Giving up on her, Ren pushed past and banged on the door. It flew open. The porter who had been on duty on two days ago looked at her, then down at Ren.
‘Oh, it’s you, Ren. No, they don’t need a Tom Thumb in the pantomime. Grimaldi has that all sewn up. We’re doing clowns.’
‘We’re not here for a job– though if the wind changes, you’ll let me know, eh?’ said Ren with a huge wink. ‘I dare say Miss Dora here wouldn’t say “no” to a Covent Garden audition, would you, miss?’
‘What? Me?’ Would she? Playing a big role in a play here was the height of everything Dora had dreamed of when slogging her way across the Pennines with the Northern Players. She hadn’t even considered that as a possibility, but to do it just once… Ren wiggled his eyebrows at her and she knew then he was teasing and– worse– she had fallen for it. Who was she fooling? There were many hopefuls and many others ahead of her in the profession with better connections and a known record in London. ‘In that unlikely event, I would consider throwing my hat in the ring,’ she agreed, as it only seemed polite, ‘but as Ren says, we are here to talk to the singers, if they are still rehearsing.’
‘They’ve gone over to Vauxhall Gardens for the dress rehearsal,’ said the doorkeeper. He handed them a bill advertising the delights on offer that evening, a grand fête to celebrate Wellington’s recent victories and newly created title of Marquess. She ran her eye down the programme. Madame Catalani was singing Thompson and Arne’s ‘Rule, Britannia!’; Incledon and Dignum were to perform some comic songs, and they were to be joined by a chorus of the allies for martial airs.
‘This chorus of the allies, who might they be?’ she asked.
The doorkeeper scratched his head, dislodging his cap. ‘That would be some German basses, a Portuguese baritone– he’s very good, in my humble opinion, worth the price of admission– a Spaniard– don’t think much of him, too nasal– a Russian alto, and an Austrian mezzo-soprano. They’re reasonable but not a patch on Madame.’
‘Would the Russian be Miss Petrovna by any chance?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Busy little bee, she is. Flew in here in July and been buzzing around ever since, sweet-talking the management, desperate to make an appearance.’
That sounded about right. ‘Do you know where she is lodging?’
‘With them Russians at the embassy. Thinks herself a cut above, she does. Looks at me like I’m horse shit.’ He shook his head at the madness of the world. ‘Don’t you think it strange how the Russians can go off and hobnob with old Boney for a few years,all’s forgiven, doesn’t matter you chopped the heads off your king and queen, my old pal, yeah, we’ll pucker up and kiss your Corsican arse, then when that little love affair is over, they come back to us and pretend like it never happened?Oh, Georgie boy, of course we always loved you more, and your armies.’
A shrewd analysis of the state of politics from an unexpected source. ‘In war, you might end up with odd bedfellows,’ she offered.
‘Yeah, but I just hope they don’t fuck us over again, pardon my French, miss.’
‘I think that might be old school English, but consider yourself forgiven.’
‘She wanted to sing a solo,’ the porter added as an afterthought. ‘That Russian woman. Madame Catalani shut that down quick as lightning as it’s her concert. She’s the one arranging it for Wellington and she doesn’t want no newcomerbutting in to divert the spotlight onto the Tsar or whoever the Russians think is their best hope.’
‘That would be Prince Kutuzov,’ said Dora. ‘He’s in charge of the Tsar’s army now.’
‘Who the hell is Kutuzov when he’s at home?’ said the doorkeeper. ‘I read the newspapers– got sons in the army so of course I do– but I can’t keep all these names straight in my head, particularly those Russian ones. Fair jaw crackers, they are. Kutuzov, eh? Well, good luck to him, but he’s not the main attraction tonight. That would be the Marquess of Wellington. God bless him and all that fight with him.’
Thanking him for the information, Dora and Ren turned to go. They joined the crowds in Covent Garden market, stallholders packing up after a busy morning; prostitutes taking it easy on their doorsteps, enjoying their few hours of leisure before the evening trade; street urchins loitering in alleyways, hoping for some easy gleanings from the fruit and vegetables that hadn’t been sold. A tabby cat with a stub of a tail sprawled on the doorstep of a tavern, risking getting stepped on. That was probably how it lost the other half of its tail.
‘Are you going to go?’ asked Ren.
‘To the concert? I think so.’
‘Not alone?’
‘I’m not that stupid, Ren.’
‘Never said you were, miss.’
He was only implying it. ‘I’ve never been before, but even a northern lass like me has read novels about the dangers of the dark walks in Vauxhall.’
‘Best way to experience some things if you ask me– in a book. Vauxhall Gardens are overpriced, and the ham is so thin you can see the light through it– and they make that a selling point! Ham shavings! Bleeding con if you ask me. And if it rains, no fun at all.’ They both looked up at the skies which werepromisingly fine. ‘Though you might be safe on that account. Take Dr Sandys with you– and an umbrella.’
‘That was the plan.’
They had reached the fine portico of St Paul’s church at the far end of the market from the theatre when they heard footsteps hurrying up behind them.
Ren span round and produced a knife– a knife? Where had that come from, Dora wondered. ‘Stay right there!’ he growled.
The man came to halt, panting. He looked down at Ren, smiled, then thought better of his laughter when the knife was not lowered. ‘Je suis désolé, monsieur, but I saw Miss Fitz-Pennington and I was ravished with joy to see a familiar face. I have no, how do you say, bad intentions?’ He gave an elaborate bow. ‘Michel Percy,votre serviteur.’
Michel Percy. Dora couldn’t believe it. The French agent, last encountered fleeing the scene of the explosion in the Egyptian Hall, had the bare-faced cheek to be strolling about Covent Garden as if he wasn’t a wanted man! Dora had regretted letting him escape on that occasion, particularly when it turned out that he was far more than the collector of gossip and art for Napoleon’s collection in the Louvre, but at least she had comforted herself that their paths were unlikely to cross again and she wouldn’t be reminded of her mistake. Yet here he was, dressed in a well-tailored cream linen long coat and stocking pantaloons that were daringly close-fitting. With his matching waistcoat and cravat, he was a pale column of dandified gentleman foreign to English climes.
