Cat Among the Pigeons (Cat Royal Adventures #2)
Julia Golding
London, November 1790
Curtain rises.
RETURN OF THE MASTER
I still can’t believe it happened – not here, not in my theatre.
Forgive my scrawl: my hands are shaking even as I write this. I find it hard to put pen to paper when I want to scream at the unfairness of the world and throw the inkpot across the room. Oh yes, we Londoners pretend to be all civilized and cultured, a beacon to the world, but it’s all lies. We’re rotten – and will remain so as long as a man is able to walk into the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and claim a fellow human being as his property.
I must calm myself.
Part of it is my fault for I told Pedro that we would have the place to ourselves this early in the morning; I thought we’d have plenty of time to practise away from hostile eyes. How wrong I was.
You see, Reader, Pedro has just been cast in his first speaking role: that of Ariel, the sprite who serves the magician Prospero in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. I am so proud of him – and of Mr Kemble who has taken a gamble in giving the role to Pedro over the heads of many more experienced actors. There had been quite a rumpus backstage when the news leaked out to the cast that one of the choice roles had gone to my African friend. It wasn’t enough for some of the disappointed actors that he had proved himself a skilled musician and a dancer – to them he is still an outsider and he’s black-skinned: that damns him in their eyes. With the lingering jealousy and prejudice backstage, Pedro wanted to prove his detractors wrong and be word perfect for the dress rehearsal today.
‘Come on, Pedro, give me a hand here!’ I put my lantern on the floor and struggled with the winch that raises the curtains. Pedro was standing motionless on the forestage, staring into the darkness of the empty auditorium. Doubtless he was imagining a variety of receptions for his debut. Would it be orange peel and turnips or flowers and applause?
‘Stop thinking about it,’ I cautioned him. ‘What will happen will happen. Nobody, not even Mr Sheridan himself, can guess how an audience will behave on the night.’
Pedro turned to me and flashed a brilliant smile. The light of his candle lit him alone, leaving the rest of the theatre in darkness. ‘They’re going to be amazed.’ He threw his arms wide and bowed. ‘I’ll make sure they love me!’
‘Hmm, we’ll see.’ I’d forgotten that Pedro was never one to underestimate his own abilities. ‘If you’re going to be so astonishing, we’d better practise some more. Give a lady a hand, will you?’
Pedro took the other side of the winch and we turned it together, lifting the heavy red drapes as if we were furling a sail.
‘Blow the man down, bully,
Blow the man down,’ Pedro began to sing.
I joined in.
‘With a way, hey,
Blow the man down.’
By the end of the verse the curtains were stowed and we had the whole stage to play on.
‘We’ll need some more light, or one of us is going to end up in the orchestra with a broken neck,’ I said, crouching over the footlights to coax them into life with a taper.
‘Not me. I think I could act on this stage blindfold,’ boasted Pedro. He lit a second taper and began at the other end. Exchanging a glance, we raced to see who could reach the middle first. I won. At least I was still better at some things than my accomplished friend.
‘There, that’s done.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s start from your entrance.’ I hitched up my skirts and strode into the centre like a man.
‘Approach, my Ariel . . . Come!’
I was in my element, aping Mr Kemble’s deep voice as I swept my hand commandingly to my servant, imagining the ranks upon ranks of empty seats before me filled with invisible creatures waiting on my magic. Unlit, the theatre was like a vast echoing cavern, a fitting backdrop to my wizard powers. I could call storms from the ornate ceiling, spirits from under the benches in the Pit, strange music from the silent orchestra.
‘Is there more toil?’ said Pedro sorrowfully from behind a silver mask. He’d stripped off his street clothes to reveal his costume – vivid blue silk breeches and shirt, topped off with a white cloak fixed to his wrists like a pair of wings. Mrs Reid, the wardrobe mistress, had copied it from pictures of the Venetian Carnival and was very proud of the result. His favourite pearl earring, trophy of his first performance in Drury Lane, hung from his lobe shining dully in the half-light. ‘Since thou dost give me pains . . .’
‘Louder!’ I interrupted, having heard Mr Kemble say it often enough in rehearsals. ‘Pretend you’re speaking to a hard-of-hearing dwarf in the gods.’
Pedro gave a snort and hitched his voice up a peg for the rest of the speech. Listening to him, I realized that he was showing real promise. I’d seen many actors come and go at Drury Lane, but none had his grace and feeling tone. Not that I was going to tell him, of course: he already had too keen a sense of his own greatness. I wasn’t about to sharpen it further.
And now for Ariel’s acrobatic exit. Pedro was to tumble off stage in a series of cartwheels, back flips and somersaults. Giving me a cheeky wink, he took a run up and –
Clap, clap, clap.
Pedro crashed to the floor at the side of the stage as a slow round of applause rang out from the shadows of the Pit, startling us both.
‘Oh, well done, Pedro, well done.’ From the auditorium came a man’s voice. He had a strange accent – American or West Indian, I guessed.