He was right: I had begun to improve. The storm was still raging but as we drew into the more sheltered waters of the French coast, the terrible stomach cramps subsided. Feeling light-headed and weak, I propped myself up on Frank’s cloak. Joseph was chuckling away to himself, deep in another of the magazines. I couldn’t help but feel proud that my stories had the power to amuse my friends.
As our ship entered Calais harbour, it came back to me that I had a tricky time ahead. If Mr Sheridan’s reason for sending me all this way was to remain a secret, I had to blend in with the troupe while our papers were examined. Would the officials buy the idea that this little redhead was a bona fide ballerina? If they looked closely, surely they would realize that I was like a duck among the swans? I wished I felt more up to the interview, but after all that retching, I was too washed out to do more than stagger on deck very sloppily dressed. Fortunately for me, the weather had taken its toll on my companions: none of the dancers looked their best. They neither noticed nor cared as I mingled with them in the early dawn.
‘Good morning, citizens and citizenesses,’ announced the port official as he came aboard. He had obviously had a good night’s sleep and had not spent the night with his head in a bucket, as his brass buttons were well polished, his uniform crisp and neat. His upper lip was adorned with a splendid black moustache. ‘Now, who do we have here?’ The captain presented him with the passenger list. ‘Where is this Lord Francis, son of the Duke of Avon?’ he asked with a frown on his brow. The master of the vessel pointed to Frank, who had taken up his station alone at the far end of the ship from me, assuming an uncharacteristically aristocratic distance from the commoners he had been thrown among. ‘I’ll deal with him last,’ the official said with relish. ‘Ladies first, n’est-ce pas?’
As if to rub in his slight to the young noble, the Frenchmen fawned over Madame Beaufort and her charges. ‘I rejoice to see such pretty flowers of French maidenhood returning to our shores,’ he said with overblown gallantry as he kissed her hand. ‘Much has changed even in the few short years since your departure, madame. You left us slaves and return to a free France.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ the ballet mistress said with a grave nod of her head. ‘You honour us with your welcome.’
He took the sheaf of papers from her hand and leafed through them, making the occasional remark to the French girls, flirting with each in turn. Mine were at the end – conspicuous for being the only English national among them. ‘What is this?’ he chuckled. ‘You bring a little roast beef with you to turn her into a dancer? Where is she, this marvel?’
I stepped out from behind one of the tallest of the dancers. The chuckle turned into a full belly laugh.
‘You have your work cut out for you, madame. Surely she is too small for the chorus line?’
Madame Beaufort gave me a nervous look. It had only now struck her what she was doing: smuggling a foreign agent into her native land. Some would think her a traitor.
‘Her appearance is deceptive, sir,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Catherine is very promising.’
Mimi snorted disdainfully. The official frowned. ‘And you, madame, will you be responsible for her conduct while she is here?’ he asked the ballet mistress.
‘I . . . er . . .’ Madame Beaufort hesitated, doubtless wondering what repercussions would fall on her if my true role was detected. I felt an unpleasant twist in the pit of my stomach that was nothing to do with seasickness. I could see Frank stirring restlessly as he kept a close eye on proceedings.
‘I have agreed to give the girl a trial, sir – that is all.’
‘And if she fails? We do not want English girls abandoned in Paris – we have enough vagrants of our own. I cannot grant her a passport unless I know she has the means to support herself. Who will pay for her return?’
‘Her sponsor,’ said Madame Beaufort awkwardly.
‘Sponsor?’ The official checked the papers again. ‘Who is that?’
This was not going well. I hadn’t even set foot on French soil and already my connection to Mr Sheridan, a name that would be well-known even this side of the Channel, seemed on the point of being blurted out.
‘It’s Mr –’
‘My man!’ A haughty voice rapped out from the far end of the deck. ‘When you have quite finished dallying with the ladies, some of us have pressing business to attend to.’ It was Frank. He strode purposefully across the planks to confront the official. ‘Shocking lack of efficiency!’ he continued. ‘I’ll be having words with your superior.’
The official folded up my papers and absent-mindedly handed them back to Madame Beaufort. ‘And just who do you think you are, citizen, talking to an officer like this?’
‘I am Lord Francis of Boxton, the son of the Duke of Avon. I am used to being treated with more respect where I come from. I have had my fill of being made to wait behind a pack of women.’
The official gave a tight smile, relishing his opportunity to put down a popinjay of a noble. ‘Well, citizen, you are in France now. You’ll wait for as long as I say you should. Ladies, you may go.’ And the Frenchman waved us commoners off.
I waited on the busy pier for Frank for over an hour. Grumbling at the English boy’s rudeness, Madame Beaufort and her dancers disappeared into a quayside coaching inn to engage carriages for Paris and have breakfast, leaving me kicking my heels with mounting anxiety. Around me the fishwives were screeching in rapid, incomprehensible French. Buckets of forlorn fish gaped on the boards before being swiftly dispatched by efficient fingers, gutted and tossed into crates. Still feeling delicate from my night of sickness, I turned my eyes and sank against a wooden post.
‘Cat?’ It was Frank’s voice.
‘Thank goodness! I thought he was going to send you back to England.’