“Better remote and present than so remote he leaves you.”
“I disagree. I should be happy if my father should depart for the Americas, since he seems so fond of them. And my mother is the coldest fish in Christendom. In faith, I cannot recollect ever receiving a maternal embrace from her. Not so much as a tiny hug.”
With the back of my hand I caressed his downy cheek. “You poor darling. I would hug you often—and I promise it would not be at all maternal.”
The prince laughed and pressed my hand in his. “You don’t believe I’m so sheltered and neglected—why, look about you—this re-creation of a farm my father’s made of Kew. On the orders of His Majesty, old Farmer George himself, I have received more instruction on sheep shearing than statecraft. I can bake my own bread, but cannot discourse on the merits of a bill. I know far more about planting than about parliamentary procedure, and am more conversant on the needs of His Majesty’s cows than of his colonies.” He laughed—to me one of the most pleasant and appealing sounds in the world. “Perhaps that’s why I became so besotted with you in the guise of a milkmaid.”
He broke into a lively country tune, the music puncturing the silence of the night, entrancing my senses. He sang with such exquisite taste that even the rustic ballad sounded to my ears like more than mortal melody. A tear escaped my eye as I lamented the distance that destiny had placed between us. How would my soul have idolized such a husband! In my ardent enthusiasm, I had formed the wish that this noble being to whom partial millions were to look up to for protection was mine alone!
My rosy memories of stolen nights evanesced under Mr. Sheridan’s gaze. “I cannot say that I am not disappointed, Mrs. Robinson. But you know your own mind better than anyone else does. I do not hesitate to tell you I will regret the opportunities I have enjoyed these past four years to spend time in the company of a woman I am fond of and whose gifts I esteem. And the Theatre will be deprived of one of the brightest stars in its lofty firmament.”
“As of the first of June,” I said, tears welling in my eyes, for I would miss my Drury Lane family most dreadfully. I endeavored to rally my spirits and put a brave face on it all. “Until the thirty-first of May, I have no doubt, Mr. Sheridan, but you will come off well in the bargain when you advertise these next few weeks as Mrs. Robinson’s final performances—ever. Words can never express how grateful I am to you for giving me a chance upon the stage, for shepherding my career, and for so many kindnesses as a dear and considerate, compassionate friend.”
And then, no longer able to contain my sobs, I gathered up my skirts and fled the room, its aspect blurry through my bedewed eyes.
Sheridan did make the most of my final performances. With a wink to the audience, most of whom had avidly read all the reports of His Highness’s especial partiality toward me, and of his lavish gifts, including the jeweled portrait of himself that he had bestowed, my last role was in Lady Craven’s comedy The Miniature Picture, in the trouser part of Sir Harry Revel. I appeared in the comedic afterpiece that night as well, Garrick’s The Irish Widow. It seemed fitting that the last lines I should utter on the stage at Drury Lane had been penned by my precious mentor, that most gifted genius, who after a protracted illness, on the twentieth of January in 1779 had shuffled off his mortal coil and joined the Bard of Avon in Elysium. I had written a poetic elegy in memoriam; and now, as I paced the Green Room, waiting for my entrance in the afterpiece, it was all I could do to remember that I was about to play a comedy, so sorrowful was I at leaving the colleagues and friends with whom I had shared so much. “Oh joy to you all in full measure, so wishes and prays Widow Brady,” I said to them gallantly, choking back a sob as I quoted the last lines of my song as the title character.
Yet the effort to conceal the emotion I felt on quitting a profession I enthusiastically loved was of short duration, and I burst into tears the moment I stepped out on the stage, in full view of the entire audience. My regret at recollecting that I was treading for the last time the boards where I had so often received the most gratifying testimonies of public approbation, where mental exertion had been emboldened by private worth, that I was flying from a happy certainty to pursue, perhaps, the phantom of disappointment, nearly overwhelmed my faculties, and for some time deprived me of the power of articulation. I could not speak a single line. Through my bedewed eyes the faces of the eighteen hundred patrons became one enormous, colorful blur.
Fortunately, the person on the stage with me had to begin the scene, which allowed me time to collect myself. I confess that I went mechanically dull through the business of the rest of the evening, notwithstanding the cheering expressions and applause of the audience. I was several times near fainting—it was dreadfully hard to say farewell.
I wrote to the prince:
I am yours—unalterably yours. On your urging I have quit the profession you found too sordid for a maîtresse en titre to royalty. My nights are now yours as well.
I desire you beyond all measure, desire to see you at the soonest, His Highness replied, and an assignation was fixed for the small but lively inn on the little
