Cat's Cradle (3 page)

I collapsed back on the seat opposite him and grinned. ‘The question was rhetorical, Billy.'

‘What the Devil does that mean?' He massaged his temples with his long fingers. ‘You've given me the 'eadache, but do you care?'

‘That last one of yours was an excellent example of a rhetorical question,' I commended him as if he were a star pupil. ‘It means that I wasn't expecting an answer, merely speaking my thoughts aloud.'

‘Well, don't.' He clenched his fists on his knees.

‘Don't what?' I wrinkled my brow in innocent puzzlement.

‘Don't speak another word.' He chopped at his throat. ‘I've 'ad it up to 'ere with your thoughts, rhetorical or whatever. You've done nothink but jabber on since we left Tortuga three months ago. You've driven me to drink,' he took a fortifying gulp from the flask of brandy at his side, ‘as well as driven me mad.'

I smiled serenely. ‘You should count your blessings, Billy. Only a few more minutes of my company then you'll be shot of me for good.'

‘About time.'

Congratulating myself silently for routing the affection that Billy misguidedly felt for me, I sat back to enjoy the familiar sights. Billy had not finished; he continued to grumble.

‘You snored on my shoulder all the way from Liverpool. Anyone would think I was put on earth to be your pillow.
And
you dribbled all over my best coat –'

‘Did not!' I protested, though I could not
deny falling asleep on him.

‘On the boat you gave me a seizure, goin' up the mast and 'angin' off the yardarm like a monkey.'

That had been wonderful: the only place on the ship I had felt free of the smell below decks. ‘Ah, happy days!'

‘You flirted with everyone in sight.'

‘You mean I
talked
to the other passengers.'

‘And the crew and every Tom, Dick 'n' 'Arry at the inns on the way down from Liverpool.'

‘Jealous, Billy?'

‘Course not. You just . . . just don't know 'ow to behave.'

‘Thus speaks that paragon of polite behaviour Mister William Shepherd, cut-throat and slave owner.' I flourished my hand in a mock bow.

‘You were brung up bad – anyone can see that.'

‘I was brought up with you, Billy, on the streets, remember?'

‘Yeah, but you pretend to be a lady, and them kind of goings-on will get you into trouble.'

I batted my eyelashes at him. ‘I thought you liked my friendly nature, Billy dear.'

He scrubbed his hands through his hair. ‘Just stop it, Cat. Stop acting like a mindless 'alfwit who'll flirt with anythink in breeches.'

I had to laugh. I'd set out on this journey home planning to push Billy past the point of endurance, playing on his misplaced feelings of ownership towards me, and five hundred yards from his door I had succeeded.

‘Sorry, Billy, but this is me. Only cure is for you to jump out and leave me to meet my doom in my own way.' I folded my hands in my lap, assuming a resigned expression worthy of a martyr.

The post-chaise drew up outside Billy's grand house on Bedford Square. He grabbed his hat and was out of the carriage and on the pavement in a trice, stretching his lanky frame with a groan of pleasure. He slammed the coach door shut and shouted for his belongings to be thrown down to his footmen who were dutifully filing out of the house. While this pantomime proceeded apace outside, I sat back, arms crossed, a smug smile on my lips. I'd feared that when we reached home he'd try and persuade me to stay with him – after
all, he had come all the way to the Caribbean to find me – but it now looked as if that was the last thing on his mind.

Possessions safely on the way into the house, Billy ducked his head back in through the open window.

‘You'll be all right from 'ere, Cat?' he asked brusquely.

‘Yes, Billy.'

‘Where're you goin'?'

‘Bow Street.' I could not stop a triumphant grin at his expression of relief. I suppose he was living in dread of me inviting myself in.

He gave a curt nod, turned to go, then stopped as a new thought struck him, prompted by my smile.

‘You . . . you've been doin' this on purpose, ain't you? You meant to make me glad to be rid of you.'

I tapped on the ceiling and called to the coachman, ‘Drive on, please.'

‘You schemin' little minx!' Standing on the pavement, hands crushing the brim of his hat, Billy looked torn between admiration and fury.

The carriage surged forward.

‘You could've just told me, you know!' he shouted after me. ‘Spared me months of sufferin'.'

I chuckled. I could've done, but this way had been far more fun.

The butcher's shop on Bow Street was just as I remembered it: cuts of meat hanging on hooks, sausages curled on platters, basins of quivering tripe, sawdust on the floor, the sickly sweet smell of blood. Figures moved around inside but I couldn't make out who was serving. Why I thought the shop should have changed, I don't know. Twelve months was nothing really; it was just that I had lived through so much, I expected to see signs of this reflected in the places around me.

I paused on the pavement, strangely hesitant now I had reached this point. There was one old haunt that I knew would have changed out of all recognition. Just around the corner was the building site of the new Drury Lane theatre. I couldn't bear to look at it yet but I could see the clouds of dust and mason's carts rumbling in that direction. Mr Sheridan, the owner, had promised
that a new theatre would rise from the ashes of the old and he was keeping his word. But there was no place for me there now.

This was a melancholy thought, but at least in Syd's butcher's shop I could be confident that he and his parents would be pleased to see me.

The shop bell rang and a customer came out.

‘Mornin', Cat. I ain't seen you around for a bit, dearie. 'Ow've you been?' Mrs Peters, the cheese monger from Covent Garden, patted me on the arm. Her full basket smelled of good strong Cheddar and onions. A ham nestled in the folds of a muslin cloth.

I bobbed a curtsey. Little indeed had changed around here – I even recognized her old basket. ‘Mrs Peters! I'm well, thank you! How are Mr Peters and the boys?'

‘All doin' same as ever, except the youngest. 'E's joined the Butcher's Boys.' She wrinkled her nose. ‘Don't like our Jim 'avin' anythink to do with gangs but I s'pose if 'e 'ad to run with one of 'em, that's the one I'd choose. Syd's a good sort – keeps the boys in line. So, you're back, are you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where've you been? I 'eard all sorts of wild rumours.' She leaned nearer and dropped her voice confidentially. ‘Someone said you went all the way to Paris, but I didn't believe 'em. “Not our Cat” I said.'

‘Actually, I have been to Paris – and a bit further too.'

Mrs Peters opened her eyes wide. ‘Further than Paris! Well I never! I'm pleased to see you've come to your senses and are back with your own people.'

With a nod that combined reproof for my wandering and approval for my return, Mrs Peters bustled off to spread the word in the market that the prodigal daughter was among them once more. I wondered what she would have to say when she learnt the true extent of my travels. Smiling at the thought, I pushed the door open, bell ringing brightly. The shop was empty.

‘Be with you in a tick!' shouted Syd from out the back. I could hear the regular thwack of a cleaver as he diced steak.

‘Well, if that's how you treat your customers,
I think I'll go to the butcher on Long Acre,' I replied loudly.

Thump! The cleaver was buried in the chopping block and Syd erupted into the shop, vaulted the counter and lunged for me.

‘You're back!' he exclaimed gruffly. My bag went flying as he squeezed me tight against his chest. I could hardly move my arms to hug him. Almost as abruptly, I was set apart and big hands began brushing me down.

‘Fry my brains with onions – look what I've gone and done to your pretty coat!' Syd gamely tried to remove the sawdust and red smears from my light blue pelisse but only managed to make it worse.

‘What's a little damage between friends, Syd?' I pushed him away and gave my coat a resigned shake. ‘It's been on its last legs in any case after several months at sea.' I smiled up at him, taking in his familiar face, skin still tanned from the voyage, blue eyes shining with pleasure. He'd had a haircut since I last saw him – blond hair now cropped short. ‘It's so good to see you. Is everyone well?'

‘We're good. And you?'

‘Fit as a fiddle – or I will be when I've had a cup of tea. Will you put the kettle on for a weary traveller?'

‘Tea's on its way.' Syd ruffled my hair, then glanced behind me. ‘Where's Pedro?'

My gay mood dulled a little. ‘It's a long story, but he's fine, really he is.' I was trying to convince myself as much as Syd.

‘Tell me when you've 'ad a chance to catch your breath.' Scooping me up with an arm around my shoulders, Syd led me into the kitchen.

‘Ma, Dad, look who it is!' he announced.

Seated at the kitchen table in front of a pile of half-peeled potatoes, Mrs Fletcher gave a little exclamation of surprise. Putting her work aside at once, she greeted me warmly and called for her husband to come in from the yard. Mr Fletcher, a giant of a man with a shy manner, strode in, patted my shoulder, then gave Syd a delighted grin.

‘Glad to see you back, Cat,' he said huskily – more words than he usually spoke to me in a week.

Mrs Fletcher made me feel like a long-lost daughter with her hugs and stream of questions as
she bade me make myself at home in her kitchen. She was feared around the market for her temper, but underneath the sharp tongue was a kindhearted woman.

‘You'll stay with us, won't you, dear?' she said, tucking a strand of her fair hair back in her practical bun. A pretty woman with a high colour and Syd's blue eyes, she had been known as the Butcher's Belle when she first married her husband. She bustled about the range seeing to our tea, completely at ease in her little kingdom. With a nod to his son, Mr Fletcher excused himself to mind the shop.

I allowed myself to relax, charmed by the ordinariness of sitting in her kitchen. After months of the exotic and dangerous, it was very comforting to be back somewhere English and tame. ‘I'd like to stay if I may, ma'am.'

‘Call me Joanna, dear. You're as good as family now, aren't you?' She cast a significant look at Syd who sat on the opposite side of the table, gazing at me as if he couldn't quite believe I was really there. Seeing him after months of separation, I'd
forgotten just how large he was. He made his mother and me look positively doll-like.

I met the hint with a non-committal smile. There would be time to address her attempts at matchmaking later.

‘Though I s'pose you might want to go and live with those fine friends of yours in Grosvenor Square,' continued Mrs Fletcher, pouring the boiled water into the pot. She waved the steam away and dabbed at her brow with a drying cloth.

‘I'd prefer to stay here, if you don't mind, er . . . Joanna. I always felt I was rather out of my depth over there – all those rooms and servants watching my every move.'

‘Course we don't mind.' She set out some freshly baked biscuits, slapping Syd's wrist as he grabbed two from the plate. ‘Guests first.'

‘I thought you said she was family, Ma,' replied Syd, giving me a wink.

‘She'll think I brought you up a barbarian.' Mrs Fletcher placed a cup of her finest Indian tea in front of me.

‘Perhaps you did, Ma – leastways accordin' to
the men I beat in the boxing ring you did.' Mrs Fletcher gave him a proud smile and caressed the bruise fading on his cheekbone as she passed behind his chair. Syd batted her hand away gently. ‘Leave off, Ma. Cat'll think I've gone soft.' He looked at me rather sheepishly. ‘Anyway, Cat, about Frank's family in Grosvenor Square – he's gone to Cambridge. You'd be on your own if you stayed there – only the dook and duchess for company.'

As much as I liked Frank's parents, it wouldn't do to impose myself on their household. We wouldn't know how to behave towards each other without Frank's presence to ease the way.

I raised my cup to my lips and blew away the steam. ‘Perhaps it's best that I stay here then, back where I started.'

It took a good long while to tell Syd the whole story of what happened to Pedro and me in the Caribbean. Unsurprisingly, he was not happy to hear that I had left our friend in the middle of a war on San Domingo but he accepted that
there had been nothing I could have done about it. What most concerned him was the fact that I'd spent so much time with Billy Shepherd, his old rival.

‘Don't worry about him, Syd,' I laughed. ‘He is relieved to get away from me – I made sure of that. You should have seen him when we got to Bedford Square: he jumped out of the carriage as if a swarm of bees were after him. I was a complete pain, a hair-shirt of a travelling companion.'

‘Remind me to keep on your good side, Cat,' Syd said, his humour restored. ‘But all the same, let's not take it for granted that 'e's goin' to leave you alone now.'

‘Don't worry, I won't.' I knew Billy better than that. And I admit, Reader, part of me rather enjoyed our dangerous game of each trying to get the upper hand in our strange friendship. ‘Did you find Mick Bailey and get back your winnings?'

Bailey, Syd's manager, had had him press-ganged rather than share the proceeds of their summer boxing tour.

Syd frowned. ‘Not yet. 'E back-slanged it out of
London when 'e 'eard I was 'ome. I'll track 'im down, never you fear.'

I shivered and hugged my arms across my chest. With a quick look at me, Syd threw a shovelful of coals on to the kitchen range and rattled the embers with the poker.