One morning, while Quindell was out, she and Mary Anne Greenhill called upon me. I had yet to rise from my bed when they were shown into my dressing room by the attentive Sam. The pair greeted me with solemn looks and a small black bottle of Blatchford’s elixir.
“Drink it down at once,” ordered Lady Lade.
I stared at her, my face void of expression.
“Do you wish to have another brat?” she shouted. “I tell you now, that rascal Philly Quindell will not own it. You shall be finished!”
Her volley of words caused me to hang my head, for I recognized the truth in them. Indeed, there was some part of me that wished for my own ruin. I had released the reins of control, and now circumstance guided my actions. That I should be led to dishonour myself and commit deeds abhorrent to me was a punishment, to be sure, but I alone had engineered it. Dear reader, the very recognition of this caused my heart to fill with disgust and my eyes to pool with tears. Softly, I began to weep as my companions looked on in silence. Then, after a spell, the Greenfinch held out her kid-gloved hand.
“Hetty, you need not be afraid,” she whispered. Tilting her head
beneath her heavy crimson hat, she showed me a gentle smile. “We shall nurse you, dear.”
I sat on the edge of my bed, and with my companions standing over me, removed the cork from the bottle and swallowed back the inky mixture, which tasted of iron and soot and bitterness. Within the hour I began to shake. My body was racked by spasms, my arms and legs danced and shivered all through the day. Then came the terrible waves of sickness. My stomach convulsed, throwing out its contents, as Lucy held my chamber pot and Mary Anne Greenhill held my sweating, trembling head. I heaved many times over and long into the night, when my belly had nothing left to give. Indeed, there were moments when my suffering was acute. The pain, the twisting in my gut, the throbbing in my skull and limbs, was at times so intolerable as to cause me to cry out in agony.
“It shall pass soon enough, Hetty dear,” chirped Miss Greenhill, taking hold of my hand. “I have taken the purgative twice since last year. Why, it was quite remarkable, for on both occasions, I scarcely felt any discomfort and recovered my health perfectly within hours.”
I gazed at her from my pillow, exhausted. For all of the Greenfinch’s faults, it must be said that she was no dullard. She possessed the alertness of a wild creature and was keenly alive to the opinions of others, particularly where they related to her. Sensing my disbelief, her smile soon began to quiver and then, by degrees, to fall away. She sighed heavily and lowered her eyes. “But I suppose you know that not to be the truth,” she admitted. For a moment, she sat perfectly still, her brow set in contemplation. “I know not why I… am so ill-mannered at times, or why I boast or… fib. I suppose… I suppose it is because I fear you should disdain me otherwise,” she confessed, while staring into her lap. “I have not half your beauty, nor your breeding. All my manners and graces, I acquired by aping my betters, whereas you…” She shrugged. “When I first made your acquaintance, I was certain you would eclipse me… and then where would I be? Hetty, I am but the
daughter of a poor, drunkard tailor. We had scarcely more than a crust to eat before I was taken into keeping… and now… well, I should sooner throw myself from a bridge than return to that life.”
Something of the Greenfinch’s words, those of a frightened young woman who knew herself to be very much alone, touched me greatly. For all her frivolity and thoughtlessness, my plight was not so unlike hers.
“That shall not be your fate, dear Mary Anne,” I whispered, gripping her hand. “Of that I am certain.”
She returned my words with a tender look and an honest, grateful smile.
At morning light, the seizures in my womb began. Shortly thereafter, the obstruction came away and I could feel once more that familiar wetness of thick blood running from me. As the rags between my thighs revealed, the dose of Blatchford’s elixir had been a success.
By then, the Greenfinch, who had remained devotedly at my side throughout the night, had drifted off into sleep. She sat, leaning her cheek against her hand, her features arranged in a serene, child-like expression. After an evening of ordering Lucy about, and closely studying my progress, Lady Lade, too, had gone off to doze upon the sofa in my dressing room. On waking, she came quietly to my side.
The sickness that had torn through me like a storm in a cornfield had passed, and she found me lying grey, weak and still. Noticing Miss Greenhill resting soundly, she raised a finger to her lips. Then she began a close examination of my face with a stern but compassionate eye. Once satisfied that I had survived the ordeal, she stood back and paid me a nod.
I lifted my hand towards hers. She took it, warmly enfolding it within her own.
“Bless you, dear madam,” I whispered. “Bless you.”
I have often found that nothing straightens a wayward path more effectively than an illness or an accident. My day and night under the influence of Blatchford’s elixir did just this. By the end of it, I had not only purged myself of possible offspring, but also of my foolishness. As I was rendered an invalid for several days, I had sufficient time to contemplate the error of my conduct, and to resolve that I should never again set out upon such a path of ruin.
Gradually, with the assistance of beef tea and small morsels of bread, the colour was restored to my face. So too did reason resume its natural place in my mind. My melancholia, unfortunately, would not be dispelled so easily, for its cause was ever-present. In spite of my nurses’ efforts to keep it from me, it returned with the steady persistence of the tide.
“Thalia! Dear muse!” Quindell cried as he rushed into my bed-chamber on the following morning. “Oh dear girl, you cannot imagine what dread, what misery your illness inspired in me.” He urgently pressed my feeble hand to his lips. “I passed the entire night in the parlour below, fretting that you should require a physician. Oh how I feared for your début!” He then smiled with relief. “But now that I see the blush returning to your cheeks, I am assured of your survival.” He sighed and took a seat beside me, removing a copy of
The School for Scandal
from his pocket. “Shall I recite your lines?”
My return to Drury Lane did even less to lighten my depressed spirits. For nearly a week, my illness had preserved me from Kemble’s
tyranny, his wife’s sneers and Preston’s lewd remarks, but when faced again with these assaults, my heart instantly began to sink.
Now, friends, you know me to have been a diligent and scholarly child. Never in the past had I failed to commit to memory verses of poetry or passages from the Bible. Why, then, I struggled to remember Maria’s lines remains a mystery to me. Neither my fear of Kemble nor of certain disgrace upon the stage encouraged me to learn my part. I possessed no valid excuse for my ignorance, especially as Philly had taken it upon himself to tutor me. But nevertheless, day after day, I gazed vacantly at the pages before me, sighing and sobbing in turns.
With a mere fortnight until our opening, I continued to carry my book and to read from it during rehearsals. Alas, Kemble grew so weary of my habit that he snatched it from me and threw it into the wings. Thereafter, I was forced to rely upon the prompter, who sang out my words to me like Cyrano de Bergerac. Worse still, my talent for performance had not improved, nor had the power of my voice, which remained no louder than the chirp of a sparrow. I appeared more mop than actress: part stiff, part limp, propped up but with a drooping head.
As you might imagine, my listlessness vexed Kemble no end. Even Quindell began to lose his patience, and eventually retreated backstage. There, with Sheridan’s blessing and a further bribe of £150, he passed the time ingratiating himself with the actresses, playing dice with the actors, and making use of the theatre owner’s rooms. It was only then, once my keeper was out of earshot, that the manager abandoned the last of his restraint and lunged at me with the fury of a guard dog
“What am I do to with this heap of wood today, hey?” he bellowed at me. “Burn it, perhaps? Ha! I should get a more heated performance from you, madam, if I were to set you alight!”
I simply looked away in shame. He then strode up to me and put his face to mine. “Do you not understand, you silly little bitch? Are you deaf as well as dumb? We shall open in a fortnight and you shall ruin us all!”
“I shall attempt my best not to, sir,” I whimpered.
“Attempt? Attempt? We are beyond attempting, girl. You must perform!”
Were this not mortification enough, Mrs. Kemble also did her best to heighten my sense of shame. How I dreaded rehearsing our scenes together. When it came to disparaging me, she would take her cue from her husband, listening first to his insults and then adding her own. She would often begin with sighs and then advance to whispered curses before erupting into a stream of shouted torments.
“Fie, sir, how do you expect me to appear beside such a feckless little hussy as this? This is what comes of putting any man’s whore upon the stage. You force me stand beside this harlot, to show myself in her company, as if I were no better than she. What humiliation you do me, husband, when I am a respectable wedded lady.”
Naturally, these outbursts would raise sniggers from the company, while I struggled to disguise my mortification and continue with my scene. Oh, what degradation I was made to suffer! Into what depths of despondency was my heart plunged!
When the Kembles had inflicted upon me the last of their pillorying, I would be dismissed to my dressing corner. There, broken and miserable, I would pass a few quiet moments, sitting in the darkness, staring morosely into the looking glass, before Quindell returned to harass me.
But on this occasion, as I made my way through the drapery, barrels and boxes backstage, something quite different awaited me.
Mrs. Dorothy Jordan had, until now, paid me little more than passing nods and curtseys. In truth, her star shone so brightly that I feared to approach her. She was constantly surrounded by a mélange of servants, seamstresses, hairdressers, admiring actors or children, forever fawning or sobbing, bickering or pulling at her sleeve. She would appear upon the stage to deliver Lady Teazle’s lines, then retreat once more to the sanctuary of her rooms. Indeed, not to stare at her required
some degree of forbearance, for her very movements, even the simple delivery of one short sentence or the utterance of a witticism, were captivating. I had watched her so many times upon the stage, and admired her in
The Fair Penitent
, in
The Romp
and
Twelfth Night
, to name only a handful. What shame this caused me, for I understood that I had no right to appear beside her in this production! In our uncomfortable scenes together, I could hardly bring myself to look at her, and never failed to weep my eyes red afterwards.
For this reason, I was greatly surprised to behold the luminous form of Mrs. Jordan, in her white muslin gown and with her flop of curls, standing before my dressing table. I stopped suddenly and, like a humbled fool, dropped into a deep curtsey.
“Mrs. Lightfoot,” she began, in a soft but firm tone, “please do excuse my intrusion, but I wished to speak with you.”
I sensed immediately that I was to receive a scolding and, in anticipation of this, hung my head.
“I have noticed you do not seem content with your role. You do not wish to play Maria. I suspect, Mrs. Lightfoot, that it was never your desire to go upon the stage in the first place.”
At that, I lifted my chin and, while still avoiding her gaze, nodded. “It was Mr. Quindell. I would not wish it for myself, but he insisted.”
She sighed. “That much is apparent.”
“Oh, Mrs. Jordan, I never wanted to be an actress… I am no better than a Circassian slave girl.” I gazed up at her, hoping all the while that she would not berate me. Much to my surprise, her eyes did not hold contempt but, rather, sad empathy. Upon seeing this, my heart could hold back no longer and unleashed a torrent of emotion.
“I… I once foolishly believed… that I could exercise my own will, and, by that means, lead a life of happiness. Someone had impressed that notion upon me… But now I see how ridiculous I have been. Gentlemen might live by those rules, but our sex… it is not within our power to do so. I have always known that to be true, so why I chose to
believe…” I ventured to look at her before continuing, and seeing that the kindness still remained in her expression, persisted.
“I fled my father’s house to avoid making a disagreeable match. I had been encouraged to do so… by someone. At the time, I believed it to be the correct course, but now… now I see it was not, and I am no more at liberty to determine my own fate than I would have been had I married the man my father intended for me. I am owned, madam… and traded, and… and made use of for everyone’s pleasure but my own. What hope of true happiness have I, when I am condemned to live no more freely than a prisoner? Oh madam, I despair, ” said I, the tears falling fast down my cheeks.
Never had I related my story until now, and hearing my quivering voice deliver the words startled me. This was followed by sudden horror at what I had done: in a fit of passion, I had unburdened myself to none other than the redoubtable Mrs. Jordan! But, curiously, her sweet expression remained unchanged. The great actress beheld me with a calm, angelic countenance, as I slowly recoiled in shame.
“You are incorrect, Mrs. Lightfoot,” said she, after a moment.
I looked at her, puzzled by her comment.
“You think yourself condemned, but you are not.” She smiled. “I was your age when I first played Maria. Every actress plays Maria at some point. Mrs. Kemble did too, which is why I suspect she so dislikes you. You remind her that she is no longer young, and Maria is a role for a girl in the prime of her beauty,” said Mrs. Jordan with a hint of wistfulness.
“I played her in Dublin, at the Crow Street Theatre, under the direction of Mr. Daly, who was as much a tyrant as Mr. Kemble, but worse; Kemble does not demand of the young actresses what Mr. Daly asked.” She paused and allowed her eyes to wander over my dressing table, the mirror, the curtain. “There are some people, men in particular, whom I believe can scent weakness, much in the way a hound can unearth a fox. Daly was one such villain and he used me ill when I was
far too young to know better. Like you, I was also rehearsing the part of Maria.” She sighed. “What occurred was a terrible misfortune. One day, he professed his love for me and claimed that he meant to have me for his mistress, but when I protested that I would not give myself to him, he laughed and explained that I had no choice in the matter. As he paid my wages, I was his to do what he liked with. Indeed, he was so persuasive, and I so cowed and foolish, that I knew not how to refuse him. He locked me in a room… and…” she paused and raised her brow “… so it was. Imagine then, dear Mrs. Lightfoot, what I was to think when I found myself with child by him. When he learned of it, he would have nothing to do with me. I was sent packing. We had no means, my family. My mother had been an actress, my father an actor—they never married and he abandoned us. I was the bastard of a whore, who became a whore who bore a bastard. It is often the way.