This is advantageous for the theater. Keene is making massive amounts of money, much of which she spends improving the sets and costumes. Her productions become gorgeous.

But it’s ominous for the company. Before these long runs, players were unconcerned if the night’s show had no role for them as tomorrow night’s surely would. Now months might go by in which half of the company never sets foot onstage. There’s little point in keeping them, none in paying them.

For one hundred and fifty nights, Jefferson plays Asa Trenchard, the leading man. When Our American Cousin is finally followed by A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Jefferson plays Bottom. This latter role doesn’t suit him. And Keene has begun to find working with him difficult.

So Jefferson leaves her company and goes to the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia. Unbeknownst to her, he takes her version of Our American Cousin with him. When Keene learns that the Arch Street company is performing her play, note by note, gesture by gesture, she sues for copyright infringement. At issue—does the performance of a play constitute its publication? Can a person own the words? Can a person own the way the words are said? These questions will occupy the court for the next nine years.

With none of that settled, Sleeper Clarke brings the play from Philadelphia to Richmond, where he takes the part of Asa Trenchard and John plays the buffoonish Lord Dundreary. Sleeper tells Asia, who tells Edwin, that he introduced himself to the company as John’s newest brother. This expression of familial affection pleases Edwin even though it’s a month premature. It doesn’t please John. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, as Lord Dundreary would say.

—

On April 28th, 1859, Asia and Sleeper are married at the old St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, in Baltimore, Maryland. The church has been recently rebuilt in the soaring Italian style after a fire damaged the original. Asia’s family is all there, minus only June, to witness the union. Asia’s wearing a new dress, a pale rose silk, the bodice covered with Brussels lace. Edwin thinks she looks very beautiful, her cheeks pink with excitement, her dark hair carefully curled around her temples.

She’s borrowed Mother’s Byron brooch, perhaps not the smartest token to wear to your own wedding. Edwin guesses Rosalie never talked to Asia about Byron the way she once talked to him. He can feel how keyed up Asia is. She’s so nervous she thrums with it. There’s no need. Sleeper is no Byron. She’s perfectly safe.

John had to ride through the night to attend. “I’m bringing so little to the marriage,” Asia says. She’s waiting between her brothers, trembling on Edwin’s arm, on John’s arm, between the sandstone columns of the portico. Above them, light flashes suddenly off the stained-glass window of the risen Christ.