He had seen her and pretended he did not know her. He had shown her publicly that he had finished with her.
But after their meeting yesterday …
She could see it all now. He had been persuaded to it; it had meant nothing. He did not wish to resume their relationship. More than that he did not wish to know her.
No one could have been told more clearly.
She was aware of curious eyes on her; she could hear the sounds of laughter floating back to her. His laughter! And she wanted to die.
Love letters of a prince
BACK TO CORK STREET.
This is the end, she said. He will never come back now.
She took the bills from the drawer and looked at them. It was better to do something than nothing.
How can I pay all these debts? she asked herself. They were all incurred for him. But for him I should be a famous actress, earning a good living from the theatre. I gave up everything for him. Everything.
She forced herself to add up the amounts she owed. No, it was impossible. Seven thousand pounds. They could not be so much. She had been extravagant … for him, she repeated bitterly. But surely not as extravagant as that.
‘Where can I find seven thousand pounds?’ she asked herself.
Where indeed?
And then she remembered. She took a key from the drawer and opened a box which she kept in her bedroom.
From this she took out a piece of parchment. It was the Prince’s bond for £20 000, and it was sealed with the royal seal.
She remembered his giving it to her, and how she had declared she would not have it and he had had to persuade her to accept it.
It was the answer, of course. It would be the only way in which she could pay her debts.
And yet she shuddered to think of asking him to honour it.
Yet … £7000! How could she produce that sum of money unless he did.
If it were possible I would work, I would do anything, she told herself. I would not take a penny of his … if I could help it.
Work. There was a possibility.
In a feverish haste she put on her cloak. She could not bear to sit down and think quietly. The only way in which she could endure to live through this terrible day was by taking action.
She sent for her carriage and drove to Bruton Street.
The Sheridans had moved to Bruton Street when Richard had become a Member of Parliament and so frequently entertained the Prince of Wales.
Perdita asked if Mr Sheridan was at home, for she wished to see him urgently. She was taken into an elaborately furnished room and while she waited there the door opened and Elizabeth Sheridan came in.
Perdita had not seen her since she had become the Prince’s mistress and was shocked by the change in her appearance. Her beautiful eyes looked enormous, her face thinner, which did not detract from its beauty, but in fact accentuated the exquisite bone structure; and the flush on her cheeks.
Perdita rose and held out her hand uncertainly.
Elizabeth Sheridan took it and said gently: ‘Are you well?’
‘I am … distraught,’ replied Perdita.
‘I am so sorry.’ She said it as though she meant it and there was a world of understanding in the musical tones.
Poor Elizabeth Sheridan, who had suffered no less than Perdita herself, and there in that room Perdita – which was rare for her – ceased to think of her own tragic situation in contemplating that of this woman. Elizabeth, fragile and clearly not long for this world, for the change in her appearance could only mean that she was consumptive, had suffered even more at the hands of her husband than Perdita had at those of her lover.
I might have expected it; I broke the rules; I loved a feckless boy and expected fidelity; I was extravagant and vain. But this woman was a saint … and she had married a man of genius and had looked forward to a life with him which could have been perfect.
But Sheridan was ambitious. Not only did he wish to write immortal plays, he must be a statesman, friend of the Prince of Wales, lover of many women … And because he believed these glittering prizes to be more valuable than the love of his wife he had thrust her aside to reach them.
Ambition, thought Perdita. By that sin fell the angels.
‘I must see Richard,’ said Perdita.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘He will shortly be with you. I am so glad that you have found him at home. He is rarely here now.’
‘You have a magnificent home,’ said Perdita.
Elizabeth looked about the room sadly.
Perdita understood. Debts, she thought. Living beyond their means. But then he always had. And Elizabeth was not the woman to thrust the bills into a drawer and forget them. She imagined her brooding over them. I am not the only one to suffer.
And then Richard Sheridan came into the room.
How he had changed from the handsome man whom she had known when she first went into the theatre! It was not such a long time ago. Four years … five years. He had coarsened, grown fat, and his face was an unhealthy red. Too much drink; too many late nights. Would the Prince grow like this in time?
She could see at once that he knew why she had come. He had been a good friend to her even after they had ceased to be lovers, and she felt an uneasy twinge of conscience. How much did Elizabeth know of that episode which she, Perdita, would rather forget?
‘I will leave you together,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You will have business to discuss.’
She took Perdita’s hand and pressed it. ‘May God go with you,’ she whispered.
Perdita faced Sheridan; was she right and did she detect a faint impatience in his expression.
‘Sherry,’ she said, ‘I had to come and see you. You know what has happened?’
‘The whole of London knows,’ he said. ‘The whole of the Court.’
‘Does the news travel so fast?’
‘It is some time since he left you. He has other mistresses now.’
She winced and he smiled a little sardonically. So, after all her adventures she still could not bear to hear the word spoken. It was ironical to him that an act should be less repulsive than the words which described it. He thought there was an idea there for a bon mot. He should make a note of it and use it some time … but like all his ideas they came to nothing and he lost them because he would never put himself out to record them.
But the theatre took second place now. The future stretched out brilliantly before him as the politician, friend of Fox and the Prince of Wales.
‘I have debts, Sherry.’
‘You are – as always – in the fashion, Perdita.’
‘But I cannot pay them.’
‘Still in the fashion.’
‘Because of all this … they will not wait. I must earn money quickly. My creditors must be made to understand that although I cannot pay them immediately I intend to do so … in due course.’
‘And how will you convince them of these noble intentions?’
‘By going back to work. I want to come back to the theatre.’
He looked at her blankly. ‘You couldn’t do it, Perdita.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded shrilly.
‘They would never let you.’
‘Who … Who? Do you mean you would not?’
‘I have to consider my audiences. They would jeer you off the stage.’
‘Why, why?’
‘Because of the past. They would crowd the theatre for the first night and like as not there would be a riot. I could not risk it.’
‘How can you be sure if you will not give me a chance?’
‘I tell you I know it. It is not the way. I warned you. Remember? Do you remember?’
She nodded sombrely.
‘Did I not tell you that you should never have become his mistress?’