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skin was pockmarked from surviving the disease, changed the subject quickly.
    â€˜Seen the new theatre yet, Cat?’
    â€˜No.’ I turned eagerly towards him. ‘How is the work going?’
    â€˜Been a rare old scandal. Load of Irish comin’ in to do the porterin’ – bad feelin’ all round. Caused a few fights. Your Mr Sheridan ain’t the most popular man in these parts just now.’
    Syd pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Don’t bend ’er ear about that, Joe. It’s not ’er fault. So, ’ow you want to celebrate your return, Cat?’
    I shrugged. What I really wanted to do was spend a night out with the gang but Syd would never let me.
    â€˜â€™Ow about a night out with us lot?’ he suggested. My jaw dropped. ‘There’s an apprentice ball at the Crown ’n’ Anchor – a rum do, but might be fun.’
    I jumped up. ‘I’ll get changed.’
    â€˜I’ll take that as a “yes” then?’
    But I was up the stairs and away.
    My best gown, a green silk taffeta with gold trimming – another hand-me-down from Lizzie – was hopelessly creased from my travels but I didn’t care. Pulling on a clean white petticoat and stockings, I shook it out and strained to do up the back (Lizzie, of course, had always had a maid to help her with this). It crossed my mind briefly that it might be too fine for the Crown and Anchor, but I pushed the thought aside as I put on my whiteslippers. Pausing in front of the mirror, I pondered whether or not to wear my cat necklace; a gift from Billy. I decided against it, not least because I didn’t feel up to the debate with Syd as to where it had come from. Fresh ribbon threaded into my hair, white kid gloves on – and I was ready.
    With Syd on one side and Nick on the other, Joe just behind, we made a merry party as we headed for the Strand. The Crown and Anchor had a famous ballroom, big enough to hold several thousand people. Though often hired out by the rich for fancy parties during the season, the owner allowed us common folk in when custom was sparse – like now. He knew he couldn’t survive on just the few months when the blue bloods deigned to come to town – he needed us and we knew it. So it was with no feelings of inferiority that we paid at the door to dive into the festivities beyond.
    A top-notch orchestra had been hired for the evening. I realized this because I could see my old friend from Drury Lane, Peter Dodsley, playing first violin. Lines of couples were already engaged in a vigorous country dance, thumpingon the floor boards, making the whole building shake. Apprentices swung shopgirls around with enthusiasm provoking squeals and laughter, footmen bowed to curtseying upper-maids with all the dignity of their masters and mistresses, and a few drunks staggered through the throng, getting in everyone’s way. Skirts twirling, voices shouting to be heard over the music, dust flying – this was my kind of party.
    Waiters wove between those standing around the edges, serving ale and punch. One paused in front of us.
    â€˜Drink, Cat?’ asked Syd.
    â€˜I’d rather dance.’
    With a grin at Nick and Joe, he took my hand and we joined the end of a set. As we spun through the steps, I kept glimpsing old friends from the gang. Those I met in the course of the dance all had a kind word and welcome. After a day of upsets, it felt good to be home again.
    The orchestra took a much-needed rest at the end of the second set and I made my way over to Peter. He was looking his usual, immaculate self –a perky carnation adorning his lapel, floppy blond hair drooping artistically over one cheek. I admired his new signet ring – a gift from an admirer, he confessed – and we were soon talking nineteen to the dozen, catching up on all the gossip.
    Nick appeared at my shoulder and gave Peter a wary nod. ‘Cat, may I ’ave