Cat's Cradle Read Free Page A

shrugged. ‘Dunno, Kitten, but let’s not keep Dad waitin’.’ Pulling me up, he gestured that I should lead the way down the passage. I entered the shop to find a most unexpected customer waiting by the counter. Dressed in expensive Bond Street clothes and looking like a golden guinea among us common old pennies, Mr Sheridan tipped his hat to me.
    â€˜Well now, Cat Royal, and how are you? Far travelled, I hear.’
    â€˜Mr Sheridan!’ I belatedly dipped into a curtsey, grinning at him like a fool. He had been my guardian ever since he found me, an infant of two or three years, on the steps of Drury Lane.‘Wrapped in a blanket and as quiet as a mouse’ was how he had described me.
    â€˜How did you know I was back, sir?’ I enquired.
    â€˜I’d asked the Avons to send word as soon as they heard from you. When I met the duke outside Carlton House this morning, he told me that you’d written to Frank when you landed. He has sent your letter on to his son by express messenger, so you can expect to hear from Frank very soon.’
    Holding me out at arms length, Mr Sheridan looked me up and down, somewhat like an artist admiring a portrait he’d not seen for some time. ‘My goodness, it is a pleasure to see you again, Cat! I have found the stories of your exploits among the Indians very inspiring – I’m sure there’s a play in there somewhere.’
    Releasing my hands, he stroked a finger along his upper lip in a thoughtful pose, his dark eyes gleaming. Stocky and flush-faced, Mr Sheridan was in appearance a strange mixture – a literary genius with the build of a labourer. No one could make the mistake of thinking him a weakling poet. His uppercut could do as much damage as his wit.
    â€˜Indeed, sir, it was kind of you to seek me out here.’ I gestured to the shop, quite a comedown from his fine house in the West End and gentlemen’s clubs in St James’s.
    â€˜As to that, let us say that I have my reasons.’ He cleared his throat. I would have said he was nervous if that hadn’t been so out of character. ‘I did not want to risk missing you again. You see, Cat, there is something I need to tell you.’ He glanced round at our audience of eagerly listening Fletchers. ‘I wanted to speak to you when I received the results of my investigation late last year; I never got the chance as you were whisked off to Bath so promptly by the Avons and then you went abroad.’
    â€˜What investigation? What did you want to tell me?’
    He replaced his hat and offered his arm. ‘Walk with me, Cat?’
    With a slightly worried look at Syd – this was so strange – I accepted Mr Sheridan’s arm. He tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow.
    â€˜Haven’t grown much, have you?’ he said. ‘Except your hair, of course.’
    I smoothed my unruly red curls: they had escaped their ribbon as usual. I knew I must look a sight, not fit to go walking with anyone, let alone a London celebrity. I fumbled for my bonnet, dangling by its strings from my wrist.
    â€˜That’s my motto too: hide it under your hat and no one will notice.’ Mr Sheridan tied up the bonnet ribbons for me to hasten our escape.
    A little awkwardly, we exchanged news of mutual friends as we strolled down Bow Street, heading for the more genteel district of the Strand. My unease grew: Mr Sheridan had never done anything like this with me before, always treating me as part pet, part servant. Now he was acting as if I were a grown-up lady with whom a gentleman like him would promenade. It only increased the solemnity of the moment.
    We stopped when we reached the Middle Temple gardens, a little patch of green amidst the lodgings of the barristers. An exclusive world of wigs and writs, I would never have been allowed in by the porter if I hadn’t been with Mr Sheridan. Indeed I wouldn’t have wanted to enter. Like anyLondoner