Sheridan’s piercing gaze trumped his discomfiture. “It is the talk of every coffeehouse—not to mention the Green Room—that these days you are squired about by Sir John Lade, the brewer’s son.”
“Sir John is a most amiable gentleman—and more frequently appears at my husband’s gaming tables than as my chaperone—but what of it, Mr. Sheridan? I find the brewery baronet amusing—and he and I are of the same young vintage. Confidentially,” I added, leaning toward him and lowering my voice to a whisper, “Sir John is a most dreadful card player. Though my husband plays far more deeply than is discreet, we should never have afforded my new vis-à-vis were it not for Sir John’s appalling luck at the faro tables! It appears to me that you would deny me not only my pretty little carriage, but my popularity, Mr. Sheridan, even as you advance it, and even as it increases the company’s coffers.”
The dear man looked wounded by my words and I instantly wished that I might have taken them back, erased them from the air that had borne them from my lips to his ears.
“You know, I am quite confounded myself by all the attention I now derive, from the highborn to the low. It is not merely the honest Sir John Lades or the unprincipled Lytteltons who pay court to me. The Duke of Rutland is not the only one eager to buy what I have. Now—imagine this, Richard. Tuesday last I was trying on a yellow bonnet at a milliner’s near Covent Garden market. No—first I must tell you that a coterie of women, both old and young, must have been camping underneath my window for hours, for they followed my footsteps like ducklings, and the moment I stepped inside the shop, they did the same. All during my brief walk, I could overhear them commenting to one another on my gown, my shoes, my parasol—wondering where I had purchased the trimmings that they might do the same, who my modiste was—even the color of my hair was roundly discussed.
“And no sooner did I settle upon that bonnet, which quite resembled a lemon meringue tart, only got up with pale green ribbons at the chin, and the shopkeeper extended me the credit of the house for it, than did every single duckling ask for the very same confection, that they might copy Mrs. Robinson’s taste! Nowadays, should I wish to slip out of the theatre unnoticed after a performance and enjoy an hour of blissful anonymity, I need not contrive a disguise, for there are easily a dozen women in the audience who are wearing nearly the same ensemble I did when I entered my dressing room.” With a hearty laugh, I said, “I cannot tell you how amused I have become by such flattery. Truly, I am tickled by it all.”
Sheridan frowned. With the gentlest anxiety, he cautioned me to beware these sycophants. “You are on every side surrounded by temptations,” he said, with a wave of his hand that encompassed the little luxuries I had accumulated—gilded candelabra and porcelain figurines—trophies all acquired on credit or from my husband’s occasional winnings on the field of green baize. “My dear Mary…you are still so—dare I voice this—ignorant…in many respects…to the ways of the world. With the Rutlands, it is easy to see that no one offers something for nothing. But with other species of flatterer, their motives are obscured and by the time you have sussed out their intentions, it may be too late to salvage your reputation.” He took my hand and held it until I felt the warmth from his palm penetrate my own. “Dear child, I watch you move through the world and I fear that you are destined to be deceived, particularly if you choose the path of greatest temptation. You have within you the makings of a fine artist. If this is your dream, then let your popularity soar because the public clamors for your theatrical talent—and not because they have conspired with you to manufacture a celebrity. For one is your eternal gift from God and Mr. Garrick; and the other, a matter of public taste beyond your control, as fickle as vows made in wine.”
I shook my head and blinked back a tear. I did not wish to believe him.
Sixteen
Enter Prince Florizel, Stage Left
1779…just past my twenty-second birthday
On December 3, 1779, Londoners might have perused any one of the morning papers, of which there numbered over a dozen at the time, and read the following item amid the theatrical announcements:
Drury Lane,
By Command of their Majesties
The sixth time these ten years
At the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane
This Day will be presented
The Winter’s Tale
(altered by Garrick from Shakespeare)
So altered, in fact, was this production that Garrick had the title published under the name Florizel and Perdita, for the entire crux of my mentor’s tale was the relationship between the lost princess raised as a lowly shepherdess, and the son of her father’s greatest rival. And it was as Florizel and Perdita that we theatricals referred to the play backstage at Drury Lane.
I confess I felt a most strange degree of alarm when just two days prior my name was announced to perform the role of Perdita. When I curtsied deeply to Mr. Sheridan to thank him for such an honor, it was all I could do to rise to my feet with any semblance of steadiness.
Miss Farren had been the first to offer me a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, Mary. The Perdita for Their Royal Majesties. Such an honor does not make you tremble, does it?”
Such solicitude! No doubt she wished me to tremble so mightily that I should have to be replaced in the role by none other than herself. And if the encomium
