‘Come along, my dears, time you were in your beds,’ he said, offering his arm to his daughter. ‘Did you get what you want, Lizzie?’ he asked, chucking her under her chin.
Lady Elizabeth nodded, her blue eyes sparkling up at him. ‘Indeed, Papa, more. Miss Royal has also agreed to entertain us.’
The Duke of Avon gave me a sceptical look, which took in my patched dress and tumbled appearance.
‘She writes the most wonderful stories, sir,’ said Lord Francis quickly.
‘Oh? A writer, is she? How extraordinary for a girl of her class!’ the duke exclaimed. Once again I had the impression that this noble family thought I was a curiosity, like the two-headed calf, to be put on show at the fair. ‘I will be very interested to hear more about this. Perhaps you need a patron to get published, young lady? I am all for encouraging the lower orders to rise above the disadvantages of their station in life . . . as long as it is consistent with womanly virtues, of course,’ he added as an after-thought.
Pedro was not slow to pick up on the offer of monetary support. ‘I can vouch for Miss Royal, your grace. I expect it can be arranged for her to leave a sample of her work when we come on Friday so that you may peruse it at your leisure.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Till Friday then.’
With a slight nod of dismissal, the duke swept off to return to his carriage, taking his children with him, Lady Elizabeth on his arm, Lord Francis lagging behind, still enraptured by the world behind the scenes.
As soon as they were out of earshot, I turned on my friend. ‘Pedro! What were you thinking of ?’
‘Your future, Cat,’ he grinned, ‘and mine. Offers like that don’t come by every day, believe me.’
‘But I haven’t written anything suitable for a duke’s eyes, nor the ears of his children!’
‘Oh, that’s no problem. They don’t want to hear about people like them; they want a bit of the rough and raw world of the common people. It’s like a voyage to a foreign country for them.’
‘But I haven’t got anything ready for Friday!’
‘Then you’d better start burning the midnight oil, Cat. I don’t want to hear any more excuses. You’ll never realise your ambition to be a writer if you don’t put pen to paper. Besides, I’m counting on you to support my first private engagement in London. You won’t let me down, will you?’ He gave me an appraising look which suggested he still had his doubts about me. Well, I’d show him!
‘Oh,’ I sighed irritably, ‘all right. I’ll do my best.’
‘You’d better get started then,’ he said, pushing me in the direction of the Sparrow’s Nest. ‘I’ll expect to see at least four pages by tomorrow. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, slave-driver,’ I muttered under my breath.
SCENE 2 . . . HIGH SOCIETY
When Mrs Reid heard about my invitation to Lady Elizabeth’s tea party, she was almost as thrilled for me as if she were going herself. Appointed by my patron to keep an eye on me, she took her duties seriously, chastising me for wrong-doing, seeing to my food and clothes. She usually acted towards me like a strict mistress to a servant, so I was particularly touched when she promised to make me up a dress suitable for the occasion.
‘You’ll be representing the theatre, mind,’ she said to excuse her softheartedness. ‘We can’t have you letting the side down.’
Johnny also thought it a splendid opportunity. I told him all about it the next morning as we sorted through the old scripts for Mr Kemble. Johnny bent over the table, a pen tucked behind his ear, no jacket on, the sleeves of his fine linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, displaying his inkstained fingers. That made me wonder if he was an aspiring author too.
‘Johnny, do you write?’
He laughed. ‘Not write in the sense you mean, Catkin. But if you want to show me what you’re doing, I’ll be able to help with grammar, spelling and so on.’
‘So why do you have inkstains on your fingers?’
He looked down at his hands, turning them over to contemplate them. ‘You are a sharp one. The Bow Street magistrate could do with your help. No villain would escape your beady eye.’
‘Oh, he doesn’t stir out of doors,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘If you want anything solved round here . . . stolen property returned, revenge for assault, runaway wives tracked down . . . you have to go to one of the gangs. They know everything that’s happening on their turf.’
‘Hmm,’ said Johnny sceptically. ‘I suspect they mete out a rather rough justice, that lot.’
‘Some do,’ I agreed. ‘Billy Shepherd’s boys, for example, are a bad bunch, more likely to be the cause of the problem than a help. And if you do something that makes them lose face, then you’re in trouble. They have a keen sense of honour . . .’ I faltered, remembering what I had done the day before.
‘Honour? That’s a strange word to use about a bunch of thugs.’
‘It’s not just gentlemen that fight if they think they’ve been insulted, Johnny,’ I explained. I had to put him straight for he wouldn’t last long on our streets if he didn’t know about the code of honour that prevailed out there. ‘But not all gangs are like Shepherd’s. Thankfully, there’s my friend Syd and his lads. They help keep Shepherd’s lot in check. If you need help, go to Syd: he’s always fair. And remember, it’s Billy Shepherd you have to watch. He’ll steal a blind man’s stick if it takes his fancy . . . and kick him in the gutter into the bargain.’ Having delivered my little lesson, I realised Johnny had successfully diverted me from asking about his inky fingers. ‘So, tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
His air of innocence as he rifled through the papers did not fool me.
‘Tell me what you’ve been up to.’
He looked about him. ‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to let you into the secret,’ he said. ‘I draw.’
‘Draw? What, likenesses? Could you draw me, for example?’