At last the meal was over and Sophy watched with a sinking heart as her father hurried straight to the young woman’s side, then was actually dancing the quadrille with her. Sophy felt she might vomit right there and then on the ballroom floor. Steeling her nerves she edged closer, secreting herself behind a pillar so that she could engage in her favourite pursuit of watching and listening.
The dance ended and he escorted Miss Tylney-Long back to her seat. ‘Perhaps I may sign your card for another dance later?’ Papa was saying.
Catherine Tylney-Long flicked it open, giving it a brief glance. ‘I’m afraid there is not a space left upon it,’ she told him with an apologetic little smile, which Sophy thought entirely false.
‘Then perhaps we can at least talk a little, between dances.’ He looked so disappointed that Sophy’s heart plummeted with misery. Had he no pride?
‘But of course, Your Grace.’
‘Do call me William, no need to stand on formalities.’
Miss Tylney-Long merely inclined her head, but before he had the opportunity to say anything more, she was being led on to the floor by another gentleman.
‘And who may he be?’ the Duke demanded of his neighbour, a sour note in his voice.
‘William Wellesley-Pole, the twenty-four-year-old nephew of the Duke of Wellington. They say she is quite smitten with him.’
The Duke scowled. ‘Do they indeed?’
‘He is not her only suitor by any means. There are any number, I believe.’
Sophy sighed with relief and slipped quietly away to seek a dance partner of her own. If the lady was being pursued by many gentlemen there was nothing to fear. Surely her foolish ancient father would have little chance of winning such a prize?
‘Why did you make such an exhibition of yourself, Papa?’ Sophy challenged her father as they drove home together in the early hours. ‘I did not care to see you fawning over that woman. What of Mama?’
His answer was cautious. ‘I’m sure your mother would understand. She is a most sensible woman.’
Sophy could hardly believe her own ears. ‘But you love Mama.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘You have enjoyed almost twenty years of contentment together, as long as any marriage, brought up ten children, shared the joys and trials of parenthood. She has been your helpmeet, your wife in all but name. You surely would not betray her?’
‘Yet she is not my wife, and never can be. You are too young to understand, dear child.’
‘I understand well enough!’ A bitter anger against her father, and strangely against her mother too, was beginning to fester and grow inside her. Why could they not have married like normal people? Why could they not at least be content together? Why was her mother always taking herself off on tour instead of staying with her husband and children? Was it any wonder if people looked down their noses and refused to be friends with her? She was a nobody, a bastard!
‘You can be sure, dearest, that were it not for other factors I must consider, I would not change her for the world.’
‘Change her?’ spluttered Sophy. ‘You surely aren’t thinking of offering for Miss Tylney-Long?’ She was stunned, appalled by such a prospect.
William looked at his daughter, as if shocked by her presumption in asking such a question. ‘I really do not think it is any of your business—’
‘It is very
much
my business,’ Sophy snapped. ‘As your daughter, your
illegitimate
daughter.’
‘Do not use that word.’
‘Why not, when it is the true one? It wouldn’t be right for you to involve yourself in a dalliance with a woman half your age, not when you are still living with
my
mother.’
The Duke flushed with annoyance and embarrassment at this apparent lecture on morality from his own daughter. ‘Hold your tongue, girl.’
‘I will not!’ Sophy was her mother’s daughter and knew how to stand up for what she perceived to be right. ‘Think of Mama’s sweetness, her generosity and liveliness which you have always loved. How often have you spoken of her practical good sense and excellent judgement, related to us the excitement of those early years together? I have heard the tale of how you pursued her, your love letters, the thrill of settling into Bushy House. How can you suddenly forget all that?’
‘The King is seventy-three years old, suffering from terrifying hallucinations, considerable pain, sometimes talking non-stop for hours, entirely incoherent and often obscene, rarely aware of what is going on around him. Your Uncle George is carrying the heavy mantle of the regency upon his shoulders, and in twelve months the full power of that office will come into effect. But he has only one daughter to succeed him. Although he is fond of your mother, he too has urged me to consider marriage. It is my duty.’
Sophy considered this statement in furious silence for some long minutes as the carriage drew up at St James’s. ‘So will you keep Mama as your mistress, even if you do take a wife?’
William cleared his throat, taking a moment before answering. ‘I have considered that option, but feel it would be unfair after our long association. A clean break would be best, I think.’
She gave a little sob, unable to hold her emotions in check any longer. ‘You will break her heart!’ And without waiting to be handed down from the carriage, Sophy jumped out and ran to her room.
‘I will break it to her gently,’ he called after her, but Sophy was long gone.
A letter from the Duke was handed to me just before I went on stage. It was October, and I should have finished this engagement at Cheltenham by now but had agreed to play an extra night. I tore open the envelope, as I always did when I saw the Duke’s handwriting, eager to read his news, to hear his voice in my head. But the words blurred before my eyes. He wished us to meet at Maidenhead – ‘for one last time before we part’.
I couldn’t take it in. What did he mean? There had been no word of our parting. Yet there it was in black and white:
for one last time before we part
. Was this then the moment I had so long dreaded?
‘Starters please. Three minutes to curtain,’ a voice called.
I pushed the letter into my box, out of sight, my heart pounding. I must have been in shock, for a kind of paralysis had come over me. I dabbed my nose with the powder puff, more by instinct than necessity. I was about to play Nell in
The Devil to Pay
, and the show, as they say, must go on.
Giving every appearance of calm I left the dressing room to go on stage, not feeling the least calm inside. There was a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, a hollow sensation that seemed to be affecting my limbs; they felt weak and shivery, out of my control. Yet I did indeed go on and must have performed reasonably well at first. But in the scene where I was supposed to laugh out loud at some incident, and my fellow actor playing the role of Jobling would accuse me of being laughing drunk, I looked into his face and instead burst into tears.
He looked startled, as well he might, but then like the trouper he was, said: ‘Why, Nell, the conjuror has not only made thee drunk, he has made thee crying drunk.’
There were gasps from the audience, who seemed to sense that something was wrong, and how I finished the scene I have no recollection. It must have been entirely due to his skill.
I wasted no time in ordering my carriage and the moment the production was over, without even pausing to remove my costume or make-up, as these could easily be dealt with in the carriage during the journey, I stepped on board and set off for Maidenhead to hear my fate.
The Duke was pacing the chamber at the inn like a nervous schoolboy when I entered, and I instinctively knew, by the pallor of his face, what he was about to say. There were actual tears in his eyes, and he held out his hands to me in a helpless gesture. I did not take them.
‘I am sorry, Dora, but the Queen has made it clear that she wishes me to do my duty and marry. The family has need of more legitimate heirs. There is only Charlotte, and you know that George has no intention of returning to Caroline. Frederick’s wife is barren. I am next in line. I have no choice.’
My knees gave way and I half collapsed into a chair, fearful I might be about to faint. William made no move to help me, but rather kept his distance, perhaps knowing I was not the kind of woman to give in to hysterics. I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, and my voice, when finally I found it, was barely above a whisper.
‘Then it is over between us?’
‘Sadly, yes, it is over.’
‘What of the Royal Marriages Act?’
‘George will grant his permission, as Regent.’
‘Of course.’ A slight pause while I digested this. ‘Do you have someone – a particular woman in mind?’
‘No.’
I knew that he lied. I’d heard the rumours. ‘I cannot believe you would put me through all this pain before you had even found my replacement.’
William too now found the need to sit, his fingers plucking at the buttons of his brocade coat in an agitated manner, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks. ‘Very well, I will confess that I have, although I was hoping to spare you more pain. There is a young lady, a Miss Tylney-Long.’
‘Ah, the heiress. I have heard of her. Then this is all about money, is it, Billy?’ I hadn’t called him by this pet name for months; now I saw that it cut him to the quick. He was on his feet in an instant.
‘It is about duty, Dora, as I have explained. Please do not make this any harder than it is already.’
I gave what might pass for a smile, a strange calmness coming over me that clearly unnerved him. ‘But a rich young heiress will serve your needs better than an old actress, eh?’
‘Don’t even think such a thing. Money is a factor, I will admit. You know full well the state of my debts. But my duty must come above all else.’
‘And what of the children? What is to happen to them?’
Perhaps he heard the fear in my voice, for he hastened to offer reassurance. ‘Nothing will happen to them. They will need to be told, of course, but I would not deprive you of your children, Dora, I swear it.’
I closed my eyes for a second, breathing deeply, striving to maintain my dignity. ‘Is there anything else you would like to say to me, William?’
‘No, that is all.’
‘Then would you please leave.’
He looked like a whipped dog, as if guilt were gnawing at his earlier confidence, reducing it to shreds of shame. He seemed quite unable to stem the emotion that was overwhelming him while I sat frozen with pain. Having informed me in his usual blunt, Jack-tar manner, was the reality of this callous announcement now slowly dawning on him?
A tear slid down my cheek which I was helpless to prevent, and he stepped quickly forward to take me by the shoulders. ‘I cannot leave you like this,’ he cried.
‘Go,’ I said, my throat choked with unshed tears. ‘I beg you to go now!’
As he softly closed the door behind him, the sound of his boots echoing on the stairs as he walked away, that’s when my sobs began.
Twenty-Eight
‘. . . trifling most cruelly with my feelings and unfortunate situation . . .’
After a sleepless night, the worst I could ever remember, I wrote letters the following morning as if nothing at all had changed. There was still work to be done, after all, if not more so than ever. For I must protect the dear children, and my income for their sake. I wrote to Covent Garden, who had offered me an engagement for the winter season, and there were other offers requiring my attention. When that was done, and leaving my breakfast untouched since I had no appetite, I climbed back into my carriage and set out for Bushy.
What a joy when I saw the children come running the moment my carriage turned into the drive, and the instant I climbed out they flung themselves into my arms. ‘Mama, Mama, you’re home,’ cried six-year-old Tus. His darling sisters too gathered round, eager for their own share of hugs. Eliza, at ten, was quite the young woman, but responded with warmth to my embrace. Augusta, or Ta as she liked to be called, was jumping up and down with the excitement of a two-year-old despite her eight years. Mely at four was looking slightly bewildered with her thumb in her mouth. Had she forgotten who I was during the long weeks of my absence? Tears filled my eyes at the thought. How much I had sacrificed for this man, and all out of love.
‘Oh, it is so lovely to be home,’ I cried, showering kisses upon them all, loving the feel of their small bodies against my aching heart. ‘You must tell me all your news, what you have been up to since last I saw you.’ When I thought of my own news I felt like crying, but was determined to put on a brave face in front of the children.
‘We’ve been planting trees around the dairy. Come and look, Mama, come and see,’ shouted Tus, quite beside himself with happiness.
‘Most of the soil seems to be in your hair,’ I said, laughing as I rumpled his fair curls. My children all looked slightly grubby from their play, but rosy-cheeked and thankfully in robust health and high spirits. ‘And how is dear Miss Sketchley?’
‘All the better for seeing you, Mistress,’ said that good lady, coming forward to offer her own welcome.
I clasped her hands in silent gratitude, but my eyes must have told her something of my inner turmoil, for she frowned, and putting an arm about my shoulders led me gently indoors.
‘Come, you must be tired after your journey. Food and rest first, I think.’ She was like a mother to me, and I was in dire need of one of those right now.
Fanny too had been helping to look after the dear children, and welcomed me in her typical off-hand manner. It felt so good to be back in the fold of my family. Did they not mean the world to me, and hadn’t the Duke promised that no one would take them away from me?
That night, after I had tucked them all into their beds, I did the rounds as I so liked to do, telling them stories and listening to their prayers.
‘God bless Mama, God bless Papa . . .’ they chimed, reciting all the family members one by one, not even leaving out their favourite pet dog.
Tears came readily to my eyes as I listened, deeply moved by their innocence, for how could I tell them that our lovely family was no more?