1735 race-course ditty
In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.
Lady Windemere’s Fan, 1892 Oscar Wilde
“Kate!” Jennie Churchill exclaimed excitedly, turning from a conversation with a fashionably dressed lady. “How delightful to see you!” She leaned forward to brush a kiss on Kate’s cheek, then glanced around. “Is Charles with you?”
Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan was no racing enthusiast, but the Derby was as much a national holiday as a race, and since she now called England her home, she had begun to think she should attend the race one of these years. Then the Jockey Club stewards had invited her husband, Lord Charles, to set up a camera that would automatically photograph the finish. The Prince of Wales extended an invitation to her to watch the race from the Prince’s stand, and the question of her attendance was settled. Not that Kate was especially impressed by royal invitations, or had any personal interest in the social circus that surrounded H.R.H. But she had recently embarked on a writing project-an ironic novel featuring the racing set, written under her usual pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell-and she was on the lookout for ideas and material. She also knew she would encounter a few special friends at the race, Lady Randolph Churchill among them. Kate and Jennie-both Americans, both married to Englishmen-had been close friends since the preceding autumn, when Charles had helped Jennie and her son Winston deal with an ugly blackmail scheme.
“Charles is down on the course, setting up a camera to record the finish,” Kate said in response to Jennie’s question. She stepped forward to be introduced to the other lady, who was costumed in an elegant wine-colored silk and a fur wrap against the spring chill, her large hat trimmed in fur and feathers. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder and observing Kate with a supercilious air.
“Lady Charles Sheridan,” Jennie said, “I should like to present Mrs. Langtry, whom you have undoubtedly seen on the stage.” She gave Mrs. Langtry a restrained smile, and Kate thought that perhaps Jennie did not really like the woman. “Here at Epsom,” Jennie added, “you will hear Mrs. Langtry spoken of as ‘Mr. Jersey,’ the name under which her horses run.”
Kate turned with real interest to Mrs. Langtry: the Jersey Lily, once known as the loveliest woman in England, beautiful enough to capture the Prince of Wales as her lover and clever enough to keep him as a friend and sponsor even after he had transferred the royal affections to the Countess of Warwick, and more recently, to Mrs. Keppel. Now in her forties, Mrs. Langtry was still almost beautiful, Kate thought, her chestnut hair gleaming, her movements graceful, her figure ripely mature, if perhaps rather too abundantly endowed. But she had an actress’s self-assured awareness of her beauty, and her calculating glance and the cool, half-amused curl of her lips gave her an arch, disdainful look.
Kate was immediately intrigued. “I have indeed seen you perform, Mrs. Langtry, some years ago in New York, in Agatha Tylden. I thought the character of Mrs. Tylden perfectly suited to you.” The title role had been that of a powerful, energetic woman who inherited a shipping business and became so fully engaged with it that she rejected a worthy lover-only to marry him after her business failed and he rescued her from bankruptcy. At the time, Kate had admired the play but thought that she would have put a different ending to it. Surely a woman of Agatha Tylden’s power and resourcefulness could have arranged her own financial recovery without having to rely upon marriage to save her.
At Kate’s compliment, Mrs. Langtry thawed slightly. “Ah, Agatha Tylden,” she said in a reminiscent tone. “A very satisfying play. Every performance sold out, and the crowds made it difficult for me to reach the Holland House, where I was staying. ‘Langtry fever,’ the newspapers called it.” She gave a tolerant chuckle. “It was all quite amusing, I must say, and very flattering.”
Kate started to reply, but Mrs. Langtry, disregarding her, went on. “One does so enjoy roles that are written exclusively for one, of course, with one’s experiences in mind. The next will be that of Mrs. Trevelyan in Sidney Grundy’s The Degenerates-quite a daring play. No doubt some will be scandalized by its picture of modern smart society.” She smiled and flicked her cigarette ash.
Jennie Churchill gave an ironic cough. “Lady Charles also has another name,” she remarked dryly, “one that I’m sure you’ll recognize. Her novels and stories are read both in England and America. She writes under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell.”
Kate smiled inwardly. As Beryl Bardwell’s work gained in popularity, her identity had become more widely known, but she doubted that Lady Randolph would have mentioned it just now had she not wanted to put Mrs. Langtry in her place. The strategy seemed to have succeeded, for Mrs. Langtry’s large blue-gray eyes-those smoky lavender eyes that had held princes in thrall-widened perceptibly.
“Beryl Bardwell!” she exclaimed, her manner warming. “My dear Lady Charles, I am quite speechless! I must confess myself to be one of your most devoted followers. You write with such sensibility, such passion. Your characters are so real!” Kate might have spoken, but Mrs. Langtry did not give her time. “I was deeply impressed by a story of yours, ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ I thought when I read it that it might be easily adapted to the stage, and that the role of the duchess would be marvelously suited to me. What do you say to that?”
Taken aback, Kate saw that Mrs. Langtry’s instinct for characterization was chillingly accurate. The main character of “The Duchess’s Dilemma” was the imperious, autocratic Diana Radcliffe, Duchess of Wallingford, who staged the theft of her own jewels to conceal the fact that she had pawned them to cover her racing debts. Then, when they were stolen in earnest, she tracked down the thief and successfully achieved their return. It didn’t require more than a moment’s acquaintance with the actress to be sure that Mrs. Langtry would play the role perfectly.
But Kate was not at all certain that she wanted Mrs. Langtry to adapt her story to the stage, for it was one thing to work quietly behind a pseudonym and quite another to take on the far more public role of playwright. What was more, she suspected that working with Mrs. Langtry on the project would involve endless trials and frustrations.
“Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Langtry,” she said. “However, I really do not feel-”
“The idea is new to you, I see,” Mrs. Langtry said confidingly. “I shall have to persuade you. But persuade you I shall.” She placed her gloved hand on Kate’s arm, her laugh melodious. “I always get my way, Lady Charles. Any of my friends will be glad to tell you that. ‘Lillie Langtry always gets her way,’ they’ll say.”
Kate was grateful that a stir at the entrance kept her from answering. His Royal Highness had arrived, accompanied by a boisterous entourage beribboned with the royal colors-and by Mrs. Keppel, smiling and elegant in ivory satin and a feather boa. Jennie, Mrs. Langtry, and Kate made their curtsies and the Prince extended his pudgy, ringed hand and greeted each of them in turn.
To Kate, he said in a gutteral, accented voice, “Lady Charles. Delighted, my dear, delighted. Is Lord Charles still down on the course?”
“Until the finish, sir,” Kate replied.
“Ah, good, good!” the Prince exclaimed. “He and his camera will sort it all out for us.” He paused thoughtfully. “I am so glad that Persimmon’s great finish in ’96 was caught on film. He won by a neck, you know.”
Kate rose as the royal party pushed forward to the rail. She was eager to have her first good look at the course where the Derby would be run and the crowd that had come to celebrate it.
And such an incredible crowd it was! Kate thought as she gazed out at the vast throng-a quarter of a million people, by some estimates-which completely covered the racing area and all the Downs beyond. There was the grandstand, with its flag-draped boxes and the enclosure below, crowded with top-hatted men in morning dress and women in silks and laces, white gloves and parasols and great flower-heaped hats wound with tulle. There was the Ring, with its frenzied pack of plungers, punters, bookmakers, tipsters, and touts-and the ever-present pickpockets. On the other side of the U-shaped course, coaches and carriages were drawn up wheel-to-wheel, with cigar-smoking men and a few intrepid ladies lounging on the roofs, lunching out of their picnic hampers. Behind them marched a row of smartly striped regimental marquees where champagne and oysters and other delicacies were served, and around and among all this mob swarmed smock-clad country folk, black-frocked City men, soldiers in scarlet tunics, check-suited men with ties of brilliant green and yellow, flirtatious girls in pink dresses and rosy cheeks, and a ragged rabble of East Enders, glad to escape for a day the dirt and despair of Shoreditch and Spitalfields. All these were entertained by a riotous carnival of hawkers and dark-skinned gypsies, black-faced clowns, conjurers and costermongers, fire-eaters and acrobats and thimblemen with their polished patter. And if these amusements palled, there were the wagons and tents and booths flung like handfuls of dice across the slopes of the Downs-dancing booths, sparring booths, fortunetelling booths, booths that staged tableaux vivants or dispensed food carted from the gargantuan kitchens beneath the grandstand, where an army of cooks prepared mountains of lamb, beef, lobsters, oysters, and chickens, together with bushels of salad and immense tubs of dressing and towering pyramids of bread loaves.