‘So why didn’t you stop it?’ he continued, still berating me. ‘You know Pedro’s green . . . ’e don’t know nuffink yet about the streets, but you do, Cat! I thought you were clever!’
It might have been a good moment to employ one of those moves that Richardson’s heroines use in his novels . . . a good faint or tears might have reminded Syd he was supposed to be feeling sorry for me. But it was beneath my dignity to indulge in such foolishness.
‘You’re right, Syd, I should’ve stopped him,’ I said, feeling quite defeated by the day. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to accept Lord Francis’s offer and go home.’ I stood up. Lord Francis offered me his arm and I began to hobble over to the gate.
My avowal of being in the wrong had taken the heat out of Syd’s anger.
‘You can’t walk like that all the way to Oxford Street, you daft kitten. I’ll carry you,’ he said, picking me up as if I weighed no more than a doll. ‘Come on, your lordship, if you must,’ he added grudgingly over his shoulder to Lord Francis. ‘I ain’t got the gold for a chair . . . you’ll ’ave to foot that bill.’
ACT III
SCENE 1 . . . A REWARD
I have to confess that I was in a very bad mood for the rest of that day and did not want to see anyone. I hid in the Sparrow’s Nest with my ankle wrapped in a cold cloth, feeling sorry for myself. Covent Garden, my home, had become a dangerous place for me. Now Billy and his gang bore me a grudge for turning them down, I could no longer take my freedom to roam for granted. What was worse, I had fallen out with Johnny. As I half-expected, I met little sympathy for my injury when he spotted me alighting from the sedan chair. He had gallantly rushed out to check I had enough money to pay for my ride (the Irish chairmen would not think twice about thumping a passenger who turned out to not have the means to pay for the luxury of being carried across London). Leaning on his arm to hobble inside, I told him about the disastrous turn of my outing.
‘If you want to run with the hounds, Cat, you shouldn’t be surprised if you get a few nips,’ he said, helping me through the stage door.
That was rich coming from a wanted man skulking in hiding.
‘And I suppose that if you want your wit to sparkle brightly, captain,’ I said boldly, ‘you have to take cover under the skirts of Drury Lane to escape the pack baying for your blood?’ I enjoyed the quiet revenge of seeing his face drain of colour as my words hit home.
The pleasure was short-lived. He tightened his grip on my arm and dragged me round so he could look into my face.
‘Who told you?’ he hissed, his eyes glinting with anger as he gave me a shake. I felt suddenly scared: here was a Johnny I had not yet seen, determined and dangerous. It was the first time my mild teacher had so much as laid a finger on me.
‘No one. I guessed,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘Don’t worry, no one else knows.’
He gave me a searching stare and then let go of my arm. He seemed cold and unfamiliar, not the same man who had spent so many hours with me that week.
‘They’d better not hear about it from you, Cat, or you’ll be the death of me,’ he hissed. Turning his back, he strode away, heading for the prompt’s office, which he had made his temporary home.
‘Johnny! I’m sorry!’ I called softly after him, glancing around to check no one was in earshot. ‘Of course I won’t say anything. You can trust me.’
He gave a shrug without turning to look at me.
‘Can I, Cat?’ he said and banged the door closed behind him.
So, Reader, you can understand why I had retreated to my nest in a sullen mood. It was now ten o’clock. The theatre was quiet but the streets outside were alive with revellers as the taverns did a roaring Sunday trade. Even from my attic, I could hear voices calling out the name of the Bow Street Butcher. Syd was the local hero and was doubtless being fêted by his gang somewhere nearby, glorying in his triumph. All his boys would be around him. Pedro was probably there, leading the singing, perhaps playing for him, spending the money Lord Francis had given him for taking him along on his adventure. Of everyone, I felt most angry with Pedro. He was like the cuckoo coming to throw the chick from her nest: he’d taken the place that should’ve been mine in Syd’s gang. And it was his stupidity that brought Lord Francis to the match in the first place, causing me to argue with Syd! And as for my ankle . . . well, if I could’ve thought of a way to blame Pedro for that too, I would’ve done.
After an hour of such dismal complaints, I’d had enough.
‘Come on, Cat,’ I told the darkness, ‘stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ I realised I was both hungry and thirsty. If I stopped sulking and did something about this, I’d begin to feel happier. This proved to be the case for, standing up, I found that my ankle was much better. Heartened, I picked up my candle and went downstairs in search of company and some food. There would be few people around this late on a Sunday, but I might be able to make it up with Johnny and have supper with him; failing that, perhaps Caleb, the night porter, might have something to eat.