Goddess of the Green Room: (Georgian Series) Read online

  He was studying Dorothy all the time and he mentioned that her aunt, Miss Phillips, had made an excellent job of the part of Callista in The Fair Penitent. Dorothy said she knew the part well and when, of her own accord, she started to recite some of the lines, Wilkinson was immediately aware of the quality of her melodious yet resonant voice and that she was undoubtedly an actress.

  ‘What is your particular line?’ he asked. ‘Tragedy, comedy or opera?’

  ‘All,’ she answered, to his astonishment.

  Before they left the inn Wilkinson had agreed to sign Dorothy up and that her first part should be Callista in The Fair Penitent.

  It had been an excellent idea to come to Leeds. Grace congratulated herself and in fact felt better than she had for a long time. The family needed her. When Dorothy was in trouble she turned to her mother and it was Grace who had found the solution to their troubles.

  Wilkinson could only offer Dorothy fifteen shillings a week to start. It was a fair salary for an unknown actress and she had her way to make in England, but it was very different from the three guineas she had received with Daly. But peace of mind goes with it, said Dorothy with her usual optimism.

  Peace of mind, yes, thought Grace. Provided Daly did not discover where they were and sue for breach of contract, which Grace would be the first to admit he had a perfect right to do, the scoundrel.

  Remembering that it was her singing which had brought her the warm appreciation of audiences in Dublin, Dorothy was eager to introduce a song at the end of the play.

  Wilkinson was dubious. ‘Callista is dead. How can she spring forth and sing?’

  ‘It won’t be Callista. It will be Dorothy Francis. You’ll see. Please, I beg of you, give me a chance to do this. If it isn’t a success immediately I’ll stop it.’

  ‘Sing for me now,’ said Wilkinson, expecting a moderately good voice, for had it not been so she would not have wished to use it.

  But when she sang Melton Oysters she won his instant approval. This young woman had all the gifts an actress needed for success – an exciting personality which was entirely individual; a trim figure, neat yet voluptuous; a face that while not beautiful was piquant, jaunty and irresistible when she smiled; a voice that made her rendering of her lines a joy to listen to; and in addition she could sing with such feeling, charm and sweetness that she must enchant all who heard her. He was beginning to be glad her mother had brought her to the inn that day. But why had they left Dublin? Why hadn’t some manager there determined to keep such a talented creature?

  He had billed her as Dorothy Bland and she told him that that must be changed. She was Dorothy Francis. She was talking of this to Grace when she suddenly realized that if she made a success of a part it was not unlikely that Daly would hear of it; and he would then know where she was.

  ‘I must change my name at once,’ she declared. ‘Dorothy Francis must not appear on a play-bill that could fall into Daly’s hands.’

  Grace agreed that this was so and Dorothy who had in this short time found that she could talk over her problems with Wilkinson went to see him.

  ‘There is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘I am to have a child.’

  His face fell. Actresses constantly became pregnant and usually did not manage to lose much working time because of this event, but he had not considered this would happen to Dorothy and that it was already about to was a shock. On the other hand it might explain her flight from Dublin, and if it were an emotional entanglement that was not so disturbing to him as a theatrical upheaval.

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘In six months’ time.’

  ‘Six months… well, that gives us a little time.’

  She was relieved. ‘I shall work up to the last minute. But I wish to change my name.’

  He nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be a great difficulty.’

  ‘In the circumstances I prefer to be known as Mrs.’

  ‘Naturally. You don’t want Bland?’

  ‘No, my father’s people object to that.’

  ‘And you can’t be Phillips because of your aunt. We don’t want two actresses of that name. It could be confusing. I might call you Jordan because you’ve just crossed the river.’

  He had spoken jocularly, but she said: ‘Mrs Jordan. Dorothy Jordan. That’s as good as any other.’

  So from then she was known as Mrs Dorothy Jordan.

  She was a success. No sooner had she appeared in a simple muslin dress and a mobcap and had sung The Greenwood Laddie than she knew she had made an excellent start. What did it matter that the tragic Callista had died? She was resurrected in the enchanting form of Dorothy Jordan, and she sang for them so delightfully that they would not let her stop in a hurry.

  She stood accepting their acclaim. One of these days, she thought, I’ll play comedy; I’ll sing and dance; and I’ll refuse to play parts like Callista.

  For the time, though, she would be glad of what she could get; and she could not believe that it was a short while ago that she had been planning her escape from the villainous Daly.

  If that man did not exist, if she did not carry the fruit of his lechery within her, she could be completely happy. But she would be happy. Although the child had been forced on her she would love it when it came. As for her contract with Daly, she would do her best to forget it. Tate Wilkinson was pleased with her.

  Life in the theatre had taught her not to expect too much, and while her success pleased the family and Mr Wilkinson it was not received so enthusiastically by some members of the company. Who is this Dorothy Jordan? some of the female members of the company wanted to know. Why should she appear from nowhere and suddenly take the best parts? How had she managed to win public approval? Wilkinson has done more for her than he ever did for us.

  The old envies were beginning to rise.

  ‘The devil take them!’ cried Dorothy. ‘They’ll get as good as they give.’

  ‘Mrs Jordan,’ said Mrs Smith, one of the leading ladies who had not only a following with the public but a husband to substantiate her right to the title of Mrs. ‘Where is Mr Jordan then – for I’ll swear the woman’s pregnant!’

  Mrs Smith herself was in that condition and, as she said, proud of it. One did wonder about Mrs Jordan who had appeared suddenly in their midst with her faintly Irish accent which some people seemed to find so fascinating, and her forward ways. And if she were pregnant that might account for her sudden appearance. She was running away from the scene of her shame with some tale of having recently become a widow. Or at least if she had not deigned to tell such a tale, it was what she implied.

  Mrs Smith would stand in the wings while Dorothy was on stage and criticize her acting audibly. Dorothy laughed. She could always do the same for Mrs Smith.

  Mrs Smith imitated Dorothy and went round singing Melton Oysters and Greenwood Laddie; but her singing voice was not of the same calibre as Dorothy’s and this attempt was a failure. She talked to her friends of the poverty of Dorothy’s acting. Grace was furious and joined in the battle on behalf of her daughter. She would come to the theatre and groan whenever Mrs Smith appeared, demanding of all within earshot what the theatre was coming to when people like that were allowed to perform. Tate Wilkinson turned away from these battles, which were familiar enough in the theatre.

  Meanwhile Dorothy had scored her greatest success to that time as Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. There was no doubt that this was the kind of part in which she excelled. Small and dainty with great vitality and a rare ability to clown she had the house shrieking with laughter. She followed that with Arionelli in The Son-in-Law; and the fact that she wore breeches and took this male part enhanced her reputation. Audiences wanted to laugh and Dorothy Jordan could make them do so. They wanted to see a fine pair of legs and she could offer these as well. No member of Tate Wilkinson’s company looked quite so well in male costume as Dorothy Jordan.

  ‘In a few months it will be different,’ said Mrs Smith gleefully. She was deli
ghted because though Dorothy might be able to get ahead of her during her enforced absence Dorothy would have one of her own to follow, when she could be reduced to her proper place.

  Wilkinson was not entirely displeased with this jealous bickering; he remarked to Cornelius Swan, the theatre critic, that he believed it kept the company on the alert. Mrs Smith was so eager to excel Mrs Jordan’s performance that she gave of her best – and the same thing applied to Mrs Jordan.

  ‘Mrs Jordan is a great little actress,’ said Cornelius Swan. ‘She wants a little coaching here and there; but I think if she had it she might make London.’

  ‘I prefer to keep her up North.’

  ‘Ah, but you can’t stand in her way, my good fellow. Give me an introduction to the lady. I want to tell her how I enjoyed her performance.’

  ‘And suggest a few improvements?’

  ‘There is usually room for improvement in any performance – even Mrs Jordan’s; and I think you may well agree that I am qualified to suggest where.’

  So Wilkinson introduced Cornelius Swan to Dorothy and she found him entertaining. He told her that he had even criticized Garrick and advised him how he might improve his roles. Would she listen to him?

  Dorothy replied that she would with pleasure for she felt she had much to learn; and although she might not always feel that she could take his advice she would always be pleased to listen to it.

  This reply delighted the old man, who came constantly to the theatre and watched Dorothy’s progress with great interest and his notices of her performance were eulogistic with just the right flavouring of criticism to dispel any accusation of favouritism.

  The friendship meant a great deal to Dorothy during those months. Her pregnancy was becoming irksome; she blamed herself for not confessing to her mother earlier and leaving Dublin before this happened. If after that humiliating experience she had left she would have been able to pursue her career without this added encumbrance, but by remaining and submitting to his blackmail she had not only burdened herself with his child but had destroyed her own self respect.

  But it was not in her nature to look back and she must not do so now. Her excuse was that she had been young and inexperienced; and she had paid dearly for that inexperience.

  The company was to play in York and when they arrived in that town a message awaited Grace from her sister Mary.

  ‘I trust, dear sister,’ wrote Mary, ‘that you will come in time. I long to see Dorothy. I have heard reports of her acting and she is going to be a credit to us.’

  Grace and Dorothy and Hester went to Mary’s lodgings and when they arrived there were horrified to find that she was on her death bed.

  Grace embraced her sister and wept, thinking of that day long ago when they had run away from their father’s parsonage, of all their ambitious dreams which had come to nothing… or very little.

  Mary understood her thoughts. She grimaced. ‘Well, Grace, this is the end of me,’ she said. ‘But it was a good life and I’ve no regrets.’

  Her eyes were on Dorothy. She held out a trembling hand to her. ‘See,’ she said. ‘It’s the drink. Don’t let it get the better of you, dear, I’ve heard of your performances. They’re shaking up some of the dear ladies, I can tell you. Never mind, my dear. You go in and beat the lot of them. She’s going to make it worthwhile, Grace. One day you’ll say you were glad you ran away because if you hadn’t there wouldn’t have been a Dorothy Jordan.’

  ‘You’re tiring yourself,’ said Grace.

  ‘What does it matter? I haven’t much longer in any case.’

  Mary talked rapidly and excitedly of past triumphs, failures and her love of what she called the bottle which had been her downfall. ‘We all have our weaknesses. Don’t let yours interfere with your career, Dorothy. I ought to have worked harder. I might have done it then. But you’ll do it, Dorothy, I know it.’

  She was like a grim prophetess lying back on her pillows, her feverish eyes fixed on her niece.

  She died a few days after; but it was said that she seemed contented after she had seen Grace and her daughter. She left all she possessed to her niece Dorothy Jordan. It was mostly clothes and many of these were in pawn; but she had some fine costumes.

  They were getting better off now. Dorothy had her fixed salary which Wilkinson had raised to twenty-three shillings. This was not riches, of course, but Dorothy was careful; and with the little Aunt Mary had left her she felt that she would be ready to give the coming child a good start in the world.

  Cornelius Swan had followed the company to York because he was eager to see all of Dorothy’s performances. When Dorothy was feeling ill, which she was more and more frequently now, he would come to see her and sit by her bed going over some of her parts with her.

  This passed the hours of enforced rest pleasantly enough; and they were a delight to the old man.

  He said that she was like his adopted daughter and he had great plans for her future.

  With her aunt’s prophecies and Cornelius’ interest Dorothy felt more and more ready to face the ordeal ahead. Mrs Smith’s unpleasantness could be borne, even when she tried to wreck Dorothy’s benefit.

  All appeared to be going well but it seemed impossible to have too much good fortune; and it was her very success which was proving her downfall.

  Daly’s letter reached her in York.

  He had heard of her recent successes and knew where she was playing. She had deserted his company and so broken her contract and for this he demanded the immediate payment of £250. There was also a matter of an outstanding debt. He offered her three courses of action: she must return to Dublin and complete her contract with him; she must pay up what she owed; or she would be arrested at once and committed to a debtors’ prison.

  Grace found her staring at the letter and taking it up read its contents with horror.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is the end of everything. We cannot fight this. We are trapped.’

  Cornelius called at the lodgings. He was excited.

  ‘I have persuaded Wilkinson to revive Zara so that you can have the title role. You’ll need some coaching but I am prepared… But what’s wrong?’

  Dorothy held out Daly’s letter. ‘I don’t think I shall be playing Zara or anything else,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought of running away. But where to? If I go on acting and make any sort of name he will find me. If I don’t, how can I live?’

  ‘Well, what are you planning to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m trying to make some plan.’

  ‘And didn’t it occur to you to consult me?’

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘There is nothing to be done. I see it all clearly. From the day I set eyes on that man there was no hope for me.’

  Cornelius laughed. ‘You forget, my dear, that I am not a poor man. You forget too my interest in you as my adopted daughter and one of our finest actresses. Daly shall have his money at once and that will be an end of the villain as far as you are concerned. I will send off the money without delay then we can continue with the serious business of rehearsing for Zara.’

  It was like a great weight which had burdened her for a long time suddenly dropping from her. She was free. She need never wake in the night from a dream of a dark attic, and lecherous tentacles stretching out for her across the sea.

  Her dear friend Cornelius Swan had severed the chains which bound her to that evil man.

  She was free… almost, but not entirely.

  She still had to bear his child.

  One night when Dorothy was playing Priscilla Tomboy there was great excitement in the theatre because an actor from London had arrived in York to see the play.

  It was stimulating to know he was there and Dorothy, free from menace for the first time for more than a year, gave a sparkling performance, after which Mr Smith – who was no relation to the envious actress of the same name – came back-stage to congratulate the performers and in particular Dorothy.

  ‘You have a genius for comedy, Mrs Jo
rdan,’ he said. ‘By Gad, I never saw Tomboy better played.’

  This was great praise indeed coming from an actor who played in Drury Lane and had won the approval of London audiences.

  Mr Smith was known as ‘The Gentleman’ because of his exquisite manners – he followed the Prince of Wales in his dress, they said; and he certainly had an exquisite way of taking his snuff. He bowed with elegance and flattered most of the players, but Dorothy sensed that there was a certain sincerity in his praise for her. Why else should he be in the theatre every night she played? She was excited to know he was there, and was fully aware that when he was she played her best.

  There were rumours throughout the theatre. Mr Sheridan had sent him up to look for talent. There was a chance that some of them would be invited to play in London. Covent Garden and Drury Lane were not an impossibility.

  Wilkinson was a little dismayed. He did not want his big draws lured to London; he was particularly afraid of losing Mrs Jordan, for he had seen how interested The Gentleman was in her.

  He raised Dorothy’s salary and said she should have another Benefit. Dorothy was delighted, but when Gentleman Smith returned to London and no offers came, he was forgotten.

  While Mrs Smith was obliged to leave the theatre temporarily to give birth to her child, her parts fell to Dorothy who played them with a special verve and won great applause. She could not repress a certain malicious delight in picturing the incapacitated actress grinding her teeth wondering how much progress the Jordan was making during her absence. ‘Hers will come,’ declared Mrs Smith delightedly.

  And in due course Dorothy retired from the stage to give birth to her child. It was a healthy girl and she called her Frances.

  Mrs Smith had been working hard during Dorothy’s absence – both in the theatre and out. The company had gone to Hull where Dorothy would play her first part since her confinement. ‘Return of Mrs Jordan after a six weeks’ absence,’ ran the play bills, but Mrs Smith was determined that her rival was to have a cool reception.