The Diamond of Drury Lane (8 page)

‘The little prince . . . Pedro Hawkins.’

The man straightened up and started to chant, ‘Bravo Pedro! Bravo the prince!’

Those near us took up his call and soon the
whole theatre was ringing with Pedro’s name. As the curtain rose again, he was ushered forward by Mr Kemble to take his own bow.

Pedro Hawkins had made a name for himself.

I
ran as quickly as I could to the Green Room so I would be the first to congratulate Pedro on his London début. In the end, I need not have hurried because I had a long wait . . . the crowd must have demanded a further encore. Finally, the performers piled into the room, talking loudly in their exhilaration at being in a hit. Mr Andrews and Mr Kemble had their arms around each other’s shoulder, faces glowing with high spirits. Mr Andrews was mimicking his companion’s extemporised lines about calling on the gods for permission, making the actor-manager roar with laughter.

I looked in vain for Pedro. He had not come in with the others. The Green Room was already stifling with the heat of so many bodies crushed together, the clink of wine glasses being raised to toast the success, the odours of greasepaint and
perspiration. I wormed my way to the door, ducking through the crowd of Eastern beauties and slaves in curling slippers. There, on the threshold, was Pedro. He was having his hand shaken by each of the stage crew in turn. Long Tom thrust a mug of foaming beer into his hand and Mr Bishop slapped him on the back as he made to drink it, slopping beer everywhere. The stage crew howled with exuberant laughter. Pedro smiled uncertainly, wondering if they were mocking him or merely having a lark. But the friendly smiles on their faces told him that they now considered him initiated as one of the boys, so he grinned and downed the rest in a gulp.

I hovered shyly to one side, waiting for my opportunity to congratulate him, but before I could get a word in, Mr Kemble had come forward and steered Pedro into the thick of things, shouting out to the crowd, ‘Here is the man of the moment! What a performance!’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Mr Andrews. ‘Without your quick thinking the crowd might have hanged us all from that damned balloon.’

Pedro accepted the adulation with dignity, bowing to those who came up to compliment him. I still could not reach him . . . so thick was the press . . . but I noticed that he was looking around, perhaps trying to spot me in the forest of grown-ups.

‘Pedro!’ I shouted from the corner I had been backed into. Peter Dodsley was embracing Pedro with great emotion. ‘Pedro, over here!’

My voice must have carried to his sharp ears for he turned and waved. He broke away from the first violinist and began to duck and weave his way through the crowd until finally we were together again.

‘Did you watch?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I played to your box but I couldn’t spot you.’

‘No, you wouldn’t’ve. Mr Sheridan arrived with guests and threw me out.’ Pedro’s face fell. ‘But I watched from the Pit. I had a splendid view. And you were magnificent!’

Pedro’s face cracked into a wide smile. ‘So no one noticed my black eye then?’

I laughed and shook my head. ‘Absolutely not.’

There was a loud call for silence at the door.
We turned to look and saw Mr Sheridan standing framed in the doorway, flanked by his three smart guests who had ousted me from the box.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Sheridan called. A hush spread from the front of the room to the back like a wave rippling over the Serpentine. ‘I have the great honour of presenting a very special visitor to you. The Duke of Avon expressed the desire of personally conveying his appreciation of tonight’s performance to you all.’

The Duke of Avon, a stately gentleman with white locks brushed forward from a receding hairline, stepped into the room and cleared his throat.

‘As my honourable friend here says, I thought you excelled yourselves tonight . . . none more so than our little African. Where is he? My children in particular would like to meet him.’

‘Go on,’ I hissed, pushing Pedro forward.

Arriving before the duke, he gave an elegant bow.

‘An unforgettable debut!’ declared the peer. ‘Well done!’

Mr Sheridan then steered Pedro to one side to
meet Lady Elizabeth and Lord Francis.

Conversation in the Green Room picked up again as the private interview commenced, but I stayed close to the door, watching the fictitious prince meet some our country’s highest nobility. Lord Francis looked younger than his sister; I guessed he was probably only a few years older than me. He had a head of unruly dark brown curls and vivid blue eyes. I noticed that he could not stand still; he fidgeted from foot to foot with barely suppressed excitement, looking at everyone and everything that passed. By contrast, his sister stood serenely and listened to Pedro as he recounted what he had done to save the balloon flight. I liked her expression: at once intelligent and gentle. She did not seem to think it beneath her to spend time giving her attention to a mere player.

Lord Francis then spotted me. He nudged Lady Elizabeth.

‘Look, it’s Sheridan’s Cat, Lizzie,’ he said, grinning over at me. ‘I wondered what had become of her.’

I would have slipped away but Pedro strode
over and hooked me by the arm. ‘Allow me to introduce you to her.’

He dragged me over. ‘You say, my lord, that you want to know about the theatre; well, here is our resident expert.’ He waved his hand towards me in a flourish like a conjuror producing a white rabbit from a hat.

I blushed at the introduction and curtsied.

‘So, Miss . . .?’ began Lady Elizabeth tentatively.

‘Miss Catherine Royal,’ I supplied, thinking it the moment to use my full title.

‘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.