Death of a Dancer. Caro Peacock

a promise?

      Amos Legge had drawn back and was riding behind us, as if he really were just a groom instead of a friend. I was grateful for his presence. The conventional world would know exactly what to say about a lady who permitted a gentleman to approach her in the park, before most people were up and about. I was some distance outside the conventional world, but not as far as all that.

      ‘How are you liking life in London?’

      He asked it almost as if we were meeting over the teacups, but there was an edge to his question.

      ‘Well enough, thank you.’

      ‘Perhaps time is heavy on your hands.’

      ‘Far from it. I work for my living. I give music lessons.’

      My voice sounded sharp to me, but I didn’t want him to be under any illusions.

      ‘You’re a versatile lady, Miss Lane.’

      Certainly a hint of satire in his voice. When we’d last met, I was posing as a governess. I said nothing. His mare, impatient at our slow pace, tossed her head, flecking Rancie’s withers with foam from her bit.

      ‘I wonder whether you might consider doing a service for a friend of mine,’ he said.

      ‘Does he need music lessons?’

      He frowned, knowing that I was teasing him. When he spoke, his voice was harder.

      ‘I understand you have connections in the theatre world.’

      I bit my tongue to stop myself from asking how in the world he knew that. My father had loved music and the theatre, and many of his friends were musicians or writers. So were some of my best friends.

      ‘Do you happen to have heard of a dancer who calls herself Columbine?’ he said.

      I was about to say no, when something stirred in my mind.

      ‘Wasn’t she quite famous about ten years ago?’

      Ten years ago, I was twelve years old, trying to make sense of the adult world from hints and half-understandings. Disraeli laughed.

      ‘Heaven help us all, if fame lasts no more than ten years. I think the word you are looking for is “notorious”.’

      ‘Better known for her diamonds than her dancing,’ I said. The phrase came back to me suddenly in the voice of one of my father’s friends, surrounded by male laughter.

      ‘Yes. She must have used up all the diamonds, because she’s still dancing. I understand she’s heading the bill at the Augustus Theatre. It opens tonight, as it happens.’

      I was on the brink of saying that here was a coincidence, because a good friend of mine was directing music at the Augustus. I stopped myself because, glancing at Disraeli’s face, I thought perhaps he knew that already. We were nearly back at the Grosvenor Gate now, where Amos and I should be turning out of the park.

      ‘So, what of her?’ I said.

      He hesitated a moment then spoke, quickly and softly.

      ‘She’s done some damage to a friend of mine. We’re concerned because that may not be the end of it.’

      ‘What kind of damage? And who are “we”?’

      ‘People who care for the good order of society.’

      ‘Politicians?’

      ‘You sound sceptical,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten you were such a radical.’

      I was sure he never forgot anything.

      ‘You don’t need to be a radical to be sceptical about politicians.’

      ‘Believe me, this goes beyond party politics.’

      ‘Are you implying that this Columbine is a danger to society? She must be a formidable femme fatale.’

      ‘A somewhat faded one by now. That’s not where her danger lies.’

      ‘Why is she dangerous, then?’

      ‘In all honesty, I don’t know. I only suspect certain things which I’d rather not talk about at present. If you should happen to pick up any backstage gossip about the woman, I’d be grateful to hear about it. Particularly any gentlemen she’s associating with.’

      I knew what my answer should be. A cold, ‘Do you take me for a spy, sir?’ Followed by a sharp turn of the back and rapid canter away. Rancie would go straight from a walk to a canter at one twitch of my heel. My heel didn’t twitch. The trouble was, on the previous occasions when we’d met, a spy was precisely what I had been.

      ‘We should be very happy to pay any expenses you might incur,’ he said. ‘You can always send a note to me at the House.’

      ‘I must wish you good morning,’ I said. ‘We turn off here.’

      In spite of his slow pace, we’d come to Grosvenor Gate. I nodded and Amos picked up the signal and came alongside me, cutting out Mr Disraeli with the precision of a cavalry manoeuvre. I didn’t look back as we went through the gate and into Park Lane.

      ‘He’s thinking of buying that mare,’ Amos commented. ‘They’re asking twenty guineas too much for her and she’s a devil to shoe.’

      He led the way across Park Lane, going carefully because at this time of the morning carts came in with vegetables for Covent Garden from the farms north of the park, their drivers still half asleep. As we rode along Mount Street, Amos carried on talking about Mr Disraeli, not put out by my silence.

      ‘They say he’s got a mountain of debts already, and he’s looking for a rich widow to marry.’

      Was that intended as a warning to me? If so, Amos was a long way off the mark for once. He was usually a totally reliable source of gossip. His success in adapting to life in London astounded me. A year ago, he’d never set foot outside his home county of Herefordshire, far away to the west, and he still spoke with an accent that carried hayfields and apple orchards in every syllable. He’d been caught in the same hurricane that had blown me into the life I was leading. When Rancie and I came to London he’d talked about staying a day or two to see us settled. Days had turned to weeks, weeks to months, and here he still was. With his strength and knowledge of horses, it was no surprise when he found work at a livery stables on the Bayswater Road, the northern edge of Hyde Park. He even solved for me the problem of how I was to keep Rancie (or Esperance, to give her her proper name), my father’s last gift to me. She was given board and lodging at the livery stables, in return for being ridden by some of the more skilful and light-handed lady clients. What was surprising was the extent to which this country giant, standing some six and a half feet in his riding boots, had become a source of knowledge about fashionable London life, all without the slightest hint of snobbery, more the way a boy might study the habits of birds or animals.

      At first I wondered how he came by this gossip; then one day when I happened to be crossing the park on foot I saw him, though he didn’t see me. He was riding out behind a well-dressed and beautiful lady. His boots and the cob he was riding shone like mahogany, he wore a black hat with a silver lace cockade on his light brown hair and his blue eyes gleamed with good humour. I saw the glances he was getting from riders with less impressive grooms and the complacent smile on the face of his own lady, and could hardly keep from laughing out loud. I’d heard since that he was so popular with lady customers that his stables had to increase his wages to stop him being poached by rivals.

      We turned into South Audley Street, nearly home. It was almost full light now.

      ‘I’ll come for you on Monday then, shall I?’ Amos said.

      ‘Yes please.’

      Most mornings of the week I rode out on Rancie with Amos. Even on days when I didn’t see them, the thought of them less than a mile away across the park was enough to raise my spirits.

      He rode in front of me into Adam’s Mews,