He gave me a queer look, perhaps wondering if I meant him. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It sounds exciting. Perhaps we’ll get a reward if we catch someone after it.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ I looked away to the auditorium and saw that it was almost full. ‘Hadn’t you better get changed? The performance is about to start.’
Pedro brushed the crumbs off his lap and bowed again.
‘Tonight I will play for you, Cat,’ he said gallantly as he left the box.
As I watched him go, I wondered about my new friend, for I supposed that was what he was after all we had been through today. Pedro was the most unusual boy I’d ever met and I wasn’t talking about his skin colour. I couldn’t forget the music that poured from his violin that morning: he seemed to be in touch with something much greater than anything I knew, something almost holy. That was it, I thought with a smile as I realised what image I was feeling my way towards: he was like a priest, a priest of music, superior to the rest of us who had never gone beyond the veil into the Holy of Holies. That was until you mentioned money to him . . . that brought him straight back to earth among the rest of us. I wouldn’t be encouraging him to think any more about the diamond . . . that had been a big mistake.
Mr Sheridan had not yet arrived, though I expected him to come for the first night of the balloon farce, The Mogul’s Tale, after the main play. This meant I had the delicious luxury of the box to myself. I sat in his chair and played with the opera glasses. I trained them on the Pit, picking out the men on the seats below as they chewed on handfuls of nuts and oranges. Jonas Miller, the clerk from across the road, a pinched-nose youth with straggly fair hair and a poor complexion, was here again, sitting at the end of the bench just under my box. He must spend all his wages on tickets. Jonas was a fanatic about the theatre and was famous for his devotion to Miss Stageldoir, sending her weekly offerings of nosegays and other tokens of his affection. She ignored him, of course, saying that he was only a clerk with ideas above his station. I could have added that he was a louse who never missed an opportunity to insult those below him. As I was somewhere near the bottom of life’s pile, that meant he treated me cruelly when our paths crossed, either directing some foul remark in my direction or pushing me roughly out of his way. Jonas was at present sitting next to a dark-suited young man, both with eyes trained on a pamphlet in their laps. Deciding to have my revenge by abusing my position of power, I focused the glasses to spy on the paper they were looking at. It was only a caricature . . . some crude picture lampooning the government or the Royal Family. I bent closer to the edge of the box to listen to what they were saying.
‘Captain Sparkler’s been at it again,’ cried Jonas. ‘Look at what he’s done to the king. He looks like a sack of Norfolk potatoes. What’s this? He’s only gone and drawn him squatting on “the dung heap of history”. Ouch! That’s a bit bold, ain’t it?’
‘The French king doesn’t look very happy though,’ said the other. ‘I’m not sure French liberty is to his liking.’
‘I’m all for a bit of French revolutionary spirit here, aren’t you, Reuben? Shake up the old orders . . . give us young men a chance. After all, we are the future of this country, not that old German fart, the king.’
Reuben looked about him nervously. ‘Ssh!’ he hissed. ‘Someone might hear you! They’ve got people out looking for troublemakers. You know you could be carted off to the Tower for insulting the king? Not to mention being hanged, drawn and quartered for treason.’
‘They wouldn’t dare,’ bragged Jonas, though I noticed he had dropped his voice despite his bold words. ‘They’re too scared of us . . . afraid we’ll do to them what the Frenchies have done to their king, making him come at their beck and call. And we might.’ Jonas tried to swell impressively, but to my eye he just looked a bullfrog, croaking out empty threats.
He was wasting his breath. The mob would never treat King George like the French had their Louis. And as for putting him on the dung heap, that was impossible! Britain without a king was as inconceivable as London without its theatres. Hadn’t we tried it with Cromwell and decided we rather liked royalty after all? It was just a shame Jonas’s concern for the underclasses did not stretch to those under him, I thought, turning my attention to the more interesting events on the stage. The orchestra filed in. It had gone six-thirty: the performance was starting at last.
I had a long wait to see both Pedro and the balloon as I first had to sit through The Haunted Tower, a dark Gothic opera that I did not rate much higher than the productions of Mr Salter’s pen, but at least the audience seemed to like it. Mr Kemble made sure there was plenty of fake blood and screaming to keep them happy.
A door opened behind me in the fifth act and I had to scramble out of my chair to make way for Mr Sheridan. He was accompanied by a gentleman and two young people, a boy and a girl a few years older than me, both finely dressed. As I ducked out of the way, I caught a glimpse of the sky blue silk of the girl’s lace-edged gown and felt a pang of envy. I had never owned anything so beautiful in my entire life.
‘Keeping my seat warm for me, were you, Cat?’ joked Mr Sheridan.
‘Yes, sir.’ I bobbed a curtsey, knowing better than to presume upon his kindness in the presence of outsiders. The boy was staring at me with undisguised curiosity as if I was something intriguing in a cage in the zoological garden.
‘Run along then,’ Mr Sheridan said, shooing me away. ‘Make room for Lord Francis and Lady Elizabeth.’