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“Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter,” I whisper.

The girl’s eyes widen. “Did you know them, miss?”

I shake my head quickly. “I…I must have read their names in the accounts.”

“They was good girls, miss. We’re striking so it won’t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn’t’ve died in vain.”

“I’m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.” I drop a shilling into her cup.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Come along, girls.” Mrs. Worthington clucks, ushering us on our way. “Why were you speaking to those unfortunate women?”

“They’re striking,” I answer. “Their friends were burned in a factory fire.”

“How horrid. I don’t like to hear such things.” A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Worthington a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. “They should have husbands to look after them.”

“What if they don’t?” Felicity asks, her voice harsh. “What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or…or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?”

It is astonishing to see the fire in Felicity’s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer’s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Ann and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground.

“Darling, there shall always be the poor. I don’t very well see what I can do about it. I’ve my own obligations.” Mrs. Worthington adjusts her fur stole until it sits high against her neck, soft armor for her soft world. “Come now. Let’s not talk of such unpleasant business on such a beautiful spring day. Ah, a confectionary. Shall we go in and see what sweets there are for us? I know that girls enjoy their treats.” She smiles conspiratorially. “I was a girl once, too.”

Mrs. Worthington steps inside, and Felicity stares hard after her.

“You will always be a girl,” she whispers bitterly.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MRS. WORTHINGTON TAKES FOREVER TO DECIDE ON HER sweets, and we arrive at the Drury Lane with barely a moment to spare. The dusk particular to theaters descends, a romantic twilight that takes us away from our cares and makes the fantastic possible. The Drury Lane is known for its spectacle, and we are not to be disappointed. The enormous curtains part, revealing an extravagant set—a forest that appears as real as can be. In the center of the stage, three old witches tend a cauldron. Thunder crashes. This is only a man banging a large piece of copper, but it produces shivers anyway. The wizened crones speak to us:

“When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won.”

“That will be ere the set of sun.”

“Where the place?”

“Upon the heath.”

“There to meet with Macbeth.”

“I come, Graymalkin!”

“Paddock calls: Anon!

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

Hover through the fog and filthy air.”

“Isn’t this marvelous?” Ann whispers, delighted, and I’m glad for what we’ve done.

When Lily Trimble makes her entrance, the audience sits taller. Miss Trimble is a compelling creature with thick waves of auburn hair that cascade down the back of her purple cloak. Her voice is deep and honeyed. She struts and preens, plots and laments with such a fervor that it is almost impossible to believe she is not truly Lady Macbeth herself. When she walks in her sleep, crying with remorse for her evil deeds, she is riveting, and all the while, Ann sits on the edge of her seat, watching with keen attention. When the play comes to its end, and Lily Trimble takes her bow, Ann applauds more loudly than any other in attendance. I have never seen her quite so moved, so alive.

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