My life was becoming quite fantastic and gay. I was stopped in the street wherever I went by people eager to meet me. They would follow me into the shops and note what I purchased. Those with the funds to do so endeavored to copy what I wore, no matter how grand or outlandish. But two seasons on the stage and already I was becoming a celebrity!
My home had become a salon. “Can you imagine, my morning levees are as well attended as the queen’s,” I crowed to Georgiana. “They’re so crowded I can scarcely find a quiet hour for studying my roles or playing at jacks or dolls with Maria. My house is perpetually thronged with visitors!”
Having enjoyed her patronage on two occasions, I had begun to move on the fringes of Her Grace’s social circles, content to bask in the warmth of her reflected effulgence. Through the duchess, I was introduced to a number of the nation’s brightest luminaries, from the wellborn to the well-read, nobles and nabobs, poets and politicians, including the rising Whig firebrand Charles James Fox. Sheridan, too, was a prominent member of the Devonshire House set. This circle was known throughout London for their Whig sensibilities as well as their peculiar way of speaking to each other—a sort of precious, haute ton baby talk, where their Rs and Ls were transformed by the tongue into Ws—a tic I promised myself never to adopt no matter how “cwose” I “gwew” to “Her Gwace,” the “pwetty wittle” duchess and her clique.
Yet this ascendance in society came at a steep price for one so situated as I. My salary—though better than modest, owing to my popularity on the boards—was at times inadequate to the expenses incurred by our having such an enlarged acquaintance, some of whom were connexions that Mr. Robinson had formed since my appearance on the dramatic scene. His passion for gaming was now boundless; card parties could last through the night or go on for several days, and an entire fortune could easily be lost in a single trick. I detested the gaming even more than his other passions, reserving for cards a special brand of vehemence, but I was powerless to halt his play and forestall his losses. The bond creditors became so clamorous that the entire proceeds of my benefits were appropriated to their demands.
Still, my popularity increased every night that I appeared on the stage, and my prospects—both of fame and affluence—began to brighten. Even off the stage, I gained attention. I loved to visit the pleasure gardens after a performance still attired in my costumes, causing a scandal whenever I appeared in my breeches.
My quill brought me notoriety as well. In 1778, following my benefit performance as Lady Macbeth, the afterpiece, an operatic farce titled The Lucky Escape, was penned by me. At the bookstores in Paternoster Row, and all along the Strand, copies of the libretto were available for a few shillings, and sold as quickly as did the tickets to my performances. I had found another avenue through which to fill my perennially empty purse.
In proportion, as play obtained its influence over my husband’s mind, his small portion of remaining regard for me visibly decayed. He let separate quarters in Covent Garden, nearly adjacent to our marital residence, where he entertained his acquaintances, since I would certainly not conscience his bringing his tarts into my home, particularly where they might be seen by our daughter, now four years old. Though I did not edit my own guest lists for Maria’s sake, Mr. Robinson’s were most definitely of an unsuitable caliber for the prying eyes and curious ears of a small child.
Mr. Sheridan was still my most esteemed of friends, and his concern for my welfare was always so kindly and solicitous that it was almost paternal. One afternoon, when we two alone sat in my front parlor, the dramatist drew up his chair and pressed my hands in his. My heart began to thrum wildly, for I feared he was about to make some sort of declaration, and though I had such regard for him—his fine mind, pleasing face, and rather tolerable figure, made all the more attractive by his ever-gentle attentiveness to me—he was nonetheless my employer.
“If you will listen to no other, you must hear it from my lips,” Sheridan began. His eyes imparted the utmost sincerity. “I know that we often travel in the same social spheres, but I fear that you are flying too close to the sun, and its heat can only destroy you. It gives me great distress to see you turning profligate.” His expression was so earnest, I found myself near to tears. “Mary, you can ill afford it on every level. After the performances, you frequently attend masquerades and ridottos, when you might be studying your parts or getting a good night’s sleep—especially when you have a rehearsal the following morning and a premiere that same evening. Your every penny is spent on horses, ponies, a phaeton, your clothes and accoutrements—and the more you part with, the more you will need to fill your purse again. You can never hope to catch up with your creditors this way. I know you are thick with the duchess, but you have not Her Grace’s income. And I fear you are chasing the fashions—and devoting your energies to questionable liaisons—at the expense of your dramatic reputation.”
At this I bristled. “I already have a father, sir, who felt it his office to scold and condemn me even before I set one kidskin slipper on the stage.” The man before me was not the Sheridan I had near to fallen in love with, not the man whose brilliant conversation never failed to fascinate me and whose charm was near irresistible. Where was his usual solicitousness for my regard? Instead of kindness, I received a tongue-lashing.
“Are you jealous?” I laughed, struck
