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Ann’s cheeks redden. “She ran off.”

He nods, grinning. “Got married, then? Miss Trimble said that’s what happened. Guess she was right.”

“I read about your composition in the Era,” Ann says. “Miss Doyle says you are very talented.”

His face brightens further. “Exciting, isn’t it? My first musical entertainment, bowing at the Gaiety come July. The Merry Maidens.”

“I am a performer,” Ann says so quietly it is hard to hear her over the rumble of the wagons and horses on the street. “I should like to sing for you.”

Charlie’s partner looks Ann over. He nudges Charlie. “Not much to look at.”

“It’s Merry Maidens, Tony, not Gorgeous Girls,” Charlie whispers back, and I fear that Ann will take offense and call it all off.

“It’s true I’m not a Gaiety Girl,” Ann says. “But I can sing whatever you like. And read, too!”

“Don’t mind him. He didn’t mean no harm, miss,” Charlie says. “Look at me, with these big ears and long snout.” He pulls at his nose.

“Call was for noon to three,” Tony says, checking his watch. “It’s after four, nearly half past.”

“I am sorry,” Ann says. “We couldn’t secure a cab and—”

“The other girls made it on time,” Tony says. “We’re off to the pub. Good day to you.”

“Sorry, miss,” Charlie says, tipping his hat. “I hope you’ll come to the show.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ann says, her head low. As they brush past, Ann’s features settle into that emotionless mask, and I know that’s it. She’s done. It’s Balmoral Spring and little Charlotte’s tantrums and Carrie’s nose picking. And I can’t help it: I’m angry.

“Mr. Smalls!” Ann shouts, startling me. She turns and runs after him. “I’ll sing for you here! Right now!”

Charlie’s eyes widen. He breaks into a grin. “On the street?”

“No time like the present, Mr. Smalls,” Ann rejoins.

He laughs. “Now you sound like Mr. Katz.”

“She’s a nutter. The pub, mate,” Tony says, pulling on Charlie’s sleeve.

But Charlie folds his arms. “All right, then, Miss…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name!”

“Bradshaw,” Ann says crisply.

“All right, Miss Bradshaw.” He gestures to the curious passersby. “Your audience awaits. Let’s hear it.”

A small crowd gathers to see the spectacle of the young lady singing for her supper for the two impresarios on a street in the West End. I feel a blush forming on my cheek, and I cannot imagine how Ann will manage to get out a single note. But sing she does, as I’ve never heard her before.

The sound that pours out of her is as pure as anything I’ve ever heard, but it has a fresh strength. There’s a bit of grit under the notes and it’s married to heart. Now the song tells a story. There’s a new Ann Bradshaw singing, and when she finishes, the crowd responds with whistles and cheers—honey to any budding showman.

Charlie Smalls breaks into a huge grin. “It’s funny, ’cause you sound a lot like Miss Washbrad—only better! Tony, I think we’ve found ourselves one of our merry maidens!”

Even the surly Tony nods in approval. “Rehearsals commence the end of May, the twenty-fifth, at the Gaiety, two o’clock—and that’s two o’clock sharp!”

“I won’t be late,” Ann promises.

“You won’t run off and get married on me like Miss Washbrad, will you?” Charlie teases.

“Not on your life,” Ann says, smiling, and she’s more beautiful than ten Nan Washbrads.

CHAPTER FIFTY

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