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THE WINGED VENUS TAKES FLIGHT

It was midnight and the crowd at Astley’s Amphitheatre was feverish with expectation.

Outside, the night was cold and blustery; inside, the steamy air smelt of ale and onions and hot human bodies.

Prebbles Flying Circus reached the climax of their show when the horses thundered into the ring and were ridden round the amphitheatre at speed in a flurry of flying hooves and swirling dust. All eyes were on their star rider, Clorinda the Winged Venus, dressed in narrow silk pantaloons and a tight braided gold jacket with small padded wings on her shoulders.

A mask half-obscured her face and a feathered cap emphasised the luxuriance of flaxen hair that cascaded to her waist. Astride her horse, Percy, she rode without a saddle and was fearless and supreme in her horsemanship.

As she galloped round the perimeter of the arena, Eliza Gray savoured the familiar sight of the audience’s faces whirling before her, smiling, grimacing, shouting, flushed and shiny with liquor.

This was her last sight of something she had known nearly all her life and she was filled with sadness, combined with the thrill and trepidation of an adventure about to begin.

Percy galloped alongside another rider and as their speed was matched, she stood to spring off her horse and onto the other animal in one graceful leap, their paces never slowing.

After a circuit, Eliza leapt back again onto her own mount and immediately reined Percy in to a steady canter before balancing like a dancer on one leg, her arms outstretched.

In a fluent movement that seemed to defy gravity, Eliza then executed a backflip and landed as light as a bird on his rump while Percy maintained his metronomic gait, as trusty as the sun.

The crowd went wild. Ale splattered down on the heads of those in the pit as the audience in the boxes threw up their hands and cheered in delight.

Eliza then performed a controlled handstand on her horse’s back as he sped round the amphitheatre, and a roar went up that echoed through the surrounding streets.

Even the boatmen on the mighty Thames heard and smiled, as they navigated their large-sailed barges downriver through the stone pillars of Westminster Bridge.

Astley’s was a favourite place of entertainment where everyone from the poor to the haut ton gathered.

Eliza rode up alongside her fellow equestrian, Rose Bowman, who was dressed as a highwaywoman, slung about with pistols and wearing a tricorn hat. They brought the show to an end, the horses and their riders left in clouds of dust and the crowd, as they always did, roared for more.

Eliza rode Percy through to the stables where the usual young bloods congregated, waiting for her and the other circus girls, hoping for favours.

But she barely glanced at them, determined to take her horse to his stall and rub him down before he had his supper of hay.

The stable boys were busy with the other horses, but Eliza knew she would not see Percy again and this clutched at her heart.

As he munched, she put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, meeting his lustrous eyes one last time.

‘Thank you, old friend,’ she muttered, breathing in the smell of him. ‘I will never forget you.’

Mrs Prebble had emerged into the yard to see off the hangers-on.

She said in a loud voice that invited no demur, ‘Go home, gentlemen! The show is over.’ A fierce, no-nonsense woman, she was as wide as she was high and nobody chose to cross her.

Prebbles Flying Circus was contracted by Astley’s for the Season and she ran the show with iron discipline.

Once the yard was clear, Eliza emerged from Percy’s stable.

Gazing back at him, eating, unaware of the turmoil in her heart, tears sprang to her eyes as she ran up the outside steps to the quarters she shared with Rose.

Her friend was already asleep when Eliza tiptoed into the dark room.

Earlier in the day she had packed her small valise with all her worldly goods and stowed it under her bed.

Tonight was the night Eliza had determined to run away.

She longed to find her lost parents and live a more regular life, with love, a home and her own family, something she had never known beyond the bluff camaraderie of the circus people with whom she had spent her girlhood.

Glancing out of the window, she was grateful the wind had swept the night sky of clouds; the full moon would light her way across the river to St James’s Place.

The circus girls had talked about Mistress Burridge who lived at No.

3 and would find work for runaway girls, asking no questions.

But she knew she would have to disguise her youth and looks as much as possible to walk the streets alone at night.

Eliza’s training with Prebbles had not just been as an acrobatic dancer and rider but as an actress too.

She had decided the best way to pass unmolested was to look as if she were an old washerwoman.

Aware of Rose’s regular breathing and not wishing to wake her, she sat at the window and pulled the thin curtain back a fraction to let in the moonlight.

Sitting on her bed, she etched wrinkles across her forehead with her stick of grey theatrical make-up.

She added soot to the front of her fair hair then slipped on her cloak to cover her workaday dress, pulling the hood over her head.

Looking down at Rose, her breath caught.

They had grown almost as close as sisters in their years of harsh training, sharing the pains and small triumphs along the way.

But Eliza knew her friend did not wish to accompany her on this risky adventure; she too wanted a broader life but had never had the restless desire to discover who she was.

Instead, Eliza had to go on alone. Afraid of losing her courage, she hurriedly pulled the ring with the blue stone from her finger.

Rose had little jewellery of her own and had always loved this ring.

Eliza gently lifted the sleeping girl’s hand and slipped it onto the middle finger where she knew it would fit.

She placed her farewell letter beside the pillow, and another letter for Mrs Prebble, thanking her for rescuing her from the streets of Bath all those years ago.

She grasped a small cloth toy fox from under her own pillow and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak.

Her valise was tied in a sheet for disguise and she slung it over her shoulder to tiptoe down the stairs.

The clock on the great church of St Margaret’s struck twice, its muffled sound floating across the water.

Pulling her cloak close, Eliza slipped into the chilly night and turned towards the river.

The crowds had long departed, weaving home along Westminster Bridge Road, full of good humour and ale.

There were still a few carts, some gentlemen’s curricles and the occasional chaise bowling home after a party or ball.

She had pulled her hood so low she could barely see, but knew that crossing the bridge would bring her to Westminster Palace.

She’d marked it with a red cross on the quick sketch she’d made, copied from a map the Prebbles kept in the locked office.

Halfway across the bridge, the northerly wind off the Thames was so persistent and bitter that Eliza found it hard to walk.

People passed like wraiths bundled in cloaks and sacks against the chill.

It took all her energy to make it to the northern bank where she eventually reached Parliament Street.

Eliza had been warned to avoid the Park and Birdcage Walk, areas frequented at night by predatory men and half-feral dogs and children, but even The Mall with its numerous trees seemed dark and threatening when you were cold and alone.

With growing anxiety about what lay ahead, Eliza’s adventure suddenly seemed less exciting and bold, and more likely foolhardy and fraught with danger.

Her tired mind began to question whether Mistress Burridge would be the helpmeet she had hoped; perhaps the work she would help her find would not be as an assistant in a draper’s shop or a maid in a grand house, but as a worker in a bawdy house.

She realised how bleak was her world, without family, and now without work or a home.

How wild and hare-brained this escapade suddenly seemed. She shivered with more than the cold.

Eliza had taught herself to read from the novels Mrs Prebble had borrowed from the lending library.

She had learned of the variety of lives lived outside the narrow confines of the circus, but had become aware too of how lacking in education and experience she was.

She plodded on, growing increasingly exhausted, afraid she had made a terrible mistake.

The moon lent its light to show her the way but her scribbled map was hard to decipher and putting down her burden, she came to a stop, peering at the dark buildings, glimpsing a few fleeting shadows travelling in the opposite direction.

Eliza had absolutely no idea where she was.

Her spirit quailed. Before her she glimpsed a long strip of dark wasteland, desolate and wintry in the moonlight.

In her fevered imagination, it was as if no one had passed through since the beginning of the world.

She shuddered as the distant clank of metal on stone brought her back to the present.

Hope flared again and she turned towards the sounds of life.

The night was suddenly full of noises: a distant cry, the hoot of an owl, dogs barking, the occasional clop of horses’ hooves and a carter’s oath.

Ahead of her was the hum and faint rattle of metal wheels on cobbles on what must be a main thoroughfare.

Eliza shouldered her baggage once more and set off to meet her future.