‘Miss Royal, what do you do at the theatre?’ she asked.
‘Do you sing?’ asked Lord Francis eagerly. ‘Do you play?’
I hesitated. Message-runner did not sound very impressive faced with the cream of English society who expected me to dazzle them as Pedro had done.
‘She writes,’ said Pedro quickly. ‘Oh yes, the first production of her pen will soon be on all good bookstands . . . a story of mystery and intrigue from a child prodigy. She is the bookseller’s dream, a gift to the journals!’
I gaped. Fortunately no one noticed as they were now discussing my forthcoming work eagerly.
‘Well, I am impressed!’ exclaimed Lady Elizabeth. ‘Will it be full of banditti and haunted castles?’
‘Or highwaymen and thief-catchers?’ asked Lord Francis.
They both turned expectantly to me. I could not help smiling at the absurd tale Pedro had spun, but I was not going to let the theatre . . . or myself . . . down in front of them. I would prove that I was worthy of their respect.
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ I said with a superior air. ‘It is set here, in Drury Lane, and will go from the lowest ranks of society to the highest, from the gangs and barrow boys to the baronets and beauties. My themes will be . . .’ (I cast round for some suitably Shakespearean language to impress them, not having in truth a clue what I was talking about) ‘the wickedness of treason, the sting of revenge and the noble disinterestedness of love, all set behind the scenes.’
‘Excellent!’ said Lord Francis, clapping his hands with enthusiasm. ‘And what’s it to be called?’
I went blank for a moment, floundering round for a title appropriate to the medley of themes I had just described.
‘The Diamond of Drury Lane,’ Pedro extemporised quickly.
I vowed to kick him later for his recklessness. I had much rather he had not mentioned the diamond. Neither of us seemed to be doing very well in keeping Mr Sheridan’s secret. If Pedro had his way, it would be splashed all over the bookstalls and magazines.
‘That sounds wonderful,’ said Lady Elizabeth, addressing herself to me. ‘Perhaps you and Mr Hawkins would accept an engagement to entertain a gathering of our friends next Friday . . . if you can be spared from your other duties, that is?’
‘What kind of engagement?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘Mr Hawkins to play, of course, and you to read us a chapter of your most interesting work.’
‘Capital idea,’ said Lord Francis.
‘Yes, we will,’ answered Pedro before I could think up an excuse.
‘Then we will expect you around six,’ said Lady Elizabeth, making a note in a small notebook with a tiny pencil that she had taken from her reticule.
‘But . . .’ I began.
Pedro interrupted, stepping on my toes to stop me saying any more. ‘What Miss Royal means to say is, “Thank you, but where exactly should we come?”’
‘Grosvenor Square,’ said Lord Francis, stifling a yawn as if the very thought of home was wearisome to him. ‘South side. You can’t miss it.’
Grosvenor Square! This was sounding more and more daunting. Grosvenor Square was the most desirable address in the West End. Only the very best families lived there. If you did not have some kind of title, you need not even think of presuming to pollute this hallowed turf with your presence. The families even had their own private garden square in the centre . . . a rare luxury in the crammed streets of London . . . which was barricaded from the riffraff by railings. I remember once, when an errand took me into that part of town, how I stood gazing longingly into the forbidden garden, watching the rich children playing on the unsullied green lawn . . . that was before I was rudely moved on by a footman.
‘We most willingly accept your gracious invitation,’ said Pedro with a bow.
Lady Elizabeth clearly considered the matter settled and turned to look for her father. He arrived, reeling a little unsteadily, flushed-faced and happy. I suspected he had been partaking of the champagne Mr Sheridan had ordered in.
‘Come along, my dears, time you were in your beds,’ he said, offering his arm to his daughter. ‘Did you get what you want, Lizzie?’ he asked, chucking her under her chin.
Lady Elizabeth nodded, her blue eyes sparkling up at him. ‘Indeed, Papa, more. Miss Royal has also agreed to entertain us.’
The Duke of Avon gave me a sceptical look, which took in my patched dress and tumbled appearance.
‘She writes the most wonderful stories, sir,’ said Lord Francis quickly.
‘Oh? A writer, is she? How extraordinary for a girl of her class!’ the duke exclaimed. Once again I had the impression that this noble family thought I was a curiosity, like the two-headed calf, to be put on show at the fair. ‘I will be very interested to hear more about this. Perhaps you need a patron to get published, young lady? I am all for encouraging the lower orders to rise above the disadvantages of their station in life . . . as long as it is consistent with womanly virtues, of course,’ he added as an after-thought.
Pedro was not slow to pick up on the offer of monetary support. ‘I can vouch for Miss Royal, your grace. I expect it can be arranged for her to leave a sample of her work when we come on Friday so that you may peruse it at your leisure.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Till Friday then.’
With a slight nod of dismissal, the duke swept off to return to his carriage, taking his children with him, Lady Elizabeth on his arm, Lord Francis lagging behind, still enraptured by the world behind the scenes.
As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned on my friend. ‘Pedro! What were you thinking of ?’
‘Your future, Cat,’ he grinned, ‘and mine. Offers like that don’t come by every day, believe me.’
‘But I haven’t written anything suitable for a duke’s eyes, nor the ears of his children!’
‘Oh, that’s no problem. They don’t want to hear about people like them; they want a bit of the rough and raw world of the common people. It’s like a voyage to a foreign country for them.’
‘But I haven’t got anything ready for Friday!’
‘Then you’d better start burning the midnight oil, Cat. I don’t want to hear any more excuses. You’ll never realise your ambition to be a writer if you don’t put pen to paper. Besides, I’m counting on you to support my first private engagement in London. You won’t let me down, will you?’ He gave me an appraising look which suggested he still had his doubts about me. Well, I’d show him!
‘Oh,’ I sighed irritably, ‘all right. I’ll do my best.’
‘You’d better get started then,’ he said, pushing me in the direction of the Sparrow’s Nest. ‘I’ll expect to see at least four pages by tomorrow. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, slave-driver,’ I muttered under my breath.
SCENE 2 . . . HIGH SOCIETY
When Mrs Reid heard about my invitation to Lady Elizabeth’s tea party, she was almost as thrilled for me as if she were going herself. Appointed by my patron to keep an eye on me, she took her duties seriously, chastising me for wrong-doing, seeing to my food and clothes. She usually acted towards me like a strict mistress to a servant, so I was particularly touched when she promised to make me up a dress suitable for the occasion.
‘You’ll be representing the theatre, mind,’ she said to excuse her softheartedness. ‘We can’t have you letting the side down.’
Johnny also thought it a splendid opportunity. I told him all about it the next morning as we sorted through the old scripts for Mr Kemble. Johnny bent over the table, a pen tucked behind his ear, no jacket on, the sleeves of his fine linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, displaying his inkstained fingers. That made me wonder if he was an aspiring author too.
‘Johnny, do you write?’
He laughed. ‘Not write in the sense you mean, Catkin. But if you want to show me what you’re doing, I’ll be able to help with grammar, spelling and so on.’
‘So why do you have inkstains on your fingers?’
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sp; He looked down at his hands, turning them over to contemplate them. ‘You are a sharp one. The Bow Street magistrate could do with your help. No villain would escape your beady eye.’
‘Oh, he doesn’t stir out of doors,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘If you want anything solved round here . . . stolen property returned, revenge for assault, runaway wives tracked down . . . you have to go to one of the gangs. They know everything that’s happening on their turf.’
‘Hmm,’ said Johnny sceptically. ‘I suspect they mete out a rather rough justice, that lot.’
‘Some do,’ I agreed. ‘Billy Shepherd’s boys, for example, are a bad bunch, more likely to be the cause of the problem than a help. And if you do something that makes them lose face, then you’re in trouble. They have a keen sense of honour . . .’ I faltered, remembering what I had done the day before.
‘Honour? That’s a strange word to use about a bunch of thugs.’
‘It’s not just gentlemen that fight if they think they’ve been insulted, Johnny,’ I explained. I had to put him straight for he wouldn’t last long on our streets if he didn’t know about the code of honour that prevailed out there. ‘But not all gangs are like Shepherd’s. Thankfully, there’s my friend Syd and his lads. They help keep Shepherd’s lot in check. If you need help, go to Syd: he’s always fair. And remember, it’s Billy Shepherd you have to watch. He’ll steal a blind man’s stick if it takes his fancy . . . and kick him in the gutter into the bargain.’ Having delivered my little lesson, I realised Johnny had successfully diverted me from asking about his inky fingers. ‘So, tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
His air of innocence as he rifled through the papers did not fool me.
‘Tell me what you’ve been up to.’
He looked about him. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to let you into the secret,’ he said. ‘I draw.’
‘Draw? What, likenesses? Could you draw me, for example?’
He nodded. ‘Though I doubt I could do justice to your freckled nose and scruffy long curls.’ I hit him. ‘Ouch!’
‘Will you illustrate my manuscript for me? I’m sure the duke’s children would love to see more about what life is like backstage.’
He looked at me for a moment, considering my request. ‘Of course I can,’ he said at length. ‘Avon is a decent fellow, I believe. The son also. And Lady Elizabeth is . . . is everything a lady should be. No, I don’t mind entertaining her friends.’
It seemed a strange way to put it, but at least I now had something new I could offer on Friday. Hopefully, the young lords and ladies would excuse the writing if they were diverted by the pictures.
Pedro was able to escape from his rehearsal at noon so I decided it was high time to introduce him to Syd Fletcher. He needed the protection of Syd’s gang now he had had his meeting with Shepherd. I also wanted to tell Syd about our good fortune. Syd was bound to be very impressed: his father, a butcher, could only dream of supplying the likes of the Avon household, whereas Pedro and I were actually invited indoors! Perhaps this would at long last make Syd change his refusal and let me in as a member of his gang.
Two of Syd’s boys were watching the street outside the back entrance to the Fletchers’ butcher’s shop, lounging in the wintry sunshine. Nick was spitting wads of tobacco at the wall while Joe practised a flamboyant shuffle of his pack of cards, letting the arch from one hand to the other.
‘’Ello, Cat,’ said Nick in a friendly tone, eyeing my companion with interest. ‘Come to see the big man, I s’pose?’
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘I’s ’opin’ that you might’ve come to call on me and Joe, that’s all,’ he laughed. ‘Well, you can go on in . . . ’e’s almost done for the day.’
They waved us through into the gang’s inner sanctum: the slaughterhouse at the back of the shop. We found Syd washing down the bloody block where many a creature met a sudden end, his blond hair flopping over his face as he scrubbed hard with a bristle brush. As all parts of the animal were put to use, the room was full of red-stained buckets containing every organ and cut known to man . . . from ox tongue to tail, as Syd would put it, guffawing loudly at his own wit. The place had that curious odour of sawdust mixed with the surprisingly sweet smell of carnage, a scent that hung round Syd even when he was away from home. He looked up and smiled when he saw me.
‘Well, if it ain’t our little ray of sunshine! How’s tricks, Cat?’
‘Good, Syd, thanks.’ I always felt comfortable with Syd . . . I’d known him so long that he was like the older brother I’d never had. Even as very little children playing in the streets, he’d looked out for me and taught me so many things.
I introduced my companion. Syd wiped his palms on his blood-stained apron before shaking Pedro’s hand, dwarfing the musician with his six feet of muscular body.
‘I ’ear you were quite the sensation last night, Prince,’ said Syd admiringly. ‘The ’ole market’s abuzz with it.’
Pedro shrugged, but I could tell this was pleasant news for him.
‘And there’s more,’ I said quickly. ‘We have both been invited to a duke’s house!’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Syd, shooting me a concerned look. ‘You’re not going for scullery maid, are you, Cat?’
‘Of course not, you oaf!’ I snapped. I am the only one Syd allows to talk to him so irreverently. ‘We are to entertain Lady Elizabeth and Lord Francis.’
Syd gave a snort of laughter. This was far from the awed expression of amazement I had been anticipating. He moved across to a sack of sawdust that hung suspended from the ceiling and gave it a punch with his calloused knuckles. ‘I can see what the boy can do, Cat, but what about you? Are you goin’ to give ’em a bit of your sharp tongue and show ’em ’ow to fight like a wildcat?’ He gave the sack a quick double jab. ‘That’s all you’re good for, ain’t it?’
This fairly took the wind out of my sails. ‘I’m going to read to them . . . read a story I’ve written,’ I said quietly.
Syd could see that he had offended me. He gave an appreciative whistle, hugging the sack to still its pendulum motion. ‘Now ain’t that just grand: a girl that can ’old ’er own in the market place ’oo can also read and write like a fine lady. I never knew you ’ad it in you, Cat. You’ll knock ’em dead, you will.’
‘Thanks, Syd,’ I said in a gloomy tone.
Pedro could tell I was beginning to worry again about our visit to Grosvenor Square, so he changed the subject.
‘Tell me, Syd, how do things work round here?’ he asked, picking his way like a peacock across the sawdust in his shiny buckled shoes. ‘I met Billy Boil yesterday, but it seems I would have been better meeting some of your boys.’
‘Billy Boil?’ Syd gave a loud guffaw of laughter which attracted Nick and Joe in from outside. ‘You ’ear that? The prince has met Billy Boil!’
‘That’s what Cat called him to his face,’ Pedro continued.
‘I like it!’ said Syd appreciatively, turning in my direction. ‘You called ’im that, did you, Cat? I bet ’e weren’t pleased.’
‘No, he tried to beat her up but she escaped him,’ Pedro explained.
I would have made Pedro shut up if I could, but it was too late. I had had no intention of confiding in Syd, knowing the likely consequences.
‘’E threatened my Cat, did ’e?’ asked Syd, his blue eyes now cold with anger. ‘’E’ll regret that, ’e will.’
‘I don’t want any trouble on my account,’ I said quickly. ‘He was after Pedro really.’
‘Was ’e now?’ Syd strode over to Pedro and gave him a long, searching stare, gauging his uses. ‘Well, you can tell Boil next time you see ’im that the prince’s in,’ said Syd.
‘He’s what?’ I asked.
‘Prince’s in the gang. One of us.’
‘What!’ I protested. ‘I’ve been asking to join for months and months and you let him in not five minutes after meeting him. That’s not fair!’
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bsp; Nick and Joe began to laugh until Syd gave them a stern look.
‘I don’t ’ave girls in my gang, Cat, as I keep tellin’ you.’
‘But you have African violinists?’
Pedro gave me a glare which implied I’d insulted his origins. I hadn’t meant it like that . . . it was the violinist bit that I’d really meant to draw Syd’s attention to.
‘Yeah, ’e’s a boy, in case you ain’t noticed.’
‘Of course I’ve noticed!’ I said stamping my foot with anger. ‘But I’m as good as any of you!’
‘No, you’re better, Cat,’ said Syd with a wink, ‘which is why I don’t want you in my gang.
‘Pedro, tell him! Tell him how I saw the Boil off for you!’
Pedro shrugged. ‘You ran away quick enough, that’s true.’
The rat! I’d done far more than that and he knew it! His words served to confirm Syd in his decision that I was not fit to number among his boys. I was sure Nick and Joe were laughing at me. I felt hot with embarrassment and anger, but Syd had dismissed my request and turned his thoughts to other matters.
‘As for Billy Boil,’ he continued, perching on the block, swinging a cleaver absent-mindedly in his right hand, ‘’E’s planning a big fight for Monday night and now I’ve got a new reason for wanting to beat ’im to a pulp. The gang’s meeting at the Rose at ten. Will you be there?’ he looked at his newest gang member.
‘Of course,’ agreed Pedro at once.
I moved quickly to dissuade him. ‘But Pedro, you’ll get in trouble again. You don’t know how nasty these fights can get!’
‘I’ll see ’e doesn’t come to grief,’ promised Syd. ‘’E’s our lucky mascot, ’e is. No other gang ’as the star of the stage in their ranks, do they now?’
‘No,’ I said shortly, ‘because all the other stars are too sensible to get involved.’
Pedro gave me a dig in the ribs. ‘Don’t fret. I’m not afraid of a beating. And if you make sure everyone sees that you are safely tucked up in bed, then you’ll not be held to blame for whatever happens.’