And Mr. Robinson argued, “The Theatre is no place for such a one as you, Mary. Educated, gently bred, from one of the first families of Bristol. Why chance a flirtation with fame when I offer you a lifetime of security and comfort? I will have five hundred pounds a year and am the sole heir to the fortune of my uncle, Thomas Harris,” he reminded us.
Mother invoked her litany: “What would your father say, child?”
Continually evoking Papa’s inevitable disapproval of a theatrical career, particularly when a future of comfortable domesticity was being presented as the rosy alternative, was my loving adversaries’ greatest weapon. They played upon my filial devotion as well as the guilt that would forever reside within my soul if I disobeyed his wishes.
“But don’t you see, I’m just like Papa,” I insisted weakly. “Is not my adventurous spirit, my willingness to risk all for what I so dearly desire to obtain more than anything in the world, a shoot from the same tree? Should that not weigh in the balance?”
“Tush, Mary, you’re sounding delirious.” Mother kissed my brow. “We’ll have no more of this silliness,” she whispered.
Mother and Mr. Robinson had worn down my resolve until I no longer had the strength to fight. Lamenting the inevitable sacrifice of my life’s ambition before the marital altar, weakened and vulnerable, and hourly reminded of my father’s vow, after several weeks of painful squabbling, I at last relented. The banns were to be rung thrice at St. Martin-in-the-Fields while I was yet lying on my bed of sickness, and the day was fixed for our marriage—the twelfth of April, 1773. I was then barely fifteen and a half years of age.
Yet during the three weeks between banns and vows, I remained plagued with regrets, and Mother was no less apprehensive. Despite having so zealously pushed the match, she felt the most severe discomfort at the thought of our approaching separation. Estranged from Father’s affections, she had treasured up all her fondest hopes in the continued society of an only daughter.
“Well, then, why not reside with us?” proposed Mr. Robinson. I was most astonished! What prospective bridegroom, so eager for matrimony, would make such an unusual request? And how might we afford this domestic arrangement, for I was certain we should be compelled to set up the most modest of establishments on a clerk’s salary.
But Mr. Robinson once more reminded us that his uncle’s gift of five hundred pounds a year would enable us to live quite well. “Besides, Mrs. Darby, your daughter is too young and inexperienced to be charged with superintending domestic concerns on her own.” I sensed his fear that if mother and daughter should be separated, the cub too soon snatched from the bosom of the lioness, that the entire plan might collapse.
Mother agreed with alacrity to the arrangement, and I readily consented as well, seeing as I had not been eager from the first to join my hands with Mr. Robinson’s. Plans for a simple ceremony proceeded apace until not too many days later…
“I should like to keep the marriage a secret!” Mr. Robinson was filled with agitation, coming right to the point without preliminaries. He had rushed into our salon during my daily exercise, a constitutional that consisted of walking from one side of the room to the other until I grew well enough to take the air again.
Astonished to the core, I grew lightheaded and felt my stomach plummet, nearly doubling over. I grasped the arm of a chair to prevent my sinking to the floor. This was an odd demand indeed! “But why? Why did you not tell us this from the outset?”
Mr. Robinson’s face colored from rose to crimson and back again. “Two reasons,” he stammered, and I silently wondered what he had to hide. “The first is that I still have three months to serve before my articles to Misters Vernon and Elderton expire….”
“And the second?” I rang a little silver bell, which since my illness Mother had instructed me to carry in a pocket, in case I should need assistance. I most assuredly required it now.
Mr. Robinson cleared his throat. “There is a young lady—”
“A what?” exclaimed my mother on entering my sickroom.
“You must hear this,” I told her anxiously. “Tell my mother, Mr. Robinson, what you just broke to me.”
My suitor paled. “Madam, there is a young lady who entertains the hope of forming a matrimonial union with me.” Mother’s upper lip began to tremble. “Let me hasten to assure you that the attachment is purely on her side—an affection cherished solely on the lady’s part. I am particularly averse to such a marriage. But in three months’ time, when I shall attain my majority, my independence will be entirely my own, placing me beyond the control of any person whatsoever.”
Curiosity gained the advantage of me. “Who is this young lady, pray?”
But Mother would not permit me to press Mr. Robinson further, claiming that my frail condition should not withstand such undue agitation. A gentleman’s word was his bond, and that was good enough for her.
“Well, then, let us postpone our nuptials until that happy date when you are free from encumbrances,” I proposed. “I am still too weak to present a pretty picture at the altar, and you are right to think me too young and green to shoulder the cares and responsibilities of running a household.” My reasons were genuine, but even more to the point, I felt an instinctive repugnance at the thought of anything clandestine, anticipating in my mind a thousand ill
