What a monumental task not to be distracted! I hurried through my lines, displeased with my efforts, and yet, owing to the proximity of the prince’s box—which was right above the stage—I could hear everything he uttered as clearly as I could hear my colleagues’ lines.
“Breathtaking! The beau ideal!” remarked the prince. I found myself torn between playing directly to him—was I supposed to do so?—and focusing on the other actors in the scene.
“The nonpareil of natural beauty! Such grace! Oh, Perdita!” he sighed, loud enough for all about to hear him. I stole a glance at His Highness’s countenance and read there an expression of sublime delight. Truly, he did seem transfixed by my person. I felt acutely embarrassed by such attentions, made all the greater only moments later, for now the entire house was gazing at the heir to the English throne gazing at me! I was overwhelmed with confusion. Was I expected to acknowledge His Highness’s approbation in some way? A glance? A smile? A curtsy? Certainly not a word—one did not speak to a member of the royal family unless most distinctly addressed. My thoughts were all a-jumble. Oh, dear. The ghost of my dear mentor Garrick would have my head in Shakespeare’s name if I did not make him proud and play my part to perfection!
Each time I would make an exit, there was Lord Malden in the wings, eager to resume our conversation. “The prince is quite taken with you,” he remarked.
“I am honored beyond all measure; but I know not how to respond,” I admitted.
“As he favors you, so you favor him,” said the courtier. “Smile for smile.”
Lord Malden said a thousand civil things to me between scenes, evoking everything from the weather to politely inquiring as to whether I had family in London, to queries about whether an actor’s mind was better honed than others’ brains, for how did we manage to cram so many lines and scenarios in our heads all at once without ever making a single mistake?
“Oh, we make mistakes from time to time,” I laughed. “One night last season our Mr. Smith began the play with the opening monologue from Richard III—you know, ‘Now is the winter of our discontent…,’ and he acquitted himself marvelously—but the company was performing King Lear that night! Confidentially”—I leaned toward the viscount until I was so close that I could smell the pomade on his wig—“I daresay the audience was so busy talking amongst themselves, as is their wont anyway, that I doubt they noticed the difference.”
I rallied my nerves to perform my final scene, and we actors took our bows. To my amazement, the royal family then rose from their seats, and with the greatest condescension that had us all starry-eyed with triumph, returned a bow to the performers! They had liked us! And—just as the curtain was falling, my eyes met those of the Prince of Wales. With a look that I shall never forget, he gently inclined his head a second time. I felt this compliment from the summit of my coiffure to the tips of my boots; it was as though the god Apollo had shone his light directly on me and I keenly sensed the glow travel through the very core of my being.
The royal family then descended from their boxes and crossed the stage as the actors were making their exit. I was headed for my sedan chair, which was always waiting for me outside the theatre, when I met the royal party in the wings.
Once more, the prince’s gaze met mine, and he honored me quite attentively with a very marked and low bow.
Their Royal Majesties stopped in their tracks and regarded their heir. In fact, it seemed to me then as though the entire assemblage drew in their breath as one and held it until His Royal Highness straightened his back again. My face was flushed, and not only from the exertions of a performance. I could feel my heart race within my breast, and had no desire to catch it.
The Prince of Wales! Me! What a time we had at my supper party that evening, back at my apartments. No one could speak of anything else but His Highness’s attentions to me.
“One never knows what might come of it,” said Mr. Smith.
Mrs. Hartley remarked, “Did you observe His Highness’s manners? Such grace! Such amiability! And such a genuine smile. Rather a nice-looking young man, wouldn’t you say, Mary? Tall, well formed—”
“Yes—he makes quite the dashing picture,” I agreed, fearful to act like a blushing schoolgirl in the presence of my professional colleagues, who had all seen and heard far more of the world than I had.
“Nell Gwyn’s eldest son was made a duke, you know,” said Mr. Smith with a wink.
“Oh, come, come now. It’s hardly a royal intrigue. His Highness merely bowed and smiled at me.”
“You’re such a green girl sometimes! He could not take his eyes off you during the entire performance—even when you weren’t on the stage. Everyone watched him watch you,” said Mrs. Hartley good-naturedly. She washed down a forkful of pheasant with several sips of claret. “I could have stood on my head and recited Virgil—if I knew any—and no one would have noticed.”
“They would if they’d gotten a gander at your legs, Mrs. Hartley,” chuckled Mr. Smith.
“I’m not certain whether that was a compliment, sir,” Mrs. Hartley replied, knowing full well that it was.
The following morning, Lord Malden paid me a visit. Mr. Robinson was not at home, having spent the entire night elsewhere, in the arms of some trollop, or wallowing in drink. My frequent admonishments to set a proper fatherly example for Maria fell on consistently deaf ears; I had come to realize there was no curing him of his vices. The domestic duties
