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At that, James just grinned at her, then turned to climb onto the stage.

Mirroring the magic she had witnessed upon that London stage a decade prior, the ambient glow of the theater receded, leaving a solitary light on James in front of the curtain. Mariah turned to see how such an effect was possible in the assembly hall, but could not see in the darkness behind her.

“Thank you all for coming today. And thanks to Mr. Monahan for giving his workers the next day and a half off for the holiday.” Her husband nodded to the crowd and a cheer went up for her father. He deserved it. Frank Monahan had tried to save many of his countrymen when they were hit by the Potato Famine over a decade earlier, offering them jobs and a decent wage when many would not hire the Irish.

“We would not be here today without the work of many of the Royal Engineers, who served in Crimea, including my brother, Captain Reed, whose service came at great cost, saving many lives in the process.”

Next to her, Harrison shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable at his brother’s words.

As if sensing Harrison’s aversion to praise, James went on quickly. “It is to honor those who were lost, but also those who returned, that I re-christen this building from the Barnsley Assembly Hall to the Crimean Memorial Hall.”

Mariah gazed at the stage in wonder. What James proposed nearly took her remaining breath away. A memorial hall was a socially acceptable means of supporting theatrical endeavors. If he had involved the St. George name in a music hall or something similar, there would be an air of scandal or licentiousness about the space, unfortunately. But as a memorial hall, well, the Queen herself could not disapprove of that.

“While it acknowledges the loss of so many, it will also always employ a veteran of the Crimea if they are ever in need. It will be run by Captain Reed, as he sees fit.”

Mariah squeezed his arm as Harrison cleared his throat, offering her a small smile. His eye appeared markedly wet. Recalling her promise to James, Mariah gripped his forearm, willing him not to run.

“And there is one more person who needs acknowledgement,” James began, and though she remained in the dark, Mariah felt as if a light had narrowed upon her. “Many of you would not have a roof over your head without my wife, Lady St. George. I would not have a roof over my head if it weren’t for her. She…” he paused as his throat worked. Mariah forced herself not to look away. Grace O’Malley would not look away.

“She taught me what it means to have a home. It’s not built on memories, but brick by brick of what needs to be done. For yourself. For your family. For others. When my time comes, I will never consider myself a failure, for my life had her in it.”

Mariah had never cried in public before. Her old self would have been mortified but the slip in her public demeanor, by the reputation she meant to uphold.

Her old self could hang, she thought, as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“To honor her, before Miss Mason’s students lead us in some Christmas songs, they would like to perform a few pieces of the greatest playwright I have ever read.”

And with that, James left the stage. The Shakespeare, Mariah thought, with child-like wonder coursing through her veins as the curtain rose.

He must have had them continue the Henry V pieces.

Unlike the production of The Tempest she had witnessed all those years ago, the stage was bare. Then, Thomas and another boy came to the center and stepped forward.

Mariah smiled up at them, leaning forward from her seat in anticipation of the words, Oh, for a muse of fire.

But that was not what she heard.

"Fadó fadó, i gContae Mhaigh Eo, i dTiarnas Umhaill, rugadh cailín darbh ainm Gráinne, ar tugadh Grace uirthi freisin." Just as she did, Thomas spoke Gaeilge without stuttering. That thought alone brought a fresh onslaught of tears to her eyes as the words sank in, and the other boy began in English: “Long, long ago, in County Mayo, in the lordship of Umhaill, was born a girl named Gráinne, also called Grace.”

By the time James returned to sit beside her, Mariah found herself utterly bereft of speech, her fingers entwining with his in a silent tether as she watched the very soul of her secret writings unfurl across the stage. For a moment, Mariah’s veins flooded with panic as the crowd seemed confused by the story, but after the introduction, they crowed in appreciation, laughing at several places, and gasping at others. It was only the beginning of Grace O’Malley’s life, for Mariah had not shared the bulk of her work with James, but as someone who had never heard her work read aloud before, let alone in Irish, it lifted her spirits to the pine trusses that lined the roof.

When Thomas finished his piece, recalling Grace’s life up until her father’s death, there was a pause. Mariah fixed her gaze upon her interlaced fingers, her heart hammering against her ribs in anticipation of a derisive reception from the audience. Yet, a sudden, thunderous ovation erupted, the wild applause cascading through the chamber to reverberate against the fresh timber of the restored roof.

James leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Stand.”

Mariah shook her head, in far too great a state of wonder to move. I will someday.

Thomas and the other boy stepped back as about ten other children joined them on the stage, many of whom Mariah recognized from Miss Marshall’s students, and began to sing.

Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king

“You know what this m-means, don’t you?” Inclining her head toward James, Mariah pitched her voice so that only he could hear.

Turning, he stared at her, and she could make out the crinkle at the corners of his eyes in the stage light. “What does it mean?”

“It means when the hall is ready, we c-can travel, my love.”

“What did you call me?” His face suddenly became very serious.