazing at the miniature she smiled tenderly.
And Lord Maiden went back to report to his master.
‘A triumph of chastity!’
LETTERS AND POEMS were arriving frequently from Florizel and the theme of these letters was: ‘When shall we meet?’ But Perdita’s answers always showed the same evasiveness. The Prince must be cautious; he must remember his rank; he must not offend his father.
‘My fate is in the hands of my Perdita,’ he wrote. ‘My life is yours to save or ruin. Your Florizel.’
Carefully she preserved the letters, reading them over and over again, soothing her hurt vanity through them; dreaming that this chaste romantic idyll would go on all their lives and be a lesson for the whole world to admire. Lovers parted by two insuperable obstacles – his crown and her husband.
Florizel had different ideas. He raved to Maiden. There must be a meeting. She could not go on like this.
The romance was no longer a secret. It was hinted at in the more scurrilous papers. ‘A certain illustrious Personage and a famous actress have become aware of each other’s undoubted charms …’ ‘A new Florizel for Perdita …’ And such allusions.
The theatre was doing business such as it had rarely done before for people wanted to see the actress who had enchanted the Prince. They were more pleased with him than ever. What a change from his dull old father!
Sheridan was delighted with his audiences but a little apprehensive of the future. Perdita was a very lovely woman but he did not think for one moment that she would be wise enough to hold the Prince of Wales for long.
If she became the Prince’s mistress she would continue to bring in packed houses. He would not be able to accommodate all the people who would be clamouring to get into the theatre to see her; but of course the Prince would never allow his mistress to appear on the stage – and that would be the end of good business for Drury Lane. And if the Prince discarded her? A royal mistress could not return to the stage. The public would come to see her once, twice, and then lose interest in her.
He decided to speak to her and called at her house to do so, for they could enjoy more privacy there than at the theatre. In her muslin and ribbons she was very appealing. One of the prettiest women he had ever known. If she would not take herself and her virtue and her ladylike ways so seriously, she would be very attractive indeed. Being frank with himself he admitted that he had quickly tired of her. Beauty alone was not enough. Would the Prince tire as quickly? He was young and at the moment inexperienced, the prisoner in that Puritan Palace set up by Papa; but when he had his establishment, that would be different. We shall see a change in HRH when that happens, mused Sheridan. And I doubt that our dear ladylike Mrs R will then seem to him the ideal of perfection that she does seen through prison bars. Now his – Sheridan’s – dearest Amoret (Mrs Crewe), that sparkling witty creature whom he adored and to whom he had dedicated The School for Scandal, would hold any man. If she had been in Perdita’s shoes … But God forbid. Amoret was too enchanting to be thrown away on a callow prince; only the most brilliant play-wright in England was worthy of her.
Fleetingly he thought of Elizabeth. He was sorry Elizabeth had to know of these things. But Elizabeth was a saint and a man of flesh and blood cannot live with a saint.
But here was Mrs Armistead – that most discreet of women – to usher him in.
‘My dear Sherry!’ Perdita rose to greet him, so pretty with the faint flush in her cheeks. He knew what that meant. A letter from Florizel. What a correspondent the Prince was! And so was Perdita! She had always been one to pour out her heart and soul on paper, which was probably fanning the flame of HRH’s ardour. Those poems she had written from her debtors’ prison! No merit in them but lots of feeling – and that was a commodity the public were often more ready to pay for than genius.
‘My blessed Perdita!’ He kissed her hands ardently. It was always wise to feign regrets for a love affair that was over in the presence of the one who had shared it. It was advisable to blame circumstances – ‘coming to one’s senses’, ‘it is better for you, my dear, and I am thinking of you’, ‘my own inclinations are of no account’ – than to speak of satiety, boredom, a new and more exciting mistress.
‘But how enchanting you look.’
She would never grow accustomed to compliments. He wondered lightly what proportion of her life was spent studying her reflection in the mirror and deciding what clothes she would wear.
She sparkled at once – and now she showed some vitality which was more attractive than that look of melancholy which was her usual expression.
‘The simplicity of the gown throws up the contrast of your dazzling beauty.’
‘This morning gown …’ she said disparagingly, and he could see that she was wondering whether to order a new muslin to be made … one in which she could appear in public and startle the world of Ranelagh, the Rotunda, the Pantheon by appearing in muslin and ribbon among all the satin and feathers.
‘… is most becoming,’ he finished for her. ‘But, my dear, I have not come to talk to you of gowns. I am concerned for you … greatly concerned.’
‘Sherry?’
‘I am thinking of Prince Charming’s very public passion.’
‘Alas, people in our position cannot live secret lives.’
‘That is indeed true and is why you should consider your situation from all aspects before taking any step.’
‘I am sure you are right. And that is what I am doing.’
‘So far you and the Prince have not met … alone.’
‘Certainly we have not.’
‘But how long do you think he will be content with this state of affairs?’
‘The Prince is content that he loves me and I …’
‘And you, Perdita, adore him. Naturally, all ladies adore royalty.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A simple fact, my dearest.’
‘I hope you are not suggesting that I love the Prince because of his rank. You have forgotten how his uncle the Duke of Cumberland plagued me. But you should remember how I repulsed his advances.’
An ageing roué of a duke. A young and charming prince with a crown in view. The one was a much more glittering prize than the other. Moreover, the Duke’s character was well known. He had had several mistresses and had merely invited Perdita to join the group. He had not written the sentimental love letters which she had just been reading and which she would tie up with blue ribbons – or possibly pink – and gloat over in her old age … that was if she did not use them to financial advantage at some earlier stage. The very fact that Florizel wrote to his loved one pointed to his inexperience. The Duke was no scholar; he could not have compiled those flowing phrases had he wished to; but although the Prince might chatter in French, Italian and German like a native, although he was familiar with Horace and Virgil and was reputed to have some taste for Tacitus, he was clearly not aware of the ways of the world or he would never have so guilelessly handed over to an actress those letters which, Sheridan had no doubt, the young fool would in a year’s time curse himself for having written. In this Perdita had shown herself wise. She repulsed the roué and encouraged the innocent boy; for much as she might protest, her coy reluctance to become his mistress was the best method of luring him on.
‘I remember well,’ said Sheridan. ‘And that was wise. It would have done your reputation no good at all to be concerned with my lord Duke.’
Perdita shuddered piously.
‘And the Prince …’ mused Sheridan. ‘Oh, my dear, dear lady, you must tread very cautiously. What do you think will be the outcome of all this?’