‘Glad to see you back, Cat,’ he said huskily – more words than he usually spoke to me in a week.
Mrs Fletcher made me feel like a long-lost daughter with her hugs and stream of questions as she bade me make myself at home in her kitchen. She was feared around the market for her temper, but underneath the sharp tongue was a kindhearted woman.
‘You’ll stay with us, won’t you, dear?’ she said, tucking a strand of her fair hair back in her practical bun. A pretty woman with a high colour and Syd’s blue eyes, she had been known as the Butcher’s Belle when she first married her husband. She bustled about the range seeing to our tea, completely at ease in her little kingdom. With a nod to his son, Mr Fletcher excused himself to mind the shop.
I allowed myself to relax, charmed by the ordinariness of sitting in her kitchen. After months of the exotic and dangerous, it was very comforting to be back somewhere English and tame. ‘I’d like to stay if I may, ma’am.’
‘Call me Helen, dear. You’re as good as family now, aren’t you?’ She cast a significant look at Syd who sat on the opposite side of the table, gazing at me as if he couldn’t quite believe I was really there. Seeing him after months of separation, I’d forgotten just how large he was. He made his mother and me look positively doll-like.
I met the hint with a non-committal smile. There would be time to address her attempts at matchmaking later.
‘Though I s’pose you might want to go and live with those fine friends of yours in Grosvenor Square,’ continued Mrs Fletcher, pouring the boiled water into the pot. She waved the steam away and dabbed at her brow with a drying cloth.
‘I’d prefer to stay here, if you don’t mind, er . . . Helen. I always felt I was rather out of my depth over there – all those rooms and servants watching my every move.’
‘Course we don’t mind.’ She set out some freshly baked biscuits, slapping Syd’s wrist as he grabbed two from the plate. ‘Guests first.’
‘I thought you said she was family, Ma,’ replied Syd, giving me a wink.
‘She’ll think I brought you up a barbarian.’ Mrs Fletcher placed a cup of her finest Indian tea in front of me.
‘Perhaps you did, Ma – leastways accordin’ to the men I beat in the boxing ring you did.’ Mrs Fletcher gave him a proud smile and caressed the bruise fading on his cheekbone as she passed behind his chair. Syd batted her hand away gently. ‘Leave off, Ma. Cat’ll think I’ve gone soft.’ He looked at me rather sheepishly. ‘Anyway, Cat, about Frank’s family in Grosvenor Square – he’s gone to Cambridge. You’d be on your own if you stayed there – only the dook and duchess for company.’
As much as I liked Frank’s parents, it wouldn’t do to impose myself on their household. We wouldn’t know how to behave towards each other without Frank’s presence to ease the way.
I raised my cup to my lips and blew away the steam. ‘Perhaps it’s best that I stay here then, back where I started.’
It took a good long while to tell Syd the whole story of what happened to Pedro and me in the Caribbean. Unsurprisingly, he was not happy to hear that I had left our friend in the middle of a war on San Domingo but he accepted that there had been nothing I could have done about it. What most concerned him was the fact that I’d spent so much time with Billy Shepherd, his old rival.
‘Don’t worry about him, Syd,’ I laughed. ‘He is relieved to get away from me – I made sure of that. You should have seen him when we got to Bedford Square: he jumped out of the carriage as if a swarm of bees were after him. I was a complete pain, a hair-shirt of a travelling companion.’
‘Remind me to keep on your good side, Cat,’ Syd said, his humour restored. ‘But all the same, let’s not take it for granted that ’e’s goin’ to leave you alone now.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ I knew Billy better than that. And I admit, Reader, part of me rather enjoyed our dangerous game of each trying to get the upper hand in our strange friendship. ‘Did you find Mick Bailey and get back your winnings?’
Bailey, Syd’s manager, had had him press-ganged rather than share the proceeds of their summer boxing tour.
Syd frowned. ‘Not yet. ’E back-slanged it out of London when ’e ’eard I was ’ome. I’ll track ’im down, never you fear.’
I shivered and hugged my arms across my chest. With a quick look at me, Syd threw a shovelful of coals on to the kitchen range and rattled the embers with the poker.
‘Syd! Syd! Come out ’ere – and bring Cat!’ shouted Mr Fletcher from the shop.
‘What now?’ I placed my cup on its saucer.
Syd shrugged. ‘Dunno, Kitten, but let’s not keep Dad waitin’.’ Pulling me up, he gestured that I should lead the way down the passage. I entered the shop to find a most unexpected customer waiting by the counter. Dressed in expensive Bond Street clothes and looking like a golden guinea among us common old pennies, Mr Sheridan tipped his hat to me.
‘Well now, Cat Royal, and how are you? Far travelled, I hear.’
‘Mr Sheridan!’ I belatedly dipped into a curtsey, grinning at him like a fool. He had been my guardian ever since he found me, an infant of two or three years, on the steps of Drury Lane. ‘Wrapped in a blanket and as quiet as a mouse’ was how he had described me.
‘How did you know I was back, sir?’ I enquired.
‘I’d asked the Avons to send word as soon as they heard from you. When I met the duke outside Carlton House this morning, he told me that you’d written to Frank when you landed. He has sent your letter on to his son by express messenger, so you can expect to hear from Frank very soon.’
Holding me out at arms length, Mr Sheridan looked me up and down, somewhat like an artist admiring a portrait he’d not seen for some time. ‘My goodness, it is a pleasure to see you again, Cat! I have found the stories of your exploits among the Indians very inspiring – I’m sure there’s a play in there somewhere.’ Releasing my hands, he stroked a finger along his upper lip in a thoughtful pose, his dark eyes gleaming. Stocky and flush-faced, Mr Sheridan was in appearance a strange mixture – a literary genius with the build of a labourer. No one could make the mistake of thinking him a weakling poet. His uppercut could do as much damage as his wit.
‘Indeed, sir, it was kind of you to seek me out here.’ I gestured to the shop, quite a comedown from his fine house in the West End and gentlemen’s clubs in St James’s.
‘As to that, let us say that I have my reasons.’ He cleared his throat. I would have said he was nervous if that hadn’t been so out of character. ‘I did not want to risk missing you again. You see, Cat, there is something I need to tell you.’ He glanced round at our audience of eagerly listening Fletchers. ‘I wanted to speak to you when I received the results of my investigation late last year; I never got the chance as you were whisked off to Bath so promptly by the Avons and then you went abroad.’
‘What investigation? What did you want to tell me?’
He replaced his hat and offered his arm. ‘Walk with me, Cat?’
With a slightly worried look at Syd – this was so strange – I accepted Mr Sheridan’s arm. He tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow.
‘Haven’t grown much, have you?’ he said. ‘Except your hair, of course.’
I smoothed my unruly red curls: they had escaped their ribbon as usual. I knew I must look a sight, not fit to go walking with anyone, let alone a London celebrity. I fumbled for my bonnet, dangling by its strings from my wrist.
‘That’s my motto too: hide it under your hat and no one will notice.’ Mr Sheridan tied up the bonnet ribbons for me to hasten our escape.
A little awkwardly, we exchanged news of mutual friends as we strolled down Bow Street, heading for the more genteel district of the Strand. My unease grew: Mr Sheridan had never done anything like this with me before, always treating me as part pet, part servant. Now he was acting as if I were a grown-up lady with whom a gentleman like him would promenade. It only increased the solemnity of the moment.
We stopped when we r
eached the Middle Temple gardens, a little patch of green amidst the lodgings of the barristers. An exclusive world of wigs and writs, I would never have been allowed in by the porter if I hadn’t been with Mr Sheridan. Indeed I wouldn’t have wanted to enter. Like any Londoner with a grain of common sense, I knew better than to get entangled with the courts. The garden was beautiful though. The leaves of the trees were turning golden. With every breath of wind they scattered, tumbling on the grass like the coins poured out on fees by the unfortunate clients. Beyond the garden lay the Thames. A barge with terracotta-coloured sails floated slowly by, heading out to sea. The sun warmed the old stone of the buildings and made the dark waters of the river glow with an oily sheen.
‘Sit down for a moment, Cat,’ Mr Sheridan said, handing me carefully to a bench. He remained standing. ‘I’m not sure how to go about this.’ His eyes followed the barge downstream.
‘Go about what, sir?’ I was really worried now. It sounded as if he was about to announce a death at the very least.
Mr Sheridan crossed his arms, paused, and then turned to me. ‘To go about telling you news of your family.’
* for further details of these exploits, please see my tale, Black Heart of Jamaica.
Dear Reader,
Over time we have shared enough confidences for me to feel quite safe entrusting you with the story of how I came to be published. You may remember that I had an awful experience with a certain Mr Tweadle who stole my manuscripts and sensationalised them*. From that day on I determined that my literary career was not going to be ruined by another such scandal, and fortune later favoured me when my stories were discovered by a lady scholar, Dr Julia Golding.
Julia (she has given me permission to be on first name terms) was once a diplomat in Poland and I feel that she is a kindred spirit, as I was once an envoy to a foreign country – France – myself. You cannot imagine how delighted I was when Julia, acting on my behalf, accepted awards for my first book, The Diamond of Drury Lane. It won both the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize and the Nestlé Children’s Book Prize. Julia, being something of a bluestocking, has also penned her own prose: Ringmaster, the Companions Quartet, The Ship Between the Worlds and Dragonfly. If ever perchance I visit Oxford, she has assured me that she, her husband and children will always welcome me into their home.
Cat Royal
Black Heart of Jamaica Page 22
