Free The Duchess of Drury Lane by Freda Lightfoot

was finally revealed. When I was done, he leapt to his feet in a rage.
    ‘The man is a scoundrel and shall be dealt with most forcefully. He must not be allowed to destroy either your career or your life. I will settle the debt myself.’
    I gasped. ‘Oh, but I could never ask such a thing.’
    ‘You have not asked it of me, I offer the service most willingly. I am a man of means and can easily afford such a trifling sum. You have become like an adopted daughter to me and if by this small service you can be free of that charlatan, it would be a small price to pay.’
    And so my debts were generously settled by my new friend, with no return favours attached, and I was at last free of Richard Daly.
    As we progressed across Yorkshire, putting on our productions in venues large and small, I continued to study hard, to observe my fellow actors closely. I was eager to learn from their greater skills. It was, of course, the same old story. They did not welcome the presence of a new rival in their midst, competing for the best parts. I soon recognized that the other women were wary and resentful of me, in case I should prove to be more successful than themselves.
    ‘Who is this Mrs Jordan?’ they would whisper to each other behind their hands. ‘Where did she come from, and why has she risen so quickly to be granted such excellent parts?’
    They would scrutinize my every performance, and be quick to point out any perceived mistakes.
    My greatest rival and sternest critic was a Mrs Smith (no relation to Gentleman Smith). Until my arrival she had played all the comedy leads. For this reason, and because she was well connected, the lady thought rather well of herself. And she too was pregnant. The difference between us being that her circumstances were somewhat more comfortable than my own, since she was in the happy position of having a husband.
    There was precious little in the way of privacy in the claustrophobic little village halls, old barns and inns in which we often performed, and changing behind a blanket strung up on a washing line was often the best we could manage. Mrs Smith would frequently take the opportunity to express her opinions to her friends in strident tones, knowing I could hear every word, as, with Hester’s help, I prepared to go on.
    ‘Are we ever to be graced with the presence of Mr Jordan, I wonder?’ she would loudly proclaim to fellow cast members, who quietly tittered at her daring. ‘Does he in fact even exist, or is the Mrs merely a courtesy title?’ Her caustic laugh rang out. ‘I doubt that is a courtesy baby she carries in her belly. More likely a bastard.’
    ‘Enough gossip, ladies. Five minutes to opening,’ I heard Wilkinson say as I froze, mortified with embarrassment. He was ever coming to my rescue.
    Once on stage, of course, I easily put the jealous mutterings of my fellow cast members out of my head and concentrated on the character I was playing. It was of vital importance that I become that person, that she, or he, appear real to the audience. That only worked if I believed I was that character too.
    This was my big opportunity, and I meant to make the most of it.
    I certainly had no intention of being upset by the Mrs Smiths of this world. Hadn’t I endured far worse than malicious gossip in my short life? And no matter what I had suffered in the past I was determined to love this baby I carried below my heart, whether it be a bastard or no.
    ‘Pay her no heed,’ he assured me later. ‘I’ve made it clear that your marital status is none of her business.’
    As always I was grateful for his protection, but rather feared his intervention may have made matters worse, not better.
    We next toured Wakefield and Doncaster, planning to go on to Sheffield, but the undercurrent of jealousy continued to fester. The dreadful Mrs Smith was so anxious for me not to steal her roles of Lady Teazle and others, that as summer turned into autumn and she came close to her time, she clung