Mr Sheridan had often talked about sprucing up the theatre when he had the money – he never did, so I had always let these ramblings wash over me.
‘Very nice, sir,’ I said non-committally, wondering if I could get on my way. In fact, I thought the plans looked terrible – they represented a vast, soulless place where actors would seem like objects viewed the wrong way down a telescope, if I had understood the drawings correctly. It would kill the theatre – and probably quite a few of our leading actors as they tried to make themselves heard in that space. It was a good job that it would never be built.
‘Ten minutes!’ called the stage manager. ‘Light the stage candles.’
‘I’m glad you like it, Cat,’ said Mr Sheridan, caressing the papers, ‘because this evening I’m going to announce to the cast that the last performance within these walls will be on 4th June. When we close, the demolition crew will move in to knock the old place down.’
‘What!’ I felt as if he had just tipped a kettle of scalding water on me.
‘I know that is very soon, but I didn’t want to make a premature announcement. I couldn’t get a builder for the job until I’d put the money on the table. Apparently, my reputation for not being prompt about settling my account had preceded me.’ He chuckled and smoothed his white silk cravat fixed in place with a diamond-headed pin.
This was serious.
‘What, Cat? You don’t look pleased.’
‘How long will the theatre be closed?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – a couple of seasons perhaps. We’re not talking about a refit here – this is a complete rebuild.’
‘A couple of seasons! But that’s years!’
He darted a look at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know it’s going to mean a lot of changes for everyone. We’ll have to camp out at the King’s Theatre for a while, but I’m sure the company will all pull together when they understand what we stand to gain.’
‘I see.’ I said no more. My home was about to be destroyed: the Sparrow’s Nest, my foothold in the world for as long as I could remember was to be turned into rubble; the playground backstage that I’d shared with Pedro was about to be reduced to dust. Where would we go? At least Pedro had his master, the musical director – as an apprentice, he would be looked after. But I, as an orphan under the protection of the theatre, I’d been allowed a corner no one else wanted. In a new theatre, where no one knew me, would I be so fortunate again?
Mr Sheridan must have been following some of my thoughts from the expressions on my face.
‘When this is all over, Cat, I think you’ll recognize it was for the best. You can’t bed down in the costume store any more like some stray kitten. You’re a young lady now. You need to find proper lodgings for yourself – start to make your own way.’
With what? I wondered. I worked in exchange for bed and board. I’d never had any money to call my own.
‘I have every confidence that you’ll fall on your feet as normal. You’re not called Cat for nothing,’ he continued cheerfully, ruffling my ginger hair and dislodging my cap.
I knew that for my own good I had to be practical. I couldn’t indulge myself and let out the wail of grief that welled up inside me. ‘Can I move with the company?’ I asked. ‘Will you start paying me wages?’
Mr Sheridan began tidying away the plans. ‘We’ll see. Money’s a bit tight at the moment, what with the cost of the new building and the removal. Have a word with Mrs Reid – she might be able to squeeze something out of the wardrobe budget for you. Though I must admit I rather thought that you were going to make your fortune by your pen. I understood that the Duke of Avon was helping you find a publisher.’
He’d hit upon a sore spot.
‘His grace has tried, but the booksellers find my stuff too shocking. They’ve told me to write about love and female duty – not boxing and battles.’
Mr Sheridan laughed. ‘Don’t you listen to them, Cat. You have to put up with your fair share of rejection as a writer if you want to succeed. Keep trying – you’ll find your audience one day.’
‘Yes, when I’m six feet under and women are equals to men – that means never,’ I muttered sullenly.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Mr Sheridan, toying with the watch chain that looped across his broad expanse of waistcoat. ‘It may happen sooner than you think. Events in France are transforming things that, when I was your age, were thought to be untouchable. Maybe your sex will be the next to share in the benefits of the wind of change that is sweeping across Europe.’
Mr Sheridan was talking politics now. The theatre was only really a hobby to him: his real career lay in parliament so it didn’t take much to jog him on to this track. I’d be getting a full-blown speech about progress and revolution if I didn’t watch out.
‘We’ll see, sir,’ I said humbly, bobbing a curtsey. ‘May I go now?’
‘Yes, yes, off you go, child. And don’t worry: we’ll make sure you are all right one way or another,’ he said, leafing through the plans once more.
I picked up the tray of wigs and retreated from the office, full of doom. I knew my patron better than to trust to his vague promises. Many a shopkeeper had spent hours besieging him for payment only to be fobbed off with hints of money in the future.
‘Cat, where’s my wig?’ screeched Miss Stageldoir as I pushed my way into the bustling dressing room. Half-clothed dancers clustered around the mirrors, elbowing each other out of the way to plaster their faces with make-up, gossiping to each other in quick-fire French.
Well, if I was going to persuade everyone I was an indispensable part of the backstage crew, I could afford to make no enemies by rudeness – even Miss Stageldoir, a middling order actress of indifferent talent.