He decides to go further. He takes Asia’s old blue gingham and her newest bonnet and disappears. When he returns, he’s fully rigged. He walks back and forth in front of her, his hoop swinging side to side, until she’s helpless with laughter. He looks at himself in the mirror again. “What will you give me if none of the farmhands recognizes me?”

“Oh, please don’t!” she says. “We give the neighbors enough to talk about,” but she’s too late. She stays at her desk, watching his figure from her bedroom as, wrapped in Rosalie’s cloak, he heads over the frosty lane towards the barn.

He returns a quarter of an hour later. She hears him down in the kitchen with Ann and Nancy Hall. There is shrieking and laughter and she hears bold little Nancy ordering him to undress. “Undress right now, Master John,” she says. “Undress and wear your own clothes!”

By the time he returns to Asia’s room, he’s enormously pleased with himself. “Everyone I passed,” he says, “raised his hat to me. All greeted me with the respect due such an elegant lady.” His confidence is hugely raised by the successful experiment. Maybe he can take on the light, skip-about parts, after all.

—

In August of 1855, John returns midday from an overnight visit to Baltimore. Asia is out with a basket, gathering the glossy black dewberries so that Ann Hall can make a jam. Nancy Hall is helping by holding the thorny branches to the side with a large stick so that Asia doesn’t get pricked while Elizabeth Hall pouts that she is too old enough to help. They are surrounded by spotted dogs and farm cats and more children from the cabins.

The spotted dogs see John first, riding in on Cola. They begin to howl with the excitement of his arrival. The children swarm about his horse’s hoofs. He holds up a bag of candy, flings its contents. “Get it before the dogs do,” he tells the children and the melee commences.

John dismounts and comes to Asia. He takes her basket, reaches over to brush some stray hair from her face. “Guess what I’ve gone and done,” he says. She can see how pleased he is.

“It’s something wonderful,” she says. “But I can’t guess what.”

“Last night, I played the role of Richmond at the Charles Street Theater.”

When Mother is told, she’s not so pleased. Edwin started small and worked his way up to the major roles. He earned his place. While June, when green, had found that companies would hire him on the basis of his name alone. It’s a smart business move for them. If a Booth commands the stage, people will pay to see that. If he stumbles, proves talentless, people will pay to see that, too. Mother says, as gently as she can, that John is unseasoned and unready.