Free The Duchess of Drury Lane by Freda Lightfoot Page B

William in a rustic operetta, Rosina . The theatre was sold out.
    The Scandal Club, as Wilkinson called it, was once again in action at Sheffield a year later in 1783. By this time Mrs Smith had a new ally in a Mrs Ward, who had recently joined the company, her husband being in the orchestra. There was also a Mrs Robinson who loved to show off her neat and graceful figure, resenting the fact that I captured all the breeches parts, that rare opportunity for an actress to reveal her legs. The venom of those three women soon spread, and they would huddle together at the open stage door, or in the wings like the witches in Macbeth, chattering in loud voices in an attempt to disconcert me and put me off my lines.
    Sometimes I would play them at their own game, and creep on stage with an air of great distress, as if bravely battling against tears. At this sad sight the audience would exclaim in horror, wondering what on earth might be the matter. Was I hurt, had something dreadful happened to my child? But my friends would send round a whisper explaining the mischief being done to me by my fellow actresses, and they would sigh crossly, and warm to me in sympathy.
    I am not called a good actress for nothing.
    In the end, Wilkinson grew so irritated by their behaviour that he had all the doors locked to confine the coven in their proper place, which put an end to the ploy, or so I hoped.
    That winter Mrs Smith and her husband held a benefit, and I made what I thought to be a kind offer. ‘Is it not time that we ended this foolish vendetta? I am more than willing to offer my services in your benefit, if it would help.’
    ‘I’m sure we can manage well enough without digging in the gutter,’ Mrs Smith snapped.
    ‘Ladies, ladies,’ said Wilkinson, quietly attempting to placate everyone. ‘I’m sure Mrs Jordan means well, and you must have some other actor on stage with you, so let it be she. It can do no harm.’
    The house was a good one, and I believed my own part in the production helped to contribute to the large sum pocketed by the Smiths.
    The lady herself was less grateful. ‘I’m sure we did well enough, although I’m certain we’d have done better had Mrs Jordan not been the fly in the ointment.’
    Fortunately, not everyone behaved in this manner towards me. There was in the company a fine young man by the name of George, who was the stepson of Elizabeth Inchbald, an actress of note. And to him, I tremble to admit, I gave my heart.

Eight
‘Mrs Jordan had better remain where she is and not attempt the London boards’
    Hester had made her first appearance at Leeds not too long after my own, and it was she who now used the name of Miss Francis. She’d begun with a simple song, progressing through various small parts until almost two years later she was playing roles such as Polly in A Beggar on Horseback , and Juliet in Measure for Measure . My versatile young brother would happily perform walk-on parts as a messenger or halberdier. Very occasionally he would join me in a duet, as he had a fine voice. George added little to the family coffers from his efforts, but dreamed of playing comic opera one day, so was content to serve his apprenticeship in any way he could. Mama, of course, was kept busy looking after Fanny.
    On stage I enjoyed the attention of many admirers, including a Member of Parliament who was apparently a close acquaintance of the Prince of Wales. He would sit in his box ogling me night after night, and then come backstage hoping to entice me to dine with him. I always refused, paying him no heed, as George Inchbald was the one I liked to think of as my new beau. George generally played the male lead, and he and I had performed many a ‘love scene’ together on stage. Rumour was rife in the green room that these were also taking place offstage. Sadly for me this was not at all the case, although there was an undoubted attraction between us which even my sister remarked upon.
    ‘I see you have