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nearly a decade—the depiction of a monarch’s insanity was uncomfortably familiar as well as impolitic—but with George III’s passing in 1820, the Shakespearean tragedy had been revived. Critics agreed that in his brilliant, riveting portrayal of the title role, Junius Brutus Booth had no equal.
    Mary Ann knew too that he was handsome, breathtakingly so. This she had seen for herself as she wandered among the farm stalls, foodvendors, and fortune-tellers at the Covent Garden market, selling flowers her parents raised in their nursery in Marsh Gate. Often she glimpsed him on his way to or from the theatre, smiling and laughing as he strode along with his fellow actors, his arm slung over a companion’s shoulders, or alone, lost in thought, mulling over his lines or cues. He was not a large man, no more than five and a half feet tall, but his piercing blue eyes, intelligent gaze, long dark hair, and striking features gave him such presence that he seemed to tower over other men. Once their eyes met across the teeming marketplace, and for a moment he seemed to pause and hold her gaze, as riveted by her beauty as she was by his. A friend chivied him along, but she remained rooted to the spot until the warmth that had risen within her had dissipated, until he disappeared into the theatre and the spell was broken.
    Secretly she saved her pennies until she had scraped together enough to buy a ticket to see him perform King Lear at the Covent Garden Theatre in October 1820. She must have breathed throughout the performance, but later she could not remember doing so, nor could she say whether Junius Brutus Booth had interpreted the character or if the demented monarch’s shade had possessed him. Her heart sank with dismay as she watched him succumb to the flattery of Goneril and Regan, and she ached with regret when Cordelia’s honest simplicity failed to move him. She suffered to witness his mistreatment by his ungrateful eldest daughters, wept at his descent into madness, and shared his grief when he carried Cordelia’s lifeless body from the place of her execution. Afterward, Mary Ann sat motionless in her seat, overwhelmed and spent, as the theatre rang with applause and cheers, as the king, alive once more, bowed to the roaring throng as they showered him in acclaim and flowers.
    Eventually she reclaimed her senses and departed, among the last to leave the gallery. Though she knew her parents expected her home, she found herself joining the crush of eager patrons outside the stage door, longing for another glimpse of their idol. She kept to the outermost fringes of the mob, embarrassed to be there at all, but compelled to remain long enough to see Junius Brutus Booth as himself again, the handsome man she watched in the market.
    A lady squealed as the stage door opened; a few lesser players emerged and were greeted with a smattering of applause. Then afrisson of excitement passed from the front of the crowd to the back, and she saw that Junius Brutus Booth had stepped into the alley. All around her, ladies and men called out his name, waving hats and handkerchiefs, but she felt powerless to speak, to incline her head or bob a curtsey. Perhaps it was her stillness that drew his attention, for suddenly his gaze locked upon hers. She held her breath as he made his way through the crowd, acknowledging well-wishers in passing.
    And then he stood before her. “I’ve seen you before, miss, in the market,” he said, his expression a curious mix of wonder and surprise. “You’re the beautiful flower girl, are you not?”
    She inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment. “I would say that I am, sir, were it not vanity to do so.”
    His laughter, rich and full, brought new warmth to her cheeks. “It isn’t vanity to speak the truth.” His marvelously expressive face was both hopeful and apprehensive, but his voice was nonchalant as he asked,