Today I stood in the ruins of Drury Lane and thought of you. I wish you had had a chance to see my home before the demolition men got to work. I would have liked to show you the place where Mr Garrick once held London spellbound, Mrs Siddons scared us stiff, and Mr Kemble thrilled us with his eloquence. All that is gone – what remains is just rubble and swirling dust. If the theatre is to be reborn like the Phoenix, I’d say it is at the cold ashes stage of the process. I doubt my heart will warm to the new place even when it is built. Mr Sheridan has turned my world into a wasteland so I will have to look somewhere else for a home.
You mustn’t worry about me getting into more trouble. I’m not short of offers of help of a more attractive kind than that extended to me by Billy Shepherd. Your gift secured my freedom – though for a moment I thought it was also going to be the means to my end. If you do decide to do business with Shepherd (and I suppose it is useless for me to warn you against it?), watch your back.
My own business dealings are looking up. Mr Sheridan said that several publishers have been making discreet enquiries about my manuscripts, now recovered by his lawyer from the printer’s safe. He was so pleased to see me back safe and sound without a political scandal attached to his name that he even gave me two guineas (!) for the letters I wrote that never reached him. He said it was the least he could do. Money from my famously tight-fisted patron, Mr Sheridan – what is the world coming to?
I will end here with just these few words to assure you all is well. I’ve two guineas in my pocket, friends, a roof over my head – and best of all, thanks to you, I’m free of Billy Shepherd. I can stay or go as I like – unlike your unfortunate monarch. Sometimes, it really is better to be one of the nobility of the gutter.
Your dance partner,
Cat Royal, daughter of the people.
Curtain falls.
BEDFORD SQUARE – a once elegant part of town, recently gone downhill since a certain person moved in COCKADE – a red, white and blue ribbon demonstrating support for the revolution (N.B. don’t forget to wear one!) CONCIERGE – a porter, someone in charge of a building; also the title of the person in charge of the Conciergerie prison CONCIERGERIE – former palace, now a prison in Paris on the Ile de la Cité
CORPUS CHRISTI – Church holiday; it literally means ‘Christ’s body’
CRACKSMEN – burglars who ‘crack’ open a house DAUPHIN – the French version of the Prince of Wales DODGE – trick
EXEUNT OMNES – cue in play script for everyone to leave the stage THE FANCY – boxing
FIACRE – French carriage
FLASH – showy
FLAT – gullible fool
FOP – a man who makes a study of being fashionable and nothing else GADABOUT – pejorative term for someone who gets around a lot GIVE SOMEONE THE EYE – look them up and down in an amorous way HUSSY – woman of low reputation
IN LOCO PARENTIS – Latin for ‘in place of the parent’, an overused phrase in my opinion LA FILLE MAL GARDéE – a ballet, roughly translated as ‘the badly guarded girl’
MAGSMAN – a street trickster
MANUMISSION – a slave’s freedom
MINT OF MONEY – an awful lot of it
MOLL – female thief or one who associates with thieves, definitely not applicable to me NAB – steal, catch
NOTRE DAME – twin-towered cathedral of Paris
PELISSE – cloak with sleeves
PISSING IN THE WIND – perhaps not one of my most elegant phrases but denotes something that will in the end backfire on you POPINJAY – overdressed man aspiring to be a leader of the fashion, upstart ROAST BEEF – French term for us English people RUM DO – strange thing
ROOKERIES – poor area of London, also known as St Giles, best to be avoided SAVE SOMEONE’S BACON – get someone out of trouble SCRATCH – marked area in centre of boxing ring THE SEASON – fashionable time of year to be in town, usually considered to be from the New Year to late Spring SKIVVY – low status maid-of-all-work
SWEET AS A NUT – to do something completely right TERPSICHORE – name of the Greek muse of dance TUILERIES – Royal residence in Paris
YOUNG BLOODS – high-spirited, sporting gentlemen
Bath, December 1791
Curtain rises.
THE LIFE OF THE RICH
Reader, imagine yourself sitting in the luxurious surroundings of Boxton, the country house of the Duke of Avon situated near Bath. In the morning room, the walls are hung with hand-painted paper depicting Chinese flowers and animals; the delicate tables bear silver teapots and teacups so fine that the light shines through them. To amuse yourself, you have a pianoforte – or any other musical instrument you care to name, embroidery, sketching or polite novels. And what is the result? Boredom.
Do not mistake me, Reader: this is not just a little ladylike weariness – I am so bored I could scream.
My two friends, Frank, the Duke’s son, and Pedro, a superb violinist originally from Africa, are out hunting with the gentlemen. The duchess is still abed. And I’m left kicking my heels until the men of the family come home. I’d exchange an embroidery frame for a good muddy walk across the fields any day, but according to Frank, it would not be decent for me to go with the hunters. He even laughed when I suggested as much this morning.
‘You know you can’t do that. What would the other guests think?’ Frank’s navy blue eyes twinkled at me, daring me to laugh with him at my absurd idea.
‘I don’t care,’ I said, refusing to succumb to his attempt to charm me into a good humour. ‘I’ll do something desperate if I have to sit about any longer.’