And so am I, cried Perdita angrily. But what was the use of proclaiming it. She had become convinced that she was the daughter of Lord Northington. Otherwise why should she have been taken to visit him when she was a child? But of course it was the wrong side of the blanket and she had had to own Mr Darby as her father. Well, Cumberland hadmarried without the King’s consent – and although the lady was not received at Court she was married to the Duke and was a royal Duchess. The Duke of Gloucester had also married without the King’s consent – and Lady Waldegrave was illegitimate … and, it was whispered, a milliner’s daughter – yet that had not prevented her from becoming a royal Duchess either.
So … what of Mary Robinson? What of Perdita?
There was the Royal Marriage Bill which had been brought in not so long ago. And this was the Prince of Wales, the future King. Even Perdita did not believe she could become the Queen of England. Perhaps a morganatic marriage was the answer. She would be the Princess in the beautiful house he would provide for her and to it would come all the most noble and the most brilliant members of London society. And the Prince would adore her; they would have three butlers and six footmen and none of them would be hired!
It was a wonderful dream. It would not be the first time an actress had enslaved a monarch. The Prince was not that yet, but it would come. There had been Nell Gwyn who had enchanted Charles II and had kept her place in his affections from the moment he saw her until he died. Well, if she could not be the wife of the Prince – apart from his station there was also Mr Robinson, whom she had temporarily forgotten – she would be his cherished and respected mistress, for everyone knew that to be the mistress of a Prince or a King was no disgrace. It was an honour. It would bring the ton flocking to her doors; it would mean that the utmost respect was paid to her wherever she went. And her case would be different from that of Nell Gwyn, whom everyone knew was not a lady.
Luxurious thoughts. Was she wise to indulge in them after such a short meeting? Yes, she was certain of it. What a meeting! And everyone had declared that they had never seen the Prince so enamoured. Yes, this was certainly a beginning – from here she would go forward; she would forget everything that had happened to her before this night – all the doubts and fears, the horrors of existence with Mr Robinson, the great struggle which had brought her to where she was. Mary Robinson was finished; from her ashes had risen the fair Perdita.
But having started to think of the past she could not stop, and scenes which she would rather have forgotten kept coming into her mind, and she saw herself little Mary Darby going daily to school in Bristol and waiting for the return from the whaler on which he was employed, of the man who accepted her as his daughter.
From the first she had given herself airs. Perhaps she had been taught to. Her mother had been very proud of her, very anxious that she should be ‘a lady’.
Echoes of the over-refined voice: ‘Mary, sit up straight. Don’t slouch in your chair. Is that the way a lady would sit?’ ‘Now, Mary, go and wash your hands. Ladies always have clean hands.’
That had presented no difficulties. She had been very ready to sit up straight, wash her hands, do anything that a lady would do; for as long as she could remember Mary Darby had been determined to be a lady. She had known instinctively whether a dress required a blue or a red sash; she moved with grace; she dreamed fantastic dreams in which her father, some noble lord, came and claimed her and carried her away to his mansion and perhaps to Court. She had heard stories of the royal family, and it was all vitally interesting to her; she had longed to go to London and perhaps catch a glimpse of royalty and the great.
She was a romantic dreamer. She would build up legends about herself; it was
So … what of Mary Robinson? What of Perdita?
There was the Royal Marriage Bill which had been brought in not so long ago. And this was the Prince of Wales, the future King. Even Perdita did not believe she could become the Queen of England. Perhaps a morganatic marriage was the answer. She would be the Princess in the beautiful house he would provide for her and to it would come all the most noble and the most brilliant members of London society. And the Prince would adore her; they would have three butlers and six footmen and none of them would be hired!
It was a wonderful dream. It would not be the first time an actress had enslaved a monarch. The Prince was not that yet, but it would come. There had been Nell Gwyn who had enchanted Charles II and had kept her place in his affections from the moment he saw her until he died. Well, if she could not be the wife of the Prince – apart from his station there was also Mr Robinson, whom she had temporarily forgotten – she would be his cherished and respected mistress, for everyone knew that to be the mistress of a Prince or a King was no disgrace. It was an honour. It would bring the ton flocking to her doors; it would mean that the utmost respect was paid to her wherever she went. And her case would be different from that of Nell Gwyn, whom everyone knew was not a lady.
Luxurious thoughts. Was she wise to indulge in them after such a short meeting? Yes, she was certain of it. What a meeting! And everyone had declared that they had never seen the Prince so enamoured. Yes, this was certainly a beginning – from here she would go forward; she would forget everything that had happened to her before this night – all the doubts and fears, the horrors of existence with Mr Robinson, the great struggle which had brought her to where she was. Mary Robinson was finished; from her ashes had risen the fair Perdita.
But having started to think of the past she could not stop, and scenes which she would rather have forgotten kept coming into her mind, and she saw herself little Mary Darby going daily to school in Bristol and waiting for the return from the whaler on which he was employed, of the man who accepted her as his daughter.
From the first she had given herself airs. Perhaps she had been taught to. Her mother had been very proud of her, very anxious that she should be ‘a lady’.
Echoes of the over-refined voice: ‘Mary, sit up straight. Don’t slouch in your chair. Is that the way a lady would sit?’ ‘Now, Mary, go and wash your hands. Ladies always have clean hands.’
That had presented no difficulties. She had been very ready to sit up straight, wash her hands, do anything that a lady would do; for as long as she could remember Mary Darby had been determined to be a lady. She had known instinctively whether a dress required a blue or a red sash; she moved with grace; she dreamed fantastic dreams in which her father, some noble lord, came and claimed her and carried her away to his mansion and perhaps to Court. She had heard stories of the royal family, and it was all vitally interesting to her; she had longed to go to London and perhaps catch a glimpse of royalty and the great.
She was a romantic dreamer. She would build up legends about herself; it was
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