Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  ‘Kit Daniels. Call for Kit Daniels.’

  Shakily Kitty stood. Pol kissed her. ‘You’ll be just fine.’

  * * *

  Not until much later, in a dressing room crowded with strange faces and with an enormous glass of champagne in her hand, did Kitty dare to admit to herself just how terrified she had been until the moment she had stepped onto the stage. But then the magic had worked, and now it did not matter. This time her success was solid and incontrovertible. If she could arouse the audience of the New Cambridge to a pitch of enthusiasm where they simply would not allow her to leave the stage, then there could now be few barriers left between herself and what had seemed to be her unlikely ambitions. She did not fool herself – she knew what lay ahead involved hard work and no few heartaches, but the chance was what she had wanted and now, with the wildly enthusiastic roars of applause still ringing in her ears, she knew she had gained it.

  ‘Splendid, m’dear. Absolutely splendid! An’ very fetchin’ too, if I might say so! Luke, old lad – where have you bin hidin’ such a treasure?’ The speaker was a tall, thin young man with a beak of a nose and a monocle that dropped from his eye every time he opened his mouth to speak. ‘By God! I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since Mackney opened at the Alhambra! And I must say, m’dear, you’re a great deal prettier! A very great deal!’ He snorted with laughter, then with elaborate courtesy removed the white carnation from his buttonhole. ‘Please – a small token of me undyin’ admiration—’

  Kitty accepted the flower, smiling, laid it beside several others on the table before her.

  ‘Out of the way, Barty old boy. Let the dog see the rabbit! Ah – and there she is! Beauty, talent and that rare – je ne sais quoi—’ A stocky man, red faced, white haired and with the most magnificent set of snowy whiskers Kitty had ever seen, bent to give the surprised Kitty a smacking kiss. ‘Ain’t ready to consider marryin’ a besotted old man, I s’pose? That’d show the young ’uns, what? Percy Roland. Your devoted slave, Miss Daniels.’

  ‘Sir Percy,’ someone said, drily, ‘still doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet, does he? God only knows what he was like at thirty—’

  ‘Roly!’ Luke came through the crowd, smiling easily. ‘Leave her alone, you old dog!’

  The old man’s eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Aha! That’s the lie of the land, is it? Might have known it, you gypsy barbarian!’ He turned back to Kitty. ‘Dear child – just remember – if ever you need to be rescued from this savage, just call on me. My sword is at your service at all times.’ He winked salaciously.

  She laughed. ‘I’ll remember.’

  More champagne was poured. She drank it thirstily.

  ‘Kitty! Wonderful! Hit of the season! I knew you could do it! We’ll draw up a contract tomorrow—’ Patrick Kenny swooped on her. Dapper as ever and not a hair out of place, yet she sensed his genuine excitement.

  ‘Contract?’ Luke said, wagging a gently admonishing finger sorrowfully. ‘Tut, tut, tut. Not the time nor the place to talk business, my friend. And anyway – we aren’t sure we want a contract—’

  We? Kitty sat bolt upright, head tilted, straining her ears in the hubbub to catch the words of the conversation now being carried on above her head.

  ‘Oh, come now, Luke – who took the chances?’

  ‘There were none to be taken. You knew what you had.’ Luke’s smile was easy, his voice friendly, yet there was a hint of steel somewhere about it.

  Kitty looked sharply from one to the other. ‘Luke!’

  ‘My dear Miss Daniels – or may I call you Kitty? I’m sure we’re going to be just the greatest of friends. We might as well start as we mean to go on, yes? Standen D’Arcy – theatre and music critic for – oh, Lord knows how many unnameable rags – well, we all have a poor living to make, don’t we? So delighted to meet you—’ She found her fingers taken delicately in a small white hand, raised to red, full lips. The diminutive, effeminate Mr D’Arcy simpered at her. ‘Aren’t you just the teeniest bit curious to know what I’m going to say about you tomorrow?’ he asked, archly.

  At that precise moment she was in fact much more interested in what Luke and Patrick Kenny were saying about her over her head. She gave in, however, gracefully. The purveyor of information to Lord knew how many unnameable rags was clearly a personage to be courted, and unfortunately he knew it. She patted the chair beside her. ‘Of course, Mr D’Arcy. Do come and tell me.’

  (iii)

  It was astonishing, after that first breakthrough, just how quickly the snowball of fortune moved, gathering momentum, drawing to Kitty as it went both the privileges and – inevitably – the disadvantages of sudden fame. She was besieged by those who wanted to court her, dress her, write songs for, or articles about her. She became almost overnight the fresh focus for those idle and usually well-heeled gentlemen of all ages who made an enjoyable way of life out of pursuing the darlings of the theatre; the newer and more outrageous the better. They got as short shrift as did the over-enthusiastic tradesmen. If they were amusing – and, to be fair, a lot of them were – she had no objections to being amused; any other expectations were swiftly dashed – though she could not help but suspect with an amused exasperation that their restraint had more to do with Luke Peveral’s shadowy presence in her life than with any respect for her or her wishes.

  In one thing she was adamant – she would not allow herself to be winkled out of Pascal Road. If it was good enough before the New Cambridge, it was most certainly still good enough now. In the short time she had been there it had become a comfortable home and a stable base, and her friendship with Pol and with Amy Buckley was very precious to her. Pol, who was still unabashedly and, Kitty suspected, more successfully, pursuing Barton Wesley, was now officially her dresser and went everywhere with her. When, in the week that followed that first triumphant night, Patrick Kenny, at Luke’s insistence, installed Kitty in her own private dressing room, complete with day bed, mirrored dressing table and with the picture of the Dipper that Jem had given her in pride of place on the wall, Pol it was who, with razor tongue and an utter disregard for rank or station, defended her privacy and kept unwanted visitors from the door. For, of course, unwanted visitors there were, by the baker’s dozen; it did not take Kitty long to discover that the bright blade of success was sharply double-edged. Inevitably there were drawbacks. If she were too tired or too busy to give an interview, a critic would damn her as arrogant. If she resisted the too-forceful charms of a young man of flawed reputation, that did not always stop him from speaking of her as if she had not. None of it worried her. She was, in the months that followed, truly happy for perhaps the first time in her life. Success bred in her a confidence that in turn bred further success. Her relationship with her audience – almost the most important thing in her life, certainly the mainspring of her performance, improved with each passing day. It was for them she worked, to them she dedicated every effort, and they instinctively knew it, and they loved her for it. She gave them unstintingly of herself, and in return they strengthened and stimulated her. She added to her repertoire – Bertie, who suffered unrequited love for Carrie, the costermonger’s daughter, came into being, together with a dashing cavalryman, Stacey by name, who strode the stage in gallant scarlet and was the scourge of the Frenchies and the darling of the ladies.

  ‘Do you think I’ll ever get to wear a dress in public again?’ she asked Pol one day, half-laughing. ‘I’m afraid if I walked onto the stage in a gown no one would recognize me!’

  The weeks and the months sped by. She signed a short-term contract with Patrick Kenny, but not until after she had had a few sharp words to say about the man’s infuriating tendency to confer not with her but with Luke – a tendency that Kitty knew to be not the least discouraged by Luke himself. It caused the first real discord between them for some time, and the air did not clear for days, due mainly to the fact that, once temper had slipped the curb on Kitty’s tongue, she as always found it impossible to hold b
ack, and what had started as fairly reasoned argument soon deteriorated to passionate quarrelling.

  ‘You don’t own me, Luke! Stop trying to run my life!’

  He was as angry as she. ‘You’d have done well without me, I suppose?’

  ‘I didn’t ask for anything! You can’t say I did! What you did, you did – for God knows what reasons of your own. Am I supposed to pay for that for the rest of my life with my freedom?’

  ‘Is that what you think? Is it?’

  ‘What else is there for me to think? You treat me like a child! – Get on the stage, Kitty, and sing to the nice people – don’t worry your pretty little head – I’ll manage all the grown-up things.’

  ‘You sound very grown-up at the moment, I must say!’

  ‘Luke – you have to understand! I want some say in what I do, in what I am. That isn’t too much to ask, surely? You and Barton might have created the Dipper – but you didn’t create me! It’s bad enough that Pat Kenny and people like that appalling little D’Arcy man think they can run me~;~ to have you doing it too is just too much! How do you think I felt when Pat told me you’d already virtually negotiated that contract without once consulting me? Two inches high, that’s how! And I won’t have it!’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered with such details.’

  ‘Well, think again! And stop interfering!’

  She knew she had gone too far. She did not see him for days. Three evenings running she allowed herself to be escorted by surprised and delighted young Johnnies to the smartest restaurants in the West End. Hoping to see him. Hoping, more to the point, that he would see her. See that she didn’t care. On the fourth, alone, she finished up as she had always known she would in the dusty porch of St Bartholomew’s, tugging nervously at the bell-rope that hung in the corner.

  ‘Well, well. The prodigal returns. Where’s the sackcloth and ashes?’

  Miserably she pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’

  He eyed her with frank and exasperated amusement. ‘Don’t tell such fibs. Of course you did.’ Strong arms, warm mouth, lean body that fed her hunger and slaked her thirst. They made love in the firelight and then again in the dawn, and all was well.

  Until the next time.

  One aspect of her new life brought her nothing but pleasure. She, who had never in her life owned more than two dresses at the same time and never one that might be described as fashionable, now discovered that it was positively expected of her that she should invest in a wardrobe as varied and fashionable as possible. The full crinoline, that had never really suited her, was now evolving into the elegant bustle – a style very well suited to Kitty, with her long legs and narrow hips, though her lack of curves and strong-boned face still kept her, she was the first to admit, from being regarded as a popular beauty. From light-hearted, modish, Second-Empire Paris a foam of frills and flounces were imported. Wisely she resisted them, refusing to be forced into styles that she knew did not suit her – and in another area of her life her confidence grew again as she learned to take decisions and stick to them.

  In the early spring of 1866, Lottie was delivered, full term, of a child, a little girl that she named Poppy. Pol, who despite Lottie’s earlier coldness to her had never lost her affection for the other girl, was there to help both before and during the difficult birth, and for her friend’s sake if not for her own Kitty was happy at the reconciliation. Pol it was who told her of Moses Smith’s unlikely delight in the unexpected role of father.

  ‘Anyone’d think the thing’d never bin done before. Mind you, she’s a pretty little thing, the kid. Accordin’ ter Lottie Moses is talkin’ of makin’ it legal. Mind you – pigs might fly – needless ter say ’e ’asn’t named a day!’

  But – astonishingly – he did. With that odd quirk of respectability that so often resides in the least respectable of souls, Moses Smith decided to make an honest woman of the mother of his child – and so it was that in midsummer of that year, with two great countries of Europe, Austria and Prussia, on the brink of war, with the telegraph cable that was to link Britain to the United States nearing completion and with the music halls of London gaining in popularity every day, Kitty found herself back at Smith’s Song and Supper Rooms celebrating the most improbable wedding of the year.

  She pondered, that afternoon, as she watched the festivities, on the strange and timeless magic of such occasions.

  Animosity and resentment seemed for the moment forgotten – Moses had greeted her, beaming, as if no sharp word had ever passed between them, though Lottie had not spoken to her. Hardship and deprivation, the fear of the law and its punishments that more usually haunted these streets had given way for the time being to celebration. As the bride, looking more beautiful than Kitty had ever seen her in a dress of cobweb lace sewn with tiny pearls, and her fat, perspiring husband were escorted through the cobbled streets and lanes from the church, the world and his wife turned out to greet them. On every street corner barrels of ale and of porter had been set out. Men, women and children staggered happily as they called down the blessings of heaven on the happy couple. Flower petals and tiny scraps of coloured paper made a colourful blizzard in the stinking alley of Blind Lane. Moses beamed, a father to his people, his malice stored in darkness for the day. His bride, pale and beautiful, looked at Luke Peveral with a defiance in her eyes that no one noticed but Kitty.

  The Rooms were packed. For a while Kitty found herself an embarrassing centre of attention – not a soul there but had heard of her success and wished to assure her that never a doubt had there been as to its certainty. When she realized that through no fault of her own she was causing almost as much stir as the bride and groom she hastily disengaged herself from the crowd and tried to shrink into the relative obscurity of a darkened corner. Over the heads of the crowd the bride’s eyes met hers, cool and expressionless, and she knew that nothing, whether real or imagined, had been forgotten or forgiven.

  It did not, of course, take long for the party to become predictably riotous. Kitty, seated at a table beside Luke with Pol and Barton Wesley, winced at a rendering of Polly Perkins so off-key as to be painful, but bearing in mind the bride’s already intemperate hostility declined to improve on it herself. A space was cleared on the floor for dancing, and the pint mugs of porter began to line up on the piano and the pianist got into the swing of the celebrations. Nearer at hand, Barton was already at that happy stage of inebriation that had stilled his usually rapid tongue and put a picturesquely silly smile more or less permanently on his face.

  Pol leaned towards him. ‘Nice do, ain’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’ The words were more than a little blurred at the edges.

  ‘Married,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘’Oo’d ‘a’ thought it?’

  Barton shook his head sagely, still grinning like an idiot.

  Kitty, knowing Pol, was watching and listening, stifling laughter.

  Pol sighed. ‘Nice idea, ain’t it – marriage? Sort of – romantic?’

  A spark of panic had appeared in the little man’s eyes. ‘Sort of permanent, too,’ he managed, remarkably soberly.

  Pol leaned closer, took his hand in hers, turned it over as if to read his palm. ‘Aw, Bart – just think. ’Ome an’ ’earth. Kids. Slippers by the fire.’

  He was staring at her, owlishly appalled. ‘W-would you like another drink?’

  Straight-faced, she leaned back in her chair, reaching for her empty glass. ‘Not half. I thought you’d never ask.’

  As Barton pushed his way into the crowd Kitty laughed. ‘You shouldn’t tease him so.’

  ‘Why not? Does ’im good. An’ one o’ these days I’ll get ’im so pissed ’e’ll propose, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘Kit! Kitty, moi owd gal! There you are! I’ve been looking all over the place.’ Matt swooped upon Kitty, caught her hand. ‘I’m going to dance with my famous sister. Don’t mind, do you, Guv’nor? – come on, Kit - let�
�s show them how it’s done—’

  It was deliberate, she knew – dancing and breathless she could not ask awkward questions of him. She had not seen much of him in the past months, but rumours had reached her – rumours that she prayed had not reached Moses – that he still courted his Sally-Anne, despite – or perhaps, she thought, knowing him, because of – the obstacles. ‘How are you?’ she shouted, above the music.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Keeping out of trouble?’

  ‘Trouble? Me?’ He swooped her into his arms, whirled her around the floor. ‘Don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  When she returned to the table Luke stood a little way off, talking earnestly to Spider. Barton snored, his head pillowed uncomfortably upon the table. Pol nursed Poppy, a tiny, delicately beautiful child, murmuring to her softly, protecting her from the crush about them.

  Kitty parted the shawl that covered the child’s face and looked at the perfect, doll-like features. ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘She is that. ’Ow’s Matt?’

  ‘Same as ever.’ Kitty offered a finger to the tiny, grasping hand. ‘Oh, Pol – I do hope it isn’t true he’s still seeing that girl – he’s storing up such trouble for himself – and still he won’t listen, still he won’t come. It’s like – it’s like talking to a stranger—’

  Barton mumbled and moved. His arm slipped, dangling, from the table.

  ‘Oh, blimey, just look at ’im. ’Ere – Kit, ’old the baby fer a minute, would yer? I’d better straighten ’im up before ’e does ’imself a mischief.’

  Kitty received the warm little bundle, settled the child safely in her arms. Someone had staggered onto the stage and was roaring a drunken and riotously obscene song. Pol heaved at Barton’s slight, utterly unconscious body. Kitty bent to the child, adjusted the shawl about the tiny, flower-like face then, some sixth sense warning her, she glanced up to find Luke standing across the table from her, eyes and face totally inscrutable as he watched her. Oddly, a faint, uncertain pulse, something like a flutter of fear, began to beat in her throat. Hastily she leaned towards Pol. ‘Here, you’d better take her—’ and she handed the child back.