‘Why the need for a secret name? Does that mean my role will be dangerous?’ I wasn’t afraid of a bit of risk but I wanted to enter into this with my eyes open.
‘No, no,’ said Mr Sheridan, with not entirely convincing ease. ‘It’s just that it could be embarrassing for me if my interest in foreign political affairs came out.’
‘Do you think my French will be up to the task? Do you think they’ll tell me anything?’ He seemed to have every confidence that I would be able to keep him informed of events in Paris but I wasn’t so sure. My own experience on the streets of London had taught me that you could still be a stranger even in your own country when you moved beyond your circle.
My patron smiled, playing with the stem of his glass so that it caught the candlelight, casting diamond-shaped patterns on to his face. ‘Put it this way: I expect you to come back with a much increased vocabulary – the sort they don’t teach in the classroom – but I am convinced that you, if anyone, will get by with the people of Paris and earn their confidence.’
‘And payment?’
A familiar evasive look passed over Mr Sheridan’s face. ‘Well, we’ll see about that on your return, shall we?’
That was no good. ‘I think, sir, we’d better see about it now.’
He sighed. ‘It is a sad day when even my own protégée does not trust me.’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘You’re very wise, Cat. All right, you’ll get your expenses and a guinea a letter – if it is informative.’
‘And what sort of things do you want to know?’
‘What the people are thinking and feeling. I don’t want summaries of political speeches; I want an insight into what is really going on.’
‘You mean, which way the wind of change is blowing?’
‘Exactly.’
The first stage of my transformation into a confidential correspondent was to disguise myself as an aspiring dancer. The following day I was ordered to report to Madame Beaufort at her lodgings just off the Strand where a dressmaker was also in attendance.
‘Eh bien, Cat, we are to turn you into a little ballerina, yes?’ said Madame Beaufort, making me stand in the centre of the room while she looked me over with a professional eye. She was an odd looking woman – like an owl in an ivy bush with her thin face peeping out of masses of blonde, frizzy hair. The rest of her was so tall and slender that she reminded me of a dandelion clock and I half expected the wind to start blowing her away. ‘We speak French from now, agreed?’
‘Agreed, Madame,’ I said, switching into French. Though I had gained a tolerable fluency mingling with the dancers backstage, I knew I was badly in need of practice if I was to do a proper job in Paris.
Madame Beaufort turned to the dressmaker, a compatriot she had introduced as Madame Chenier.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Madame Chenier was as fat as the ballet mistress was thin. She rose from her seat like a cow from clover and trotted over to me with a determined expression on her round, rosy face. She then proceeded to prod and measure me so enthusiastically that I was sure I would be covered in bruises.
‘This will be no problem – the child has the bearing of a dancer already, though a little on the short side. I have a few things with me that will do,’ declared Madame Chenier, giving my chin a playful – but painful – tweak. Clearly, she was a woman who didn’t know her own strength.
‘What kind of things, madame?’ I asked with a feeling of trepidation.
‘You must look like my other girls, ma chérie,’ said Madame Beaufort.
‘Oh yes, and what does that mean?’
‘Pretty – very pretty. We will have a little thing going here with the hair, no? And a few lace trims around there?’ She directed her remarks to Madame Chenier and they were soon clucking together, dragging my arms out of one set of garments and draping new clothes over me.
‘I have been looking at this little one for years, madame, and simply longing to get a hold of her,’ continued Madame Beaufort, turning to her friend. ‘She has no style; she hides her pretty person behind dirt and such clothes as you would not believe! But Madame Reid . . .’ she wrinkled her nose in disgust, ‘. . . she has no sense of what is chic, n’est-ce pas? But today we can strip away the layers of that English pudding and reveal the soufflé within!’
I snorted but they were oblivious to my derision. My fashion advisers were getting quite beside themselves. With Mr Sheridan footing the bill for my outfit they were thoroughly enjoying dressing me up like some doll.
‘Ta-dah!’ trilled Madame Beaufort, pushing me to arm’s length. ‘What do you think, madame?’
‘Beautiful, very beautiful! I’ll just pin up that hem and she will be finished.’
I looked down at myself; I was in a dress the colour of pink sugared almonds – not a good shade for a redhead. ‘May I see?’ I asked fearfully.
‘Of course, and I think . . .oui, I think you will be very surprised, ma cherie.’ Madame Beaufort clapped her hands together, holding them on her breast. ‘Now I will not be ashamed to have you as part of my ensemble.’
Madame Chenier pulled me over to the mirror. ‘Close your eyes!’ she said playfully. ‘And now – open them.’
Surprise is one word for it. Another is horror. I looked like an over-decorated cake, frills and ribbons everywhere. If any of Syd’s boys saw me like this, I’d be a laughing stock.
‘Is that really it?’ I croaked.
‘Oh?’ said Madame Beaufort, coming to stand behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders. ‘You think we’ve forgotten something? Perhaps you are right.’ She seized a large pink bow from Madame Chenier’s work basket and plonked it on top of my curls. ‘Oh, you look so sweet.’
I scowled, speechless at the horrendous apparition in the mirror.
‘Enough fun,’ continued Madame Beaufort, tossing one of my locks playfully . . .
Fun!
‘Now we dance!’
The next hour was agony. She took me through the basic steps like a sergeant major drilling a new recruit. Never again will I mock a ballerina. I’d been fooled by the fluffy skirts: underneath they must be made of sprung steel. Madame’s favourite method of correcting an erroneous posture was to rap the offending limb with a thin birch rod. As most of my limbs were more often in the wrong than the right, I felt as if I’d spent the afternoon being lashed by a tree in a gale.
Every muscle aching, I staggered out at four to find Frank waiting to escort me home. His jaw dropped when he saw me then, most ungallantly, he howled with laughter. Doubled over on the pavement, he roared until he had tears streaming down his face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked tersely – though I had a fair idea.
‘You look – you look –’
‘Lovely? Elegant? Feminine?’ I asked sourly.
‘Ridiculous.’
I heaved a sigh. ‘And don’t I know it. Stop it, Frank, you know why I’m doing this. You’re not making it any easier acting like you’ve never seen a girl dressed up before.’
‘But you!’
‘Thank you, Frank, that’s quite enough humiliation. I had a basinful yesterday; I don’t need a second helping today.’
He took command of himself, gasping for air. ‘Sorry, Cat. That was quite out of order. You look . . . you look very nice.’ The last word turned into a snort and he gave up trying to speak as he conducted me back to Mr Sheridan’s.
Madame Beaufort’s company of nine ballerinas left London early on Saturday morning, escorted by Frank in his own carriage. He had handpicked the servants so it was no surprise to me to find Joseph, my special friend among the footmen, included in the party.
I hung out of the window as we trotted out of London on the Dover road. Only days ago I had sat on the milestone and lamented being left behind; now I too was on my way. What was the world beyond the city like? I couldn’t wait to see. The familiar landmarks fell away surprisingly quickly as we crossed the Thames
and travelled on into Kent. Except for one short stay in the village of Clapham, I had never spent so much time in the countryside. All that open space made me feel nervous.
Frank was watching me with an amused expression. We were alone in the carriage, as Madame Beaufort had elected to travel with her girls to seed in the story of my trial with the troupe. She hoped the tale would be in full flower by the time we reached Paris before any awkward questions were raised as to why a protégée of Mr Sheridan should take it into her head to travel at his expense. She was representing it as the pay-off for making me homeless – which in a way it was.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it, Cat?’ Frank said teasingly as we passed through a field where the hay was entwined with splashes of red and blue wild flowers like paint spilled by a overenthusiastic set decorator. Butterflies danced above, tiny winged ballerinas in multicoloured gowns.
‘It’s . . . er . . . it’s . . .’ I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to say that it was ‘empty’, ‘strange’, ‘frightening’, but I knew from my reading of poetry that I should be saying things like ‘arcadian’, ‘pastoral’ and ‘peaceful’. For me, the silence was deafening.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
I didn’t want him to find me so unrefined as not to be able to appreciate nature. ‘It’s very . . . green.’
‘True . . . honest and true, just like you,’ he laughed. ‘I’m so pleased you didn’t come out with any of that tired old poetic stuff. Yes, the countryside is green, undeniably green.’ He offered me a chicken leg from the hamper stowed under his seat. ‘You must let me show you Boxton one day. It’s very green too, but there’s loads to do – riding, hunting, fishing, walking.’
‘Frank, can you really see me on a horse?’ I asked, wrinkling my nose.
‘I can see you excelling at anything you turn your hand to, Cat, horse riding included,’ he replied loyally.
‘I didn’t excel at looking after myself, did I?’ The bleak mood settled on me again as I remembered the humiliation of my time at Mr Tweadle’s.
Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Why didn’t you tell us, Cat? I thought you knew you could ask us to do anything for you. Any of us would.’
‘I thought I had to make my own way.’ I stared at my hands, still coarse after weeks of scrubbing and peeling.
‘But why? None of us do. Lizzie and I – we have our parents. Syd’s got his family, his manager, and his boys around him. Pedro has Signor Angelini looking out for him. Why should you be on your own?’
How could he understand what it was like to be me?
‘I always have been, Frank. On my own, I mean. Ever since I can remember, my place in the world has been precarious, bound up with Drury Lane. When that went, I felt as if I too no longer existed.’
‘But you’re far more than a theatre, Cat. Don’t you see that?’
‘Thank you, Frank. I’m trying to.’
‘We all think highly of you – and not just your friends. Lord, Cat, even Billy Shepherd compliments you by thinking you worth his attention.’
His comment took me back to Billy’s collection and the empty cushion. I wondered if I should tell Frank about the deal I had made. It would be good to share the burden with someone – and he was as good as inviting me to rely on him.
‘There’s something you should know about me and Billy Shepherd, Frank,’ I began awkwardly.
Frank threw his chicken bone out of the window. ‘Oh, yes? Don’t tell me you’re engaged?’ he joked.
‘Not exactly . . .’ I then told him about the promise I had given and how Billy wished me to repay him. When he heard that Billy had asked for the Crown jewels, Frank gave a bark of laughter which turned abruptly into a growl when he learned of the alternative I had been offered.
‘You don’t think you have to do anything that that cockroach asks, do you?’
I should have realized that he wouldn’t understand. If I’d told the same story to Syd, Jo or Nick they would have got it at once. ‘It’s street honour, Frank.’
‘Street honour!’
His aristocratic assumption that the people of the lower classes were less men and women of their word than the nobility rankled with me.
‘If you gave your solemn promise to someone you’d keep, it wouldn’t you, Frank, or expect to be shamed in your circle?’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘If I don’t keep my word, I can’t go back. You wouldn’t want me to take the second choice Billy gave me, would you?’
‘Heavens no, Cat.’ He looked shocked at the idea.
‘Don’t worry, Frank. I may have made a mess of the last few weeks but I can handle Billy Shepherd. I’ll come up with something – or I’ll hitch a lift to America with Lizzie and Johnny. Exile is better than putting myself under Billy’s tender loving care.’
Frank shook his head and looked out at a windmill revolving slowly on the horizon. ‘I’m pleased Lizzie never gives me any cause for concern, Cat, for with you as my honorary sister, I have more than enough worries.’
I felt a lump in my throat. That he looked on me like a sister was the most wonderful thing I had ever heard. I had an adopted family of the very best. How could I have ever thought I was abandoned and let myself get into such a fix?
‘Thank you, Frank. I’ll try not to disgrace you.’
‘Though I advise you to take some fashion tips from Lizzie,’ he added with a significant look at my frills, ‘I don’t think I can cope with a younger sister who looks like she’s wearing the entire contents of my maiden aunt’s workbasket.’
My chicken bone sailed through the air and struck Frank on the forehead.
‘Now I know the old Cat’s back!’ he said, rubbing the spot with a rueful smile.
SCENE 2 – NOTRE DAME BY STARLIGHT
Reader, if you have not yet had to endure a sea crossing, take advice from me and keep your feet firmly on dry ground. I have discovered that I am not what one would call a natural sailor.
The wind began to pick up as we descended into Dover at nightfall. Frank made light of it, telling me it was only a summer squall, and I, not yet knowing my own weakness, followed him innocently on board the little vessel that was to transport us across the water.
‘Quickly, quickly, girls,’ Madame Beaufort trilled to her troupe. ‘Get below.’ She cast a disapproving look at the sailors who were leering at her charges.
‘Show us a bit of ankle, love,’ shouted one tar to the prettiest of the chorus. ‘Give us a twirl, will you?’
The ballerinas twittered with pleased outrage at this impertinence and scurried off to their cabins. I suddenly remembered that I should think of myself as one of them. With a sigh, wondering what I had let myself in for embarking on this adventure for Mr Sheridan so far from my natural habitat, I took one last look at the twinkling lights of Dover at the foot of the great white cliffs and dutifully followed Madame Beaufort.
It was then that my torment began. Leaving Frank with his footman, Joseph, up in the bracing fresh air of the deck, I found myself closeted with three dancers called Mimi, Colette and Belle. I’d never much liked them at Drury Lane and closer acquaintance did little to improve on this impression. They greeted my arrival in their cabin as an unwanted intrusion on their gang. The spare bunk had already been covered in clothes and they made no effort to move them.
‘Why, girls, it’s the little cat,’ simpered Mimi, preening her blonde curls in a tiny hand-mirror. ‘Mr Sheridan’s old favourite.’
‘Thought you were too good for us, did you, travelling with that young lord of yours?’ asked Colette with a bitter twist to her lips.
‘Pleased to meet you too, ladies,’ I said, ignoring these slights. It was useless to explain to these creatures the idea of a friendship with someone so far above my social status. You can’t live behind stage as long as I have without experiencing the petty jealousies and spite of some performers.
‘I can’t understand what that young gentleman sees in her, can you, g
irls?’ asked Belle, as if I wasn’t there. ‘She’s such a queer little thing and he so handsome. And as for thinking that she’ll make it as a dancer! Madame Beaufort has gone quite mad.’
‘No, it’s not madness,’ replied Mimi. ‘Old Sheridan must have paid her to take his discarded pet out of the way. And who can blame him now she’s made herself notorious with those stories she wrote? She’s become an embarrassment.’ Mimi pulled out a little magazine from her trunk. ‘Queen of the London Underworld – I mean, who does she think she’s fooling?’
‘Queen of the chamberpots more like,’ added Colette.
So I was to be punished for making myself famous, was I? I suppose I could look on it as the penalty for falling for Mr Tweadle’s cheat. I only wished that I had as many piquant French words to hand as I had English so I could answer back in style. Perhaps if I hadn’t been feeling so green, I would have tried. But as it was, I saved my breath and attempted to quell my growing nausea.
There was a creaking overhead and the sound of feet running across the ceiling: we were getting under way. I contemplated returning to the deck for some fresh air and the diversion of watching the sailors hoist sail, but my assigned role required me to act as if I were part of the troupe. Instead I took revenge on my three companions by climbing into the bunk and spreading out regardless of the clothes.
‘That’s my best pelisse!’ protested Mimi, pulling a violet cloak from under me.
The ship gave a lurch as she left the protection of the harbour and was hit broadside by the wind. The pelisse gave an ugly ripping sound.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Mimi held up the torn sleeve, for all the world acting as if it were my fault that a storm was blowing.
I was about to reply but was prevented by a strange feeling in my stomach. Opening my mouth, it wasn’t insults that poured out, but something far more offensive. Mimi screamed and jumped back. Belle and Colette fled to the other side of the tiny cabin.
Den of Thieves Page 8