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“Did you see the play?”
    â€œI did, sir.”
    â€œAnd what did you think of it?”
    â€œI think
King Lear
was created for you, and you for it,” she said frankly, for there was no need to embellish what was demonstrable fact. “You were magnificent. Anyone else who attempts the role henceforth can be only a pretender to your greatness.”
    For a moment he stared at her, curious and silent, but then a great laugh burst from him. “Had Cordelia spoken so eloquently, Lear never would have disinherited her,” he said, elbowing the man beside him, another player whom until that moment Mary Ann had not noticed.
    His friend smiled as his appreciative gaze explored Mary Ann from cap to hem and back again. “But then there would be no play, and the stage would be poorer for it.”
    Those who overheard the exchange applauded their wit, but before the ovation tapered off, the other player made a jest about his desperate need for drink and led Mr. Booth away.
    Mary Ann drifted home in a dream, pressing her hands to her cheeks, to her waist, to her heart, the places Mr. Booth’s words and gaze had reached her. All evening his enchantment remained upon her, like a soft wool cloak upon her shoulders. Noticing her distraction, her father asked if she felt ill, and when she had no appetite her motherchecked her forehead for fever and urged her to drink a cup of beef tea. Obediently Mary Ann drank and forced herself to smile and declared that she felt quite restored, wishing she could tell them how her world had been utterly transformed, knowing that her deeply pious parents would never understand.
    The next morning she swiftly filled her basket with the nursery’s freshest blossoms and prettiest nosegays and hurried off to Covent Garden scarcely moments after her bemused father opened his Bow Street Market shop for the day. She resolved to linger in front of the theatre for hours if necessary to catch a glimpse of Mr. Booth, but he found her first, startling her by suddenly appearing at her side as she crossed the square. “Do you truly believe my King Lear was magnificent?” he queried, ignoring the perfunctory greetings that custom usually required.
    â€œI do,” she replied, somewhat breathlessly. “I believed you were the mad king, although I knew you were not. You seemed to disappear within him.” Mr. Booth smiled and seemed to be waiting, so she added, “It was the best performance I’ve ever seen.”
    His smile deepened. “Do you mean of all my other roles, or of all other players in this role?”
    â€œOf all the performances I’ve ever seen.” Since there was more truth than honesty in her reply, she added abashedly, “I confess there has been only the one.”
    â€œYou’ve been to the theatre only once?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThat can’t be true,” he protested. “That would be a tragedy greater than any the Bard ever writ.”
    She laughed. “Surely not.”
    â€œHow would you know, having seen only one?”
    â€œI’ve read them,” she countered. He could not know how bold a declaration this was from a girl whose parents forbade any reading material but scripture. Friends lent her novels and books of poetry, which she read secretly at night in her bedchamber by the surreptitious light of a dark lantern.
    â€œThat’s not the same. Master Shakespeare did not write his great tragedies for the page but for the stage.” He regarded her solemnly, his blue eyes shining. “We must remedy this deficit without delay. You must come to the theatre again. Tonight.” When she hesitated, he quicklyadded, “I insist you attend as my guest, although I regret I won’t be able to sit with you as I’ll be performing. I’ll leave two tickets for you up front—but of course, you must tell me your name, so I may say who will collect them.”
    â€œI am Miss