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a cart. Very good it were, too.’

      Maisie gave him a cursory glance. ‘You could do with a wash, boy. You’re very dirty.’

      Rose could see that this might turn into a squabble but she left them to sort themselves out and went in search of her aunt. At this time of day Polly was usually to be found in the small cubbyhole she called her study, where she pored over the accounts. As Rose had expected, Polly was seated at her desk with a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles balanced on the bridge of her nose.

      She looked up. ‘Is anything wrong, Rose?’

      ‘I’ve just been speaking to a private detective, a Mr Scully. Billy’s lawyer hired him to find out what he could about Gawain Tressidick.’ Rose perched on the edge of the desk. ‘I couldn’t tell him much.’

      ‘Did he think you and Tressidick were close?’

      Rose stared at her in horror. ‘Good heavens, no. Why would he think like that?’

      ‘If true, it could have been the reason for the fight between William and Tressidick.’

      ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Rose said slowly. ‘But I barely knew Gawain, and what I did know I didn’t like. I told Scully that much, and now he’s gone to Oxford to see if he can find out anything there.’

      ‘So what is the problem, Rose?’

      ‘It’s money, or rather the lack of it.’ Rose took the bill from her reticule and laid it on the desk. ‘We have to find that much in order to pay Mr Scully, in addition to the lawyer’s fee and expenses. I doubt if we have that much saved.’

      Polly studied the figures. ‘No, indeed. That’s a hefty bill. I hope he’s a good detective.’

      ‘Billy’s life depends upon it, Aunt Polly. We have to raise the money quickly.’

      ‘I’d help you if I could, but we barely manage day by day and we rely entirely on charity.’

      ‘You’ve done more than enough. It’s up to Cora and me. Perhaps we can squeeze a few more performances in, if the pay is right. There has to be a way.’

      Signor Fancello listened with his head on one side and a calculating gleam in his dark eyes. ‘Two shows a night,’ he said, twirling the waxed end of his moustache round his index finger. ‘And that means every night of the week, shall we say for a month?’

      Rose swallowed convulsively. ‘We cannot work on Sunday, signor. It is impossible.’

      ‘You ask me to give you more employment and then you try to bargain with me.’ He threw up his hands. ‘You English, you do not know what hard work is. How do you think I built up my business when I arrived in London?’

      ‘We have to attend church on Sundays, signor. We cannot work on the Sabbath day.’

      Fancello’s beetle brows drew together in a frown. ‘You want the money, you do the late show. It is not for you to dictate terms to me.’

      Rose thought quickly. It would make life difficult, but she had no choice. There had never been any question of family members missing Sunday services, unless they were too ill to attend. Both she and Cora took Sunday school classes, and after evensong, at half-past seven on the dot, everyone gathered in the dining room to enjoy a cold collation as it was Mrs Blunt’s evening off. Her preferred way of spending her leisure time was to sit in the rocking chair by the range, knitting shapeless garments for the poor, while Rose and Cora tackled the washing-up in the scullery.

      Rose shook hands with Fancello. ‘Very well, I accept. When do we start?’

      ‘Two performances a night, every day of the week except tomorrow, which is Sunday, but I expect you here in time for the nine o’clock performance.’ He gave her a wolfish smile. ‘And you will need to broaden your repertoire. Alphonso will guide you; he knows all the popular songs. And you had better speak to my wife about new costumes. That is her department.’ He wandered off, berating one of the waiters for breaking a glass.

      Rose hurried to the tiny dressing room where Cora was struggling with her stays. She grabbed the laces and tugged on them until her sister gasped and begged for mercy.

      ‘Stop. I can’t breathe, let alone sing and dance.’

      Rose loosened them a little before tying a bow. ‘There you are, now you can help me with mine.’ She slipped off her plain grey gown. ‘Undo me, please.’

      ‘What were you saying to old Fancello?’

      ‘We were haggling over the amount of extra performances.’ Rose breathed out with a sigh as Cora undid the laces. She reached for her wrap and flung it around her shoulders. ‘We’re going to do the late show tomorrow, as well as two performances a night.’

      ‘On Sunday? That’s not possible.’

      ‘Fancello won’t budge, and I’ve worked it out in my head, Corrie. We’ll slip away after supper.’

      ‘But it’s Mrs Blunt’s night off.’

      ‘I’m going to ask Maisie to come and do the washing-up. After all, we used to have a scullery maid and a housemaid before Mama became ill, and I’m sure that Maisie could do with the money.’

      ‘How will you explain it to Pa?’

      ‘I don’t know yet, but leave it to me. I’ll think of something. We have to do it for Billy.’

      Rose began to apply her stage make-up, which was laid out on the narrow shelf that had to suffice as a dressing table. Each time she went through this routine she could see her mother’s face gazing reproachfully at her from the fly-spotted mirror.

      Cora, however, did not seem to have such reservations. She was humming a tune and smiling as she rouged her cheeks and lips. ‘I do hope he’s here tonight.’ She made a moue at her reflection. ‘We’ll have more time to make friends with the patrons; that’s the good thing about doing two performances a night.’

      ‘Yes,’ Rose said doubtfully. ‘But don’t get too involved, Corrie. It’s all part of the entertainment, as far as the audience are concerned, so you mustn’t take it too seriously.’

      ‘Ten minutes, ladies,’ Tommy Tinker bellowed through the keyhole. ‘We’ve got a full house tonight.’

      ‘Thank you, Tommy.’ Rose and Cora spoke as one, exchanged amused glances and giggled. Tommy Tinker might pretend to be a man of the world, but he had burst into the dressing room on one occasion to find them both in a state of undress. He had blushed to the roots of his hair, turned and fled. He had always assumed a cocky air since then, but he never looked them in the eye.

      Rose pinned a silk gardenia in her hair. ‘That will have to do. I’ve only got to put on my dancing shoes and I’m ready.’

      Minutes later they were waiting in the wings, and Fancello was going through his usual patter as he introduced them to enthusiastic cheers and clapping from the largely male audience. Rose peeped through the curtains, noting that there were only a few women present, and without exception they were gaudily dressed persons who would not warrant an invitation to tea at the vicarage. Mama would consider them past redemption, and Papa would try to save their souls, but Rose had become acquainted with some of them and she was no longer judgemental. Each of them had her own story, and virtually all had suffered abuse and hardships that Rose could never have imagined. It was ironic that she and Cora were now teetering on the brink of respectability, and one little nudge was all it might take to send them tumbling into the abyss of ruined reputation and disgrace.

      ‘Stop daydreaming, Rosie,’ Cora said urgently. ‘We’re on.’

      They pirouetted onto the stage, came to a halt with their hands clasped demurely in front of them, and launched into ‘The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze’, followed swiftly by their dance routine, with ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’ as an encore. They swept off into the wings, returning gracefully to loud applause, but Fancello

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