The Duchess of Drury Lane Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Freda Lightfoot

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Freda Lightfoot

  The French Historical Series

  HOSTAGE QUEEN *

  THE RELUCTANT QUEEN *

  THE QUEEN AND THE COURTESAN *

  The Lakeland Sagas

  THE GIRL FROM POOR HOUSE LANE

  THE WOMAN FROM HEARTBREAK HOUSE

  The Manchester Sagas

  DANCING ON DEANSGATE

  WATCH FOR THE TALLEYMAN

  The Champion Street Market Sagas

  WHO’S SORRY NOW?

  LONELY TEARDROPS

  Novels

  TRAPPED

  HOUSE OF ANGELS

  Historical

  THE DUCHESS OF DRURY LANE *

  * available from Severn House

  THE DUCHESS OF DRURY LANE

  Freda Lightfoot

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2012 by Freda Lightfoot.

  The right of Freda Lightfoot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Lightfoot, Freda, 1942-

  The Duchess of Drury Lane.

  1. Jordan, Dorothy, 1761-1816–Fiction. 2. William IV,

  King of Great Britain, 1765-1837–Relations with women–

  Fiction. 3. Great Britain–History–George III,

  1760-1820–Fiction. 4. Great Britain–History–George

  IV, 1820-1830–Fiction. 5. Great Britain–History–

  William IV, 1830-1837–Fiction. 6. Historical fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-367-9 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8246-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-464-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Prologue

  ‘. . . the return of an old friend’

  1816

  The winter sunshine is too weak to take the chill from my bones or ease my cough as I sit gazing out upon two dreary cypress trees. Nor does it lighten the gloom of these shabby rooms. Saint Cloud is proving to be as much a disappointment to me as was Marquetra or Versailles. The rooms at our lodging house are cold and bare, with but a few pieces of old furniture, nowhere comfortable to sit apart from the small couch upon which I recline. Not that my surroundings trouble me greatly, since what house could possibly compare with my lovely Bushy? My thoughts, as always these days, are with my darling children. I ache for a letter from Lucy telling me how her latest pregnancy is progressing, from dear deluded Dodee or even foolish Fanny. And from my boys of course. If I can depend on nothing more, I can be certain of the love of my children. They will ever sustain me.

  But yet there is no post again today, and I worry over why that is.

  ‘Has Frederick visited you recently?’ my visitor asks, as if reading my thoughts.

  I sit up a little and talk of the last time I dined with my son only a week ago, which always cheers me. ‘His regiment is not to remain in Paris long, but may move on to Cambrai soon. Should that happen, then I shall follow, if my health permits. Paris is an odious place and I shall not be sorry to leave it. George and Henry write to me of the wonders of India. Lolly is at sea and Tuss at school. And my darling girls . . .’ I pause, not wishing to admit why it is so difficult for them to visit their mother, that their father in fact forbids it.

  ‘They are too young for travel, I should think,’ she agrees.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But as a widow, Madame, you surely need your family about you at this sad time.’

  I inwardly smile at her artless questions, well aware it is the natural curiosity of a newspaper reporter, as much as friendship, that inspires them. My dear Sketchley has painted me as a grieving widow. This masquerade she has created is as a Madame James who was supposedly married to a businessman, now deceased. It suits me to play this role, and am I not adept at acting a part? But I welcome all visitors, usually fans who have guessed the truth of my identity. They often call at Number One rue d’Angoulême and I am happy to see them, including Miss Helen Maria Williams, for all I have reservations about her motives.

  ‘You speak true. It is not, believe me,’ I say, ‘feelings of pride, avarice, or the absence of those comforts I have all my life been accustomed to, that is killing me by inches. It is the loss of my only remaining comfort, the hope from time to time to see my children.’

  ‘I’m sure your daughter will visit, once the baby is born, and your other sons when they return from active duty.’

  ‘Another frustration,’ I tell my sympathetic listener, ‘is based upon my inactivity. I have never been one to lie about doing nothing,’ and I return my gaze to the dank, overgrown garden, far too tired and sickly to venture out.

  ‘Have you done any writing lately?’ she gently asks, silently acknowledging my solitude. ‘It is ever a comfort to set down one’s thoughts, I find. Perhaps it may cheer you if I read you my own latest effort. I would welcome your critical opinion.’

  ‘That would be delightful.’

  Poetry is an interest we share, since we are of an age, and each with a past filled with emotion and nostalgia. Our chat about poetry is often interspersed with tales of Napoleon, a favourite topic of conversation as Miss Williams’ politics are somewhat militant. Even now she is relating some anecdote of the revolution. I respond as best I can, understanding
little of what she says, but glad enough of her company, the presence of another human being in my empty life.

  I listen to her poem, making one or two comments, mainly of praise since I do not care to risk damaging any artist’s sensibilities. Have I not personally suffered at the hands of my peers whose opinions were warped by jealousy, or have whipped up animosity in an audience for the same reason? ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that. You have a natural way with words, and I have a gift for you too.’ I reach for a small volume set ready on my side table and hand it to her. ‘Miss Sketchley kindly arranged for my collection of poems to be printed. I thought you might care to have a copy.’

  Miss Williams takes the book from me, eyes shining. ‘Oh, how very kind of you, Dora.’

  I wince slightly at the use of my first name, not something I have encouraged while in France, but after several visits perhaps we may be called friends now. I am, of course, aware that my charade has not fooled this woman. She knows full well who I am, and no doubt how I came to be in these dire straits. What she does not know is that I have known poverty before, and view it rather as the return of an old friend, not exactly welcome but most certainly familiar. And Miss Sketchley’s recent visit to London did not bring the news I had hoped for. Barton promised to help but seems to be having little success thus far.

  ‘Do you intend to stay in France long, Madame?’

  ‘Only until my health improves,’ I assure her. ‘My dear Sketchley fusses over me like a mother hen but I hope to return to the stage soon. Acting is my life, you understand.’ I go on to speak warmly of the leading men I’ve worked with: John Bannister and John Kemble, to name but two. The former being very much my favourite as the latter has caused me no end of trouble, as did his sister, Mrs Siddons, in her day.

  ‘You must indeed miss it, having enjoyed such a long and successful career.’

  ‘I was most fortunate.’

  ‘Did you always wish to be an actress?’

  I give a soft laugh. ‘Not at all. I was something of a tomboy, more interested in climbing and boasting to my brothers that I could jump higher down the stairs than they dared even try. Acting never occurred to me. I left that ambition to my sister Hester. I was perfectly happy working in a hat shop, but then tragedy struck our little family and our lives changed for ever.’

  She edges forward in her chair. ‘So how did it all come about? Do you remember the first time you ever stepped on to a stage?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, I remember it only too well. I was absolutely terrified.’

  One

  ‘A most valuable acquisition . . .’

  Spring 1778

  How could I ever forget that night? My debut leading role was to be in Henry Fielding’s farce The Virgin Unmasked at Crow Street Theatre in Dublin, for which, if successful, I was to be engaged at the princely sum of twenty shillings a week. I stood frozen with fear in the wings, listening to the chatter, laughter and ribald jokes of the audience just a few feet away, growing increasingly impatient with the delay. The pit was crowded with young bucks, no females allowed, and beyond that was the two-shilling gallery. While up in the boxes, or lattices as they were called, sat the toffs in full evening dress. They had paid twice that sum and meant to savour their superiority by looking with disdain through their opera glasses down upon everyone else. And above all of them came the one-shilling gallery and the slips. Hundreds of people all gawping at the stage where I was about to make a complete fool of myself. I was scared stiff, utterly petrified.

  ‘Get on with it!’ I heard a voice cry. ‘Where’s the farce?’

  ‘Aye, come on, we’re eager to get an eyeful of the new gel,’ yelled another, followed by yet more jeering laughter.

  I turned on my heels and fled.

  ‘Dolly, Dolly, don’t go!’ I could hear Mama calling to me, but ignoring her I hitched up my skirts and ran pell-mell to the women’s dressing room. My one desire was to escape what I saw as a baying pack of wolves out for my blood. I huddled shivering in a corner, feeling sick to my stomach, knowing in my heart that it was hopeless, that I couldn’t do it. I simply could not walk out on to that stage.

  I doubt I would ever have been an actress had not my mother chosen to tread the boards before me. As a profession the stage is both insecure and unsettled, as actors are constantly on the move. Actresses are also the subject of public disapproval since they’re generally considered to be disreputable and immoral. Yet my own mother suggested just such a career for me, a girl of only sixteen.

  I had vehemently protested. ‘Hester is the one who wants to act, not me. Why can I not continue to work as a milliner’s assistant? I hope to be allowed to learn the art of hat making myself soon.’

  ‘Hester has tried, and found herself too beset with stage fright, so Mr Ryder has generously offered you a trial. You will earn far more on stage than you ever would in a hat shop.’

  Under her maiden name of Grace Phillips, Mama had set out as a young girl with her sister Maria for Dublin, both intent on becoming actresses. That was back in the 1750s when strolling players visited every town, and the two girls had often enjoyed being taken to the theatre in Bristol. So for some reason they’d fallen in love with the notion.

  Their father, a rector in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, South Wales, had died when they were quite young and the family was largely brought up by a married cousin. But despite an education of the highest quality, far more so than my own, and coming from a respectable family of means, the stage was all Mama had ever dreamed of.

  Why the Phillips sisters chose Dublin, I do not know, but the Smock Alley Theatre was under the management of Thomas Sheridan, a famous impresario at the time. Mama loved to tell stories of her years at Smock Alley, how she played Juliet to Sheridan’s Romeo, but then one day he returned to London and the theatre closed down. Having little choice in the matter, Grace and Aunt Maria likewise moved to England, but sadly never starred on the London stage or realized their ambition of fame and fortune. They spent almost their entire working lives touring the provinces, until Mama finally gave up acting for motherhood. Despite seeing myself as Irish, I was in fact born in London near Covent Garden in 1761, no doubt where my stage-struck parents were seeking work at the time, and where I was baptized Dorothy Bland. Our dear King George III had only recently come to the throne so a whole new era had begun.

  ‘Why do you not return to the stage, Mama?’ I suggested. ‘Since you love it so much.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Dolly. I am far too old to play pretty parts now. And who would care for your siblings if I were not around? James is working hard but will have his own family to keep soon. Francis wishes to join the army, and George will do his bit, for all he is young. Hester may try again with small parts, but you can sing and are an excellent mimic. You are now our best hope to provide for the family.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t dare go up on stage, I swear I couldn’t do it,’ I cried.

  ‘Yes you could,’ my sister Hester protested. ‘You have me crying with laughter by your antics, you do really, Doll.’

  Mama’s expression had remained implacable, her face tight with suppressed emotion. She’d been this way ever since Papa had left her. My father, Francis Bland, an affectionate and well-meaning man but clearly weak, had abandoned us, his beloved family, some years before when I was but thirteen. My darling Mama had never recovered from the shock. Theirs had been a love match and she had believed in him utterly.

  Papa was a captain in the army, until he took up his wife’s profession, but his family, being gentry, considered that he had married beneath him. Mama never spoke of that time, but I believe that as the lovers had been underage, his father had the marriage annulled. Despite this setback my parents stayed together for sixteen years, living largely in Ireland, long enough to produce several children To all outward appearances they were a devoted couple, although they never troubled to legitimize the marriage by going through a second ceremony.

  Following his departure Papa moved to Lon
don to marry an Irish heiress, no less, perhaps at the behest of his family. Our situation as a consequence grew ever more precarious. We stayed with Cousin Blanche in Wales for a while before returning to Dublin and taking lodgings in South Great George Street. But then came the worst news of all. Papa’s health had broken down and having set out for France to recuperate, he sadly died at Dover.

  If we had been poor before, we were now penurious as the small allowance he’d paid us, his first family, had stopped.

  ‘Perhaps Papa has left you a small inheritance,’ I’d suggested, striving to keep hope alive in my mother’s sorely bruised heart. ‘Have you asked his widow or the Bland family if that is the case?’ Mama had turned her face away from me to busy herself studying a handbill which listed coming productions.

  ‘I have put in the necessary claim with the Bland family for the sake of my children, but you know full well, Dolly, that I would never demean myself by asking such a question of that woman. I have my pride, if nothing else. We can depend only upon ourselves. Remember that always. But we must eat, and I also need to send money for Lucy’s keep and a physician to attend her.’

  My younger sister, Lucy, was causing concern as she too was sickly and was even now being cared for by Blanche. As my mother’s first cousin and one-time surrogate mother, Blanche was ever ready to offer a haven of comfort to us at her home, Trelethyn, near St David’s in South Wales where she lived a quiet, rural life with no children of her own.

  But even dear Cousin Blanche could offer us little in the way of financial assistance.

  ‘Fortunately,’ Mama continued, resolute in her plan, ‘my standing in the theatre means that I carry some weight still in the acting community. It is all arranged as I accepted Mr Ryder’s kind offer on your behalf. You start at Crow Street next week. Now, what shall be your stage name?’

  In the face of such family trauma, how could I refuse?

  I chose to be named Miss Francis after my father, as Mama insisted Papa’s family would object to my using the Bland family name. Nor had she any desire to cause confusion among the public by the use of Phillips, her own former stage name. But my agony in choosing now seemed irrelevant as I had failed my greatest challenge by refusing even to go on stage.