Afterwards, Driesbach asked to be introduced to the great actor Junius Booth. But Rosalie seemed to be his real interest. This unexpected and almost implausible turn of events ended in a time of closed doors and muffled sobbing as Father put a quick stop to the whole thing.

He’d said: That Rosalie was needed at home. How did she imagine Mother would manage without her?

That Driesbach was a traveling man and had, undoubtedly, left a trail of broken women behind him. Rosalie would be a fool to think herself so special as to have captured his heart.

That maybe lions were happier untamed.

That Driesbach was a sideshow performer, a creator of mere spectacle, not an artist, not a true player. Circus folk were beneath them. Rosalie should remember that she was better than that. Father would not allow her to so undervalue herself.

Rosalie should remember that she is a Booth. End of discussion.

Rosalie is remembering that now.

“Why are you telling me about Byron?” Edwin asks.

“Who else can I tell?” Rosalie asks him back.

That night, Father remarks that Rosalie’s biscuits have never been so light. Lighter even than Aunty Rogers’. Rosalie’s biscuits are lighter than air.

—

In 1869, when Harriet Beecher Stowe ignites a conflagration by accusing Lord Byron of incest in the pages of The Atlantic Monthly and a third of their subscribers leave as a result, Rosalie will remind Edwin that she told him so first and he didn’t believe her. No one will believe Stowe either.

—

The next surprising thing that Edwin hears is that the Mitchells are leaving the farm. Just days after Adelaide Booth’s arrival, with the secret of Father’s marriage now out in the open, the Mitchells are being thrown to the streets. Everyone had always wondered why they’d been allowed to stay, crowding the family out as they did, abusing Mother’s hospitality, offering nothing in return for Father’s support. Now the mystery is solved. Clearly, Uncle Mitchell had secured their place through blackmail.

Edwin has an early memory. He’s a very young boy, returning to the farm in the dark on horseback, seated on the slope of the saddle, his father behind him. Even safe inside the warm circle of his father’s arms, a night terror has been growing, scorching his lungs and whipping his heart. He hears an owl, the wind, the panting and hoofbeats of the horse. The sounds swell in volume. The whole dark sky is in motion.

His father dismounts and swings him down. “There, boy,” Father says. “Your foot is on your native heath.” And the terror lifts and leaves him. The farm is his home and he will never be afraid there.