The Diamond of Drury Lane (Cat Royal Adventures #1)
Julia Golding
London, January 1790
Curtain rises.
A RIOT
Reader, you are set to embark on an adventure about one hidden treasure, two bare-knuckle boxers, three enemies and four hundred and thirty-eight rioters. It is told by an ignorant and prejudiced author . . . me. My name is Cat Royal, though how I came to be called this, I will explain later. For the moment I will start with the riot, for that was where the story really began.
It was the opening night of Mr Salter’s new play, The Mad Father. I sat as usual curled up behind a curtain in the manager’s box, watching the audience as much as I watched the stage. I love a full house: there is always so much to see. The vast auditorium was packed: all London was there from the flash dandies in the Pit to the ha’penny harlots high up in the gods. Candles blazed in the chandeliers, catching on the jewels and polished fans of the ladies in the boxes. It was a gorgeous display.
Tonight the mood of the crowd was dangerous. There was a low buzz in the room like a hive of angry bees threatening to swarm. The theatre owner, Mr Sheridan, was sitting hunched over the box rail, looking like thunder. In the candlelight, the red flush across his face burned brighter than ever. His dark eyes glinted. I am never quite sure what he is thinking but I guessed that this evening he must be feeling very foolish. In my humble opinion, it had been a mad idea for him to agree to put the play on in the first place, but even I didn’t dare mention this to him. I had seen it in rehearsal . . . an arsy-varsy affair, not a patch on Mr Sheridan’s own comedies, which were guaranteed to have the audience in fits of laughter. Mr Salter’s play by contrast was not worth a fart.
Prejudiced though I was against it, I was alarmed to see that the gentlemen of the Pit were exceedingly bored after the first act. Mr Kemble, our leading actor, had to struggle against a hostile shower of orange peel. I could tell that it would not be long before a more dangerous rain of bottles and rotten vegetables would fall. Some of the audience were climbing over the benches in an attempt to reach the forestage. Leading the vanguard was vile Jonas Miller from the lawyer’s office across the road. You should know, Reader, that he is a real hog-grubber that one. He thinks so highly of his own taste that he believes he has a right to praise or damn a play by forcing the actors off the stage. Ducking out of the shadows of the box, I filched Mr Sheridan’s opera glasses from his hand and took a swift look at the other parts of the House. The galleries, particularly the footmen in the gods, were on the point of revolt, giving a crude Anne’s fan to the actors with their white-gloved hands, wigs askew as they pushed and shoved to reach the rail. The ladies were gathering their shawls about them in anticipation of the riot to come. I noticed one party directly opposite was already on its feet, heading for the exit.
‘It’s not looking pretty, Cat,’ Mr Sheridan remarked over his shoulder. He too had read the signs. ‘I suggest we make a tactical retreat before the oranges are aimed in my direction.’
With a nod of agreement, I uncurled from my comfortable lookout. Jonas and his cronies had now reached the spikes guarding the stage from audience invasions. Poor Mr Kemble faltered in his speech, sensing that he was about to be upstaged by the frenzy of an audience demanding their money back.
‘I hope Kemble can turn the play around and stop them ripping up the benches: it cost hundreds of pounds to repair the damage after the last riot,’ Mr Sheridan muttered half to himself as I followed him down the dark corridors leading backstage. ‘I can’t afford it. Mr Salter is costing me far more than he’s worth.’