Black Heart of Jamaica

by Julia Golding

  ‘Malheureusement, mademoiselle, he remains in Paris. Non, a business associate of his asked me to find you.’

  ‘Not the Bishop of the Notre Dame Vagabonds, surely?’

  ‘Non.’ Captain Bonaventure withdrew his hand and sat down in his chair, prepared to enjoy my little interrogation.

  ‘No, I thought not. Ibrahim has doubtless not spared me a second thought since I escaped him.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Mademoiselle Cat. I’m sure he remembers you most fondly: you were a very lucrative venture for him. As you are for me today.’

  I frowned. ‘Then who’s paid you to find me?’

  I heard a chuckle behind my back. I’d been so intent on the captain I had not registered that there was another man leaning on the bulkhead by the door.

  ‘No!’ I moaned. ‘This isn’t fair. This isn’t happening to me.’ I closed my eyes at the injustice of life. There was no need to turn to look: I knew that voice. Curse J-F for going into business with him after all my warnings!

  ‘Hello, Cat. Where’ve you been?’ asked Billy Shepherd.

  * For my previous adventures with J-F and Captain Bonaventure, please see Den of Thieves.

  SCENE 3 – SEARCH FOR THE LOST SHEEP

  I feel I owe you, Reader, a brief word of explanation about Billy Shepherd. If you are familiar with my adventures in London, you will have a shrewd idea why I was not overwhelmed with joy at meeting my old acquaintance from Covent Garden. Billy was a cutthroat who had made a number of attempts on my life, tried to trap me into working for his criminal gang, and, worst of all, kissed me at a ball in Bath! Quite what he was doing in Kingston was anyone’s guess, but if the past was anything to go by, it was unlikely to bode well for me.

  ‘Not you!’ I groaned.

  ‘I’m afraid it is me, Cat. Did you miss me?’ he asked, taking a step further into the cabin. Taller than I remembered and with more colour to his usually pasty face, he looked like a bronzed snake, ready to strike.

  I got up and scurried to the far side of the desk, putting my back against the wall. It was never good to offer Billy too easy a target as he is skilled with all manner of blades.

  ‘Strangely enough, Billy, I have not spared you a thought since last we met.’Liar.

  His grey-green eyes sparkled knowingly. ‘’Ow unfair. I’ve been quite eaten up with anxiety ever since I got wind of you bein’ set up by Dixon. Knew someone ’ad to come after you and ’ere I am.’ I noted that he felt no need to put on his carefully learned rich man’s drawl for me.

  ‘That’s an awfully long way to come on a mission of mercy, Billy, and so out of character. What’s in it for you?’

  Captain Bonaventure laughed, steepling his fingers and rocking back on his chair. ‘She understands you well, Monsieur Shepherd.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I’m ’ere.’

  I smoothed my skirts nervously, thinking hard. ‘Well, as you can see, Billy, I am in no need of rescuing. It was a kind thought but I managed to look after myself.’ I made a move to leave but Billy headed me off.

  ‘Good for you, Kitten. But the least you can do is take a seat and tell me ’ow you did it. I was prepared to take on ’Is Majesty’s Navy to get you out.’ Billy picked up a chair and placed it in front of the desk, flicking it mockingly with his silk handkerchief. ‘There you go, fit for a lady.’

  I sat down, trapped between the amused gaze of the eminently unreliable Captain Bonaventure and the shrewd observation of fiendish Billy Shepherd: enough to make most girls fall into hysterics. Tempting, but not my style. I just wished I knew what they planned for me.

  I folded my hands neatly in my lap, trying to look unconcerned. ‘I’ll satisfy your curiosity if you tell me why you’re here.’

  Billy perched on the edge of the captain’s bunk. ‘Let’s say I just wanted the adventure, like you, Cat.’

  ‘Stow it, Billy. Your life is exciting enough trying to stay one step ahead of your rivals – not to mention the law: you’ve no need to travel for adventures.’

  ‘P’rhaps you’re right. As you don’t believe any of my explanations, why don’t you tell me why I’m ’ere.’

  I glanced at the captain, wondering if he’d give me a clue, but he was watching us, fascinated by the exchange. Few people dared to stand up to Billy – that made me a rare and endangered species.

  ‘I imagine it suited you to come to the West Indies.’

  ‘True. I’m lookin’ into various investment opportunities.’ He took out a knife and began to clean his nails. ‘But that’s not the ’ole story.’

  ‘Let me guess: your marriage plans went belly up and you’re fleeing with a broken heart?’

  He guffawed. ‘Now that’s a good’un. My fiancée and I never ’ad our ’earts as part of the bargain. Nah, the wedding’s still on. I’m just makin’ the old cow wait while I deal with a more pressin’ matter.’

  ‘I imagine she’s relieved. All right, I give up. Tell me why you’re here.’

  Billy helped himself to a glass of the captain’s rum, toasted me and tossed it down in one gulp. ‘You’re the lost sheep.’

  ‘Billy, I think you need to lie down a bit.’

  ‘Don’t you ever go to church, Cat? The Good Shepherd’s lost sheep.’

  I spluttered at ‘Good’. ‘Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you quote scripture at me, Billy. You must be sickening for something.’

  He grinned and refilled the glass. ‘Long ago, I decided where you go and what you do is my business. I don’t want no sharp cove like Dixon messin’ with you.’

  ‘You may think of me as part of your flock of bleating cutthroats, but I certainly don’t.’

  He waved my objection away. ‘When I ’eard ’e’d press-ganged you, I admit I didn’t sleep easy in my bed for a few nights.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you, Billy.’

  ‘So I decided to follow you. Monsewer Bonaventure was persuadable that a trip to the West Indies was in order.’

  The captain bowed an acknowledgement.

  ‘Trail went cold when the Courageous turned up in Jamaica without you, but I ’ad your mates tailed to Philadelphia and finally got word you were on your way ’ere.’

  So he had really come all this way for me. From anyone else that would have been a sweet thought; from him it was alarming.

  ‘Now you’ve seen that I’m in one piece, Billy, you can rest easy. Go back to crow on your dung heap in London.’

  ‘We’ll give you free passage; get you ’ome before the end of the summer.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got engagements here.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the theatre. Well, the offer’s on the table.’

  But what about Pedro? He could do with a ticket out of here. Could Billy actually for once in his life be of use to me? I quickly weighed up the likely outcomes if I revealed the situation and decided I couldn’t bring myself to trust him.

  ‘And there the offer will lie for all eternity, I’m afraid. I’d rather paddle back to England in a washtub than travel with you.’

  Laughing, Billy raised his glass to me. ‘Good to see you’re still on form, Cat. I’ve missed you.’

  I rose, determined to escape this time. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I must return to my lodgings.’

  ‘You ’aven’t told us your tale.’

  ‘Oh, er, yes.’ Blast it, I had promised.

  Billy winked at Bonaventure. ‘Maybe another time. We’re plannin’ to stick around for a while. Let us know if you change your mind.’

  ‘I will – I don’t mean that I’ll change my mind, but I’ll let you know if I do . . . er . . . did.’ With that piece of semi-coherent babbling I backed out of the cabin, surprised that no one made any move to stop me. ‘Good afternoon.’

  I ran for it, elbowing my way through the rascally crew of the Medici to the relative safety of the shore. I didn’t stop until I was safely back in my bedchamber.

  ‘Pleasant stroll, Cat?’ murmured Georgi
e from under the covers, still half-asleep.

  I had never before so welcomed the distraction of an impending theatrical disaster, as its imminence helped turn my thoughts from that disturbing interview. I knew I had to come to terms with this development and what it meant for me, but not just yet. Had Billy Shepherd really travelled all this way out of concern for me? I couldn’t think about it. I plunged myself into the dress rehearsal. Pedro’s absence required a number of adjustments. I now had to practise my songs accompanied by Jim the flautist. A gangling man with a prominent Adam’s apple, when he played he reminded me of a heron perched on a riverbank, silver fish in beak, dipping and swaying into the stream of music. With his slow manner and gentle sense of humour, he made the time pass easily. I was touched to discover that he had made the effort to check on Pedro and was able to report that our friend was still safe on board the Running Sally. Apparently, Pedro had become a firm favourite of the skeleton crew that remained behind, his music alleviating the boredom.

  Up on stage, Hetty was tripping through the first scenes, supported by Georgie’s prompts like a drunk lurching home on the shoulders of his drinking companions. I closed my eyes against the insult to Shakespeare.

  ‘Lovely, dear,’ called Mrs Peabody from the pit, ‘but the name you assume as a boy is Ganymede, not Gunnymuddle.’

  ‘Planning where to hide tonight?’ Jim asked me softly.

  ‘You mean when the audience tries to lynch us?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I reserve the prop cupboard but I’ll give you a leg-up to the chandelier first if you like.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  We exchanged pained smiles and returned to the song.

  That night, the good people of Kingston filed into the playhouse, unsuspecting of the dubious feast we had in store for them. Behind me, the gentlemen actors checked each other’s costumes and tweaked wigs, laughing too loudly at feeble jokes. We all had a serious case of pre-performance nerves. Ready well in advance, I peeked out from behind the curtain, watching the benches fill. Unlike other segregated entertainments, the theatre attracted a mixed crowd, but everyone appeared to know their place: white people in the lower boxes and pit, people of colour in the upper boxes and gallery. The audience was as divided on skin colour as at home we are on class.

  ‘Oh lord, they’re here,’ I groaned as Billy and Captain Bonaventure took their seats in the pit near the front. I wasn’t really surprised but would have preferred the approaching humiliation to take place before total strangers.

  Georgie was striding restlessly up and down the stage, muttering her lines and wringing her hands. ‘Who’s here?’ she asked.

  ‘No one.’

  She was too nervous to press the matter.

  My part did not come till well into the play so I could linger in the wings to watch the opening scenes. The curtain rose to friendly applause. There was nothing to fault in the performance of the men, but when Georgie and Hetty made their entrance I knew it was going to be worse than even I had feared. Hetty looked terrified. Her appearance drew a few murmurs of appreciation and whistles, but these soon died when it was evident that she was frozen, clutching Georgie’s arm. Jim appeared at my shoulder.

  ‘What you reckon, Cat, chandelier now?’

  Mrs Peabody was frantically hissing her daughter’s cues from the prompt’s chair on the far side of the stage but to no avail. Realizing that Hetty’s few remaining wits had finally fled in the face of a real audience, Georgie began a strange conversation, telling ‘Rosalind’ what she would have said if she had not been too upset by the banishment of her father.

  ‘She can’t keep up the whole play acting two parts,’ I murmured.

  My eyes met Mrs Peabody’s across the stage and I saw that she had finally – belatedly – acknowledged her error. She then pointed to Hetty then at me, mouthing something. I shook my head, not understanding what she meant. Get her off? Do my song now while she shook some sense into her daughter?

  Before I could fathom what was going on, Mrs Peabody herself signalled for the curtain to be brought down and strode on to the forestage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I heard her announce. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Hetty Peabody has been taken ill and her part will now be played by her understudy, Miss Catherine Royal.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed, backing away.

  Jim grabbed the back of my skirts to stop me fleeing. ‘Go get changed, Cat.’

  ‘But I’m not her understudy.’

  ‘You are now.’

  Mrs Peabody was still talking. ‘There will be a short delay before the performance recommences.’ She swept back through the curtain and hooked her daughter by the elbow, pulling her to the wings. ‘Take your dress off and give it to Miss Royal.’

  Georgie dashed over and began unlacing my peasant costume.

  ‘No,’ I moaned, feeling cold dread. ‘I don’t know her moves, I won’t fit the costumes.’

  ‘But you do know the lines,’ said Mrs Peabody ruthlessly, thrusting the gown over my head. ‘That’s one better than my daughter.’ Rosalind’s dress trailed on the floor and gaped at the bodice. Mrs Peabody pulled the fastenings tight and clucked her tongue at the length. ‘I’ll whip up a new hem after this scene and see what I can do about your Ganymede costume. Just try not to fall over. Hetty, go fetch the sewing box.’

  It was like one of my worst dreams: I was about to be humiliated and Billy Shepherd was there to witness it.

  Georgie squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry, Cat. I’ll help you.’

  ‘You’re on!’ With a firm shove between my shoulder blades, Mrs Peabody pushed me on to the stage and gave the signal for the curtain to rise. There was a smattering of applause, less friendly than before.

  ‘I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry,’ said Georgie, giving me Celia’s first line.

  For a nightmarish moment, my mind went blank. I knew exactly how poor Hetty felt, exposed to all eyes with a brain as empty as a beggar’s bowl. I pasted a smile on my face and turned towards Georgie, planning to appeal for help, but suddenly it happened.

  A miracle.

  Standing in the pool of light on stage, hearing the rustle and murmur of an audience, it all came back to me. It was as if something clicked into place, letting the familiar words flow from my lips. ‘Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of.’

  I was back in Drury Lane, imagining myself in the role, enjoying the rapier-sharp wit of one of Shakespeare’s loveliest heroines. For years I’d longed to play the part and now I finally had my chance. I forgot my baggy dress and lack of rehearsal; I ignored the fact that I very often ended up on the wrong side of the stage; none of that mattered: I was caught up in the spell of performance. The audience laughed at my witty ripostes, my absurd mock-courting by my sweetheart Orlando; they even applauded my song. Mrs Peabody read in my abandoned role of Phoebe but no one seemed to mind the clumsy casting because, at the curtain call, we were given a standing ovation. As I curtseyed, my eyes found Billy’s, sitting only a few feet away. His uneven teeth glinted wolfishly as he joined in the applause. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistled.

  Revelling in the applause, I realized that this was what I had been looking for. I felt almost drunk on the praise and acceptance of the audience, delighted that I, an orphaned nobody from the streets of London, could please them.

  ‘Bravo, Cat!’ Billy yelled, then laughed because he saw I was blushing.

  Ten minutes later, in the dressing rooms, we were still bubbling with excitement as we removed our costumes and makeup.

  ‘You were brilliant!’ enthused Georgie. ‘I can’t get over how well you managed.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without my wonderful partner,’ I repaid the compliment, ‘dragging me to the right spot when I wandered off in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Yes, Orlando was most surprised when you gave him the cut direct for his most romantic speech.’

  I giggled. ‘Yes, he saw rather a lot of my back, didn’t he?’<
br />
  I felt a cold touch on my arm. ‘Well done, Miss Royal. You can safely assume that you are to continue in the role for the foreseeable future,’ said Mrs Peabody, offering me a tight smile before progressing through the female performers to dispense parsimoniously her thanks and praise. She really was the most rigid woman I knew, her natural feelings under strict control like her grip on the ensemble’s finances.

  Just then, my eyes fell on Hetty sitting quietly in a corner altering Rosalind’s costumes. I gestured slightly in her direction. ‘Do you think I should say something?’ I asked Georgie.

  My friend shrugged and wriggled out of her dress. ‘Up to you.’

  Taking a breath, I crossed the room and knelt down at Hetty’s side.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re not angry with me for taking your part?’

  Hetty looked up, her limpid blue eyes more friendly than of late.

  ‘Oh no. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Mama has been pushing and pushing for me to make my debut and I always knew I was going to disappoint her. I know I can’t act. I’ve been out of sorts just imagining how bad it would be.’

  That was a revelation. I now wondered if Hetty’s haughty manner had been a protection from unavoidable hurts. I sat down and toyed with the end of Rosalind’s court dress. Close to, it looked like a tatty old curtain; on stage, under the lights, it appeared magnificent. ‘So why did you agree to do it?’

  Hetty gave a smug smile, the expression of someone finally let off the hook. ‘Nothing short of total humiliating failure would convince Mama that I didn’t have a hope of making our fortune on stage and I thought a little place like Kingston the best venue for the disaster. I really can’t remember the lines.’ She leant closer. ‘You see, Miss Royal, I have great difficulty reading – the words just don’t behave for me like they do for other people. I’d much prefer to sew.’ She snapped the thread efficiently and held up a beautifully hemmed gown. ‘That’s one talent I have inherited from Mama. You can have the part of Rosalind and welcome.’