Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  The interior of Smith’s seemed even darker than usual after the brilliance of light outside, and the atmosphere was heavy with last night’s smoke and ale fumes. The distinctive, unpleasant smell hit Kitty as she stood at the top of the steps waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. In a moment she saw Luke: he was leaning against the piano, at which sat a small, dapper man she had never seen before. Spider lurked, as always, in the shadows behind him, and Midge and Pol sat at a table, a bottle between them. The place was otherwise empty.

  Luke lifted his head and saw her. She watched him as he came towards her, moving with that singular grace that was so much a part of his attraction. Reaching her, he took her hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The sight of him, the touch of his hand, lifted her heart and quickened her pulse.

  ‘Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.’ He led her by the hand to the stage where stood the small, sprightly looking man who had been seated at the piano. He had shrewd eyes and a crooked-toothed smile. ‘Barton Wesley,’ Luke said. ‘Barton – here she is – Kitty Daniels.’

  ‘How do?’ They shook hands. Wesley beamed. Bemusedly, Kitty smiled back.

  ‘Barton,’ Luke said, ‘is – in a manner of speaking – part of your birthday present.’

  Kitty’s smile became even more puzzled. ‘He is?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Sit here and listen. And don’t say a word until you’re spoken to!’ He perched her upon the edge of the stage and sat beside her. Barton Wesley sat down at the piano, flexed his fingers a little theatrically and began to play, and then to sing, his accent an atrocious stage Cockney, his delivery abominable.

  ‘Me muvver was a lady, Me farver was a sport—’ He paused. The piano trilled.

  At least – Kitty thought – he can play the piano, even if he can’t sing.

  ‘I was drug up not far from ’ere, In Jago’s grimy courts—’ the reference to this most notorious area of Shoreditch was accompanied by dramatically rolled eyes.

  Kitty glanced at Luke in half-exasperated question. He put a long finger to his lips and directed her attention back to the stage.

  ‘I found I ’ad a talent, Which ’elps me wiv me bread – it ’elps me cos I ’elps meself, Just like the Good Book said—’ Wesley winked, wickedly, the tempo of the piano picked up jauntily. ‘I’m Dick, I’m Dick the Dipper, the smartest lad in Town, You’ve seen me in the ’Dilly, Just walkin’ up an’ down, You’ve never felt me fingers as their little game they’ve played, But when you get back ’ome again, your watch you’ll ’ave mislaid—’

  ‘Luke—’

  His finger this time was laid on her lips. ‘Ssh. Listen.’

  Wesley was off again, playing for all he was worth to his small but appreciative audience. Kitty could not help wondering how he had the gall to sing at all with such a voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m honest, But I wouldn’t say I’m bent, Compared to some I knows round ’ere’ — he paused, jerked his head knowingly in Luke’s direction, winked mischievously at Pol and Midge – ‘I am the perfect gent! Some bullies can paint pictures, Some others Shakespeare played, It ’appens I can lift a purse, That’s ’ow my fortune’s made!’ He jumped from the piano stool and strutted across the stage, thumbs hooked in his braces. ‘I’m Dick, I’m Dick the Dipper—’

  ‘This is my birthday present,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Part of it. There’s more. Ten guineas worth.’

  ‘You were robbed,’ she said, drily. ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’

  ‘Wait. I’ll show you.’

  She subsided, joined in the applause at the end of the little man’s performance.

  ‘You want the other one now, squire?’ he called to Luke.

  ‘In a minute.’ Luke stood, pulled Kitty to her feet. ‘I’ve something to show Kitty first.’ And with a firm hand on her elbow he guided her towards the draped door beside the stage.

  Midge said something inaudible. Pol shouted with laughter. Kitty disengaged her arm. ‘Oh, no you don’t. It’s my birthday, Luke Peveral, not yours!’

  He laughed, propelled her forwards again. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind, girl. I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘It must be something to do with the company I’ve been keeping,’ she said and once again, determinedly, shook her arm free.

  He stopped. Turned. Eyed her pensively. ‘You walk,’ he said, ‘or I carry you, birthday or no birthday. Which?’

  She lifted her narrow shoulders. ‘Fair enough. I walk.’ She preceded him through the door.

  At the top of the stairs he opened a door and ushered her into an empty room. The windows were shut and it was hot as an oven, yet smelled strangely and unpleasantly damp. She wrinkled her nose. The furnishings were basic – a narrow bed, a washstand upon which stood a badly cracked bowl and a chipped enamel jug and a wardrobe with a large mirror which she noticed was strategically placed opposite the bed. The carpet was threadbare. A single, bloated bluebottle buzzed against the window, mindlessly seeking escape. Sunlight gleamed through the holes in the dirty lace curtains. On the bed was a heap of old clothes.

  ‘There,’ Luke said.

  ‘What? Where?’

  He walked to the pile of clothes, picked up the shabby, oversized cap that lay atop them, slapped it on her head at a cheeky angle and turned her to face her reflection in the mirror. ‘There.’

  ‘Luke, for heaven’s sake! – What do you think you’re up to?’

  ‘Dick the Dipper,’ he said, ‘wears a cap. And – a pair of trousers’ – he pulled from the pile a pair of ragged, much-darned trousers, ‘—a shirt’ – a patched, shabby shirt, ‘—braces and, of course – a weskit’ – a small stained waistcoat flew through the air. Willy-nilly she caught it, her eyes stormy.

  ‘You aren’t—’ she said slowly, advancing on him, the cap tilted rakishly over one eye, ‘for a moment suggesting – that I should – that I should wear these rags?’

  ‘Just that,’ he said. ‘I’m always telling people you’re quicker on the uptake than you look.’

  She swiped at him with the waistcoat. He grinned.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Try them.’

  ‘No!’ The word was grim.

  The smile faded a little. Very seriously he took her hands in his, forcing her to look at him. ‘Just give yourself a minute to think about it, Songbird. All right – it may turn out to be a stupid idea – but it may, it just may, work for you. I’ve bought The Dipper for you. Barton has another, just as good – Monty from Mayfair – now, just think about Monty – dress suit, top hat, cane—’

  She was staring at him. ‘But – Luke! I couldn’t! It’s – well, it’s scandalous! Women can’t wear men’s clothes, on stage or off!’ She broke off, staring at him.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said softly, seeing the growing understanding, the dawning of excitement in her eyes. ‘Is that so? So, why shouldn’t Kitty Daniels be the first? I’ve told you – your voice is too strong, too individual for those half-witted parlour ballads you sing. Leave them to Lottie and her like. Pretty girls with pretty voices are ten a penny. If you’re going to make it you have to be different.’

  Wryly she held up the ragged trousers and surveyed them. ‘Oh, I’ll be that all right!’

  ‘Kitty – I’ve seen you in boy’s clothes – Do you remember what I said?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was a bit preoccupied at the time.’

  ‘I said you made a handsomer lad than your brother. And you did. The idea’s been nagging at me ever since. Come on – if only for a bit of fun – try it now. Put these things on and come downstairs and give The Dipper a go.’ He grinned, pulled her lightly to him. ‘Don’t I deserve at least a bit of a show for my ten guineas?’

  She tilted her head to look up at him. Laughed suddenly. ‘Why not?’ She moved away from him and began to undo the buttons of her bodice.

  He watched her for a moment, thoughtfully. ‘Seems to
me you could do with a little help with that?’

  She let her hands drop to her sides, looked at him with provocative solemnity. ‘Dear Lord, how very easily distracted you are, Luke Peveral!’

  Some considerable time later she stood before the mirror, staring in a kind of apprehensive delight at the long-legged, barefoot urchin who looked cockily back at her. She had stuffed her heavy hair into the cap that was set at a careless angle on the back of her head.

  ‘I’m Dick, I’m Dick the Dipper—’ As she had seen Barton Wesley do she hooked her thumbs into her braces and swaggered a little across the room. Then she stopped, flushing self-consciously. ‘Luke – I can’t! – I just can’t be seen like this!’

  ‘Why ever not?’ He was sprawled easily upon the bed, his arms tucked comfortably behind his head. ‘You look bloody marvellous. Suits you a damn sight better than those silly frills and furbelows—’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’ The words were swiftly caustic.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You know what I mean. Look at yourself. It could work. Couldn’t it?’

  She stepped back to the mirror. Studied her image for a long silent moment. Lifted her chin. Struck an attitude. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I think it could.’

  He swung his long legs from the bed. ‘Right. Let’s give it a go.’

  Spider, Matt, Barton, Midge and Pol were gathered around yet another bottle at a table near the stage. It took a second for Kitty, lagging a few self-conscious steps behind Luke, to realize that now another table was occupied: Moses Smith and Lottie sat together with a group of men, Moses’ friends, many of whom Kitty recognized and whose presence now pulled her up sharply, her confidence plummeting. She turned to flee.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Without looking at her, Luke caught her wrist in an ungentle grip and towed her forward, raising an unconcerned and friendly hand to Moses and his friends in passing.

  ‘Where yer bin, yer naughty boy?’ Midge wagged a knowing finger. ‘Took yer long enough, the pair o’ yer, didn’t it?’

  He bent and kissed her. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, Duchess. And Dick the Dipper took some convincing.’

  ‘I’ll just bet ’e – she – did.’ She grinned, salaciously.

  ‘Still—’ Firmly Luke drew Kitty forward from where she had been trying to hide behind him. ‘Here he is. Ladies and Gentlemen – may I introduce London’s newest sensation – Kit Daniels as Dick the Dipper—’

  Kitty stepped into the light. Pol gasped audibly. Matt’s eyes widened.

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ said one of Moses’ guests, reverently, and ‘Jesus!’ said another, rather less so.

  Kitty, drawn willy-nilly into the public gaze, lifted her chin and stuck her hands in her pockets, striking a cocky pose.

  Barton Wesley was on his feet. ‘Bloody marvellous! You dog, Luke! She looks bloody marvellous!’

  Pol, with an intimacy that bespoke a rapidly formed relationship, slapped his wrist admonishingly. ‘Bloody cheek. What language! There’s bloody ladies present!’

  Barton was already heading for the stage and the piano.

  ‘Come on, ducks – let’s give it a try.’ He played the simple melody. Kitty hummed it. It was a straightforward tune and the words easily memorized. Already she was beginning to feel more at home in the strange clothes – in fact was finding them surprisingly comfortable after the restrictions of tight bodices and long, hampering skirts. Her bare feet spread themselves firmly upon the dirty boards of the stage. She thought of Matt, of Croucher, of the acrobatic Springer. She thought of the way they moved, of the young pride and arrogance in them. Of the reckless mischief and careless courting of danger. She swaggered to the front of the stage. ‘Me mother was a lady—’

  She brought the house down. Two of the men at Moses’ table leapt to their feet, clapping and howling like banshees. Pol, too, stood, beaming and applauding, and Luke held up a dark hand, thumb triumphantly up. But if anything it was the look on Lottie’s face that most attested triumph.

  Chilled, Kitty bowed and smiled and accepted enthusiastic congratulation, and wondered just what she had done to earn such hatred.

  * * *

  The manager of Queen’s was unimpressed. ‘If I’d wanted a street arab on the bill I’d have gone out and got one. There’s plenty out there.’

  ‘Just watch her,’ Luke said, mildly reasonable. ‘Give her a chance. You wouldn’t want Mr Kenny to know you’d upset a good friend of his, just for the sake of a few minutes, now would you?’

  ‘That was unforgivable!’ Kitty hissed at him later, waiting nervously in the wings as the grumbling pianist, dragged unwillingly from a profitable dice game backstage, thumped ungraciously at the piano, peering bad-temperedly at the music she had given him, and the grim-faced manager settled himself out front in the empty theatre. ‘If I’m going to make it I’ll do it without blackmailing people, thank you.’

  ‘If you’re going to make it,’ Luke said, evenly, ‘then you’re going to have to take every small advantage that you can. If you’re going to get to the top, Songbird – and if you aren’t aiming for that, you aren’t the girl I take you for – you’re going to have to learn to fight. With every and any weapon that comes to hand. Right – off you go – you’re on.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He smiled placidly. ‘To join our friend out front. Just to make sure he pays attention.’

  Kitty never knew how much of the manager’s rather suddenly acquired enthusiasm for her new act was genuine reaction to her performance or how much it owed to Luke’s smiling, steel-eyed presence beside him. Neither did she care. The outcome was that she got his permission to try it out in public, and that was enough.

  Late that afternoon, too excited to keep still, she wandered restlessly about Luke’s room, tinkering with ornaments, straightening pictures, plumping cushions. ‘He did like it, didn’t he? I mean – he didn’t have to be that enthusiastic, did he? And the pianist – he isn’t easily impressed, I can tell you – he came straight up to me afterwards and said—'

  Luke laughed, cutting into the nervous stream of words. ‘I know that he said. I was there, remember? And, yes – of course they liked it. Now – Doctor Peveral diagnoses a bad case of nerves, Miss Daniels. Come here and let him deal with it.’ He was lying, relaxed, on the bed, watching her, his eyes amused.

  She stood fingering an exquisite figurine, looking at it with sightless eyes. ‘Barton’s had an idea for a new song – a new personality – a highwayman with an eye for the ladies. It’d make a lovely costume, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘To say nothing of a lovely fee for Barton.’

  She turned quickly. ‘Oh, Luke, no! I wouldn’t expect you to pay for this one.’

  He smiled, lazily. ‘You can pay me back when you’re rich and famous. But on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Purposefully he patted the bed beside him. ‘Like any good businessman I want something on account. Now. Come here.’

  She looked at him for a moment, smiling, the tension leaving her. ‘Give me a moment.’

  A small, dark flicker of something close to anger showed in his face and was gone. As she walked past him to the door of the small water closet he reached to catch her wrist. She stood, looking down at him, waiting. ‘That Pol’s a bad influence on you,’ he said, his voice light, his lashes veiling his eyes.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He said nothing. Neither did he release her.

  ‘Luke,’ she said, gently, ‘just a little while ago you were telling me I should aim for the top. Success might be a little difficult to achieve, don’t you think, with a fatherless child tugging at my apron strings? Be sensible.’

  The mischief in his smile did not quite reach his eyes. ‘There’s no such thing as a fatherless child. Come. I’ll show you.’ He tugged gently at her wrist. ‘It takes two.’

  Equally gently but greatly determined, she disentangled herself. ‘I shan’t be a minute.�
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  They made love in the jewelled light of the great circular window, the kaleidoscopic shift of colour patterning the bedclothes and the smooth pale skin of their bodies. She lay afterwards with her head on his shoulder, the feathered sweep of her long hair dark upon his chest, a faint furrow of thought between her eyes. ‘Talking of Pol—’

  ‘Were we?’

  She ran a finger across his chest, along his jaw, round the line of his mouth. ‘Well if we weren’t we are now. What do you think’s going on between her and Barton?’

  Luke yawned. ‘No idea.’

  She dug a long, sharp finger into his ribs. ‘Don’t be so dense. You must have noticed?’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  She drew herself up onto an elbow, absently tickling his jaw with a lock of her own hair. ‘That Pol’s interested in Barton.’

  ‘Then look out, Barton.’

  She pinched him lightly. ‘Don’t be horrible. Pol’s my friend.’

  ‘Is she, now?’ He turned his head on the pillow to look directly at her. The light-heartedness had suddenly gone from the conversation, and she could not pretend that she did not know why. She sustained his look, returned it levelly. Her face was sober. The unasked questions hung between them as they had for days – ever since Pol had taken her to one side and explained, flatly and forcefully, what could be achieved with a small piece of sponge doused in vinegar, and what could be the consequences of ignoring such advice. She had not at the time been able to bring herself to pursue Pol’s caustic inferences, but they had lain and festered in her mind ever since.