That evening I wept as I confessed the whole truth to my mother. She had never seen me cry, save for when Papa had left, and later when we’d learned of his death. But this was grief of a different sort. I wept for my lost innocence, for the seed Daly had planted in my body which would mature in the fullness of time, and for the terror of prison. The words spilled out, the whole sordid tale, for I could keep the secret no longer.
To her credit Mama did not castigate me. She was a woman of the world and knew well enough the fragility of our situation, as well as the lot of young actresses. She put her arms about me and held me close to the warmth of her motherly breast. ‘Do not fret, child. We shall never allow him to use you thus again.’
‘How can I stop him? He is no gentleman, for all his fine dandified ways and fancy education. He is a tyrant, a bully. And now, because I have refused to obey his orders any more, following his further recourse to violence upon me, he has threatened me with arrest. There is nothing to be done.’
But I had greatly underestimated my mother. Grace Phillips, the woman who had run from home to join a theatre, and then married against the wishes of her bridegroom’s family, was no feeble-minded weakling. She was a woman of pride, ambition and great courage. Now, with commendable composure, she considered our options.
‘Your father’s Irish family will be of no use to us. My erstwhile mother-in-law made it very clear when she handed me that not particularly generous legacy from your father’s estate for the boys, there would be no further help from that quarter. And we can ask nothing more of dear Cousin Blanche. She would offer you a home, without doubt, where you could safely have the baby. But there is no hope of employment in South Wales. No theatre within miles. Nevertheless, we must leave.’
I stared at her, slightly bemused by all this reasoning. ‘Leave? How can we leave? You have already said there is nowhere for us to go.’ I, not unnaturally, was in such distress that I could no longer think clearly.
She patted my hand. ‘I still have contacts, friends in the theatre world. We will go to my sister in Leeds. Maria is with the Tate Wilkinson company there. I worked with him many years ago, played Desdemona to his Othello in 1758 at the Smock Alley, under the management of Thomas Sheridan. Tate is a most generous-hearted man, I’m sure he will agree to give you a trial.’
Hope fired in my breast, a fragile spark of belief that perhaps I had a future, after all. ‘Do you think he might take me on?’
‘We can but hope, and are you not a far more experienced actress than you were two years ago? Make no mistake,’ Mama reiterated, ‘your dear Aunt Maria will also help us. Now hurry, we must gather our few possessions together and leave at once. First thing tomorrow we will take passage to Liverpool and make our way across country, walking if necessary, to Yorkshire.’
‘Across the Pennine hills? But Mama, you could never manage to walk so far.’
‘I would walk across the fires of hell if that were necessary to save you, Dolly,’ and she kissed me, the most loving mother in the world.
I was overwhelmed by the suddenness of this decision, and by her determination. Yet bemused as I was, and ever practical, I continued to seek out problems and difficulties. ‘I should collect my wages. We cannot leave without money.’
She frowned a little at that, but then shrugged it away. ‘That is unfortunate, but we cannot risk asking for wages. In any case, what difference will a few more shillings make? We must make do with what I have saved in my purse.’
‘And all my costumes are in the dressing room at the theatre. I cannot possibly go without them! I have spent a small fortune, and Hester many hours on stitching them.’
‘Then you will both have to start afresh. We cannot risk your going back merely for costumes, dearest. Were Daly to guess what we are about, he would have you arrested this very night. Now call George and Hester! There is no time to be lost. We take only what we can carry and leave.’
So it was that early the following morning we boarded a ship bound for Liverpool, albeit with mixed feelings. Delighted as I was to escape Daly’s control, the question of the debt remained worryingly unresolved.
Five
‘. . . the exquisite and plaintive melody of her voice’
We arrived in Leeds on a wet day in early July 1782 after a gruelling journey across country. We’d begged whatever lifts we could, but walked far too many of the hundred or so miles from Liverpool, taking the better part of a month to do it. I had spent a deal of time throwing up in ditches, where we’d generally spent the night. I was sick to my stomach with fear of being followed, as well as from the effects of my pregnancy. Footsore and weary, Mama alone was in high spirits. She had astonished me by her unflagging zeal, and entertained us through the long miles with yet more anecdotes of theatre life, most of which we had heard many times before. But she did also fill us in on Tate Wilkinson.
‘He’s the son of a Doctor of Divinity who was once chaplain to Frederick, the previous Prince of Wales. Sadly, as Tate’s father went on to solemnize marriages in defiance of the Royal Marriages Act, the poor man was sentenced to transportation to America.’
‘What on earth is the Royal Marriages Act?’ I asked.
‘It was brought in by George III in 1772 to ensure that royal princes and princesses marry appropriately, with the King’s consent. His Majesty disapproved strongly of some of his brothers’ marriages and concluded greater control was needed so that the dignity of the monarchy could be preserved. Which means they are only permitted to marry ugly foreign princesses instead of lovely young actresses.’ And we both laughed, not for a moment thinking that this very act might one day impinge upon my own life.
‘I believe Tate’s father died at Plymouth before the ship had barely left port. Tate himself, however, you will find a most charming man, and well educated, having been a pupil at Harrow School.’
‘Then what on earth made him choose the theatre as a career?’ I felt compelled to ask the inevitable question, my earlier hope in my own new career now rapidly fading as I grew increasingly weary.
‘Because in spite of all the social prejudices against actors, he chose this most reviled profession so that he might indulge his love of mimicry. He is not the greatest actor in the world, and those he impersonates do not always take kindly to his shrewd observations of them, but he is a most polished and kindly gentleman.’
When we at last reached Leeds we found cheap lodgings and Mama quickly dispatched a note to Tate Wilkinson, requesting a meeting.
‘It will not be long now,’ she assured me. ‘I have every confidence he will take you on.’
I couldn’t stop blaming myself for the time I had wasted keeping my secret. Why had I not trusted my mother, instead of hiding behind my shame? Now I was worried that my condition, at four months gone, would damage my chances of being given even an audition.
‘Make no mention of this matter for now,’ Mama insisted, when I expressed this concern to her.
‘But that would be cheating,’ I protested.
She scoffed at this. ‘Actresses fall pregnant all the time. We will leave off mentioning you are increasing until he has seen the value of your work.’
The following day we received a note saying that Wilkinson would be happy to meet us at a local inn.
The moment he walked through the door I knew at once that I would like him. He was not handsome in any way, nor young, being in his middle years. He was short and rather stocky with an awkward gait. Mama had explained that he’d once fallen off stage and broken his leg, which had been set badly. But his round, homely face was wreathed in a broad smile, and his eyes twinkled most merrily.
‘What a happy chance to see you again, Grace,’ he cried, smacking a kiss on each cheek. ‘Not quite the waif-like Desdemona of yesteryear, but not unhandsome, no indeed, not unhandsome at all. In fact, bearing up better than most, I should say.’
My mother blushed delightfully at this flattery and quietly introduced George, Hester and me. I realized of a sudden we must look a sorry sight indeed: travel-stained, bone weary, and really rather shabby. I deeply regretted the loss of my basket of stage costumes, essential for any actress, and one I’d invested in heavily over the last two years. But afraid of alerting Daly’s attention, as he might then prevent our departure, I’d been forced to agree with Mama that we walk away with only the clothes on our backs. Nor did we have much money, and I saw at once that Wilkinson recognized our penurious state.
Dejected, miserable, close to tears, I was suddenly overwhelmed by shame and shyness. How foolishly naïve of me to imagine we could just up sticks, cross the Irish Sea and find a place in another company.
Genuinely delighted to see her old friend again, my mother was bubbling over with high spirits. Over-compensating for my gloom she at once began to sing my praises, painstakingly listing the productions in which I’d played the lead, emphasizing the good audiences, the well-received songs, even the benefit, leaving out any mention of the first failure. I listened in cringing silence, hating the fact that my brother and sister were witness to my embarrassment. I could sense Hester fidgeting beside me, jealous of the fact she was being overlooked.
‘Harrumph!’ Wilkinson muttered at last, also embarrassed by this outpouring of maternal pride and anxious to stop the flow. He appeared reluctant to take on the responsibility of an actress who looked so unprepossessing, and who could blame him? He turned to me at last and asked, ‘And what is your speciality: tragedy, comedy or opera?’
‘All,’ I said, too deeply depressed to be bothered to answer properly.
He looked astonished, eyebrows raised in some surprise. ‘Well, I should need to reflect on the matter most carefully.’ Upon this remark he quietly withdrew, presumably to think of some excuse to be rid of us, and I turned upon my parent in a fluster. ‘This was all a terrible mistake. How could you embarrass me so, Mama?’
‘Be calm, my dear. He is a fair man and has not yet given us his verdict.’
Nor did he immediately do so when finally he returned, bearing a bottle of Madeira and several glasses. He placed these on the table, then cleared his throat.
‘Normally, my response would be in the negative. I am most particular who I take on these days as business is not as brisk as it might be. But because of my fondness for you, Grace, my old friend, and the undoubted bond between us, I may well be prepared to offer your daughter a small part, just to try her out. That is, if I like what I hear, you understand?’
‘Oh, I do indeed, Tate, how very kind of you. That would be perfectly acceptable, would it not, Dora?’
I said nothing.
Mr Wilkinson smiled. ‘May I hear a sample of your work, my dear, so that I might taste the quality, as it were.’
My throat was so choked with emotion, shame and fear, that I could barely speak. ‘I would rather have a proper audition on the boards at some other time, if you please, sir.’
‘Ah, would you indeed? Well, I dare say that could be arranged.’ Picking up the bottle of Madeira he began to pour a little into each glass. ‘But since I am here, let us drink a toast to friendship and to old times.’
We each sipped our wine and soon he and Mama were laughing together as they shared memories of their youth. Mama regaled him with her own marital tale and he spoke fondly of his wife and five children. As the conversation moved back to their shared passion, the theatre, the wine was beginning to warm me, staving off the constant gnawing hunger we’d all endured these last weeks, and I began to relax a little and smile at some of their tales. George was asking questions about stage sets, and Hester urging him to say more about the famous actresses he’d met over the years. It was all most pleasant. Then he turned to me and again asked me to recite a few lines.
‘Choose something you know well. I’m not a harsh judge and will make all due allowances for the lack of a stage from which to project your voice.’
I caught Mama’s encouraging smile and as the Madeira had boosted my courage a little, I agreed. ‘Very well. I shall do a speech from
The Fair Penitent
.’
Nodding, he sat back, glass in hand, and listened most carefully as I recited the lines. When I stopped, there was a small silence. Not one of us dared speak, and I could hardly breathe. Even the volatile Hester had the sense to see that our family’s future rested on his answer, and held her silence.
At length Wilkinson spoke, addressing his remarks directly to my mother. ‘Have you tutored her, Grace?’
‘Not excessively so,’ she protested.
‘If you have, then you are to be congratulated. I am astonished by the exquisite and plaintive melody of her voice, her distinction of articulation, as well as her truth and sincerity of feeling.’
I actually gasped. Never had I been granted such high praise. It quite boosted my dull spirits. ‘If I can please you, the manager, then I should have no fear of pleasing an audience,’ I said. ‘And were I to achieve public favour then you would not find me ungrateful for the help you have afforded me. I would work hard for you, sir, always.’
Thinking I’d perhaps sounded a mite too full of myself before, I flushed a little as I tried to explain. ‘When I said earlier that I could do all, what I meant to say is that I have performed in all, although I prefer comedy, and the opera was of the comic variety.’
He nodded, dismissing my rudeness with a wave of his hand. ‘My only concern is that in all honesty I can only pay you fifteen shillings a week, hardly enough to keep the entire family.’
Mama hastened to say how that was of no account, as if we had no need of money; that George too could sing and would willingly help backstage. ‘And Hester could play small parts and help with costume, would you not, my dear?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, eyes bright with hope.
Wilkinson seemed reasonably satisfied with this, and offered me the part of Calista in the very play from which I had quoted, the very next Thursday. ‘To be followed by the role of Lucy in
The Virgin Unmasked
.’