We were still left with the problem that Pedro was dead.
It was a greater difficulty than you might first imagine. His name was already on all the playbills printed for the opening night of The Tempest. Mr Kemble had half-confirmed my wild claim to Hawkins that Pedro had succumbed to a fever; he would be in hot water if he was proved to have lied to the man. It didn’t matter what I said – no one took me seriously – but Mr Kemble’s word counted for something in London. As Pedro and I made our way upstairs, I realized that the first thing we had to do was straighten the matter out.
‘Pedro, do you prefer to be dead, or should we drop the story?’ I whispered as we waited outside Mr Kemble’s office. The dress rehearsal had been delayed – and, by now, everyone knew why. Two half-dressed ballerinas clucked sympathetically at Pedro as they passed us in the corridor. A stagehand, carrying a model of a sailing ship on the way to the carpenter’s workshop, slapped him on the back wordlessly.
‘I can’t see how we can pretend I’m someone else,’ said Pedro, leaning against the wall dejectedly. ‘I’m too well known.’
‘But with the mask, couldn’t we . . .?’
‘No,’ he cut in. ‘Maybe I’ll have to make a run for it, but I’d prefer to stand and fight my corner. I feel better now than I did. Like you said, I’ve got Frank and Lizzie on my side. Syd and the gang will help too. That counts for something.’
‘And me.’
‘Yes. And my most important ally – you.’
We exchanged a smile.
‘Cat! Pedro! Get yourselves in here now!’ bellowed Mr Kemble from within. He didn’t sound happy. And who could blame him? He thought he had a box office draw in Pedro; now it seemed he was harbouring an item that could cost him dear. We trooped into the office and found Mr Kemble seated with Signor Angelini.
‘Tcha! Tcha!’ tutted the musical director, flapping a silk handkerchief at his apprentice. ‘Why you no tell me, Pedro?’
Pedro hung his head. ‘Sorry, maestro. I didn’t realize he’d come after me.’
‘It worse than that. He now ask for your earnings over this year. He seek that from me!’ Signor Angelini gestured to a letter lying on the desk. ‘Immediate return of property, living or deceased – that means you, Pedro – and full reparation! I feel like deceasing you myself! You know how much that will cost me?’
I thought it very unfair to blame Pedro for this. It was hardly his fault that he had been a resounding success. Nor did a few pounds seem anything compared with the prospect that Pedro might end up being handed over to Hawkins.
‘You’re not going to let him have Pedro back, are you, maestro?’ I interrupted him. ‘It’s not fair. He doesn’t want to go.’
‘Quiet, Cat,’ snapped Mr Kemble. ‘Of course we don’t want to deliver Pedro up to that man. Slavery is an evil – but it is legal in the British Empire. I’m not sure if we can stop this Hawkins taking Pedro if he is his as he claims.’
I couldn’t be silent at this. ‘But he’s not a dog to be passed from owner to owner. He’s a boy – a man like you.’
‘You’re wrong, Cat,’ said Pedro sullenly. ‘I’m no more than a dog as far as my old master’s concerned. It seems others think the same.’ He cast a bitter look at Angelini.
‘No, no, boy, it is you that is wrong,’ said the Italian, his voice softening. ‘I angry with you, si, but I do not think of you like this. There is no slavery in music. You have a talent that places you among the great. To me it no matter if you be black, red, green or blue: you play like a god. We try to stop this monster Hawkins. We stand with you.’ He patted Pedro on the arm. Pedro made to draw away, but catching sight of the Italian’s sincere expression he checked himself, and accepted Angelini’s gesture without resistance.
‘But how to do it – there’s the rub,’ murmured Mr Kemble. ‘I as good as told Hawkins that you were dead.’
‘You didn’t, sir,’ I butted in. ‘That was me. You only said he had been the maestro’s apprentice. Now you know he isn’t.’
‘An excellent quibble, Cat. The courts lost a formidable barrister with you being born female, but we all know what impression I allowed Hawkins to form. So, the question is: do we admit you are still alive or do we continue to claim you’re mouldering in your grave? I leave the choice to you, Pedro. But I should warn you: if you decide to play dead you’ll have to leave us. I can’t keep the deception going if you’re still here – not even Mr Sheridan can protect you in London, in spite of all his political connections. However, we might be able to do something further afield. I’ve a brother in Scotland – if I asked, I’m sure he would take you on at his theatre. That might be far enough to escape Hawkins’ clutches.’
Pedro looked down at the floor, weighing his options.
Some moments passed and then his mind was made up.
‘Thank you, sir, but I prefer to take my chance here. I can’t run forever.’
Mr Kemble sighed.
‘Good boy,’ he said approvingly. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’ve made the right choice. Drury Lane’s behind you.’ He got to his feet to move to his dressing table. ‘You know, I think the best strategy might be to brazen it out in public.’ He picked up his make-up stick and began darkening his eyebrows. ‘You’re a popular performer – the London crowd won’t want one of their favourite stars dragged off to waste his talents on a Jamaican sugar plantation. Mr Hawkins may just find that he’s taken on more than he bargained for when he came to claim you . . . Off you go now.’