“I’m quite surprised, you know,” Miss Farren continued. “Their Majesties much prefer Covent Garden to Drury Lane.”
“And why should that be?” I had demanded, fiercely proud of our company, and wondering whether Miss Farren was just as loyal.
“Why, Covent Garden is managed by a staunch Tory—and everyone knows Mr. Sheridan’s political bent leans most decidedly for the Whigs. And it’s common knowledge that King George and Queen Charlotte, no matter how proper she is, and how little she appreciates entertainments that do not uplift the general moral tone, prefer the popular contemporary comedies to Shakespeare. I should wonder at His Majesty’s selection of Florizel and Perdita.”
She was trying to unnerve me then, and I own she was having some success. I had never performed before the royal family, though I had frequently played the part, with more than one actress, including Miss Farren, in the supporting role of Hermione.
I could not sleep a wink during the night that preceded the command performance. Poor little Maria Elizabeth was fussy with toothache and I spent half the night awake with her and rubbing her gums with brandy to soothe her pain. At least her discomfort distracted my mind from all thoughts of mortification before Their Majesties.
Yet as soon as I departed for the theatre in the morning, I could fix upon nothing else. As I picked my way through the rutted streets of Soho, muttering aloud to myself—I was running my speeches—the coterie of admirers tracing my steps must have thought me a madwoman. For the next week there would doubtless be legions of women dashing about the streets of London talking aloud to themselves!
The mood behind the scenes at Drury Lane was no less enervated. The actors could talk of nothing but the performance, fearful they might not be up to the task though they’d played their roles a hundred times, and eager beyond all measure that the royal party should single them out for their merits. The backstage warrens, from corridors to dressing rooms, received a thorough scouring, personal items deemed a bit too personal were removed from dressing tables, and the front of the house—from the uppermost boxes to the benches in the pit—was attacked by an army of charwomen, who swept and scrubbed and dusted the walls, chairs, and floors as though their very lives depended on its cleanliness.
Because I had neither the clout nor the salary to have my own costumes constructed, I relied upon the company’s vast wardrobe. Yet since I was playing a principal role, I had the right to select my own garments. Rather than choose the usual pastel confection, which I deemed unbefitting a girl who has spent a lifetime as a lowly shepherdess, I decided to present a more rustic prospect. Evidently, I had chosen well, for dear Mr. Smith, our Leontes—an actor whose gentlemanly manners and enlightened conversation rendered him a credit to our profession—applauded upon seeing me in my fitted red peasant jacket, my hair ornamented with matching ribbands that danced fetchingly when I moved about. “By Jove, Mrs. Robinson, you will make a conquest of the prince, for tonight you look handsomer than ever!”
I blushed and twirled a bit. Though outwardly it may have seemed bravado, it was all a screen to mask my anxieties that I should not be adequate to the task ahead of me, for in Mr. Garrick’s script, Perdita is the most important role.
Finally—the spectacle commenced. Their Majesties were seated in their box, just above stage right, with His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, ensconced in his own box, just across the pit, from which he had quite a clear view of the performers waiting in the opposite wings. “He marks you!” whispered Mr. Smith in my ear. “Look how he marks you!”
Mrs. Hartley, who was playing Hermione, nudged me smartly in the ribs. “It’s true. His Highness is far more interested in our conversation than the one taking place onstage. He has not taken his eyes off you.”
I pretended not to look, but out of the corner of my eye, I could most certainly see the prince observing me through his quizzing glass. “And I have not even made my first entrance,” I murmured to Mrs. Hartley. “Hallo, we have company,” I added, noticing a short, stout buck but a few feet away, whose rose-colored coat and heels complemented his floridly hued cheeks.
It was not unusual for men of quality to linger in the wings with us, and even engage us in conversation between our entrances. After all, with the audience as illuminated as the actors, most theatergoers behaved as though they were attending a ridotto, paying far more attention to one another than to the entertainment—but I had not seen this man before. “He’s not a regular,” Mrs. Hartley said. “Probably with the prince’s party. He looks to me to be the proper vintage.”
Just then, Mr. Ford, the manager’s son, led the pink-tinted gentleman to where I stood with Mrs. Hartley and made the introductions. “Mrs. Robinson, allow me to present you George Capel, Viscount Malden.”
I curtsied respectfully. “A pleasure, sir.” Such encounters wreaked havoc on one’s concentration but did wonders for enlarging one’s social sphere. “I hope you are enjoying our play.”
“I will enjoy it all the more when you step out upon the boards,” he said, smiling broadly. His teeth were quite tobacco-stained. “Tell me, do you enjoy your profession?”
I noticed that the prince was intently observing our tête-à-tête; he had not marked a word of what was transpiring onstage in Bohemia. “It is everything I have ever aspired to,” I told the viscount. “I have desired nothing else all my life.”
The nobleman raised his lorgnette. Pretending to scrutinize me as though I were a scientific specimen or circus oddity, he replied, “Not so very long a life, though.”
I smiled. “I am just twenty-two, your lordship.” Suddenly, I felt dreadfully ancient. I guessed that Malden was
