Free The Diamond of Drury Lane by Julia Golding Page B

his bull-sized neck to warm up. ‘I’ll set ’im to rights, you’ll see.’ He rocked lightly from foot to foot, making a few practice punches at the air.
    ‘I hope so, Syd. Better that than having the surgeon set you to rights afterwards.’
    ‘Should we knock at the front door or use the tradesman’s entrance?’ I asked Pedro nervously, clutching my manuscript under my arm.
    We both looked up at the tall sandstone house rising four floors above us. The large windows were all lit, shining out into the cold January evening inan opulent display, telling the world that money was no object as far as candles were concerned. An imposing flight of six marble stairs ran up to the black front door. The knocker . . . a brass dragon’s head . . . gleamed balefully at us. To our right, partially hidden by the spiked iron railings was a mean, narrow staircase that ran down to the lower floors: the tradesman’s entrance.
    Pedro looked back at the front door. ‘We’re not bidden to the kitchen; we’re here to see the family.’ He mounted the steps before his courage failed, seized the knocker and thumped it twice. Almost immediately, the door swung open and a white-wigged, liveried servant stood there, looking down his long nose at us.
    ‘Yes?’ he said dubiously, holding out his hand for a message.
    ‘We’re from Drury Lane. Lady Elizabeth is expecting us,’ said Pedro, ignoring the outstretched hand and making to step inside.
    ‘I doubt that very much,’ said the footman with a sardonic smile, blocking his way.
    ‘We’re here for the tea party,’ I added boldly,annoyed by the man’s supercilious attitude. ‘If you don’t believe us, why don’t you ask her?’
    Perhaps our confidence made him think better of shutting the door in our faces. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered. He turned to another footman standing in the hall. ‘Watch them,’ he told his colleague. ‘See that they don’t touch anything.’ He then strode swiftly up the red-carpeted stairs.
    We stood under the hawkish gaze of the second servant, waiting for our fate to be decided. Before long, the footman returned and reluctantly opened the door wide enough to allow us in.
    ‘Apparently, you are expected,’ he said with ill grace. ‘Would you like to leave your cloak here, miss?’
    I took off my hood and handed over my old black cloak, revealing underneath the white muslin dress with a green silk sash Mrs Reid had made for me from one of the ripped ballet dresses she had stashed away. The footman’s manner instantly became more respectful.
    ‘Step this way, miss,’ he said, bowing me up the stairs.
    I winked at Pedro who was staring at me as if seeing me properly for the first time.
    ‘You look . . . well, you look different, Cat,’ he muttered on the way upstairs. ‘I didn’t know you washed up so well.’
    I grinned. ‘But I’m still the same Cat underneath even if my hair is neat for once.’
    Sarah had spent hours that day taming my red mop into a series of ringlets tied back with a matching green bow. I felt I looked good enough for the company we were about to meet and that gave me the confidence to continue up the stairs.
    The footman stopped by a door on the floor above. Inside we could hear the tinkle of the piano and the laughter of young voices.
    ‘Who shall I say is here?’ he asked me.
    ‘Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins, if you please,’ I said with dignity.
    He opened the door and gave a cough.
    ‘Lady Elizabeth, your visitors have arrived: Miss Royal and Mr Hawkins.’
    He ushered us forward and then closed the door behind us.
    My first impression was of a sea of pink faces turned curiously in our direction. Then I took in the fine muslin petticoats that seemed so light as if made of nothing but spun sugar, the smart breeches and jackets of the boys, the elaborately arranged hair of the girls. Suddenly my own outfit seemed very tawdry.
    ‘Miss Royal, Mr Hawkins, we are delighted to see you both,’ said Lady Elizabeth,