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Cormac sensed the low hum of tension radiating from Bridget as they wove their way amid the milling patrons. Though they were not as uninitiated as Rory, it had been a very long time since either of them had been out in public for a social occasion like this. When he looked over his shoulder, he realised that Emily, Rory and Patrick had been swallowed up by the crowd. He hoped they would fare all right among these people who kept such a tight hold of their high standards and their critical opinions, and he hoped the same for himself and Bridget.

They found a small pocket of space near a wall emblazoned with a great bill about the sweet-voiced Angelica (‘Stunning! Astounding! You won’t believe your ears!’) and halted there to orientate themselves and scan the lobby. Cormac noted some inquisitive glances and a few whispers hidden behind gloved hands as others caught sight of the notorious Lady Courcey and her lover, and yet no one seemed appalled enough to openly rebuke them for attending. He lifted his chin and returned their stares levelly.

‘I don’t see Madeleine anywhere,’ Bridget murmured, her relief palpable.

He knew that the spectre of her old friend, with her cutting remarks and superior airs, had haunted Bridget’s thoughts in the weeks leading up to tonight. The last time they met in Dublin, Madeleine had made it plain that she was repulsed by Bridget’s decision to desert her wealthy husband in favour of a lower-class man whom she had once witnessed begging on the street; nor had she approved of the shame it brought upon those who were forced to acknowledge an association with Bridget. Indeed, the scandal of it had horrified her to such a degree that she had ended their friendship on the spot. What if she showed up at the Theatre Royal and attempted to sabotage the two events by persuading the patrons not to give their money to a tainted cause? Thankfully, however, it seemed as though she had placed a greater value on preserving her own reputation and had kept her distance instead.

‘We ought to look for Mr Dunhill,’ Bridget said next. Having made most of the arrangements by letter, they had finally met the theatre manager the previous week after their arrival in the city. They had confirmed the percentage of takings that would be set aside for donation from both performances, and had agreed to collect the money from him backstage at the end of each night. Still, it would be prudent to meet him beforehand as well, if only to be assured that no complications had arisen in the meantime.

Cormac started to raise his hand to draw the attention of a nearby theatre attendant who could seek out the manager, but stopped when a female voice spoke close by.

‘Bridget?’

They both swivelled towards the voice and found a pair of women staring back at them. The women were identical in every respect: the same height, the same shape of face, the same colour eyes, and the same expressions of mingled surprise and wariness.

‘Good gracious!’ Bridget exclaimed with somewhat exaggerated delight. ‘Julia and Eleanor, what an age it has been since we last met!’ She turned to Cormac. ‘The Misses Hyland were both presented as debutantes at Dublin Castle on the same evening as I. And they visited Oakleigh for Garrett’s birthday celebration the summer my mother and I returned there.’

He vaguely recalled the presence of the twins on the estate that summer, but so much remained unsaid in this brief summary. Were they aware of the scandal that perpetually hung over Bridget like an ominous cloud? Did they share Madeleine’s disgust? Did they know who he was? Could they identify him as the lowly youth who had saddled their horses at the stables?

One of them offered a polite smile. ‘Eleanor is still Miss Hyland, but I have become Mrs Hyland after my marriage to our cousin.’

‘Oh, indeed, congratulations,’ Bridget said. ‘So much time has passed—I imagine we have all lived very busy lives since our last acquaintance.’

The second woman, Eleanor, pressed her lips together wryly. ‘I think ours have perhaps not been quite so busy as yours.’

Bridget visibly quailed and Cormac braced himself for the inevitable condemnation that would come next. However, the corner of Eleanor’s mouth turned up in amusement.

‘Do not fret,’ she said. ‘You shall receive no words of censure from us.’

‘Oh,’ said Bridget, her face flooding with relief. Then she gave a dubious frown. ‘Why not?’

Julia’s mouth mirrored her sister’s amused expression. ‘It’s possible that you are not the only one who has skirted the boundaries of propriety over the years.’

This enigmatic comment filled Cormac with a powerful curiosity. Bridget blinked at her two old friends as Eleanor linked her arm with Julia’s and gave them a most unladylike wink.

‘Let us only say that we have exploited the advantages of our being twins to the fullest. We have just been rather more successful—’

‘Or lucky,’ Julia interjected.

‘—at remaining beneath the notice of society’s eagle eyes.’

Bridget gaped. ‘I find myself speechless,’ she said faintly.

‘Quite,’ Eleanor said with a chuckle. ‘There is no need to respond. All of this is merely to affirm that we cast no judgement upon you for seeking happiness with your paramour.’

They both inclined their heads in Cormac’s direction; he simply stood in dumbfounded silence.

‘As opposed to Madeleine,’ Julia added, ‘who has done her utmost to persuade everyone in her acquaintance to shun this pair of events.’

Eleanor made a disparaging sound with her tongue. ‘But we, in turn, have done our best to undo her hard work, for we recognise what a valuable cause it is. You are not without allies in this city.’

‘Keep up your efforts,’ said Julia, ‘and we shall do likewise.’

They curtseyed demurely and drifted away into the crowd wearing identical secretive smiles.

‘Well, you could knock me down with a feather,’ said Bridget. ‘How forthright they were.’

Cormac blew out his breath, nonplussed. ‘I suppose they knew their disclosure was safe with us,’ he said. ‘After all, we are in no position to criticise them or spread rumours, even if we were the kind of people to do so.’

‘That is very true.’ Bridget released a baffled burst of mirth. ‘Although they didn’t reveal the exact nature of their indiscretions, it is nice to know that we are not the only sinners in this world.’

‘Far from it,’ Cormac said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

‘Who’s been sinning?’ Patrick suddenly appeared before them, his hazel eyes alight with interest. ‘Is there some unseemly entertainment that I’m missing out on?’

‘If there was, I would place you at the furthest distance from it,’ Cormac replied with mock severity.

Patrick grinned. At the front of the lobby, a theatre attendant began to ring a bell, terminating any prospect of meeting Mr Dunhill before the performance commenced.

‘May I escort Lady Courcey to her seat?’ Patrick asked. ‘I was deprived of the opportunity earlier.’

Cormac stood back and allowed his nephew to take Bridget’s arm. As they made their way towards the auditorium, where the doors were now thrown wide open, he observed the determined set of Bridget’s shoulders. The positive encounter with the Hyland twins seemed to have buoyed her up, and he was particularly grateful to the two women for not having drawn any attention to her scar.

Just before they entered the auditorium, they were joined by Emily and Rory who had managed to wade through the crowd to their side. Cormac led the way up the theatre aisle to the front row, where Mr Dunhill had ensured that five of the plush red seats would be reserved for their party. He had offered them a box but they had declined – such pretension would have been a step too far.

There was a sunken area between their row and the front of the curtained stage crammed with hard wooden benches. This pit was filling up with patrons who were filing in from a narrow side entrance instead of the ornate lobby doors, their clothing plain and, in some cases, a bit shabby. Glancing upwards, Cormac spotted a similarly dressed clientele swarming into the auditorium’s uppermost gallery. Unlike the venue in London, Dublin’s Theatre Royal appeared disposed to sell tickets to all classes of society.

These patrons were also of a rather more boisterous nature; instead of a hum of muted chatter, the auditorium rang with their loud laughter and lively conversation as they took their seats. Cormac cast a furtive look behind him into the rows of stalls, but the more affluent attendees did not seem unduly disturbed by the noise, suggesting that it was a regular occurrence to which they were accustomed. He found himself relaxing a little in the casual atmosphere, which was far removed from the stuffier London event.

They took their seats, Bridget to his left and Patrick to his right, with Emily and Rory on Bridget’s other side. Rory looked immensely relieved as he sat down but his face fell when the stranger next to him struck up a conversation. Cormac felt a dart of sympathy and fondness for the lad – tonight presented a challenging situation for him but at least he seemed to be holding his own as he nodded sagely at whatever the stranger was saying. Cormac discerned Emily’s fingers surreptitiously stroking Rory’s sleeve in a soothing motion and recognised that she was playing her own part in helping him through the evening. The pair of them had come a very long way since the misunderstanding over her missing doll, Mabel, which had engendered such hostility between them during the years they had lived in Boston. Cormac smiled to himself and settled more comfortably into his seat as the orchestra, nestled in a hollow below the stage in front of the audience pit, concluded their final tuning adjustments.

The stage curtains rustled and Mr Dunhill, a rotund man with a round face and rosy cheeks, emerged through the slit at their centre. He wore his top hat at a jaunty angle and he gave the audience an expansive smile as he gestured down at the orchestra. At this signal, the conductor raised his baton and the musicians began to play.

The opening strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ filled the theatre. Cormac stiffened. A wave of muttering rippled through the crowd, permeating the air along with the stately melody. Decorum prevented him from peering back over his shoulder to gauge the reactions of the upper classes, but he had a good view of the people in the pit; while a few loyal souls stood, most remained seated, their expressions carefully neutral.

As the final notes faded, the orchestra transitioned smoothly into a spirited rendition of ‘St Patrick’s Day’. Now, a greater portion of the audience leapt to their feet, a surge of Irish pride swelling through the auditorium. One man in the pit even clapped his hands along to the lively rhythm.

Cormac exchanged a sideways glance with Patrick and caught the glimmer of awareness in his eyes. He was not unfamiliar with the resentment that existed in this country towards its domineering neighbour, having witnessed the men on Sycamore Farm attempt to hang his father for being an English landlord.

On the stage, Mr Dunhill remained entirely unperturbed as he beamed out over the audience. When the tune came to an end, he flapped his hands to encourage everyone to resume their seats.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, esteemed friends, welcome to the Theatre Royal for this evening’s grand charity show!’ he exclaimed, his voice resounding through the auditorium. ‘It is with great pleasure that I, your humble host, present to you a night of unparalleled entertainment. Together, we shall journey through a delightful array of performances, from the enchanting melodies of our celebrated musicians to the mesmerising grace of our dancers. Prepare to be captivated by a variety of acts that promise to stir your hearts and your minds. And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce our first performer, a young lady blessed with a voice of pure angelic beauty. I give you…Angelica!’

Enthusiastic applause erupted from the crowd as the curtains drew back and a slender figure glided onto the stage, her head bowed. She wore a gown of shimmering white with a pair of feathery wings sewn onto the back of her bodice, and her black hair was pulled up into an elegant twist. Taking up position in the centre of the stage, she dipped into a graceful curtsey. When she straightened and raised her gaze to her adoring audience, Cormac’s heart stopped in his chest.

The girl on the stage was Henrietta Brennan.

He felt like the whole theatre was crashing down around him. He would not have been surprised to look around and see dozens of bodies crushed beneath rubble, such was his absolute shock. Henrietta ?

When his heart resumed beating, it pounded against his ribs and thundered in his ears. Disbelief, bewilderment and guilt warred for supremacy within him. He could not conceive of any logical explanation for her presence here. Was he experiencing a hallucination of some kind?

That might well have been his conclusion, only for the sudden muffled gasp he heard to his left. Bridget had recognised her too. Henrietta was real.

Through his disorientation, he clutched desperately for any strands of reason that could ground him in reality. These were the facts that he knew: Henrietta was the child of Thomasina Brennan, the prostitute he had bedded in Dublin during the darkest period of his life when he had worked for the money lender Cunningham. The girl was not his own progeny, though Thomasina had tried very hard to convince him that she was – instead, Henrietta’s father and namesake was Henry Munroe, another of Cunningham’s lackeys, last seen languishing in London’s Newgate Prison. When Thomasina had died, Cormac had taken it upon himself to choose a guardian for Henrietta, placing her in the custody of her grandaunt, Mrs O’Hara, a decision he had come to sincerely regret. Over a year ago, Bridget had paid a visit to O’Hara’s Tobacconist and Lodgings and learned that Henrietta had run away from her cruel slave driver of a grandaunt.

And Cormac hadn’t made any effort to find her since.

He had kept telling himself that he would begin his search for her soon, once he and Bridget had secured enough funds for the Oakleigh tenants and for as many other people suffering from the blight whom they could help. But their preparations for the event in London had occupied so much of their time, and then they had started preparing for the two events in Dublin, and of course there were ongoing matters to take care of at Bewley Hall, as well as Jack and Gus’s education, and Emily and Rory’s living arrangements, and he had continued to push Henrietta further down his list of priorities. He had not quite forgotten her, but neither had she risen to the surface of his mind very often.

And now here she was, waiting serenely on the stage while the orchestra played the introductory notes to her first song. He blinked, absorbing her appearance in greater detail. At fifteen years of age, her body displayed obvious signs that she had developed from a child into a young woman – her white gown accentuated the curves at her bust and hips, and the glow from the footlights at the front of the stage revealed her full lips and her pale, unblemished skin.

Good God, how she had grown up since he had last laid eyes on her. On that occasion, she had been just eleven years old, gangly and pimply, when he had brought her down to Carlow to visit the Oakleigh Estate along with Emily and Rory. Though he had tried to encourage her to be sociable, she had grown more sulky and withdrawn throughout the trip. At the end of it, he had proposed that she travel to Boston with them but she had rejected his offer, taking only his money and leaving him with a strong sense that he had failed her, despite the fact that she was neither his daughter nor his responsibility. And yet somehow, in spite of his inadequacy and her grandaunt’s mistreatment, she had managed to find her way into this situation of prominence, exuding total composure as a sea of faces gazed up at her in admiration and anticipation.

She parted her lips and the melody emerged from her as pure and clear as a bell. He had heard her sing as a child, and had comprehended even then that she could hold a tune very well, but she must have received training in the meantime for now her voice possessed a power and a resonance that projected out into the auditorium. It was a traditional air which began tranquilly enough but swelled in volume and energy during each subsequent verse until she was belting it out with vigour and her captive audience were joining in enthusiastically for the choruses. She encouraged this, opening her arms out as though trying to embrace them all. Mr Dunhill stood to the side of the stage, watching on with an expression of delight.

Cormac tore his gaze away to look at Bridget. She stared back at him, flabbergasted. Beyond her, Emily’s astounded face was riveted upon the stage – she had not failed to recognise Henrietta either.

He itched to jump out of his seat but forced himself to remain stationary as the first song concluded, at which point the crowd broke out into rapturous applause and cries of ‘Angelica!’ from the pit and ‘Brava!’ from the stalls behind. Henrietta bowed her head demurely.

Mr Dunhill let the ovation echo around the auditorium for at least a minute before he stepped forwards and pressed his finger to his lips. The audience quietened, their claps and cheers dispersing as an expectant silence took their place. He gave Henrietta a kindly nod and retreated once more to his unobtrusive position near the wings.

She took a deep breath and embarked upon her next song without any accompaniment from the orchestra. It was a ballad with a much slower tempo and a plaintive melody that wafted over her listeners, who seemed to hold their collective breath while she related a sorrowful tale of a young fisherman and his fiancée who were full of hope for their future together until his boat capsized at sea. His heartbroken lover could not accept that he was gone and each evening she lit a lantern by the shore, a beacon of her undying love and her faith that he would someday return to her. Decades later on a cold winter night, she was discovered lifeless by the water’s edge, a smile on her lips as if she had finally found peace.

Gooseflesh rippled over Cormac’s arms as the haunting tune twisted around him, making him feel the lover’s devastation as profoundly as if it were his own. Glancing about, he discerned that he was not the only one moved by the tragic song; a few audience members in the pit were openly weeping. Tears trickled down Henrietta’s own face, though she did not let the emotion impair her performance. Every note was pitch perfect, delivered with exquisite poignancy. When at last her voice died away, there was utter stillness in the theatre, unbroken by any rustle or whisper.

Then the audience erupted. Their roars of admiration resounded from every side, and several spectators at the front threw red roses onto the stage. Henrietta glided forwards to gather them up, her cheeks wet and her demeanour shy and grateful.

Mr Dunhill permitted this round of applause to carry on for even longer. Cormac clapped along mechanically, his mind in a whirl. Bridget, too, appeared to be clapping in a daze. On her other side, Emily’s head was bent close to Rory’s as she spoke rapidly behind her cupped fingers. Next to Cormac, Patrick, who was unaware of the family’s connection to the angel on the stage, looked quite impressed as he expressed his own appreciation for her performance.

The clamour continued unabated, passionate exclamations of ‘Angelica!’ interspersed with pleas for ‘More! More!’ until eventually Mr Dunhill shouted over the din, ‘Very well, just one more, for you are being a wonderful audience!’