Thus, it was with the utmost trepidation, despite my every desire to realize my fondest dream, that I greeted Mr. Brereton and a tall man with regal bearing whom he introduced to me as Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, newly part-owner of Drury Lane, and a dramatist in his own right. Sheridan’s comedy of manners, The Rivals, a semi-autobiographical account of his own amorous shenanigans in Bath, had been performed to great acclaim.
Sheridan’s keenly intelligent eyes and lively wit immediately bespoke his Irish heritage, which I, too, claimed through my father’s ancestors. His manner was kindly and solicitous of my condition, and yet thoroughly professional when it came to matters of the theatre.
“I…I must change into something more proper,” I stammered, begging a hasty retreat.
“Your wardrobe is of no consequence,” replied Mr. Sheridan gently. He dismissed my appearance with a wave of his uncommonly delicate hand. “Your beauty and grace are apparent without the addition of silken flounced panniers. I should be gratified merely to hear you recite a bit. Something of Shakespeare, if you can recall it.”
Good heavens! How would I, who had but yesterday referred haltingly to Maria Elizabeth’s “little white…frilly head-cap-coverer,” when I simply meant to say the word “bonnet,” be able to navigate my tongue through the rills and rooks of Shakespeare’s rhymes?
Somehow I managed to recollect Juliet’s speech exhorting the heavens to “Gallop apace, you fiery steeds toward Phoebus’s lodgings” and bring my Romeo to me. It was not a phantom Romeo I thought of when I invoked him, but an image of the theatrical career I had so desperately coveted and might once again achieve, should fate and my judges so decide.
Messrs. Brereton and Sheridan quite approved of my Juliet. Then Mr. Sheridan, requesting something from a comedy, was impressed with my Rosalind and my Viola—trouser parts that I surmised would also suit me well, for my slender hips and long legs comprised just the sort of figure that was sought for these cross-dressing roles. Of course, in my present condition, though barely four months advanced at the time, my shape hardly resembled that of a stripling!
My recitation that morning did prove, however, to be an audition; for at the end of our interview, Mr. Sheridan invited me to attend upon him in the Green Room at Drury Lane. The date was fixed, and Mr. Robinson accompanied me on this appointment, where I was astounded to see my dear Mr. Garrick himself—come back from his retirement—to hear me recite the principal scenes of Juliet. Mr. Brereton was my Romeo, and Mr. Sheridan, in his bright red waistcoat, sat beside Mr. Garrick exchanging glances and whispers with my former mentor.
“Well, young lady, as the greedy undertaker once said, ‘Better late than never!’” Garrick quipped. “I have been waiting these past four years to see you make your debut, and my only regret in its lengthy postponement is that I can no longer be a Lear to your Cordelia.” Garrick nodded to Messrs. Sheridan and Brereton and said, “Juliet it will be, then! And I will coax this infirm body of mine out of bed every morning to coach her myself.”
“Oh, sir, you are kindness itself!” I fairly threw myself at his feet and hugged his knobby knees to my chest.
Garrick paternally patted my hair. “But I think we should not dally in fixing the opening night, for Mrs. Robinson’s own body will not wait on our rehearsals.”
The tenth of December, 1776, was to be the night. The broadsheets proclaimed simply that “a young lady” would mark her stage debut in the role of Juliet. My novice’s salary of two pounds a week proclaimed my own declaration of independence; if I was any good, I would rise within the company ranks and so would my earnings, perhaps one day topping the twenty-six pounds a week paid to Mrs. Yates, Drury Lane’s premier tragedienne. I was nineteen years old, and a little more than four months pregnant with my second child.
We engaged Dorcas to be Maria’s nanny, for Mr. Robinson could not be relied upon to superintend our daughter whilst I was at the theatre for rehearsals and performances.
I feared I should never master my nerves. As my dresser, Mrs. Armistead—who was far too flirtatious with the gentlemen for her own good—laced me into my gown of pale pink satin trimmed with crape, I had to grasp the back of a chair to keep my wobbly knees from knocking together. My fingers fiddled with the frock’s ornamental silver spangles.
When I entered the Green Room, it was filled with fashionable spectators there to wish me well, or to watch my debut from the wings. The Duchess of Devonshire stepped forward and presented me with a beribboned posy. Mr. Garrick himself kissed me upon each cheek and then left to take his place in the orchestra amid the critics—those discerning eyes whose pens would either eviscerate or ennoble me in the morning papers.
His uncannily lustrous eyes sparkling with excitement, Mr. Sheridan clasped me about the waist, careful not to muss my hair, nor the stage maquillage I had so carefully applied—the carmine, kohl, and alum paste that gave me the complexion of a china doll. “You look a picture, my dear. I am certain you will win their hearts tonight. Not
