‘Tell me what you want me to do,’ I demanded, pushing my plate aside.
‘That’s my girl,’ replied Mr Sheridan, raising his glass to me. ‘As I told you, I need to place a confidential agent in Paris and I have been keeping you in mind. You have shown yourself to be resourceful and loyal – important qualities for the job.’
His praise was like water on parched earth. I felt relieved to hear that someone did not consider me entirely worthless. He was giving me a chance to travel like all my friends; I could prove to them that I was not limited to Covent Garden as they thought.
‘I have a few ideas as to how it can be done,’ he continued. ‘First, we must get you there without anyone being any the wiser. I’m glad to say that fate has handed us the perfect opportunity.’
‘How so?’
‘Our ballerinas have to return to their native land after the closure of Drury Lane. I have sounded out Madame Beaufort as to the possibility of smuggling you in with them.’
‘You want me to pretend to be a ballet dancer?’ The idea was so absurd as to be laughable.
‘Exactly,’ he continued, not seeing the joke. ‘Madame Beaufort will tell the girls that she has decided to give you a trial.’
‘It’s going to be a very short one – I don’t know the first thing about dancing.’
‘Nonsense, Cat,’ interjected Frank. ‘You’re light on your feet and quick to learn – you might turn out to be perfect.’
‘A perfect disaster like enough,’ I muttered.
‘Lord Francis here will escort you to Paris on the pretext of visiting his family,’ Mr Sheridan explained. ‘He will be on hand to sort out any . . . er . . . diplomatic problems you might encounter at the border.’
Frank winked. ‘Cat, I have you to thank for getting me out of studying for a month. Mama and Papa will understand that I had a higher duty to perform.’
Once again, I had the sensation that my life had been taken completely out of my control, but this time the feeling was exhilarating, like sledging down a steep hill not knowing exactly what was at the bottom.
‘Once in Paris at Madame Beaufort’s I will expect you to write regular letters to me,’ continued Mr Sheridan. ‘To keep the arrangement private, you’d best write them with an eye to the fact that they may be opened in transit. I suggest you sign them as “Diamond”.’
‘Why the need for a secret name? Does that mean my role will be dangerous?’ I wasn’t afraid of a bit of risk but I wanted to enter into this with my eyes open.
‘No, no,’ said Mr Sheridan, with not entirely convincing ease. ‘It’s just that it could be embarrassing for me if my interest in foreign political affairs came out.’
‘Do you think my French will be up to the task? Do you think they’ll tell me anything?’ He seemed to have every confidence that I would be able to keep him informed of events in Paris but I wasn’t so sure. My own experience on the streets of London had taught me that you could still be a stranger even in your own country when you moved beyond your circle.
My patron smiled, playing with the stem of his glass so that it caught the candlelight, casting diamond-shaped patterns on to his face. ‘Put it this way: I expect you to come back with a much increased vocabulary – the sort they don’t teach in the classroom – but I am convinced that you, if anyone, will get by with the people of Paris and earn their confidence.’
‘And payment?’
A familiar evasive look passed over Mr Sheridan’s face. ‘Well, we’ll see about that on your return, shall we?’
That was no good. ‘I think, sir, we’d better see about it now.’
He sighed. ‘It is a sad day when even my own protégée does not trust me.’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘You’re very wise, Cat. All right, you’ll get your expenses and a guinea a letter – if it is informative.’
‘And what sort of things do you want to know?’
‘What the people are thinking and feeling. I don’t want summaries of political speeches; I want an insight into what is really going on.’
‘You mean, which way the wind of change is blowing?’
‘Exactly.’
The first stage of my transformation into a confidential correspondent was to disguise myself as an aspiring dancer. The following day I was ordered to report to Madame Beaufort at her lodgings just off the Strand where a dressmaker was also in attendance.
‘Eh bien, Cat, we are to turn you into a little ballerina, yes?’ said Madame Beaufort, making me stand in the centre of the room while she looked me over with a professional eye. She was an odd looking woman – like an owl in an ivy bush with her thin face peeping out of masses of blonde, frizzy hair. The rest of her was so tall and slender that she reminded me of a dandelion clock and I half expected the wind to start blowing her away. ‘We speak French from now, agreed?’
‘Agreed, Madame,’ I said, switching into French. Though I had gained a tolerable fluency mingling with the dancers backstage, I knew I was badly in need of practice if I was to do a proper job in Paris.
Madame Beaufort turned to the dressmaker, a compatriot she had introduced as Madame Chenier.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Madame Chenier was as fat as the ballet mistress was thin. She rose from her seat like a cow from clover and trotted over to me with a determined expression on her round, rosy face. She then proceeded to prod and measure me so enthusiastically that I was sure I would be covered in bruises.
‘This will be no problem – the child has the bearing of a dancer already, though a little on the short side. I have a few things with me that will do,’ declared Madame Chenier, giving my chin a playful – but painful – tweak. Clearly, she was a woman who didn’t know her own strength.
‘What kind of things, madame?’ I asked with a feeling of trepidation.
‘You must look like my other girls, ma chérie,’ said Madame Beaufort.