Another thought struck me. During this period, my debut on the stage had been put off so many times that Mr. Garrick had become impatient. Now that George was recovered and I was out of danger, he desired my mother to allow him to fix the night. Garrick had not yet been informed that I had been worn down into relinquishing my dream; however, Mr. Robinson’s stunning request for secrecy rang a warning bell and set me to reconsider my too-hasty acquiescence. And I saw opportunity lurking. Now I wavered, telling Mr. Robinson, “Well, then, sir, if you expect me to consent to a clandestine marriage, then I see no reason not to pursue my own ambition. Mr. Garrick has placed his faith in my abilities, and not only do I wish to tread the boards, but I must see that my family and I will be provided for in any eventuality.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Mary,” my mother admonished.
“I’m being practical, Mother. Papa no longer supports us. Your income from copying cannot alone sustain our household. I am willing to assume the obligation of breadwinner out of necessity as well as from the duty a child owes to the parent who has raised her.”
Naturally, both Mother and Mr. Robinson pressed me to abandon my folly. Thomas would not have his wife nightly subjected to the lascivious leers and the lecherous kisses and gropings of my person in the names of Thalia and Melpomene.
“And,” added Mr. Robinson, “imagine if we were to let you have it your way. For the sake of argument, should you indeed assay a life upon the stage and then evince a wish to marry sometime later, name me another man who would permit you to bring your mother along as well.”
For three days was I perpetually tormented on the subject. So ridiculed was I for having permitted the banns to be published and only afterward hesitating to fulfill my contract—though I had assented in the height of fever and before Mr. Robinson had surprised us with his wish to keep the union a secret—that worn down with carping and exhaustion, I relented once more. Unscarred and with my looks intact, I had survived the deadly disease; some might have looked upon my luck as a sign from the Almighty to pursue my fondest desire. Instead, with heart and spirit crushed I gave up all plans for the Theatre and was married, as originally planned, on April 12, 1773, more than seven months shy of my sixteenth birthday. In legal parlance, I was still an “infant.” Only three months before I became a wife I had played with waxen dolls, and such was my dislike of a matrimonial alliance that the only circumstance that induced me to marry was that of being able to reside with my mother, and to live separated, at least for some time, from my husband. Tom would remain at the Southampton Buildings until the completion of his clerkship for Mr. Vernon.
“I vow I have never before performed the marriage ceremony for so young a bride,” remarked Dr. Saunders, the venerable vicar of St. Martin’s. To say that the ceremony was without fanfare is to indulge in understatement. The clerk stood in for my father, who had consented in absentia to the match. As a witness, we had Mrs. Wages, the woman who opened up the pews. Even my wedding ensemble was simplicity itself: I was dressed in the habit of a Quaker—a society to which, in early youth, I was particularly partial, for their freethinking ways.
The wedding breakfast, hosted by a female friend of my mother’s, was, however, a sumptuous spread, and at that groaning board I greeted our guests in a gown of white muslin, a chip hat adorned with white ribbands, a white sarcenet scarf-cloak, and satin slippers embroidered with silver threads.
After this lively celebration, the three of us set out for the first stop on what was to be our honeymoon: the inn at the aptly named Maidenhead Bridge. Mr. Robinson and I rode in his high-wheeled phaeton, while Mother followed in a post chaise.
But I knew not the sensation of any sentiment beyond that of esteem. I was not “in love” with Thomas Robinson. Love was still a stranger to my bosom. When I’d knelt before the gilded altar, try as I might to put it behind me, my mind was filled with the unutterable despair of a lost love. I was imagining myself on the stage at Drury Lane even while I was pronouncing my marriage vow and throwing myself into the role of Wife. I had been close enough to taste the full measure of a life of glamour and independence, with the words of Shakespeare on my lips and thousands of admirers at my feet. A natural-born bluestocking, I’d had my nose in enough books, tracts, and treatises to know that by marriage, the very being, or legal existence, of a woman was suspended—women being considered “children of a larger growth.” Now, as “Mrs. Robinson” clad in virgin white, not only was I still a child, I was chattel. I didn’t know nearly enough to play the part that was now demanded of me.
Act Two
Marriage Vows as False as Dicers’ Oaths
Eight
Caught Out
1773…age fifteen
On our return from my ten-day honeymoon, a house in Great Queen Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, was hired for Mother and me, whilst Mr. Robinson continued to reside at the house of Messrs. Vernon
