Diamond Of Drury Lane - Softcover

Julia Golding is a multi-award winning writer for children and young adults. She also writes under the pen names of Joss Stirling and Eve Edwards. She has now published over thirty novels in genres ranging from historical adventure to fantasy. Her first novel, The Diamond of Drury Lane, set in 1790 and starring intrepid heroine Cat Royal, went on to win the Ottakar's (Waterstones) Children's Book Prize 2006 and the Nestle Children's Book Prize 2006 (formerly known as the Smarties Prize). Julia lives in Oxford, UK.

London, January 1790Curtain Rises PROLOGUEA RIOT     Reader, you are set to embark on an adventure about one hidden treasure, two bare-knuckle boxers, three enemies, and four hundred and thirty-eight rioters. It is told by an ignorant and prejudiced author—me. My name is Cat Royal, though how I came to be called this, I will explain later. For the moment I will start with the riot, for that was where the story really began.
    It was the opening night of Mr. Salter’s new play, The Mad Father. I sat as usual curled up behind a curtain in the manager’s box, watching the audience as much as I watched the stage. I love a full house: there is always so much to see. The vast auditorium was packed: all London was there, from the flash dandies in the pit to the ha’penny harlots high up in the balcony. Candles blazed in the chandeliers, catching on the jewels and polished fans of the ladies in the boxes. It was a gorgeous display.
    Tonight the mood of the crowd was dangerous. There was a low buzz in the room like a hive of angry bees threatening to swarm. The theater owner, Mr. Sheridan, was sitting hunched over the box rail, looking like thunder. In the candlelight, the red flush across his face burned brighter than ever. His dark eyes glinted. I am never quite sure what he is thinking, but I guessed that this evening he must be feeling very foolish. In my humble opinion, it had been a mad idea for him to agree to put the play on in the first place, but even I didn’t dare mention this to him. I had seen it in rehearsal—an arsy-varsy affair, not a patch on Mr. Sheridan’s own comedies, which were guaranteed to have the audience in fits of laughter. Mr. Salter’s play by contrast was not worth a fart.
    Prejudiced though I was against it, I was alarmed to see that the gentlemen of the pit were exceedingly bored after the first act. Mr. Kemble, our leading actor, had to struggle against a hostile shower of orange peel. I could tell that it would not be long before a more dangerous rain of bottles and rotten vegetables would fall. Some in the audience were climbing over the benches in an attempt to reach the forestage. Leading the vanguard was vile Jonas Miller, from the lawyer’s office across the road. You should know, Reader, that he is a real hog-grubber, that one. He thinks so highly of his own taste that he believes he has a right to praise or damn a play by forcing the actors off the stage. Ducking out of the shadows of the box, I filched Mr. Sheridan’s opera glasses from his hand and took a swift look at the other parts of the house. The galleries, particularly the footmen in the balconies, were on the point of revolt, giving a crude Anne’s fan to the actors, with their whitegloved hands and wigs askew as they pushed and shoved to reach the rail. The ladies were gathering their shawls about them in anticipation of the riot to come. I noticed one party directly opposite was already on his feet, heading for the exit.
    “It’s not looking pretty, Cat,” Mr. Sheridan remarked over his shoulder. He too had read the signs. “I suggest we make a tactical retreat before the oranges are aimed in my direction.”
    With a nod of agreement, I uncurled from my comfortable lookout. Jonas and his cronies had now reached the spikes guarding the stage from audience invasions. Poor Mr. Kemble faltered in his speech, sensing that he was about to be upstaged by the frenzy of an audience demanding their money back.
    “I hope Kemble can turn the play around and stop them ripping up the benches: it cost hundreds of pounds to repair the damage after the last riot,” Mr. Sheridan muttered half to himself as I followed him down the dark corridors leading backstage. “I can’t afford it. Mr. Salter is costing me far more than he’s worth.”
    I rejoiced inwardly to hear my enemy so criticized by his employer. Ever since Mr. Salter got off the Norwich mail coach and knocked on the door of Drury Lane looking for work as a playwright, he has been no friend of mine. In my defense, I should point out that he started it by calling me a “dirty beggar” and suggesting that the Foundlings Hospital was a more suitable place for an orphan like myself than a theater. Since then, I am not ashamed to admit that it has been open war between us. And as he has been angling for the job of prompter for weeks after Old Carver got too deaf to carry on, he knows that I’ve been using all my influence with Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Kemble to stop him getting the job.
    Leaving the noise of the bellowing, braying audience behind, Mr. Sheridan ducked into the shadowy labyrinth backstage and made his way deftly around the scenery, ropes, and barrels that littered his path. This was the world never seen by the paying public—workshops, storerooms, dressing rooms, and cellars: the underbelly of the theater. You could get lost in here for hours. But Mr. Sheridan did not put a foot wrong; we both knew this place like the back of our hands.We passed Mr. Salter, who was quivering in the wings, his old wig scrunched up in his hands as he gazed in agony at the destruction of his hopes on stage. Mr. Sheridan barely spared him a glance but pressed on without offering a word of comfort, a bitter smile on his lips. He seemed to have forgotten I was with him as he was now striding along, hands clasped behind his back, whistling “Rule, Britannia” under his breath horribly out of tune. His mind had clearly turned to other things. And there were many things that he could be thinking about—in addition to owning the theater, he is a member of parliament, a leading figure in opposition to Prime Minister Pitt’s government, as well as best friend of the Prince of Wales. He has made himself into one of the first men in the country—which is no mean feat for an Irish actor’s son, you must agree. I admire him more than anyone I know—though even I am not blind to his shortcomings. You could not spend five minutes among my friends backstage without knowing that his inability to pay wages is probably his chief fault. He is distinctly devious about money matters and always in trouble with someone about his failure to pay up.
    With all this on his plate, I could not even begin to imagine what business might be on his mind, but that did not stop me trying to find out. Curious to know where he was going in this purposeful manner, I followed him, slinking behind like his shadow.
    Perhaps he was only going for a breath of fresh air? Sure enough, Mr. Sheridan stopped at the stage door and said a few friendly words to Caleb, the doorkeeper, offering him a pinch from his snuffbox, which the old man gratefully received. I lingered in a dark corner, wondering if there would be anything more interesting to see. A stray rioter perhaps?
    “Has my visitor arrived yet?” Mr. Sheridan asked Caleb quietly, though I thought his expressive eyes twinkled with more than usual interest to hear the answer.
    “No, sir,” Caleb replied hoarsely. “Not a sight nor sound of anybody around the back tonight. All the excitement’s out front from what I ’ear.” The night breeze carried with it the sound of breaking glass and raucous voices; the protest at Mr. Salter’s execrable writing had spilled over on to the street. “Oh, he’ll be here all right,” said Mr. Sheridan, looking out into the bleak January evening. “He has no choice but to be here. Go get yourself a drink, Caleb. I’ll watch the door for a few minutes.” There was a chink as he dropped some coins into the doorkeeper’s gnarled palm.
    “Thank ’ee very much, sir,” wheezed Caleb. “I don’t mind if I do.” He shuffled off in the direction of Bow Street in search of a warming mug of porter.    
    As soon as the old man had limped out of sight, there was a cough in the darkness beyond the doors. Mr. Sheridan took a step outside.
    “Marchmont, is that you?” he called.
    Something scuffled over to our right behind a stack of barrels but it was too black to see anything. A rat?
    “Anyone there?” challenged Mr. Sheridan, moving toward the sound.
    A gentleman stepped out of the night behind his back. He was much taller and slighter than the stocky Mr. Sheridan, swathed in a black cloak and had a three-cornered hat pulled low on his brow, giving him a most villainous appearance. I shrank behind the door curtain, keeping out of sight but within call in case Mr. Sheridan should need help.
    “Sherry, my old friend, of course it’s me. Why, were you expecting someone else?” the man replied. His thin, high-pitched voice would have sent a shiver down my spine if I hadn’t already been trembling in the bitter wind blowing through the open door. I hid deeper in the folds of the door curtain, trying not to sneeze as my nose rubbed against the musty material.
    Mr. Sheridan ignored his question. He shifted uneasily, looking about him into the shadows.
    “Do you have the diamond?” he asked, speaking so low I could barely hear him.
    I swallowed my expression of surprise. No wonder he had sent Caleb away! He did not want anyone to hear this. This was evidently a conversation on which I should not be eavesdropping—that of course made it all the more tempting to listen.
    Marchmont must have also noticed Mr. Sheridan’s agitation for he laughed in a shrill neigh...