It didn’t always happen, but with some singers, and some pieces, the opening notes would send a prickle down her spine, across her skin, and she’d lean forward toward the stage and let the music soak into her. And be transported.

Aunt Dottie also shared her love of music. She didn’t often come up to London—she preferred her home in Bath—but she’d come up for Rose’s wedding, and was staying on for Rose’s ball next week, so she’d come with George and Aunt Agatha tonight.

A burst of masculine laughter came from the box next door—nothing to do with anything happening onstage. The box had been empty for most of the opera, but now, more than halfway through, a group of young men had entered noisily, talking and laughing, indifferent to what was happening onstage or whom they might be disturbing.

Lots of people talked through the opera. It drove George mad. Why did they come if they had no intention of listening to the music? She knew the answer, of course—because it was fashionable. To see and be seen, to show off their clothes and jewels. And meet friends and gossip.

Most of them showed little interest in the music. She’d even seen people play cards right through a performance, their backs to the stage. At least cards were relatively quiet. These young men weren’t.

Two of them were leaning over the balcony. “There she is, the little one third from the left,” said one, pointing. He was making no attempt to lower his voice or be discreet in any way.

“The one with yellow hair? In pink?” asked another.

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Pretty—oh, look, she’s seen us.” They leaned forward, waving.

George refused to look. She knew what the men were talking about. Picking out opera dancers—they had a reputation as notorious light-skirts—as if they were going shopping. She didn’t care what the men did, she just wished they would do it silently. Preferably somewhere else.

Beside her, Aunt Dottie sighed and shifted restlessly. The men’s conversation was disturbing her too.

George tried to fix her eyes and ears on the stage and the glorious music coming from the singers and musicians, but the men’s discussion—loud and annoying—continued until she was almost at screaming point. She turned to face the men over the low wall that divided the boxes. “Hush!” she said in a low, vehement voice. “Some of us want to listen to the music!”

“Well, who’s stopping you?” one man said. He’d clearly been drinking. “That fat woman is loud enough to wake the dead. Can’t hear myself think.”

“You and your friends are ruining our evening with your inane conversation,” she hissed. “So be quiet or leave.”

“Inane? Well, I like that. I’ll have you know that—”

“Leave? This box belongs to my mother.”