He looked down awkwardly at his sketch as he knew that all his counter-arguments ran against his own principles. ‘You’ve lived too long in the theatre, Cat. All these breeches roles for actresses must have gone to your head.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Johnny. I do it all the time. It’s Lord Francis you should worry about.’ I was then struck by what I considered a brilliant idea. ‘I know, why don’t you come with us? If you were there, you could help us look after him.’
‘I can’t do that, Catkin.’ He gave a vicious twist to Caesar’s thin-lipped mouth.
‘Why ever not? It’s your day off, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to be seen just now.’ He sighed.
Now, the only reason I knew for a grown man to hide himself was to avoid those to whom he owed money; many a man lives in fear of hearing the bailiff ’s knock on the door coming to cart him off to Debtor’s Prison.
‘But even if you are hiding from the bailiffs,’ I said, assuming my guess was correct, ‘you’re free to go out on a Sunday, aren’t you? I thought they couldn’t arrest people on the Sabbath?’
Johnny laughed and flicked his pencil deftly into the air, catching it as it spun to the floor. ‘So you think I’m on the run from the bailiffs, do you? It’s a likely enough tale. Still, you would agree, Catkin, that it would not be wise to allow anyone to see me, follow me and thus find out where I have concealed myself ?’
I shrugged. ‘I suppose not. But is that likely at a boxing match?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Johnny, putting the sketch away in his portfolio. ‘Many gentlemen of my acquaintance are bound to be there for the gambling. I can’t risk it. Now, let’s see what you have done.’
I showed him my drawing.
He chuckled. ‘You have made the old villain look like one of those anteaters from the Americas. A very good start if you want a career as the first female cartoonist, Cat.’
On Sunday morning, Pedro and I waited at the corner of Grosvenor Square for Lord Francis. We appeared to have arrived at rush hour: carriage after carriage was drawing up at the front doors, taking the inhabitants off to the church service of their choice. Only a few families were brave enough to expose their expensive attire to the streets by walking the short distance to the parish church.
I spotted the duke and Lady Elizabeth emerging from their house shortly before ten. Pulling Pedro out of sight behind a carriage waiting on the corner, I watched them walk arm in arm in the opposite direction.
‘’Ere, what you playin’ at?’ protested the coachman, flicking his long whip in our direction. ‘Get away from my carriage.’
Enjoying my breeches role (as Johnny put it), I couldn’t resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of unladylike shouting.
‘What’s your problem, mate? We haven’t scratched your precious paintwork.’ I then stuck my tongue out at him.
‘Come on, Cat,’ said Pedro, grabbing the back of my jacket and towing me into Charles Street, away from the anger of the coachman and the reach of his whip. ‘You’re enjoying this too much.’
I laughed. ‘I can’t tell you how good it feels to get out of petticoats! I feel quite a different person.’
‘I can see that.’ Pedro looked about him as the church clocks began to chime the hour across London. ‘Where is he?’
There was a shrill whistle behind us and a clod of earth hit Pedro on the back of his head. He turned round to shout a protest as, out of the mews, bolted a tall, scruffy boy, his face blackened with soot like a chimney sweep. He ran straight up to us and presented himself for our inspection, arms thrown wide.
‘Lord Francis!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d never’ve recognised you!’
Lord Francis the chimney sweep looked me up and down. ‘Nor I you, Miss Royal.’
‘Forget Miss Royal,’ I replied, stuffing a stray strand of hair deeper into my cap. ‘Call me Cat.’
‘And you’d both better drop that lord business,’ said Lord Francis, digging his hands into his breeches pockets. ‘How about calling me Frank?’
‘As you wish, sir,’ said Pedro.
‘Frank,’ Lord Francis said as he cast an eye across the square to see that his father was out of sight.
‘Frank,’ said Pedro uncertainly.
‘Come on, we’d better hurry!’ I said, setting off towards Oxford Street. ‘We don’t want to miss it.’
As we ran through the streets, dodging the carriages, jumping the puddles, jostling the families occupying the pavement as they walked to church, I felt a great bubble of happiness inside me. Despite my fears, I was looking forward to the adventure ahead. If only I didn’t have to watch Syd take a beating!
There was a light drizzle in the air as a cold rain shower tried to dampen the holiday mood. Mixing with the swirling smoke from thousands of chimney pots, the rain settled on the day like a damp blanket, forcing the light to work hard to break through the clouds. Yet despite the grey, dank weather, there was no sign of anyone being deterred . . . crowds began to thicken with people heading for the boxing match as we drew nearer to Marylebone. You could tell at a glance which ones they were: groups of shouting boys, loud-voiced men from Camden or Covent Garden, crafty bookmakers eying the punters to spot the gullible . . . very different from the respectable families bound for the morning service.
We arrived at the very edge of town. Just beyond Oxford Street the buildings give way to villages, fields and woods, though every year more acreage is covered with houses as London creeps ever further north like the tide rising to cover the mudflats in the Thames. Today, as we escaped the bricks and mortar of the city, we were also escaping our everyday drudgery, hoping to be thrilled by the primitive pleasure of watching a trial of strength. Man against man, fighting in an arena where neither education nor money gave you the edge: it was brute force and quick reactions that counted.