The Diamond of Drury Lane by Julia Golding Read Free Book Online

on tour of the south-west, performing in theatres and private houses. That lasted for a couple of seasons and then I was sold on to Signor Angelini last month.’
    ‘Sold? So you are a slave then?’ I asked curiously.
    Pedro flashed me a dangerous look. ‘I am no such thing. I am an apprentice musician under articles to Signor Angelini. Once on the shores of your country, I became free . . . as free as you are.’
    ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, realising I had offended him. ‘So you can leave when you like? You can go home?’
    He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Home? Where is that, pray? My family were all sold for slaves. If they are still alive, how could I ever find them? I can’t even remember my proper name.’ He looked at meangrily, as if I was somehow partly to blame for his misfortune. He wasn’t to know that, though describing a very different life, it sounded to me that Pedro and I shared much in common: we had both been thrown out into the world at an early age and were now cut off from our origins. I had often wondered what name my mother had given me. I had vague memories of a woman caring for me . . . I sometimes dreamed of her but no image remained in my waking mind. But at least I knew exactly why I had ended up as Cat.
    ‘So why are you called Pedro?’ I asked.
    ‘That was the name of my first master’s dog . . . you see how highly he valued me,’ Pedro replied with an ironic smile. ‘My second name is Hawkins after him. But I’m going to make my own name now. I won’t be anyone’s performing monkey any longer. Now I’ve reached London, I’m going to make my name as the best musician in Europe.’ He held his head proudly, glaring down at the audience below as if challenging them to refuse his claim.
    ‘I can believe it,’ I replied.
    He raised his mug of beer to acknowledge my remark and took a swig. Wiping his mouth, he then asked:
    ‘And what about you? What are you going to do when you are too old to live here?’
    I was taken aback. I had never considered a life when I was not living backstage at Drury Lane. But he was right: a day would come when I could no longer bed down on the costumes in the Sparrow’s Nest. I did not want him to think that I was completely without talent, unable to take care of myself.
    ‘I’m going to be a writer,’ I said on impulse. ‘I’ll write for the stage.’ Pedro gave me a sceptical look. ‘I’ve been taught to read and write by the old prompt. He always told me that there was no better education to be had anywhere in the world. Shakespeare, Dryden, Johnson . . . I’ve read them all. I speak French with the ballerinas . . . and I can read it too.’
    ‘But you’re a girl,’ he said dismissively. He clearly didn’t think very much of my talents.
    It was my turn to get angry. ‘So? Women canmake a lot of money from writing. Look at Mrs Radcliffe and Mrs Inchbald.’
    He snorted. ‘And what have you got to write about? Have you travelled the world? Have you been to the Indies and the Americas? Have you moved in high society like I have?’
    ‘No, but at least I wasn’t carrying a tray of drinks at the time!’ I answered angrily.
    He laughed. ‘Touché.’
    ‘What do you mean by that?’
    ‘Touché . . . a hit. It’s from fencing . . . a hobby of my old master.’
    ‘Oh.’ I was feeling quite out of spirits now. Compared to the worldly Pedro, learned in the gentlemanly arts of music and swordplay, I knew nothing. But I still refused to accept defeat. ‘For your information, I’ve got plenty to write about. Like Mr Sheridan’s diamond, for example.’
    ‘Diamond?’ It was his turn to look impressed but even so I instantly regretted I’d even mentioned it.
    ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. Forget it.’
    ‘Of course I can’t forget it! You’d better tell menow . . . or I’ll ask Mr Sheridan himself.’
    ‘You wouldn’t!’
    ‘Would!’ His face was determined, ruthless even. I believed him capable of anything at that