“I told them I needed to be in wardrobe at seven,” said Tilda a few minutes later, four drinks expertly held between her hands. “One offered to dress me and three promised to see the play. I should be on commission, the number of tickets I sell.”

Lizzie took the glass Tilda offered, her eyes dropping to the low cut of Tilda’s dress, the swell of her bosom. I looked from one to the other, seeing each in the other’s eyes. An old maid and a harlot.

“Here’s to you, Lizzie,” Tilda said, raising her whiskey. “Between Esme and old Mabel I feel I already know you.” Then she tilted her head back and emptied the glass. “I must go and dress. Will I see you after the play?”

“Of course,” I said, but Lizzie shifted beside me. “Perhaps.”

“I’ll let you convince them, Bill. It’s what you do best.”

Tilda worked her way through the crowd, drawing one kind of look from the men, another from the women.

The following Monday, Lizzie poured tea from the large pot on the range and passed the cup to Da.

“Did you enjoy the play, Lizzie?” he asked.

She continued to pour another cup and didn’t look up. “I only understood half, but I liked the look of it, Mr. Nicoll. It was very good of Esme to take me.”

“And did you meet Esme’s new friends? I was impressed by Miss Taylor’s performance when I saw her, but I’m afraid I have to rely on you to vouch for them.”

The next cup was for me, and Lizzie took her time to add the sugar she knew I liked.

“I can’t say I’ve met people like them before, Mr. Nicoll. They have a confidence I’m not used to, but they was polite to me, and kind to Esme.”

“So, you approve?”

“It’s not my place to approve, sir.”

“But you’ll go again, to the theatre?”

“I know I should like it more, Mr. Nicoll, but I’m not sure it’s for me. I was dreadful tired the next day and the fires still needed to be set, and breakfast made.”

“Would I approve?” Da asked later as we walked across the garden to the Scriptorium.

Did I want him to? I wondered.

“You would like them. And I daresay you’d take Tilda’s side in an argument.” I hesitated, picturing Tilda in Old Tom after the show, a cigar in one hand, a whiskey in the other, mimicking Arthur Balfour. She deepened her voice and rounded her vowels and mocked his resignation the year before as Prime Minister. All to the general merriment of everyone gathered, Liberal and Conservative alike. “Though I’m not sure you would approve,” I finished.