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.
‘Sorry, miss. I was delayed by Mr Sheridan,’ I replied meekly, battling through the ballerinas to reach her.
Miss Stageldoir curled her pretty lips sceptically. She had a patch on her cheek like a squashed fly, hiding a pox mark that spoiled her alabaster skin (this too came out of a bottle – she was really as red-faced as a laundry woman when seen in daylight). ‘Put it on me then, girl.’
I lifted the wig from the tray, trying to blow off some of the soot before she noticed, and lowered it on to her head like the Archbishop of Canterbury crowning the king. She stared at her reflection.
‘What have you done, you slattern!’ She wheeled round and slapped my face hard. ‘You’ve ruined it!’
Mrs Reid bustled forward to break up the commotion. ‘What’s the matter, Miss Stageldoir?’ she said soothingly. I rubbed my cheek, boiling with resentment, but bit my tongue.
‘The dirty little beggar’s spoiled my wig! How can I go on stage looking like a chimney sweep?’
‘I can mend that in a trice with some powder. Just sit tight.’ Mrs Reid clucked and fussed over Miss Stageldoir’s head. She enveloped the actress in a cloud of white dust as she repaired the damage. ‘Look! As good as new.’
‘Hmm.’ Miss Stageldoir turned her face this way and that. ‘I suppose it’ll do, but make sure you punish the girl: it could have ruined my performance.’
As if it needed me to spoil it – she did that well enough herself.
‘I will, you can be certain of that.’ Mrs Reid glared at me.
This was so unfair!
‘But it wasn’t me, Mrs Reid. Mr Sheridan dropped the tray when he took me into his office.’
Mrs Reid raised her eyebrows, taking in my crooked cap. ‘What was he doing with you in his office on your own?’
Two of the dancers giggled as they brushed past. I blushed and tugged my cap back into place. ‘He wanted to show me his plans.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, plans for the new theatre,’ I continued loudly, savouring the moment when I would fire my broadside. ‘He’s closing Drury Lane and knocking it down. On 4th June to be precise. We’ve all got to move.’
You could have heard a pin drop. In fact, several did tumble from Miss Stageldoir’s head as she jerked back in her chair to stare at me in disbelief.
‘What did you say?’ she hissed.
‘It’s the end. Drury Lane is doomed. The curtain falls. Can I put it any clearer for you . . . miss?’