I took off my hood and handed over my old black cloak, revealing underneath the white muslin dress with a green silk sash Mrs Reid had made for me from one of the ripped ballet dresses she had stashed away. The footman’s manner instantly became more respectful.
‘Step this way, miss,’ he said, bowing me up the stairs.
I winked at Pedro who was staring at me as if seeing me properly for the first time.
‘You look . . . well, you look different, Cat,’ he muttered on the way upstairs. ‘I didn’t know you washed up so well.’
I grinned. ‘But I’m still the same Cat underneath even if my hair is neat for once.’
Sarah had spent hours that day taming my red mop into a series of ringlets tied back with a matching green bow. I felt I looked good enough for the company we were about to meet and that gave me the confidence to continue up the stairs.
The footman stopped by a door on the floor above. Inside we could hear the tinkle of the piano and the laughter of young voices.
‘Who shall I say is here?’ he asked me.
‘Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins, if you please,’ I said with dignity.
He opened the door and gave a cough.
‘Lady Elizabeth, your visitors have arrived: Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins.’
He ushered us forward and then closed the door behind us.
My first impression was of a sea of pink faces turned curiously in our direction. Then I took in the fine muslin petticoats that seemed so light as if made of nothing but spun sugar, the smart breeches and jackets of the boys, the elaborately arranged hair of the girls. Suddenly my own outfit seemed very tawdry.
‘Miss Royal, Mr Hawkins, we are delighted to see you both,’ said Lady Elizabeth, rising from a cherry-red silk sofa to greet us.
Lord Francis bounded over, abandoning a group of three sour-faced young people. ‘Just when we needed livening up!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Who’s to go first, eh?’
Pedro bowed. ‘I am to have that pleasure.’
I nearly giggled. It seemed so funny to hear Pedro putting on a refined act in front of this audience . . . it was like we were all playing at being lords and ladies for the day. I had to remind myself that we were probably the only ones without a title in the room.
As might have been expected, Pedro’s concert was a great success. He played the piece by Mozart I had first heard him perform and it had the same mesmerising effect in the duke’s drawing room as it had at Drury Lane. The music transported us all. Pedro seemed able to conduct our emotions, using his bow as a baton, making us smile or weep by turns. When he stopped, I knew that he had succeeded in claiming his place in this room as an equal by virtue of his talent alone. Indeed, there was something in his gift that put him beyond our reach. He was loudly applauded. Even the sour-faced trio were impressed.
‘Now, Miss Royal, it is your turn,’ said Lord Francis, taking my hand and leading me to a chair. ‘We are most eager to hear from you.’
My heart was thumping so hard I was surprised he could not hear it. I felt most unwilling to read after the virtuoso display we had all just witnessed . . . it was like bringing the ballet chorus girl on after the principal dancer. ‘If you wish, sir,’ I said, unfolding my papers and giving a nervous cough to clear my throat of the frog that had taken up residence there. I took a deep breath.
‘Reader, you are set to embark on an adventure told by an ignorant and prejudiced author . . . me.’ I sneaked a look over the top of my papers. Lord Francis and the boy beside him were laughing; Lady Elizabeth smiled. They gave me the courage to continue. ‘“Much harm done, Tom?” I asked as I clambered over the upturned benches to reach the stagehand as he cleared away the debris from last night’s riot . . .’
Ten minutes later, I came to the end of my recital and waited. The room was quiet. In that instant, I was convinced I had failed . . . I had shocked, possibly scandalised them and they were just struggling to find the words to tell me so. I had been so stupid even to think that I could pass myself off as an author in this discerning gathering. My hopes of launching myself on a new career with ducal patronage plummeted to the ground as rapidly as had the balloon in the extract I had just finished reading them.
‘Heavens!’ said a pale girl with long brown ringlets like the sausages in Syd’s shop. ‘To think that people really live like this! Fighting in the streets . . . can you believe it!’
I could sense all their eyes were fixed on me. I felt like a cadaver on the surgeon’s table being anatomised before the gaze of curious students.
‘I think it’s grand,’ said Lord Francis, thumping his fist playfully into his neighbour’s stomach. ‘Come on, Charlie, how about it?’
Pedro gave me an amused look over Lord Francis’ head: though I had changed a few details to protect the identities of my subjects, any astute listener would have been able to identify him as the boy who ended up with a black eye after outrunning the gang.
‘Frank!’ scolded Lady Elizabeth, her eyebrow raised in warning.
Lord Francis gave her an apologetic look and helped the winded Charles to a seat.
‘Well, it certainly was unorthodox,’ said a sweet-looking girl with a heart-shaped face. ‘Though perhaps the subject matter is a little unbecoming for a lady. I would have expected Miss Royal to begin with some witty general observation, a wryly expressed universal truth, for example, on love and courtship . . . the usual themes for the female pen.’
‘Oh, Jane!’ protested Lord Francis. ‘How can you be so dull? We don’t want none of that missish stuff. Straight into the action, that’s what we like and that’s what Miss Royal gave us. And I thought the pictures were capital.’
The sour-looking fellow, with a face like a weasel and sleek silver-blond hair, piped up from his corner: ‘The pictures did indeed display an uncommon talent but I’m not sure if Miss What’sher-name’s outpourings are respectable enough for my sisters to hear, Lady Elizabeth.’
Our hostess now looked worried.