Black Heart of Jamaica, Page 2

  ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ said Frank, stroking the baby’s back. Catherine gave a most unladylike burp. ‘I imagine it will suit you down to the ground, but I hope you don’t decide to stay away from England forever, Cat.’

  ‘Just for a few months,’ I reiterated hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Johnny, returning to his sketch.

  ‘A chance to find out if my talents really do lie on stage?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ nodded Frank. ‘But I for one have no doubts on that score.’

  ‘All you need to do now is persuade them to take you on,’ concluded Lizzie.

  Easier said than done.

  ‘That won’t be difficult.’ Pedro had returned unnoticed and must have been listening from the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, his arms crossed, fingers tapping restlessly as if itching to return to his instrument.

  ‘I’m pleased you have so much faith in me,’ I smiled.

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ Pedro took a step towards the sofa and leant across Frank to steal a biscuit. He waved it in the air like a baton. ‘Not that I don’t have faith in you, of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But if we offer ourselves as a duet – you with your talents and me with mine – then I doubt they’ll be able to resist.’

  I jumped up and hugged him, making him drop his biscuit. ‘You’ll come with me?’

  He hugged me back. ‘Of course. You’re not getting rid of me so easily, Cat Royal. Not this time.’

  My grin must have stretched from ear to ear. The future seemed far less daunting when not faced alone.

  ‘If they turn down the best violinist in the world, and the star of the Paris Opera,’ I performed a perfect pirouette, dipping into a curtsey, ‘then they are not worthy of us.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ agreed Pedro, rubbing his hands together. ‘So when do we start?’

  The auditions took place in the Man Full of Trouble Tavern on Little Dock Creek, a humble inn that offered not much more than warm beer and warm beds to sailors passing through port. The Peabody Ensemble had to cut their cloth to suit their purse and I took this as due warning that this was going to be no luxury theatrical cruise of the West Indies. Yet the modesty of the surroundings did not deter those dreaming of stardom. As we approached we found that a line of hopefuls already stretched around the block. Though I had never joined one before, I’d seen such queues in Drury Lane – gatherings of the talentless multitude and the talented few, all desperate for their moment centre stage. My confidence took a little dent: with so many trying for a place, would we really be so irresistible? Shoulders back, head up, I steeled myself for the ordeal. We would never find out unless we tried.

  Pedro and I attached ourselves to the end of the queue, resigned to a long wait. Syd stood with us, frowning at an inept juggler practising a few places in front. My boxing friend attracted admiring glances from the girls thanks to his muscular frame and handsome – if a little battered – face, but today he was oblivious to them.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Cat?’ he grumbled, rubbing his chin. He hated the idea that I intended to stay in the Americas without him. I knew that, if he hadn’t had a swindling boxing manager to pursue, he would have abandoned his plans to go home.

  ‘I’m sure, Syd.’

  ‘And you’ll come ’ome when you’ve done this tour?’ The anxious note in his voice made my heart ache for him. He was so desperate not to lose me forever, but what could I say when I didn’t know what was going to happen?

  ‘I make no promises, Syd. There’s nothing for me in London now Drury Lane is closed.’

  ‘Nothink, Cat? There’s me – and the lads.’

  I squeezed his hand. I could at least provide him with some comfort.

  ‘Syd, I can’t imagine living the rest of my life away from London. No doubt I’ll be drawn back one day. It’s my home after all.’

  He nodded.

  I tugged on his waistcoat to get his full attention. ‘But you promise not to wait for me? It might be years before I return.’

  He refused to meet my eyes, instead gazing fixedly at an advert for McLackland’s tooth-powder. ‘What I decide to do is my own business,’ he said stiffly – meaning he fully intended to wait.

  ‘Next!’ bellowed a man taking names at the door. Pedro and I shuffled forward a pace. I glanced back but Syd had disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Pedro Amakye, violinist and dancer, and Catherine Royal, actress, singer and dancer,’ Pedro informed him.

  The man raised an eyebrow at us both, hearing the unusual accents.

  ‘Both from Drury Lane, London,’ Pedro finished.

  The man’s eyes lit up. ‘Well now, ain’t that just fine and dandy. I was thinking you’d say you were from Africa.’ He eyed Pedro speculatively, taking in the contrary signals of his dark skin coupled with fine clothes. ‘My, my, Drury Lane. Mrs Peabody sure will be pleased to meet you two. Go on in, boy.’

  Mrs Peabody – now that was a surprise. A woman running a theatre company? She had my immediate respect.

  We stepped into the audition room. The juggler had just been summarily dismissed and a pale-faced girl had taken his place.

  ‘Name?’ barked a woman seated by the pianoforte.

  ‘Charlotte Potter, Mrs Peabody,’ the girl whispered, intimidated by the grim-faced lady of indeterminate years who was glaring at her. Dressed in black, the company manager looked rather like a bald eagle poised to swoop on any theatrical failing, ready to rip reputations to shreds.

  ‘Go on then, Miss Potter, do your worst.’ Mrs Peabody nodded to the accompanist. The pianoforte began to tinkle. The girl opened her mouth to sing a ballad in a quavering voice.

  The response was ruthless.

  ‘Next!’ bellowed Mrs Peabody. ‘I suggest you try another profession, Miss Potter, one that doesn’t involve singing, and stop wasting my time.’

  The poor girl was led away in tears. Mrs Peabody might be worthy of respect but she also inspired in me a creeping case of stage fright. I glanced nervously at Pedro, but he seemed unruffled by the humiliations inflicted on others – so secure was he in his own talent.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mrs Peabody enquired with an exasperated sigh as Pedro and I made our way forward. She was evidently tired of the whole business after a morning of disappointment. I was tempted to slip away without trying her patience further.

  Before we could introduce ourselves, the man who had greeted us at the door called out:

  ‘Thought you’d like to know, ma’am, they’re from Drury Lane.’

  Mrs Peabody’s face relaxed into an unexpectedly fond smile. ‘Ah, Drury Lane!’ She waved her notes languidly in front of her face as if the memory had summoned up a warm flush. ‘My, my. I was once Mr Garrick’s favourite, did you know? Miss Dorothea Featherstone, famed for my Desdemona and Cleopatra.’

  Strange, I’d never heard of a Miss Featherstone and I thought I knew all the names of the great actresses of the past.

  ‘He said no one could match my deportment and diction. My success was certain. That was before I married the late Mr Peabody, of course.’ Her mouth wrinkled into a bitter line.

  Pedro and I exchanged looks.

  Mrs Peabody flapped the memories away. ‘Well, well, let’s see what you can do then,’ and she sat back to judge our pieces.

  Pedro went first. To begin with those waiting in the queue did not give a black boy the courtesy of silence, chatting and laughing loudly at the side of the audition room. That was until he completed his first musical phrase. I was delighted to note the open mouths and pleasantly shocked expressions as the lively piece by Bach wove its spell. Pedro finished to an awed hush, then enthusiastic applause.

  ‘I think he’s hired,’ muttered the rejected juggler in my ear, not sounding the least bit jealous. ‘She’d be a fool not to snap him up – and Mrs Peabody is no one’s fool.’

  I nodded politely but could not answer as nerves had set in: my turn. I
couldn’t let Pedro down.

  My friend gave me a grin, summoning me forward.

  Imagine you’re back on the Courageous, I told myself. They’re just shipmates wanting to be entertained.

  So why did I feel more like a Christian about to be thrown to the lions?

  Pedro ran through the introduction to Blow the Man Down. It was now or never. Taking a breath, I began to sing the sea shanty.

  I cannot claim the instant success that followed Pedro’s performance, but I sang my heart out. The superior quality of Pedro’s playing always brought out the best in me. I slipped back into the familiar place with him – the easy partnership of music. As I made eye contact with my audience, I felt opinion shift in my favour. Many smiled, some tapped their toes, others gave me encouraging nods. When I finished I closed my eyes for a second, then turned to face my judge.

  ‘Well, Miss Royal, I congratulate you: that was very sweetly done.’

  My relief at her praise was greater than my pleasure.

  Mrs Peabody’s stern face cracked into a smile. ‘Thank the Lord I haven’t completely wasted my morning on nobodies without an ounce of talent!’ ‘At least there are two young people in Philadelphia with skills worthy of the Peabody Theatrical Ensemble. Report to Penn’s Landing on Monday. We’re sailing on the Running Sally. My stage manager will give you a list of what is required and settle your wages. I’m delighted you have joined us.’ She waved us aside; and with a hunch of her shoulders, her bird-of-prey stance was back in place, ready for the next victim.

  * For full details of that fiendish plot, see my fourth adventure, Cat O’Nine Tails.

  ACT I

  SCENE 1 – CARIBBEAN SUNSHINE

  Penn’s Landing was bustling with people as we alighted from our hired carriage. Neither Pedro nor I had much luggage to encumber us. My most prized possession, Sasakwa, a Creek Indian pony, had been entrusted to Frank to transport home. I felt she would be happier running free on the green pastures of his family’s estate, Boxton, than confined in the livery stable in the poky backstreets of Philadelphia. I certainly couldn’t take her to the Caribbean, so England it would have to be until we could be reunited. My farewell with her had been easy: a rub on the nose and an extra carrot. I did not think I would escape as lightly from the rest of my friends.

  ‘Look after each other,’ Lizzie said, holding baby Catherine up for a kiss. ‘Write soon.’

  Johnny ruffled my hair and shook Pedro’s hand. ‘Mind you don’t get split up! I’m only happy knowing you’re watching out for each other.’

  Frank gave me a hug, then pushed me away as if embarrassed he had let it last so long. ‘I expect you to visit me in Cambridge, Cat, so we can go rattle the dons together. My life will be far too staid without you around. Pedro, keep an eye on her, will you?’

  ‘Two eyes,’ promised Pedro.

  Syd didn’t say anything but there was no need: we both knew what the other was thinking. He folded me in a bear hug, crushing my head against his chest. His heart was beating fast.

  ‘Goodbye, Syd. You will see me again.’ There, I’d made my promise.

  ‘I’d better, or there’ll be trouble.’ He cleared his throat and nodded to Pedro. ‘You know what I expect from you, Prince.’

  ‘Yes, Syd. I’ll look after her or you’ll punch me.’

  Syd gave a grim smile. ‘That’s right. Glad you understand. Now get along with you, Cat Royal. Go impress the ’ell out of your punters.’

  I wiped the tears from my eyes. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘And you’ll succeed, Kitten. I ’ave faith in you.’ He brushed my cheeks with his thumbs where the salt trail had crinkled them. ‘They’ll love you. Everyone does.’

  ‘It’s no good,’ I moaned two weeks into the voyage, ‘I’m going to have to kill Mrs Peabody. I can see no other option.’

  I had slipped away after Sunday prayers and found Pedro enjoying the fine morning on the main deck of the Running Sally, a trading sloop on which we had secured passage for Jamaica. Pedro was waxing his bow with rosin and chatting to some of the gentlemen in the ensemble. All of them looked relaxed and happy. How different from the cabin where we women were packed together like sardines in a barrel. The very managing Mrs Peabody had absurdly strict notions of propriety and had refused me permission to wander the deck.

  ‘We may be actresses, Miss Royal, but that does not mean we need not worry about our reputations,’ she had snapped when I’d begged leave to get some fresh air.

  I was prepared for her to run the ensemble, but I drew the line at her organizing my life too.

  The women’s quarters were unbearable for more reasons than close confinement. Mrs Peabody had brought along her empty-headed daughter, Hetty, expecting me to be company for her. We had nothing in common except the desire to throttle each other after an hour spent in the same room. A blue-eyed, golden-curled girl of my age, she infuriated me by making sheep’s eyes at every man. As a ginger-haired green-eyed runt of the litter, I’m afraid, Reader, I envied her luscious beauty. Perhaps her mother was right to be concerned for her with the sailors, but I couldn’t understand why I had to suffer because Hetty did not know how to behave. Besides, I had sailed across the Atlantic dressed as a boy for heaven’s sake; I rather thought it too late for me to worry about such petty social rules, particularly if it meant being separated from my only remaining friend.

  My death threat against our employer produced only a patient sigh as Pedro prepared to hear yet more of my complaints. But if I couldn’t moan to him, to whom could I speak on this interminable voyage?

  I let out my main grievance. ‘And she’s cast Hetty – Hetty of all people! – as Rosalind. The girl can’t act, barely can speak the verse. It’s going to be a disaster.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Pedro, looking amused as he squinted up at me in the bright light. I spun my parasol to shade him. I knew better than to venture on deck without protection; my freckles were already rioting across my nose at the merest hint of Caribbean sunshine. A breeze kept the heat comfortable out here, unlike the cabin.

  ‘I’m to be Phoebe, the brainless shepherdess.’ It was a humiliation, a complete waste of my talents. I’d never rated myself all that highly, but surely even I scored better in this company than that! ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to rip up the script and make Mrs Peabody and her daughter eat As You Like It page by page. They do not deserve to be entrusted with Shakespeare.’

  ‘Let me get this straight, Cat,’ said Pedro. He ran his fingers lovingly over his bow. ‘Are you going to feed these items to Mrs Peabody before or after you’ve done her in?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. Before would be a little easier, I would say.’

  I waved my hand. ‘Details, details. I think you understand the sentiment.’

  ‘Completely. Can’t say I particularly like the woman myself, but she’s the master and we all have to dance to her tune.’

  I slumped next to Pedro on his coil of rope and scanned the rigging with a professional eye.

  ‘Seems to me we could pack on a little more sail in this breeze,’ I commented, watching the men up on the yardarm. ‘I never thought I’d miss being a sailor, but anything is better than being a lady on Mrs Peabody’s terms.’

  ‘Can’t you team up with her daughter?’ suggested Pedro. ‘Though unable to act, Miss Peabody seems a pleasant enough girl. If you both appealed for a little more freedom, perhaps she would listen.’

  I gazed out at the unbroken blue of the horizon. ‘Pleasant fiddlesticks! Don’t tell me she’s been making eyes at you too? All the men in the ensemble think she’s an angel when in fact she’s a shallow creature far too used to getting her own way. She treats poor Miss Atkins like dirt.’

  ‘I like Miss Atkins,’ Pedro said, a little off-subject in my estimation. ‘She loves music.’

  ‘Yes, she’s a sweet mouse but now she’s got to be Celia to Hetty’s Rosalind. Her life is going to be hell: all those s
cenes together with Hetty upstaging her by simpering at the audience.’

  ‘Miss Royal!’ The strident tones of Mrs Peabody floated down from the stern.

  ‘Hide me!’ I said desperately, ducking behind Pedro.

  ‘Cat, I think she can see you,’ Pedro said calmly. ‘You’d best go at once.’

  ‘Come here directly, Miss Royal.’ Mrs Peabody strode forward, hooked my arm and towed me back into the cabin. Hetty and Miss Atkins looked up from their prayer books to stare. ‘I told you not to wander off on your own. Your behaviour is a disappointment. You of all people should know that as an actress one hint of impropriety and people will quickly assume you are ruined. Mr Garrick never allowed his actresses to conduct themselves in such a scandalous manner.’

  I doubted that very much. According to my theatre friends who had had the privilege of working with the famous actor-manager at Drury Lane, David Garrick had not interested himself in the private lives of his actresses, only in their public talent. I was steadily growing more and more suspicious that Dorothea Featherstone had never trod the boards there.

  ‘My apologies, Mrs Peabody. But surely you do not require me for a rehearsal on the Sabbath, our day of rest?’ I said sweetly, taking a stool next to Miss Atkins.

  Our theatrical manageress gave me a sour smile. ‘No, Miss Royal, but you remind me of my duties. I do think we should prepare some appropriate entertainment suitable for Sundays. The pious folk of Jamaica may well require it of us. As you seem at a loose end, you, young miss, will spend the rest of the day memorizing Psalm One Hundred and Nineteen, all one hundred and seventy-six verses.’

  Our eyes locked.

  ‘It is your job to entertain, is it not, Miss Royal?’

  ‘Very well. Psalm One Hundred and Nineteen it is.’

  The other women left the cabin to take a turn on deck. Flinging a few unsabbath-like words at Mrs Peabody’s back, I settled down to the challenge. I had only reached verse thirty when Miss Atkins returned.