‘No, I haven’t,’ I huffed. ‘I’ve grown – I have.’
‘Course you ’ave, but you’ll never see five foot and you know it,’ teased Nick.
‘She might – if I lend ’er me box to stand on,’ said Joe.
I wondered bleakly for a moment if I had my long-lost mother to blame for all these quips about my half-pint status. I’d been quite proud of the inches I’d put on over the last year, but I’d forgotten that all my friends had been sprouting up too. It was a catch-up race I was never going to win.
Nick must’ve noticed my expression. ‘Aw, Cat, don’t take on so. You’ve growed up fine. No one could find a fault with you. We were just pullin’ your leg.’
‘Yeah, and if you let us do that, you might stretch a bit too,’ mumbled Joe.
Nick thumped him in the ribs. ‘Stop it.’
My lips curled into a reluctant smile at this familiar byplay among the gang. We all teased each other mercilessly; I shouldn’t have let it get to me. I returned to the fray.
‘So, Nick, how’s the maid at Mr Gleeman’s?
Fallen for your unusual sense of fashion yet?’ Nick was well known for being the scruffiest lad in the market – quite an achievement.
A faint blush lit his cheek. ‘’Ow d’you know about Mary?’
‘I know everything – don’t you remember?’ In fact Syd had confided this bit of gossip to me over tea. ‘I’m sure she’ll think you quite the original.’ Giving him a wide grin, I turned to my next victim. ‘And Joe, been bamboozled by any country bumpkins recently?’
‘That was nothink! ’E wasn’t what ’e seemed. The cards were marked. Put up to it by the boys, ’e was –’
‘Yes, as a kind of birthday present to you, I understand.’ I patted his arm consolingly. ‘Don’t worry, there’s always knife-grinding if you’re losing your touch.’
‘Losin’ my touch! Now see ’ere, Cat Royal, I’m at the top of my game, I am.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Knife-grindin’! I ask you!’
‘Someone has to do it.’
Joe began muttering about cheeky little redheads until he caught my amused expression.
‘Still pleased to have me back?’ I asked, leading the way into the kitchen.
‘Too bleedin’ right we are,’ he said, rumpling my hair just to annoy me.
Nick and Joe were on their best behaviour in Mrs Fletcher’s kitchen – they dared not be otherwise. Thanks to this, I learned much of the regular news about goings-on in the market. Aside from the usual gossip, I was distressed to hear that a number of the nippers had succumbed to smallpox last winter – a terrible loss.
Joe, whose skin was pockmarked from surviving the disease, changed the subject quickly.
‘Seen the new theatre yet, Cat?’
‘No.’ I turned eagerly towards him. ‘How is the work going?’
‘Been a rare old scandal. Load of Irish comin’ in to do the porterin’ – bad feelin’ all round. Caused a few fights. Your Mr Sheridan ain’t the most popular man in these parts just now.’
Syd pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Don’t bend ’er ear about that, Joe. It’s not ’er fault. So, ’ow you want to celebrate your return, Cat?’
I shrugged. What I really wanted to do was spend a night out with the gang but Syd would never let me.
‘’Ow about a night out with us lot?’ he suggested. My jaw dropped. ‘There’s an apprentice ball at the Crown ’n’ Anchor – a rum do, but might be fun.’
I jumped up. ‘I’ll get changed.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then?’
But I was up the stairs and away.
My best gown, a green silk taffeta with gold trimming – another hand-me-down from Lizzie – was hopelessly creased from my travels but I didn’t care. Pulling on a clean white petticoat and stockings, I shook it out and strained to do up the back (Lizzie, of course, had always had a maid to help her with this). It crossed my mind briefly that it might be too fine for the Crown and Anchor, but I pushed the thought aside as I put on my white slippers. Pausing in front of the mirror, I pondered whether or not to wear my cat necklace; a gift from Billy. I decided against it, not least because I didn’t feel up to the debate with Syd as to where it had come from. Fresh ribbon threaded into my hair, white kid gloves on – and I was ready.
With Syd on one side and Nick on the other, Joe just behind, we made a merry party as we headed for the Strand. The Crown and Anchor had a famous ballroom, big enough to hold several thousand people. Though often hired out by the rich for fancy parties during the season, the owner allowed us common folk in when custom was sparse – like now. He knew he couldn’t survive on just the few months when the blue bloods deigned to come to town – he needed us and we knew it. So it was with no feelings of inferiority that we paid at the door to dive into the festivities beyond.
A top-notch orchestra had been hired for the evening. I realized this because I could see my old friend from Drury Lane, Peter Dodsley, playing first violin. Lines of couples were already engaged in a vigorous country dance, thumping on the floor boards, making the whole building shake. Apprentices swung shopgirls around with enthusiasm provoking squeals and laughter, footmen bowed to curtseying upper-maids with all the dignity of their masters and mistresses, and a few drunks staggered through the throng, getting in everyone’s way. Skirts twirling, voices shouting to be heard over the music, dust flying – this was my kind of party.
Waiters wove between those standing around the edges, serving ale and punch. One paused in front of us.
‘Drink, Cat?’ asked Syd.
‘I’d rather dance.’
With a grin at Nick and Joe, he took my hand and we joined the end of a set. As we spun through the steps, I kept glimpsing old friends from the gang. Those I met in the course of the dance all had a kind word and welcome. After a day of upsets, it felt good to be home again.
The orchestra took a much-needed rest at the end of the second set and I made my way over to Peter. He was looking his usual, immaculate self – a perky carnation adorning his lapel, floppy blond hair drooping artistically over one cheek. I admired his new signet ring – a gift from an admirer, he confessed – and we were soon talking nineteen to the dozen, catching up on all the gossip.
Nick appeared at my shoulder and gave Peter a wary nod. ‘Cat, may I ’ave this dance?’
I glanced at Peter, only to see him picking up his bow again. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said with a smile.
But Nick had misunderstood my hesitation. ‘It’s all right – I checked with Syd. ’E said I could.’
I slipped off the orchestra podium. ‘You did what?’
‘Asked ’im if ’e minded.’
‘Why would he mind?’
Nick just shrugged and led me out on to the dance floor. I didn’t really need him to answer: I could guess. Without me saying or doing anything, the boys had all just assumed Syd and I were now courting. I couldn’t blame Nick for erring on the side of caution – Syd had a punch that could land him in the next county – but still it was annoying to find myself wrapped up and labelled as Syd’s girl. I noticed from then on that all my partners were carefully selected members of the Butcher’s Boys. Syd was doing a grand job of managing my evening for me, except for my temper – that was simmering quite out of his control.
The dancing broke up for supper at eleven. Syd found me a table and got one of his boys to bring me a plate.
‘Enjoyin’ yourself?’ he asked, digging into his cold meats with renewed appetite after all that dancing.
I thought it churlish to complain in front of his boys. We needed a private conversation to sort a few things out – not a public row. ‘Yes. It is wonderful to see everyone again.’
‘We can come again next week, if you like.’ Syd turned away before I could answer to shake hands with an acquaintance who had stopped by our table to pay his respects. When he sat down again, I leant closer.
‘I mig
ht not be here next week, Syd.’
Syd undid the top button of his waistcoat and stretched out in his chair. ‘Got another invitation so soon? Somethink to do with Mr Sheridan, I s’pose.’
‘No . . . well, yes. In a way. I’m going to Scotland.’
Syd guffawed. ‘That’s a good ’un. Just arrived and now off to Scotland. Elopin’ to Gretna Green?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t be daft. And I’m being serious. I’m going to Lanark.’
He snapped into his alert, fight-ready demeanour. ‘You’re not.’
I tilted my chin. ‘I am.’
‘I won’t let you – not so soon after you got back.’
‘You can’t stop me – you’ve no right to stop me.’
‘’Aven’t I?’
Oh, Lord, we were having the conversation despite my best intentions. Fortunately the others at our table were too busy watching a crowd of newcomers to pay much attention to us.
‘You don’t understand, Syd.’
‘No I don’t, Cat.’ He reached out and took my hand. ‘I thought you’d come ’ome to me.’
‘I know you did. And I did, in a way – just not that way.’
His grip tightened. ‘So what’s takin’ you to Scotland? Is there someone else?’
‘Blimey, Syd, you’ve a suspicious mind!’
‘Tell me.’
My hand was now protesting so I slipped it free.
‘Look, Mr Sheridan got a letter.’ I quickly sketched out the events of the day, sparing no detail about the dubious motives of my so-called relatives.
Syd moved his hand to cover mine again, but this time to comfort. ‘Sorry, Kitten, I didn’t realize. That must’ve been quite a shock.’
Trust Syd to understand how hurt I had been.
‘Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant. I’d had all these dreams, you see: perfect mothers and wonderful fathers, but the reality looks rather . . . rather sordid. Odds are they’re just after money. The joke is, they think I’ve got some.’
‘Better if they’d left you alone.’
‘Perhaps.’
He gave my hand a businesslike tap. ‘Then leave it. She ain’t ’ad a reply for a year. She’ll ’ave forgotten all about it and you should too. You’ve family ’ere now.’
I looked down at his calloused knuckles. ‘I know.’
He tipped my chin up with his free hand, forcing me to meet his eyes. ‘I understand, you know. About you and me, I mean. You needn’t worry I’m goin’ to go all queer on you.’
I closed my eyes briefly then attempted a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you think you’ll change your mind?’
With a tiny gesture that committed me for the rest of my life, I shook my head.
‘Too much of a brother to you, eh?’
I nodded. ‘Something like that.’
‘That’s not what a boy wants to ’ear. Fatal words. Can’t even complain because it means you still care for me, don’t it?’
‘So much that it hurts like the blazes knowing I’m disappointing you. If I could make myself different, I would –’
He stopped me with a finger on my lips. ‘No. No tryin’ to change into somethink you’re not. I think I always knew it was a long shot. I’ll just ’ave to learn to live with it.’ He swallowed. ‘Move on. It’s just that I’ve always thought that you and me . . .’ He stopped because he saw that he was making me cry. ‘’Ave a drink, Cat. Then we’ll do some more dancin’, all right?’
‘All right.’
Nick turned round and nudged Syd in the ribs. ‘Bleedin’ cheek if you ask me . . .’ He tailed off when he noticed my expression. ‘What’s wrong with Cat?’
‘Nothink,’ said Syd gruffly, covering for me. He was the master at coming back from a knockout blow. ‘Who’s got cheek?’
‘Them Irish geezers, comin’ into our ball as if they own the place.’
I looked over to the far corner of the supper room and saw a group of strangers clustered around the punchbowl. There were seven men and one tall female a few years older than me. I guessed that they were related because they all had the same black hair and strong features, even the girl. Dressed in ragged finery, they were obviously not from one of the better areas in the neighbourhood.
‘Who are they?’ I asked Nick.
‘The Paddies. Irish porters from the theatre building site. Done nothink but make trouble since they arrived. Syd, we’ve got to do somethink about ’em.’
Syd scratched his chin. ‘Not till they step out of line.’
‘But they’re well out of it now – comin’ where they’re not welcome.’
‘So where are they supposed to go?’ I asked, annoyed by Nick’s prejudice against them for no good reason that I could see.
‘Somewhere else – with their own kind.’
One of the men moved over to a nearby table and sat down next to a girl, engaging her in conversation. It was as if he’d issued a challenge to the entire male population of the room – and from his gloating smile I could tell he knew it.
Syd stood up and took my arm. ‘I think we’d better leave.’
He’d moved too late. The footman who had escorted the girl to the ball returned from the servery and found his companion being treated to some Irish charm. He grabbed the interloper by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up – not a wise move, as his muscles could not compete with that of a man who spent his day heaving stones.
Syd groaned. ‘I’d better see if I can calm things down. Keep out of the way.’
I nodded and backed over to the wall.
‘Now then, lads,’ called Syd as he strode to the confrontation. ‘Let’s take this outside – there are ladies present.’
Ladies or not, the first punch fell before he reached them. The Irishman staggered back and the girl screamed. The room erupted. The Irish lads piled towards the aggressor only to find their way blocked by London apprentice boys. Mistaking Syd’s intentions, one Irishman went for him. I could see Syd give a resigned shrug as he deflected him easily. That brought another brother on top of him – and another. He was going to have to fight.
What a welcome home!
As the plates flew and tables crashed over, I decided a retreat was called for. Edging along the wall, I bumped into the Irish lass: hands over her head, cowering behind the punchbowl. She was soaked in the stuff and looked plain terrified. I reached out and touched her arm. She flinched. A footman bashed into the wall beside us and slid down unconscious. I hunkered down beside her.
‘Hello.’
She looked up. I found myself confronted by the most amazing violet eyes rimmed with black lashes. Briefly tempted to hate her for her beauty, I mastered myself.
‘I’m Cat. Shall we escape this madhouse?’
She nodded slowly, as if not convinced that I wasn’t an inmate of Bedlam myself.
‘Come with me.’
I led her as we made our way on hands and knees under the tables to the door. Once clear of the ruckus I scrambled to my feet, tripping on my hem with a mild curse. ‘We’re making for the orchestra.’
She nodded then followed me in a quick sprint across the dance floor. The fight had spilled out here, and I could hear girls shrieking as the pandemonium spread. The manager was trying to restore order, but his attempts were futile. The cause of the altercation had been forgotten – now it was just about who shoved whom.
As expected, I found the members of the orchestra battened down behind the podium, protecting their instruments. They were in high spirits, like an army under bombardment, passing around a flask of brandy while the missiles flew.
Peter patted the floor beside him. ‘What’s all that about?’ He jerked his head to the fight.
‘It’s my brothers,’ whispered the girl miserably. Her husky voice had a sweet Irish lilt. ‘Their idea of a good night out.’ She gave an involuntary gulp of a giggle, eyes brimming with humiliated tears.
Crash! One of the mirrors in the ballroom shattered and tinkled to the
floor in a musical shower.
Peter gave her a little bow. ‘But no one can blame you, my dear. Take a pew.’
She sat down nervously, wiping her eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
She nodded, but I wasn’t convinced.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Bridgit O’Riley.’ She straightened, her pride returning.
‘Pleased to meet you, Bridgit. Are those all your brothers?’
‘Every last one of them.’ She sighed.
‘Why did they bring you if they planned to start a fight?’
She shrugged hopelessly. ‘It’s never stopped them in the past.’
Deciding that this was probably not a pleasant subject to pursue, I turned to Peter. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’
‘Of course. May I escort you two ladies home?’
Bridgit looked torn. She glanced towards where the battle was thickest; a dark head appeared from time to time only to dive right back in again.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked.
‘The sheds on the building site,’ she admitted after a slight pause.
Peter gave her a sympathetic look.
I was not about to take her back there without her brothers to protect her. ‘I think we can do better than that for tonight. I’m sure Mrs Fletcher won’t mind you sharing my room when she understands the situation.’
‘No, no, I can’t.’
‘Will your brothers worry?’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt they’ll be aware of anything till tomorrow.’
‘Then you can come with me now. Peter, would you mind?’
‘You don’t understand. No one likes us –’ Bridgit began.
I cut short her protests. ‘I like you. And Mrs Fletcher will like the excuse to mother another girl. Peter?’
Entrusting his violin into the care of a friend, Peter gallantly offered us each an arm. ‘Ladies, if you would come with me.’
Leaving the noise of the battle behind us, we slipped out the back door and headed towards Bow Street. A party of the watch passed us at a run, heading for the ballroom. It looked like the manager had called in reinforcements.
Cat's Cradle Page 4
