First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd in 1976

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

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Text copyright © Noel Streatfeild 1976

Cover illustrations copyright © Sarah Gibb 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Noel Streatfeild asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780007349616

Ebook Edition © Feb 2020 ISBN: 9780008244071

Version: 2020-02-26

To Sophie, who liked Thursday’s Child

Monday’s child is fair of face,

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

Thursday’s child has far to go,

Friday’s child is loving and giving,

Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

– Anonymous

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One: Far to Go

Chapter Two: The Postcard

Chapter Three: The Red Dress

Chapter Four: The Interview

Chapter Five: About the Play

Chapter Six: Katie

Chapter Seven: The Calendar

Chapter Eight: Miss Grey has a Plan

Chapter Nine: Her Ladyship Hears the Story

Chapter Ten: Lessons

Chapter Eleven: Rehearsals

Chapter Twelve: Licences

Chapter Thirteen: A Letter

Chapter Fourteen: Christmas

Chapter Fifteen: Precautions

Chapter Sixteen: A Scare

Chapter Seventeen: Margaret’s Gone!

Chapter Eighteen: The Search Begins

Chapter Nineteen: A Telegram for Liza

Chapter Twenty: The Prisoner

Chapter Twenty-one: The Search Goes On

Chapter Twenty-two: Hope

Chapter Twenty-three: Queen Eliza

Chapter Twenty-four: A Whistle in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-five: The End

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Noel Streatfeild

About the Publisher

Chapter One
FAR TO GO

Every day when she arrived at the theatre Margaret would feel a sort of blown-up feeling inside because she was so happy. To other people there might not seem much about the theatre to make her happy, for it was only a tent. It had started life – many years before – with a little family circus who had grandly called it ‘The Big Top’. That circus had done well so the owner had bought a bigger tent and had advertised for a buyer for his old one. The advertisement had been seen by Mr Fortescue, actor-manager of the Fortescue Comedy Company, who acted in what was called a fit-up theatre, that is to say, they put up a stage and curtains and acted in any building which could be rented where they could find an audience. It was the proudest moment in Mr Fortescue’s life when in 1895 he had bought the big tent and had had ‘Fortescue Comedy Company’ painted on it.

Margaret could not go to the theatre until the afternoons for she had to attend the local school. She did not mind, for she loved school, not just for the lessons but because she was special there. Not that she needed to be told she was special, for she had always known that she was. Who else had been found in a basket when they were a baby with three of everything, all of the very best quality? Who else had a card sent with her which said, ‘This is Margaret Thursday whom I entrust to your care’? Who else had received fifty-two golden sovereigns each year for her keep? Margaret knew it was not because of this romantic start to her life that the children admired her, it was because they had seen her act Little Lord Fauntleroy and they thought she was wonderful.

Oddly enough, that part of Margaret who was proud of herself did not care if she was admired as an actress or not. Acting was a different thing altogether. It was something that came to you when you stepped on the stage that made you forget everything except the part you were acting, that made you believe what you were saying and turned all the other actors into the people they were meant to be so she never, when on the stage, saw them as the tawdry, seedy, bad actors, atrociously dressed, that they really were.

At the back of the theatre in a small tent Mrs Sarah Beamish spent her days. She was a wonderfully good needlewoman and so was in charge of the wardrobe, though she played character parts or walked on when needed. Sarah had taken Margaret under her wing when she had joined the company four months before and, in innumerable ways, had not only seen after her but, when necessary, fought for her welfare. It was Sarah Beamish who saw she attended school. Her fat little figure had waddled into Ida Fortescue’s – the leading lady and manageress – dressing-tent a few nights after Little Lord Fauntleroy had become part of the repertory. Ida was taking off her make-up and did not want to be interrupted.

‘Well?’

‘Young Margaret should go to school starting Monday,’ said Sarah.

The question of sending Margaret to school had been discussed by the Fortescues and they had decided against it. In the company there was an actress so short she was almost a dwarf who had played children when they were needed. She had no talent so the Fortescues had decided, as soon as the summer was over, to dismiss her and give the parts to Margaret, which would mean she would be needed for morning rehearsals. Now what was Sarah Beamish sticking her nose in for? However, Sarah was too valuable in the wardrobe to be treated rudely. Ida spoke as though her tongue had been covered with cream.

‘Do you not think that a long role every night is enough for her? She is only just eleven.’

Sarah was not fooled by a creamy voice. ‘No, I do not. I think she should have proper schooling like any ordinary child. Besides it’s the law. Very strict they say they are now about children’s schooling.’

This was a brave statement from Sarah, who had not the faintest idea about school and the law. When she had grown up some children were still working in the cotton mills. She had herself for a year when her father had been out of work through an injury, but times were changing fast and now, with the coming of a new century, life was much easier for children. Even girls going into service in private houses seldom went until they were twelve.

As a result of what Sarah had said, Margaret had been sent to the village school. Ida Fortescue had settled the argument.

‘What does it matter, Mr Fortescue?’ she had said to her husband. ‘It’s just coming to the autumn. If we can get an audience in our tent for Fauntleroy until October we’ve done grand. Come mid-October we have to move under a roof anyway, and what school there may be there we can wait and see.’

As she said this she winked to show her husband there would be no schooling for Margaret if she was needed for theatre work.

Now it was late September, the last week when they could use a tent. It was pleasant weather with just a nip in the air to remind everyone summer was coming to an end and, in Margaret’s case, to put a skip into her walk and make her hum a tuneless song to the words, ‘I do like being me.’

Sarah heard her coming. ‘Is that you, Margaret?’ she called.

Margaret ran the last few steps and flung her arms round Sarah’s neck. ‘Of course it’s me, who else would it be? You know everybody is having a nap. Were you wanting me? What can I do?’

Sarah had a small kettle which was heated by a spirit lamp. Now she lit it.

‘We’ll have a cup of tea first, and then I’ve something I want to talk to you about.’

Margaret groaned. ‘How mean! Why not talk first and then tea? You know how I hate waiting to hear things. Hannah, the one who brought me up …’

Sarah stopped her. ‘Now don’t start on about how the rector found you and Hannah brought you up. I know that.’ Her voice softened. ‘Though very nicely that Hannah managed, I will say, but now we’ve other things to talk of. Open my cotton box and you’ll find a bag of sweet biscuits.’

It seemed to Margaret an intolerable time before the kettle boiled, but really it was only a matter of minutes before she and Sarah were drinking tea and eating the fancy biscuits. Margaret had grown to know Mrs Beamish, as she respectfully called her, too well in the past four months to hope to hurry her but she watched her, quivering like an eager puppy, and at last she had her reward. Sarah felt in her apron pocket and brought out a piece cut from a newspaper.

‘I haven’t talked about your future, Margaret, because there has not been any cause.’

‘There isn’t now,’ said Margaret.

Sarah went on as if she had not been interrupted. ‘That’s as may be, but some thinks different.’

‘But I know we’re leaving this tent next week and it’s being stored in a barn until next spring. Mr Fortescue has booked a hall where we move to and we play repertory until Christmas when we put on pantomime, and I shall be a little white cat and …’

Sarah stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘I am aware of what is planned, but maybe others have plans too.’ Her tone changed. ‘Listen, dear, I’m not the only one who has been watching you. I know you are not one to let compliments go to your head, but since you took on playing Little Lord Fauntleroy you’ve shown yourself an actress. Mind you, talent in a child does not mean talent when you’ve grown up, but I am not the only one in the company who has real hope for you.’ Sarah paused and unfolded the piece of paper. ‘So when I saw this I said to myself: “Sarah Beamish, it’s meant.”’

Margaret held out her hand. ‘What is it, Mrs Beamish? Show me.’

Sarah passed her a cutting from a theatrical paper called The Era. Margaret unfolded it and read: ‘Wanted: A clever girl to appear eleven. Appointment, write to Thomas Smith, The Dolphin Theatre.’

‘Where is The Dolphin Theatre?’

Sarah smiled at such ignorance. ‘In London, of course. It belongs to Sir John Teaser. He’s what they call a theatrical manager, which means he owns his own company and acts as well. Very important man, Sir John is. Why, when he went to Buckingham Palace for Queen Victoria to make him a knight, hundreds turned out to see him in his carriage drive through the palace gates.’

Margaret reread the cutting from the paper. ‘I shouldn’t think he would see me. I mean, London must be full of child actresses.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I thought that. A big man like Sir John Teaser would only have to raise a little finger and he’d have his theatre crammed full of clever little girls, all frills and curls with their mothers pushing them on. So, I say to myself, he’s looking for something different and maybe the answer is Margaret. She is eleven, not just appearing to be, and she’s clever, sometimes too clever by half.’

Margaret felt a glow of excitement; it was a very small glow, more like a spark, which could start a fire.

‘Just in case I was the girl he wants, how do I get to London because I haven’t any money, at least almost none because Mr Fortescue engaged me as a student all found, which doesn’t mean more than my bed and food and a few clothes like the frocks you’ve made me and …’

‘How you do run on!’ said Sarah. ‘You might give me credit for a little sense. Of course I know you haven’t any money, but I have my savings, not much in this company, of course, but I used to earn more …’

Margaret stopped her, her eyes flashing as though a light was shining behind them. She threw her chin into the air. ‘Thank you very much but I don’t want charity. You forget I was found in a basket with three of everything all of the very best quality and—’

Sarah stopped her.

‘I know. Now calm down, do. I wasn’t offering to give you the money, only lend it. You can pay me back when you’re earning. Now, listen. I’ve got a sister called Louisa but we just call her Lou. She works in a theatre wardrobe. Well, her theatre puts on pantomime at Christmas, tremendous big shows they are with all of two hundred artistes. So well before Christmas the wardrobe mistress hires dozens of extra staff to work on the panto dresses. Many’s the time Lou has written to me, begging me to work with her over Christmas so we could see each other. Each year I mean to go, but somehow I never have. But this year I’m going. I sent Lou a letter saying to expect us Monday, and I wrote to this Thomas Smith asking for an appointment. I gave Lou’s address.’

Chapter Two
THE POSTCARD

Sarah and Margaret travelled to London after dark so that no member of the company would see them go. The station was quite near the hall where the Fortescue company was playing Maria Martin or The Murder in the Red Barn. It was always popular and, such scenery as there was, easy to set on the stage, so they usually opened a season with it. There was no part in the play for Margaret so no one would miss her, but Sarah’s and Margaret’s hearts beat very fast as they crept out of their lodgings and down the village street. When they reached the station they hid behind the shed where left luggage was stored but, even so, and though it was not likely any member of the company would come to the station at that time of night, they clung to each other, jumping at every sound.

When at last they were safely in an empty carriage and the train was chugging out of the station, Sarah let out a breath so held in that, as it came out, her jet necklace rattled.

‘It’s not that I think what we’re doing is wrong,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, Mr Fortescue couldn’t have stopped us going if we wanted to.’

Margaret agreed. ‘Of course it’s not you, it’s me. I don’t suppose I can leave just when I want to, I’m only a student and I did sign a paper.’

‘Well, we needn’t trouble about that now,’ said Sarah hopefully. ‘I can’t see Mr Fortescue going to the police, he never would.’

‘Well, he can’t if he wants to, he doesn’t know where I’ve gone. Funny, I always seem to be running away. Did I tell you about escaping on the canal?’

‘You did, I don’t know how many times, and I’m not going to hear it now. We’re going to settle down and have a sleep, for we have walking to do when we get to London.’

London, even in the evening, seemed very crowded to Margaret. The traffic was almost all horse-drawn, and to Margaret, crouching against Sarah for safety, it seemed as if at any moment everything would spill on to the pavement, especially the great carts filled to overflowing with garden produce making their way to Covent Garden. And as for the people! It seemed as if all Londoners went out walking at night. Margaret was to learn to love London in all its moods, but that night she was tired, and the unexpected rush and roar were too much for her. Not that she complained, she would never do that, but she did tremble, and Sarah, in spite of her thick full skirt and innumerable petticoats, felt this and sympathized and took, for her, a world-shaking decision.

‘We’ll take a cab to Lou’s,’ she said.

The cab, when at last they got one, smelt of hay, for a sackful was under the seat for the horse’s dinner, but after the noise in the street, to Margaret it was pure paradise. However, she did not overlook her arrangement with Sarah.

‘Don’t forget to add what this costs to what I owe you, Mrs Beamish.’

Sarah smiled. ‘When you have work we’ll fix everything,’ she said comfortably. ‘There’s one thing I’ve been thinking of, though – you’d better call me Sarah from now on. You see, all Lou’s friends just call her Lou and they will call me Sarah. You see, Mrs is just what I call myself, like many do in the profession when they are not so young as they were.’

‘Is it far to Lou’s house, Sarah?’ Margaret asked, emphasizing the name.

‘No, dear, it’s near Covent Garden. That’s where the fruit and that is going. It’s a big market. But you told me you’d been to London before, so you must remember Covent Garden.’

In the darkness Margaret blushed. She knew that sometimes she exaggerated to make a better story.

‘I have, but I didn’t stay the night. You see, Hannah, the one who brought me up after the vicar found me on the church steps …’

‘With three of everything of the very best quality,’ Sarah quoted.

‘That’s right,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Well, she had to bring me to London to the third-class waiting room at Paddington Station. There a terrible woman from the orphanage met us.’

‘So that’s all of London you’ve ever seen?’

‘That’s right,’ said Margaret.

Sarah took one of Margaret’s hands in hers. ‘Now don’t worry, love, we’ll soon be at Lou’s and, if I know her, she’ll have taken the time off to welcome us and there’ll be tripe and onions for supper and, until you’ve tasted Lou’s tripe and onions, you haven’t lived.’

Afterwards Margaret could not remember much about the arrival at Lou’s. She remembered climbing innumerable stairs, at the top of which stood Lou. She was very like Sarah but twice as fat. She remembered the smell of tripe and onions which filled Lou’s room at the top of the stairs, and she remembered Lou and Sarah hugging each other while Lou said: ‘A card’s come, they’re seeing her tomorrow,’ and shoved a card into Margaret’s hands. On it Margaret read:

DOLPHIN THEATRE

Mr Thomas Smith will see Miss Margaret Thursday on Tuesday next at 11.30 a.m.

Chapter Three
THE RED DRESS

Sir John and Lady Teaser and their daughter lived in spacious apartments over The Dolphin Theatre. It was, Sir John found, infinitely less tiring to live where he worked than have to drive to and fro to somewhere more fashionable, which was what Lady Teaser would have liked.

That Tuesday morning Sir John was enjoying a late breakfast when Lady Teaser swept into the room. She gave him a kiss.

Lady Teaser – her name was Ada – was an imposing-looking woman of a statuesque type. She had been an actress and had made a name for herself in a small way. But when she married Sir John Teaser she had given up her career for she was sure, if they both put their minds to it, that John would rise to be head of his profession. Because she had stopped acting that did not mean she had lost all ambition: she was very, very conscious that if she had gone on, she too might have reached the heights. Anyone who knew her and forgot this was making a very great mistake.

Now, as she had come in and because the day was beautiful and Ada, judging by the kiss, in a good temper, Sir John turned the conversation to his new play.

‘I’ve left the sorting-out of possible little girls to Tommy. He won’t let any of promise pass by him, but it is proving difficult to find exactly the child I want. He has had no luck so far; I gather they are all curls and dimples.’

There was a pause, which Sir John prayed Ada would fill, but when she spoke it was not to say what he wished to hear.

‘If you are still hoping I will allow Katie to play the part, you are wasting your time. Our little girl is being brought up to be a fashionable young lady. When she is old enough she will be presented at Court, and later she will marry a suitable husband, preferably a member of the peerage …’

Sir John laid a hand on Ada’s shoulder. ‘I know, dear, that is what you hope, but think back to the old days when you were an ambitious child, imagine what you would have felt if you had been given the chance to play the leading part in a beautiful play.’

Ada shook his hand off her shoulder. ‘When I was a child the question did not arise, and if it had, my father would not even have considered it.’

Sir John tactfully did not point out that Ada’s father, a poor man, would probably have jumped at the offer. ‘I shall not override your wishes, Ada, you know that, but I do beseech you to think of Katie. She is an exceptionally gifted child and, though she has heard nothing from either of us about the part of Anastasia, there must be talk, you know what servants are.’

Ada nodded.

‘If necessary I will tell Katie the whole truth. She will be angry with me for she believes herself to be an actress, but I do not want Katie to lead the life we led. You may have forgotten but I have not, those dreadful theatrical lodgings in which we stayed when we were first married. The mice and the rats,’ she shuddered, ‘the vermin in the beds where we lodged. By the time Katie was born, things had improved a little and, although when small she travelled with us, I suspect she has forgotten the discomforts and the smells. I have only one daughter. Is it not natural I should wish to keep her away from those sordid things that you and I remember?’

Sir John knew he was beaten. He took his watch out of his pocket. ‘I’m going down to see what news Tommy has. I believe he’s seeing another child this morning.’

Lou had only one room. She shared the kitchen and lavatory with the fourteen other tenants. Fortunately her bed was big so Sarah squeezed in with her. Margaret slept on a borrowed mattress on the floor.

Because the sisters were both members of the profession, as they grandly described being actresses, the next morning belonged to Margaret. Seeing a manager about a part was important, and everything else had to be put on one side for it.

First there was a discussion about Margaret’s hair. For Fauntleroy it had been dyed with peroxide but now the dye was growing out and Margaret’s original chestnut hair was showing at the roots. Lou ran her fingers through Margaret’s curls.

‘Lovely hair it is.’

‘If I slip out quick,’ said Sarah, ‘I could get more peroxide. Wouldn’t take long to do.’

Lou thought about that. ‘Very high class The Dolphin is, I wouldn’t think that Sir John would fancy dyed hair, not on a child.’

Sarah gave in. ‘After all, this Mr Smith who is seeing her will be used to hair dyes and that, seeing it’s a theatre, so he’ll know it could be fixed whatever colour was wanted.’

Next came the problem of what Margaret was to wear. The choice was small. She owned one blue pleated skirt worn with a darker blue knitted jersey. Both were the worse for wear. She had two cotton frocks made for her by Sarah. They were of the cheapest cotton but more or less in the fashion, for they came well below the knees and both had a little frill round the bottom, but it was too late in the year for cotton frocks. There were also two pinafores beautifully made by Sarah from some odds and ends of muslin and lace left over from stage dresses.

‘The cotton frocks are out,’ said Sarah, ‘for she hasn’t got a coat.’

Lou was not a person who gave in easily. After all, was she not second to the wardrobe mistress at the London Hippodrome, where could be seen the most lavish production of Cinderella ever staged? Now, easing herself into the only chair big enough for her, she gave herself to deep thought.

‘She’s a rare one for seein’ the way out of blind alleys is Lou,’ Sarah whispered, ‘which of course she often has to do in her position.’

Suddenly Lou, who had for a few minutes appeared to be asleep, jerked upright.

‘I have it. There’s me crimson. I don’t know when I last wore it.’

She forced herself out of the chair, went to her cupboard and, after some fumbling, produced an armload of dress. It was made of material called bombazine and was the same red as a pillar-box. She had worn it in the days of bustles so there was a quantity of material in it.

‘There!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that striking?’ It was indeed striking, perhaps too striking, for she added: ‘She could wear one of her pinnies over, that would tone it down.’

‘Can we make it in the time?’ Sarah asked doubtfully.

Lou looked despisingly at her sister. ‘Time! I could make four in the time if I had to. Now, clear the table …’

They pulled the table out from the wall and pushed aside the remains of breakfast. Then Lou lifted the dress on to the table.

‘I’ll cut it out, then you tack it together, Sarah, then I can run it round to the theatre to finish it on one of their sewing machines. You have an iron ready to press it and it will all be Sir Garnet.’

And, as far as Sarah was concerned, it was all Sir Garnet when at 11.25 a.m. she and Margaret arrived at the stage door of The Dolphin Theatre. Margaret was less happy. She was not herself in the scarlet frock, which was somehow stuffy and clung to her in the wrong places.

‘Cheer up, dear,’ said Sarah, ‘you look ever so nice. I’m sure they’ll take you.’ Then she opened the stage door and said to the doorkeeper: ‘Miss Thursday with an appointment to see Mr Smith.’

Chapter Four
THE INTERVIEW

Sir John was with his manager, Tommy Smith, when the message was received that Margaret had arrived.

‘Then I will get out of the way,’ said Sir John.

‘Stay and see the child,’ Tommy pleaded. ‘Then you will understand what an impossible task you’ve given me. I’ve seen dozens but they are all curls and smiles. No character in any of them.’

‘I could not be fair to any child,’ Sir John objected, ‘for you know my heart is set on Katie.’

‘Is her ladyship adamant?’ Tommy asked.

‘Absolutely. I’ve pleaded with her until I am exhausted. Katie is not to go on the stage.’

Tommy smiled. ‘I would lay a bet that when she is grown up Miss Katie will have her own views about that.’

Outside the door there was whispering.

‘No, thank you, Sarah. I will see Mr Smith myself.’

‘I do think I should come in, dear. It’s not seemly you going in on your own.’

‘All the same, I shall go alone.’

Then there was a knock on the door.

When she was wearing her skirt and jersey Margaret’s dyed hair was not too noticeable, but when it was seen against a bright scarlet frock the effect was startling. And when, to finish off the outfit, there were thin legs in black woollen stockings and black boots, poor Margaret was a figure of fun.

Sir John gave Tommy a look and buried his face in his handkerchief. Tommy hid his behind a letter.

Margaret had not liked the idea of the red dress from the beginning. Nor had she wanted her hair dyed for Fauntleroy, though she had liked the effect when it was done, so she did not need even well-disguised sniggers to tell her how she appeared to the two men. Carefully she closed the door so Sarah would not hear, then, her eyes blazing and her chin in the air, she stormed towards Tommy’s desk.

‘All right – laugh. I may look funny to you. I had nothing they thought suitable for me to wear to come and see you. So Lou – she’s Sarah’s sister – cut up her own dress to make me this frock, and my hair is dyed because I was acting Lord Fauntleroy, but when the dye is out it’s brown like a chestnut. Oh yes, and I suppose you think the boots are funny with this red dress, but they’re all I have and, if you want to know, I hate boots. But I am not a charity child though I was once in an orphanage. I was found by the rector in a basket with three of everything, all of the very best quality, and money was sent every year for my keep and … and—’

There, to her shame, Margaret had to stop for she was overtaken by grief. She had felt like a person with the Fortescue Company, accepted by them all as an actress, and now there were these sniggering men! Swallow as she would, she could not stop the tears which poured down her cheeks.

Sir John was not a loving father for nothing. He came to Margaret and lifted her face in his hands. ‘You’re right to be angry. We were very rude to smile. But being angry may have helped you. Anastasia, in the play I am casting, has to be angry, and when she is angry she should look very much like you. Now, let’s start all over again.’

An hour later a triumphant Margaret and Sarah left The Dolphin Theatre, Margaret clutching the script of The Little Queen. She had not been promised the part but there was a good chance for her, and at the worst she was to have the understudy.

‘You will get two pounds a week to understudy,’ Tommy explained, ‘and four pounds if you play the part.’

Sarah had been brought in to hear the arrangements and she plucked up her courage to ask a question.

‘If she is engaged could she have a small advance for clothes?’

Margaret was furious. ‘I don’t need charity, thank you. I’ve got my skirt and jersey and …’

‘But no coat,’ Sarah pleaded, ‘and the winter coming on.’

Sir John, who had stayed for this discussion, broke in: ‘I’m sure I can help there. I have a little girl just your age. I will speak to Lady Teaser. I’m sure she has cupboards full of frocks and fal-lals she will never use.’ He saw Margaret’s eyes beginning to flash. ‘Don’t be angry with me. It’s a very sensible suggestion, for I am sure Mrs Beamish here will be able to alter them to fit you. Then you can keep that red dress for parties.’

‘Study the part at the pages I’ve marked,’ said Tommy. ‘Then come back at three o’clock tomorrow and perhaps we will have some clothes ready for you.’

Margaret had the last word.

‘I could manage, my jersey and skirt are quite good and I expect I could buy a second-hand coat.’

When Margaret and Sarah had gone, Tommy and Sir John solemnly shook hands.

Then Sir John said: ‘If she can lose her temper when she’s acting as she does in life that little girl is the find of the new century.’

Katie was in her own way a beauty. She wore her hair cut very short, almost like a boy’s. It was rather fine hair and her mother believed that if she wore it short as a child it would be thick and glossy when she grew up. She was a quiet, studious child with her head always buried in a book. Her mother said she was a great reader, but Katie and her governess, Miss Grey, knew the books she read were mostly play scripts passed on to the schoolroom secretly by the theatre manager, whom she called Uncle Tommy. She also read and reread Shakespeare’s plays and knew most of the women’s parts by heart.

Miss Grey was the daughter of a country parson. Her mother was dead and she came in the middle of a family of nine, and though the rectory where she was brought up was rent-free, the rector’s income was only one hundred pounds a year, so there were never even halfpennies to spare. But the rectory children had good brains and were determined to be educated. All the boys got scholarships to schools which offered special places to the sons of clergy, and the girls learned all the village school could teach them and then taught themselves from books. In addition they learnt a lot that no books could have taught them. How to stretch the hundred pounds so that they had enough to eat and were all covered, if not exactly dressed. As an aid to this the girls ran about barefoot even in the worst weather so that there were boots for the boys to take to school. Some sort of footwear they had every Sunday and for school, but these were curious homemade efforts. Those boys who were still at day school always walked to their school with their boots hung round their necks, only putting them on when the school was in sight.

The girls were good, too, with food. Everything that was edible and that grew wild was gathered in. They caught fish in a stream and snared rabbits. Miss Grey could keep Katie happy for hours describing her childhood.

‘It was hard, I suppose,’ she would say, ‘but we were happy and people were good to us. They loved my papa and would pass it on to us in little gifts of vegetables or perhaps eggs, and the squire gave us the run of his library for books. And we have all done well. I have three brothers who are doctors and two are in the Indian Civil Service and all my sisters are well and happily married.’

‘I’m glad you’re not married,’ Katie would say. ‘I’m so glad you have come to look after me.’

‘Coming here was just what I wanted,’ Miss Grey would say. ‘Although as a child I never went to a theatre, I always longed to. I read whatever I could find about the theatre but there is not much written. Then I saw your father’s advertisement in The Times newspaper. It gave his name and I went for an interview. I never thought he would take me for, now that everybody is to be educated, teachers are expected to be trained and play the piano, and certainly have fluent French and perhaps dancing …’

Katie laughed at the thought of Miss Grey in her thick shoes, worn sizes too big because she was used to running about barefoot, trying to teach dancing.

‘But I have outside teachers for all those, it’s you as a person I need. Papa was quite right, you are just perfect for me.’

That evening Sir John asked Ada about Katie’s old clothes.

‘I am hoping the child will do. She speaks nicely but it seems she was brought up by two ladies, and there is some romantic story about being found in a basket. Tommy says it will do for the newspapers if the child proves suitable. But something must be done about her clothes, she could not even attend rehearsals in what she has. Has Katie any old clothes and could someone fit out the child?’

Katie was charmingly dressed in soft fabrics in pastel shades, and to her mother dressing her was rather like dressing a doll, but the real fun was when there were new clothes to be made. Any day now she was planning to take Katie to the dressmaker to order her a winter wardrobe. Invariably, when a new season came round, what she always described as ‘that comical Miss Grey’ would say: ‘Oh, but there is a cupboard full of clothes scarcely worn.’ How convenient that this child had turned up now! She would give orders. Miss Grey was to fit the girl out.

‘You see to it, Miss Grey,’ she said. ‘Any of Katie’s old clothes should do, though not of course party frocks.’

Miss Grey went back to the schoolroom where she had left Katie writing an essay. She had closed the door, but even so she lowered her voice just in case Lady Teaser should be passing.

‘This afternoon the child they think will act in the new play is coming to try on some of your old clothes. Your mother did not mention you, but knowing how you enjoy meeting theatre folk I thought you might help me choose frocks for her.’

Katie seemed in one second to change from a rather bored child into a radiant one. The day which, like most days, had stretched drearily ahead for her, suddenly became special.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Thank you, Miss Grey. Wouldn’t it be perfect if we could become friends?’

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