Francis was penitent, but with him and his mother had travelled a young heiress named Catherine Mahoney; and his mother, with the help of Catherine, had impressed upon him what an excellent match this young heiress would be. Grace knew that he had been disappointed of his inheritance and in view of this he had allowed himself to be persuaded.

Thus was Grace with six children to keep – and there would have been seven but little Lucy had died in Wales – deserted.

Francis was not a callous man – only weak. He had continued to send them an allowance; and what they would have done without it, Grace could not have imagined. They had stayed on in Wales until, with Francis’s death, the allowance had stopped. Grace was informed of this by his wife Catherine who told her at the same time that she had no intention of continuing the allowance.

So they had returned to Dublin and Grace now being well into middle-age and not having won that fame, which would have made audiences regard her as ageless, was seeking to launch her eldest daughter on the stage.

It had been disastrous. Even Dorothy must realize this. They would never – any of them – forget that long-awaited moment when they had sat on the edge of their seats and waited in the old Crow Street Theatre for Hester to appear. Her name had been on the bills: Mr Ryder’s great discovery – the young, beautiful, talented Hester Bland.

Hester came on to the stage; the audience waited, indulgent because she was young and not uncomely; but when she opened her mouth no words came.

‘It can’t be,’ prayed Dorothy. ‘Oh, God, let her speak.’

But Hester’s fear had overcome her talents. She was suffering from acute stage fright and had completely forgotten the words she must say. Dorothy was repeating them under her breath, but how could she shout them to Hester in a crowded theatre. ‘Please, please,’ she prayed. ‘Let her remember.’

There was a titter in the audience.

Mr Ryder came on to the stage. He waved Hester aside and she ran into the wings. Grace looked as though she would faint.

A little hitch, explained Mr Ryder. His new actress was unwell. He craved the audience’s indulgence. Another actress would play her part.

Dorothy was sure she would never forget those moments: the hiss of conversation, the giggle here and there, the comments on young Miss who thought she could act; it wasn’t often they had the chance (the pleasure, thought Dorothy angrily) of seeing such a stage tragedy. She was angry herself; she wanted to go up on that stage and play the part. She could remember most of the lines because she had heard Hester say them so often and she would make up what she did not know.

The family rose and went back stage to collect a numbed and tragic Hester.

She wept all night; she had disgraced them all; she was useless; why had she thought she could act?

Grace said: ‘You can act. It was just stage fright. We all feel it but somehow we manage to overcome it in the nick of time. You didn’t. You’ll be better next time.’

‘Next time,’ cried Hester. ‘I’d rather die.’

Then she wept afresh. She would never forget the disgrace; that moment would live with her for the rest of her life.

There was no way of comforting her. The whole family tried; and Grace was wondering whether Hester could get back the job she had had in the milliner’s shop which she had left to go on the stage.

It was a morning of gloom. Mr Ryder, who was a kindly man and who knew the poverty of the family and knew also that what had happened to Hester did not mean that she was not an actress, called to see them.

He was immediately aware of the deep depression although he did not see Hester; Grace’s eyes, however, were red-rimmed with tears and sleeplessness.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was a bad business, Grace.’

‘I can’t think how it happened.’

‘Easy enough. She’s never faced an audience before. What are you going to do!’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Now look here, Grace, there might be some parts for you. You must be a bit out of practice but you could get that back… say a small part to begin with. And what about that other girl of yours?’

‘Dorothy?’

‘I’ve noticed her. There’s something about her.’

‘She’s a bit of a tomboy.’

‘She’ll grow up.’

‘She’s not as good-looking as Hester.’

‘By God, are you telling me you’re not going to let me try the girl in my theatre?’

‘Try her in your theatre! Why, she has never shown any inclination for the stage.’

‘Call her in.’

‘Good gracious me, I doubt she’s fit to be seen.’

‘Fit for me to see. I’m not looking for a tidy Miss but an actress.’

‘Dorothy an actress!’

‘Please may I see her?’

‘Dorothy,’ called Grace, ‘come here.’

She came. Ryder studied her. She had something. What was it? A gamin quality. She might have been an untidy schoolboy except for the fact that she was so dainty. Yes, there was some quality – latent perhaps, but he was sure it was there.

‘Hello, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear you play a part. Do you know any?’

Her imperturbability delighted him.

‘Phoebe,’ she said, ‘from As You Like It.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’ll do.’

To see her strut before him like that was amazing, thought Grace. She did not declaim as an actress would. She played it naturally as though Dorothy Bland was a shepherdess, and for a moment one felt that the shabby room was the forest of Arden. It wouldn’t do. It wasn’t acting. It was being natural.

Ryder felt differently. Her voice was most unusual. It was almost as though she sang the words. She seemed to give them a music of her own.

‘Look here, Dorothy Bland,’ he said, ‘how would you like to take your sister’s place? H’m? I’d pay you what I’ve been paying her. I don’t think you’ll suffer from stage fright.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Dorothy as though she were promising to wash the china or make a dish of tea.

‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ryder. ‘I can give you a part in The Virgin Unmasked. It’s not much, but it’ll be a good way of making your stage début. Be at the theatre tomorrow morning.’

He left them and Grace looked in astonishment at her daughter. Dorothy was smiling. Everything had turned out for the best. The only difference was that she, not Hester, had to make the family’s fortune.

So Dorothy became an actress. She played in The Virgin Unmasked without causing a great stir in Dublin theatrical circles; and after that she was Phoebe in As You Like It.

Thomas Ryder was not displeased; he might not have a star performer, he told himself, but at least he had a tolerable actress.

Dorothy was delighted. It was more fun than making and selling hats; moreover, she had prevailed on Hester to accept a small part and once Hester had done this successfully, she was ready to undertake bigger parts and so overcome the terrible fear of appearing on the stage.

Life was easier; there was more money. Ryder often talked to Dorothy in whom he felt a special interest because he had selected her to play in his theatre before she had realized she was an actress.

‘We have to do better business,’ he said, ‘or we’ll be running at a bigger loss than I can afford. Did you know the house was half empty last night?’

‘I was aware of it,’ Dorothy told him.

‘And I have Smock Alley standing empty. There’s not room for two theatres in Dublin. If it goes on like this I’ll have to get rid of my lease of Smock Alley – and who’s going to take it, eh? If Dublin can’t support one theatre, how can anyone open up in Smock Alley?’

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders; she was thinking of her newest part.

‘If you would let me sing a song,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that would bring them in.’

‘There’s no place for a song in the play.’

‘We could make a place,’ she wheedled.

‘Rubbish,’ said Thomas; and went on to brood on a new means of luring people into Crow Street.

Shortly afterwards he came up with an idea. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a play with men playing the women’s parts and women the men’s.’

It seemed a crazy notion. To what purpose? But when some of the women appeared in breeches the purpose was obvious, and this was particularly so in the case of Dorothy. Her figure was enchanting, her legs long, slim and beautifully shaped.

Yes, said Thomas Ryder, this could well give them the opportunity they were looking for.

The play, Ryder announced, would be The Governess – a pirated version of Sheridan’s The Duenna. He had not intended such an inexperienced player as Dorothy to have a big part, but when he saw her in breeches he decided she should have that of Lopez.

Dorothy was delighted. She would make something of the part. How pleased she would be if she could sing!

‘Sing!’ cried Ryder in exasperation. ‘Now why should Lopez sing?’

‘Because,’ replied Dorothy, ‘Dorothy Bland would like to sing and the audience would like to hear her.’

‘Nonsense,’ retorted Ryder. ‘You play your part, my girl. That’s all the audience ask of you.’

‘Don’t forget the theatre has been half empty these last weeks.’

‘The Governess will pull them in.’

Dorothy posed before the mirror in her breeches. Grace said: ‘I don’t know. It’s not modest somehow.’ Dorothy kissed her. ‘Don’t you worry, Mamma. I’ll take care not only of myself but of the whole family.’

Poor Mamma, she was terrified that Hester or Dorothy – and more likely Dorothy – would get into some entanglement and, always having longed for the blessing of clergy on her union, was fearful that one of the girls should find herself in a similar position. She was constantly saying that if their father had married her they would not now be wondering where the next penny was coming from, for Judge Bland would surely have relented when he saw his grandchildren. But because she lacked marriage lines she lacked security. Security! It was an obsession. She wanted it for her girls.