His face clouded. ‘That’s not wot we agreed. And besides, it ain’t ’andsome of you, seein’ as ’ow I’ve not forgotten you while you’ve been away. I did over that Tweadle fellow’s pad while you were out of town – put ’im out of business once and for all, I did.’
This confession momentarily diverted me from my purpose. I sat down heavily in a chair.
‘You did what?’
Billy cheered up again. ‘I knew you’d be grateful. Can’t ’ave ’im takin’ the profit from my girl, can I? ’Is shop mysteriously burnt down two weeks back. Strange ’ow fate works, eh?’
‘Is he all right?’ I asked weakly.
‘As if you care!’ snorted Billy.
‘Well, I can’t say I care that much, but still, I don’t want no one harmed for my sake.’
‘Aw, ain’t you sweet.’ Billy chucked me under the chin. I batted his hand away. ‘Nah, ’e got out with only ’is nightgown – a bit singed but ’e’ll live.’ Billy’s eyes sparkled at the memory. ‘Ain’t you even a bit grateful?’
I didn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t shed tears for the end of Tweadle’s book emporium, but I didn’t like Billy’s assumption that he was master of my affairs. I now noticed that there was a pile of familiar cheap pamphlets on the window seat – Billy had made sure he got the complete set before Tweadle’s went up in smoke. He saw where my eyes were directed.
‘It seems there’s money in your stuff. I’s thinkin’ that we could put together a proper book of ’em. All you need do is rewrite a few things ’ere and there. I’d pay for it to be done all fancy, gold tooled, the works, if you like.’
‘Oh yes?’ I was now amused. ‘What exactly do you want me to rewrite?’
He took a chair opposite me. ‘Well, I ’ave me public to consider. You’ve not always been kind in your descriptions of our past dealings.’
‘You mean, like when you tried to cut my throat and when you kept Pedro locked up?’
‘That’s the ones. Ah, ’appy days!’
I’d had enough. ‘Look, Billy, I didn’t come here to bargain with you, nor to rewrite history.’
He smiled fondly at me. ‘Nah, I don’t s’pose you did. You’ve come to be asked to be let off our little arrangement, ain’t you?’
‘No, I have not.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ve come to tell you I’ve fulfilled it to the letter. Here’s a piece of the Crown jewels as asked, direct from the king’s own dressing table.’
I pulled the letter opener from my pocket and threw it contemptuously on the table between us. Billy reached out and picked it up, puzzled.
‘Wot’s this?’ He prodded the crest. ‘The diamonds look real, I grant you, but I don’t want any old bit of glitter: I want the genuine article. Royal or nothing.’
‘And it is.’ It was my turn to feel smug. ‘You didn’t specify which royal family you meant when you set me the task, so I picked this up in King Louis’s palace a few weeks back. That’s his crest. So there you have it: a piece of the French Crown jewels for your collection. I’ve kept my promise. Your hold over me ends now.’ I stood up. ‘Goodbye, Billy. I hope we never meet again.’
Billy’s expression turned thunderous as his brain caught up with what I was telling him. His knuckles whitened as they clutched the handle of the knife. Time to make a quick exit.
‘Nah, you don’t, Cat.’ Billy leapt to the door and held it closed. The knife wavered between us – perhaps it had not been the best choice of gift. ‘You can’t walk out of ’ere like this!’
‘Why not?’ Anger flared up inside me. Though afraid, I knew I was in the right. I’d kept my word; by the code of the street he’d have to admit it.
‘Because . . . because I want you ’ere with me.’ He had a strange look in his eyes, half-desperate, half-threatening.
‘Sorry. I’d rather shovel horse dung for a living than stay under this roof with you. You can’t keep me here against my will.’
‘Oh, can’t I? Who says?’
‘Eleven footmen from Grosvenor Square, the Butcher’s Boys if necessary, even my old friends, the Bow Street runners, if it comes to that. Look out the window: they’re all waiting for me.’
Billy ran his fingers through his hair, eyes darting to the casement.
‘It’s come to this, ’as it?’ he said, feeling the edge of the letter opener.
I began to fear I had misjudged the situation. Was it possible he would be foolish enough to do so desperate a deed?
‘Come to what, Billy?’ I asked, not proud that my voice quavered.
‘I always said I’d ’ave to kill you. Nasty way to go, though: so blunt.’
I took a step back. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘You’ve called me many things, Cat, but I don’t remember “fair” being one of them.’
‘No, please!’ I made a dart for the window to signal that now would be the perfect moment for the footmen to earn their livery but Billy grabbed my arm. He pulled me to him, his other hand bearing the king’s knife at my throat.
I gave a sick laugh. ‘I think we’ve been here before, haven’t we?’ I could feel that he, like me, was shaking. But I wasn’t going to die begging for mercy – not from a lowlife like him. He was breaking every rule of our street code taking his revenge now, and he knew it. ‘Go on then. Don’t keep a lady waiting.’ I lifted my chin and closed my eyes.
The moment of decision seemed to stretch endlessly. Then I felt nothing but heard a clatter as a knife dropped to the floor. Billy’s pressure on my arm lessened as his head sank on my shoulder.
‘Nah, I can’t do it. You . . . you should go.’ He released his hold and I staggered away from him.
He couldn’t bring himself to kill me. That shocked me more than his threats. I didn’t know what to say to him.
‘Billy, I –’
‘Shut it, Cat. Just go.’
Not needing to be told a third time, I ran from the room, slamming the door behind me. Close to collapse, I could go no further for the moment. I grabbed on to the leering satyr for support, struggling with the gulping sobs that racked me. A minute later, I heard sounds at the door – and I was off like lightning. As I clattered down the stairs, Billy came out on to the landing.
‘I’m not finished with you yet, Cat Royal!’ he shouted after me.
‘But I’ve finished with you,’ I replied, standing by the street door. ‘Get a life, Billy, and leave mine alone.’
PHOENIX
Grosvenor Square, London
30 September, 1791
Mon cher ami, J-F,
Today I stood in the ruins of Drury Lane and thought of you. I wish you had had a chance to see my home before the demolition men got to work. I would have liked to show you the place where Mr Garrick once held London spellbound, Mrs Siddons scared us stiff, and Mr Kemble thrilled us with his eloquence. All that is gone – what remains is just rubble and swirling dust. If the theatre is to be reborn like the Phoenix, I’d say it is at the cold ashes stage of the process. I doubt my heart will warm to the new place even when it is built. Mr Sheridan has turned my world into a wasteland so I will have to look somewhere else for a home.
You mustn’t worry about me getting into more trouble. I’m not short of offers of help of a more attractive kind than that extended to me by Billy Shepherd. Your gift secured my freedom – though for a moment I thought it was also going to be the means to my end. If you do decide to do business with Shepherd (and I suppose it is useless for me to warn you against it?), watch your back.
My own business dealings are looking up. Mr Sheridan said that several publishers have been making discreet enquiries about my manuscripts, now recovered by his lawyer from the printer’s safe. He was so pleased to see me back safe and sound without a political scandal attached to his name that he even gave me two guineas (!) for the letters I wrote that never reached him. He said it was the least he could do. Money from my famously tight-fisted patron, Mr Sheridan – what is the world co
ming to?
I will end here with just these few words to assure you all is well. I’ve two guineas in my pocket, friends, a roof over my head – and best of all, thanks to you, I’m free of Billy Shepherd. I can stay or go as I like – unlike your unfortunate monarch. Sometimes, it really is better to be one of the nobility of the gutter.
Your dance partner,
Cat Royal, daughter of the people.
Curtain falls.
BEDFORD SQUARE – a once elegant part of town, recently gone downhill since a certain person moved in
COCKADE – a red, white and blue ribbon demonstrating support for the revolution (N.B. don’t forget to wear one!)
CONCIERGE – a porter, someone in charge of a building; also the title of the person in charge of the Conciergerie prison
CONCIERGERIE – former palace, now a prison in Paris on the Ile de la Cité
CORPUS CHRISTI – Church holiday; it literally means ‘Christ’s body’
CRACKSMEN – burglars who ‘crack’ open a house
DAUPHIN – the French version of the Prince of Wales
DODGE – trick
EXEUNT OMNES – cue in play script for everyone to leave the stage
THE FANCY – boxing
FIACRE – French carriage
FLASH – showy
FLAT – gullible fool
FOP – a man who makes a study of being fashionable and nothing else
GADABOUT – pejorative term for someone who gets around a lot
GIVE SOMEONE THE EYE – look them up and down in an amorous way
HUSSY – woman of low reputation
IN LOCO PARENTIS – Latin for ‘in place of the parent’, an overused phrase in my opinion
LA FILLE MAL GARDÉE – a ballet, roughly translated as ‘the badly guarded girl’
MAGSMAN – a street trickster
MANUMISSION – a slave’s freedom
MINT OF MONEY – an awful lot of it
MOLL – female thief or one who associates with thieves, definitely not applicable to me
NAB – steal, catch
NOTRE DAME – twin-towered cathedral of Paris
PELISSE – cloak with sleeves
PISSING IN THE WIND – perhaps not one of my most elegant phrases but denotes something that will in the end backfire on you
POPINJAY – overdressed man aspiring to be a leader of the fashion, upstart
ROAST BEEF – French term for us English people
RUM DO – strange thing
ROOKERIES – poor area of London, also known as St Giles, best to be avoided
SAVE SOMEONE’S BACON – get someone out of trouble
SCRATCH – marked area in centre of boxing ring
THE SEASON – fashionable time of year to be in town, usually considered to be from the New Year to late Spring
SKIVVY – low status maid-of-all-work
SWEET AS A NUT – to do something completely right
TERPSICHORE – name of the Greek muse of dance
TUILERIES – Royal residence in Paris
YOUNG BLOODS – high-spirited, sporting gentlemen
Bath, December 1791
Curtain rises.
THE LIFE OF THE RICH
Reader, imagine yourself sitting in the luxurious surroundings of Boxton, the country house of the Duke of Avon situated near Bath. In the morning room, the walls are hung with hand-painted paper depicting Chinese flowers and animals; the delicate tables bear silver teapots and teacups so fine that the light shines through them. To amuse yourself, you have a pianoforte – or any other musical instrument you care to name, embroidery, sketching or polite novels. And what is the result? Boredom.
Do not mistake me, Reader: this is not just a little ladylike weariness – I am so bored I could scream.
My two friends, Frank, the Duke’s son, and Pedro, a superb violinist originally from Africa, are out hunting with the gentlemen. The duchess is still abed. And I’m left kicking my heels until the men of the family come home. I’d exchange an embroidery frame for a good muddy walk across the fields any day, but according to Frank, it would not be decent for me to go with the hunters. He even laughed when I suggested as much this morning.
‘You know you can’t do that. What would the other guests think?’ Frank’s navy blue eyes twinkled at me, daring me to laugh with him at my absurd idea.
‘I don’t care,’ I said, refusing to succumb to his attempt to charm me into a good humour. ‘I’ll do something desperate if I have to sit about any longer.’
He smiled with slight apprehension, knowing me fully capable of acting outrageously. ‘I trust you would not abuse our hospitality and do anything too scandalous. Take a well-deserved rest, Cat. Read. Study Latin if you must. You’re supposed to be having a holiday.’
‘No, Frank, gentlemen have holidays; ladies just have extended periods of vacancy.’
Frank cast an exasperated look at me, then turned to Pedro who was helping himself to a hearty breakfast from the sideboard. ‘What shall we do with her?’
Pedro shrugged, piling three bacon rashers alongside a poached egg. ‘Can’t we take her with us?’
‘Not you as well! You both know that’d cause a scandal.’
This was true: my position in the Boxton household was strange enough already. An orphan brought up in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, I had had the good fortune of making some unusually well-bred friends. When made homeless by the closure of the theatre, I had been invited to live among them while I sorted out my future. The invitation had stretched to several months. Pedro, just back from Italy where he had been on tour with his master, Signor Angelini, had returned to find me domiciled with one of the first families in the land; me, who had been the lowliest maid-of-all-work, now not even having to empty my own chamberpot!
‘Act like a proper lady just for today, Cat,’ Frank appealed to me, taking my hand. ‘Some of my family have particular views about behaviour suited to your sex.’
‘Not your mother, surely?’ I protested.
He shook his head. ‘No, she would probably tell you to put your boots on and take a gun with you. No, I was thinking of Cousin William. He’s come up from Bristol especially for the shoot and to be introduced to my friends. I don’t want him to meet you for the first time and get the wrong idea. I want him to like you; I want you to like him.’
Frank’s cousin, William Dixon, had arrived late the night before. I knew Frank had been looking forward to this visit most among all the other company expected at Boxton for Christmas. He had described William with great affection, recounting many tales of previous holidays spent roaming the estate with them both getting into hilarious scrapes. According to Frank, over the last few years William had sobered as he had taken over his father’s shipping business in Bristol and been deluged with new responsibilities, but I sensed that Frank still felt a little in awe of the glamorous older man.
On the strength of this description, I was strangely eager to meet him too.
‘All right,’ I conceded grumpily. ‘I’ll behave.’
‘I’ll stay with you if you like,’ offered Pedro.
‘No, no, you go. I’ll be fine.’ Given that Pedro was a former slave, it was important that the other guests realized that he was in the household by invitation, not as a servant. Staying behind to entertain me would undermine his status. ‘Perhaps your mother will give me another singing lesson when she rises,’ I suggested to Frank, trying to make the best of it.
Frank grimaced. ‘You know her. She won’t leave her bedroom till well after noon.’
‘Then I’ll find your tutor and badger him to translate a passage of Virgil with me.’
‘Sorry, he’s going on the shoot too.’
I sighed. ‘In that case, I’ll write to Lizzie and Johnny and tell them what a scintillating time I’m having.’
Frank chuckled. ‘You do that. Send them my love, won’t you?’
‘Frank, you really should write to your sister yourself.’
‘Meaning I’m sadly lacking in the others?’
‘Well, you could pass the time improving your embroidery – or painting a screen.’
I poked Frank in the ribs, making him spill his devilled kidneys on his lap.
‘All right, all right: I surrender!’ He held his hands up. ‘And I promise I’ll take you riding this afternoon when we get back.’
So there I was, marooned in the morning room, waiting for someone to rescue me. I couldn’t remember being bored ever before. Life at Drury Lane had been so busy; something was always happening, what with the bustle of rehearsals, the noise of set construction, the daily ebb and flow of the audience as regular as the tides. And, of course, the excitement of each performance. I desperately missed watching Shakespeare and Sheridan acted out on stage. Despite having the library at Boxton at my disposal, the printed page was no substitute for a play. It was a madness worthy of Bedlam to expect anyone to be satisfied with Shakespeare from a book.
I was interrupted in my thoughts by the arrival of the post. Joseph, my favourite footman, brought me a letter on a silver plate.
‘This just came with the carrier, miss,’ he said solemnly.
This was a rare event: a letter for me. Thanking him, I turned the envelope over with interest as I didn’t recognize the handwriting. After breaking the seal, I unfolded the cheap notepaper:
Bow Street, 1 December
Dear Miss Cat,
I apologize for taking the liberty of writing to you, but our Syd always said you were a true friend, so I hope you don’t mind. As you know, our boy was expected back in October at the latest from his boxing tour but we’ve had no word from him or his manager. His father and I are going almost out of our wits wondering what to do. One of Syd’s boys suggested we write to you and ask you to beg that young lord of yours if he can make enquiries on our behalf. The last news we had was that Syd was in Bristol. They tell me that this is not far from you so I hope it won’t inconvenience you to ask around for us.
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