‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Lizzie, rising to her feet. ‘Papa sends his apologies – he has business in the House tonight. He said we should start without him.’
Miss Miller gave an important little cough and took out a sheaf of paper. ‘It falls to me then to read out the minutes of the last meeting for your approval.’
She was halfway through a tedious recital of progress on collecting signatures for petitions when the door was flung open and the duchess glided into the room, resplendent in lemon yellow and diamonds.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ she boomed, nodding to acknowledge the men, who had risen on her entrance. ‘Done the dull stuff yet, eh? Can we hear from the boy now?’ She swooped down on me and planted a scented kiss on my cheek. ‘I’m especially pleased to see you again, my dear. Don’t forget to stay behind to keep me abreast of the gossip from Drury Lane!’
Miss Fortitude Miller gave a little gasp.
‘Your grace, we had not quite finished reading through the minutes,’ said Miss Miller senior primly.
‘Oh, you can cut all that. We all approve them, don’t we?’ Those present meekly mumbled their agreement. ‘Splendid. Then let’s hear the boy’s story.’ She took her place in the armchair that had been reserved for her and looked expectantly at Pedro.
Pedro appealed to Lizzie. ‘Story? I didn’t know I had to speak. I thought these people were going to help me.’
Lizzie blushed. ‘They are, but they want to hear from you first.’
Pedro looked across at me a shade desperately. An intensely private person, I knew he hated talking about his past but there didn’t seem anything for it. I gave a tiny shrug. He got up, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to speak, staring into middle distance.
‘I was about five years old when my family were sold into slavery – ’
‘Oh, the poor little lamb!’ moaned Miss Prudence Miller, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. The gentlemen in the back row were shaking their heads sadly.
Pedro looked confused by this early interruption. He coughed and then continued.
‘We were separated before being put on board the ship. I never saw my mother and sisters again.’
‘Oh, the fiends!’ cried Miss Fortitude Miller. The ladies either side of the duchess murmured their agreement. One had begun to take notes.
A hot flush spread up my face. This was terrible. I knew they meant well, but they were treating Pedro’s story like some kind of sentimental novel. Didn’t they understand that the boy before them had really lived through all this? I glanced at Lizzie. She looked at me helplessly.
Pedro laboured on. He had just reached the part where Kingston Hawkins spotted his musical talent when the door to the library opened again. Two gentlemen came in. Pedro stopped speaking. The first was a tall man with high, gaunt cheekbones, small shrewd eyes, a long nose and prominent chin. He moved like a daddy-long-legs, all knees and elbows. The second was a real surprise: a stocky, middle-aged African, soberly but smartly dressed. He bore a gold ring on a finger of his right hand. Pedro’s eyes were now locked on the African visitor.
‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ said the gaunt man. ‘I apologize for our tardiness.’
‘Mr Sharp, Mr Equiano, welcome,’ said the duchess. ‘Do take a chair. We were just hearing Pedro’s story.’
‘No doubt it is the same dismal tale that many of our African brothers have to tell,’ said Mr Sharp. ‘I think we already know the salient points, your grace.’
Mr Equiano took a seat by the duchess and turned to Pedro.
‘Come, Pedro, sit by me,’ he said in a deep, rich-toned voice. ‘I think you’ve sung for your supper enough times before tonight.’
Pedro smiled with relief and bolted for the chair next to his new champion. Watching Mr Equiano, I leant over to Lizzie.
‘Who is he?’ I whispered.
‘Mr Equiano? He’s quite something, isn’t he? He was once a slave but he managed to buy his freedom. He’s one of the most travelled people I’ve ever met. You should hear him talk about the icebergs of the Arctic Circle! Now he’s settled in London, married an English lady, and devoted himself to freeing his fellow Africans. He assists Mr Sharp – that’s the other gentleman over by the fireplace. Mr Sharp’s a lawyer – a very brave man: he’s rescued other slaves before now.’
Mr Sharp coughed, drawing the meeting to attention.
‘We are here to decide what we can do for Pedro,’ said Mr Sharp. ‘I think most of us know that the law states that no one can be removed from British soil against their will.’ Mr Equiano patted Pedro on the shoulder. ‘I regret to say, however, it is less clear as to whether the institution of slavery can exist here or no.’
‘There is no slavery in Christ!’ called out one man from the back.
‘Of course, my friend,’ continued Mr Sharp, ‘we all agree on that in this room. We believe that the very air of this island is inimical to slavery – one foot on British soil and a slave becomes a free man – but no doubt Mr Hawkins will dispute that.’
‘And he’d only be saying what many people think, Granville,’ added Mr Equiano with the bitterness of experience.
Mr Sharp nodded an acknowledgement. ‘However, I think we have been handed an opportunity. Hawkins’ threats against Pedro are just what we need to show the public how cruel and absurd the system of slavery is. We must make Pedro’s case famous and bring scorn upon Hawkins for his attempt to take the boy away against his will.’
‘Hear, hear, Brother!’ trilled Miss Fortitude Miller.
‘You are correct as usual, Granville,’ said Mr Equiano. ‘But how can we do it? It takes days to write pamphlets and get them to the right people. The Times or one of the other papers might run a story, if Mr Wilberforce asked them, but we haven’t got much time. I expect Hawkins is planning to come down hard and fast.’
The abolitionists sat looking at each other, lost for inspiration. How silly when the answer was staring them in the face! Mr Kemble had seen it at once. I couldn’t endure this Quakerish silence any longer.
‘I know,’ I piped up from my lowly seat on the footstool. Thirty pairs of eyes turned to me.
‘Yes, sugar, what do you know?’ asked Mr Equiano with a lovely bright smile.
‘Pedro’s debut as Ariel. The play’s a gift – almost every line he has will speak to his case. You can’t watch The Tempest and not want Ariel to go free: it’s bound to bring almost everyone on to Pedro’s side.’ I stood up, feeling at too much of a disadvantage on the floor. ‘All you need do is run off some flyers explaining the threat to him, hand them out to the audience in advance, and the theatre will do the rest. There won’t be a man or woman in town who doesn’t know Pedro’s story by Saturday morning.’
‘What a scandalous idea!’ exclaimed Miss Miller. ‘The theatre’s no place for the boy’s case to be heard. It’s full of loose women and drunken men!’
I flushed with anger and the duchess bridled. ‘Are you, ma’am, inferring that all females who appear on stage are immoral?’ she demanded.
Miss Miller realized her error. She was in the home of the singer formerly known as the Bristol Nightingale, now the Duchess of Avon. But the Quaker was evidently a woman of strong opinions and she could not bring herself to back down. ‘No offence was meant to present company, but your grace must allow that the theatre is not regarded as entirely above reproach by most people.’
‘You mean by silly narrow-minded killjoys like yourself!’ boomed the duchess.
‘Mother!’ implored Lizzie.
‘I think Miss Royal’s idea is a fine one,’ continued the duchess. ‘Despite being half your height and a quarter of your age, she’s got more sense in her little finger than you have in your entire body. It’s not the respectable parsons and their wives we want to persuade, it’s Jack and Jill public. They don’t read learned tracts, but they sure as eggs are eggs go to the play,’ she finished, glaring at Miss Miller as if considering her a new-laid specimen that she was a
bout to scramble.
Hiding a smile, Mr Equiano cleared his throat. The duchess made way for him with a regal nod of her head.
‘Though I would not have put the matter quite in the terms your grace employs, I agree that Miss Royal is right. However, we must ensure the crowd takes the matter in the way we wish. It’s more than possible that, once Hawkins knows Pedro is to take the stage as advertised, he’ll plant his cronies in the audience to protest at the abuse of his so-called “property rights”. We must have our people there too.’
‘What! Us, go to the theatre!’ exclaimed Miss Miller senior. Her sisters looked positively faint at the idea.
‘Everyone,’ confirmed Mr Equiano, giving me a sly grin. I liked him very much: he clearly had a wicked sense of humour. ‘Surely the principle of freedom of the individual outweighs any qualms about the frivolity of the theatre?’
The three Miss Millers exchanged looks, nodded, and gritted their teeth.
‘All right,’ agreed Miss Miller senior. ‘We’ll do it – for the cause and for Brother Pedro.’
The duchess gave a snort of derision which Lizzie tried to disguise with a coughing fit of her own. She too was struggling not to laugh.
‘Then that’s settled,’ said Mr Sharp, beaming at us all. ‘Equiano and I will see to the flyers and purchase the tickets.’ He cracked his knuckles as if readying himself for business.
‘You’d better hurry,’ I chipped in, ‘the performance’s bound to sell out.’
He nodded. ‘Understood. I’ll send someone for them immediately. Then we’ll meet at Drury Lane an hour before the doors open.’
The meeting was declared over and the guests got up to go.
‘Oh my!’ I heard Miss Prudence exclaiming. ‘Whatever will the brethren say when they hear about this?’
‘Say?’ whispered Miss Miller. ‘Why, nothing if thou sayest nothing to them. Remember: silence is golden.’
Her two sisters gravely nodded their heads and scurried out of the door before they found themselves engaged in any further frivolities.
SCENE 3 – A GENTLEMEN’S CLUB
‘Cat! Cat! Where are you, you little devil? Always underfoot when least wanted, but never there when I need you!’ Mr Salter, the prompt and box office manager, was shouting for me backstage. I was up in the flies with Pedro, inspecting the flying rig for his first entrance that night. All we could see of Mr Salter was the top of his curly white head. I wondered whether to keep quiet and stay hidden. But tempting though it would be to remain in the warm, there was the little matter of earning my keep at the theatre. Mrs Reid had made it clear that morning that darning was not my forte, so errand-running it would have to be.
‘Up here, sir!’ I called.
Mr Salter turned to stare up at the gantry and bellowed, ‘Get down here at the double. I’ve got a big order of tickets to be delivered for tonight – a gentleman at Brook’s is waiting for them.’
I looked across at Pedro. ‘Mr Sharp, do you think?’
He nodded. ‘Shall I come too?’
I knew he really wanted to see Mr Equiano, his new hero. I couldn’t blame him. On the other hand, Pedro had a big night tonight: it probably was not a good idea to have him chasing across town as a messenger, especially not with the fog that had settled since yesterday. The damp would be a disaster for his voice. We also had to consider what might happen if we met any of Hawkins’ men out on the streets – there was no time to ask Syd to be our escort.
‘Don’t you think you’d better stay here in case you’re wanted, Pedro? If it is them, I’ll ask them to come to the Green Room before the performance.’
‘Cat! If you don’t get down here now, I’ll skin you!’ shouted Mr Salter.
‘Coming!’ I grabbed hold of the nearest rope and slid down it, much to Mr Salter’s horror.
‘You could have used the stairs, you little hoyden,’ he said, handing me a thick sheaf of tickets. ‘Now get yourself off to Brook’s, the gentlemen’s club in St James. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Just ask at the door. They’re expecting a messenger from Drury Lane. Make sure you get a receipt.’
Outside, the day did not seem to have dawned even though it was near midday. Fog, mixed with the smoke of thousands of coal fires, had brewed a spell for invisibility. Hackney cabs rattled down Drury Lane blind to everything but the feeble will-o’-the-wisp lamps of the carriage in front. Woe betide anyone who dared to cross without taking due care! The jarveys would probably just ride over you in this weather and not worry too much about the bump under their wheels. I stuck to the pavement, weaving my way through the crowds. On the corner of Long Acre, a gaggle of gullible country bumpkins had clustered around a card sharp as he waved a pack of cards under their noses.
‘Pick a card, gents – any card,’ I heard him intone as I passed. ‘And I bet you a shilling I can tell you which one it is.’
‘Course you will, Joe,’ I called out, then muttered in his ear, ‘it’s the one you’ll palm off on them from up your sleeve.’
Joe ‘The Card’ Murray grinned and caught my arm. He was one of the less respectable members of Syd’s gang. His gold tooth glinted in the light of the shop window behind him.
‘’Ow’s you, Cat? ’Ow’s Prince?’
‘Bearing up, Joe. Are you coming tonight?’
‘Course. Purchased me ticket first I ’eard of it.’ He looked at his listeners – their attention was beginning to wander. ‘Right, the little lady ’ere is goin’ to ’ave first guess. Take a card, miss.’ I plucked a card from his hand, seeing if I could spot the exchange, but he was too quick for me. He paused dramatically, hand pressed to his forehead in earnest thought. ‘I think it’s the ace of spades.’
I turned the card over. It was the four of diamonds. The bumpkins laughed.
‘You owe her a shilling,’ one called out.
‘That I do.’ Joe presented me with a shilling. ‘Spend it wisely, little miss. ’Ow about some nice satin ribbons?’ He opened his jacket to display a rainbow of ribbons dangling there.
‘Not now, Joe, I’m on an errand. See you later.’
Joe turned back to his audience, undaunted by his failure. I knew exactly why he’d done it: if his audience thought they stood a fair chance of winning, they’d be freer with their shillings. His loss to me was a good investment.
I turned south, giving the patch known as the Rookeries a wide berth. My old enemy, Billy Shepherd, had increased his grip on the streets of St Giles since we last met. Rumour had it that he was now the top man in the district, thanks to a few throat-cuttings and arson attacks on those who had held out against him. I would certainly not be welcome if I strayed into his territory. He still had a price on my head following our last encounter in the holding cells of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.
Now the crooked streets of Covent Garden gave way to the wider carriageways of Piccadilly. The people on the pavements were noticeably smarter. I counted six gold pocket watches in the space of a hundred yards and at least three pickpockets – a sure sign of riches. The shops were also a good deal more flash. James Lock & Co. displayed an array of hats like an aviary of exotic birds. Gray’s, the jewellers, tempted the purse with ropes of pearls and trays of gold rings like a pirate’s cave.
Finally I reached Brook’s, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
‘Yes?’ a footman challenged me pompously.
‘I’m the messenger from Drury Lane,’ I said breathlessly.
‘They sent a girl – to Brook’s?’ Incredulity was written all over his face.
‘As you can see.’ I silently cursed Mr Salter, who no doubt thought it funny to send me here knowing the chance that I’d be refused entry.
‘We don’t allow females.’
‘I know. I don’t want to put my foot across your poxy threshold. I just want to deliver my message. You can take it in for me, if you want.’
The footman frowned. ‘I can’t do that, miss. The member was most insistent that he receive the message in pe
rson. There’s a receipt to go back.’
I’d forgotten that part. Mr Salter had mentioned something about it.
‘Well, you’d better smuggle me in then,’ I said, amused by the expression of horror working its way across his face. ‘I’ll try not to be too obviously female. I’ll keep the swoonings to a minimum and promise I’ll have only one fit of the vapours.’
The footman curled his lip. ‘You – the vapours! Ha! Brats like you can’t afford that luxury.’ This was very true but need he rub it in? ‘Come on then, follow me and keep quiet. I’ll take you up by the backstairs.’
Quickly checking that no one was watching, the flunkey marched me across the black-and-white tiled foyer, through a swing door and into the servants’ hall. Ignoring the shocked looks of the off-duty footmen, he led me up to the second floor.
‘He’s in the billiard room,’ the footman explained as we walked quickly along the carpeted hallway to a door at the end of the corridor.
‘The messenger from Drury Lane, sir,’ he announced, ushering me in.
The first thing I noticed on entering the room was a great expanse of green cloth scattered with shiny balls. The second was Mr Kingston Hawkins crouching over the table at the far side, holding a long cue. He took aim and struck a white ball hard. It collided with a black one and sent it rocketing into the pocket directly in front of me.
‘Well, well,’ said Hawkins, standing to take a chalk from the edge of the table and rubbing the end of his cue. ‘This sure is an unexpected bonus. That, gentlemen, is the little liar I mentioned. You can leave us, Michael. I’ll send for you when we’ve finished our business together.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The footman bowed.
The door clicked shut behind him. Out of the shadowy fog of tobacco smoke emerged four or five other gentlemen. A second billiard player approached the table, cue in hand.
‘Good shot, Hawkins,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve not lost your touch while you’ve been away.’
‘Indeed not.’ They seemed to be talking about more than just billiards. I stood with bowed head, wondering what would happen next.