the sheet Jonathan Ede had given her. She looked up for a moment. 'Go away, James. I'll need to concentrate if I'm to learn these words in time for his return to the theatre.'
Jonathan was back in about twenty minutes and strode straight on to the stage. 'Come up here,' he shouted to Dara, 'and leave that copy of “The Black-Ey'd Susan” on the seat down there.'
When Dara joined him, he stood her in the centre of the stage and came down the steps to seat himself beside me.
Alright, off you go, young lady. And speak up so they can hear you at the back of the theatre.'
Dara gave a little nervous cough, announced the title of the ballad and commenced the first stanza:
'All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind.
When black-ey'd Susan came aboard.
Oh! Where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
Does my sweet William sail among your crew?'
Jonathan stood up and shouted, 'Very good so far, but raise your voice a little; I'm sure they wouldn't be able to hear you in the back rows.'
'William, who high upon the yard,
Rock'd with the billows to and fro;
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd and cast his eyes below.
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And quick as lightning on the deck be stands.'
Jonathan Ede was leaning forward eagerly to listen intently with admiration on his face. Here, I thought, was a girl whose intelligence and fine judgement told her when to pause for dramatic effect and when to raise the emotions by pitching her voice higher. Her delivery and sense of pathos matched her beauty so stunningly that even an old cynic like Jonathan was visibly impressed.
'The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread,
No longer must she stay on board;
They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head;
Her less'ning boat, unwilling rows to land;
Adieu! she cries, and wav'd her lily hand.'
Carried away by her emotions, there were tears welling up in Dara's eyes as Jonathan stood up and shouted, 'You're hired.' Making his way towards the door, he said, 'See you both Thursday week, here, at midday,' and then waved his goodbye.
Doctor Shepherd's burial took place the next day. What few possessions he had-gold watch, ring and clothing-had all been sold. The amount we got from these personal effects and the money I found in one of his jacket pockets was just enough to pay for the coffin, funeral expenses and a small headstone for his grave. It was a simple inscription engraved on the headstone as Dara knew so little about his family connections. The words on the stone, Dr Lionel Shepherd, died 2 April 1860. RIP., occupied my attention as the men lowered the coffin into the grave.
A blazing hot sun shining in a wide blue sky on this cemetery near Brooklyn had no effect on Dara's grief and sadness. I think right up to the moment that the grave diggers started shovelling earth onto the coffin to fill in the grave, Dara had held back from facing the realization of the doctor's death. There was something final about the soil covering the coffin that released the tears which began to stream down her face. Peerless Green Cemetery had leafy avenues of trees and green paths, but the warm sunshine and beautiful surroundings couldn't penetrate her grief. Racked with deep shuddering sobs, she clung to me as I led her away from the grave to a seat overlooking the bay to give her time to regain her composure.
Away from the cemetery, we were able to board a passing omnibus so crowded that it was standing room only. It swayed so violently that, although we were hanging on to anything we could clutch with our hands, there was a danger of being flung into the street as the vehicle lurched around bends. The driver, whipping up the horses to increase the speed as we rounded the bends, made matters worse and, when we reached our destination at Mill-Colonnes cafe, I alighted like a drunk who had lost the use of his legs.
After the quiet atmosphere of Peerless Green Cemetery, the noise in the street was deafening. What with the seething traffic, newspaper vendors and street traders vying in shouting each other down, the cafe was, in comparison, a place of peace and calm. The midday rush hadn't commenced and, as we practically had the place to ourselves, we were able to eat and talk in a leisurely fashion. Dara was still in a sombre mood so I suggested a quiet afternoon at the apartment and then, to cheer her up, a trip to a burlesque show in the evening.
Niblo's Theatre whereThe Black Crookhad been on for years, was almost full but I managed to obtain two seats near the stage. The front of the stage was lined with chamber vases, in the vernacular of the hoi polloi, better known as 'piss pots'. Each of these was a base for a beautiful display of flowers. Clipper built girls, wearing barely enough to be decent, performed something that was a crude mixture of ballet and burlesque. The tantalizing glimpses of tits and bums did nothing for me but it got a rousing response from most of the audience. A disappointing evening for me and I think it did little to raise Dara's spirits.
The wedding, like the doctor's burial, was a quiet affair. Some cleaners and two or three ladies decorating the church with displays of flowers were the only people in attendance. Dara, wearing a modest white frock with a simple design of embroidered pink roses on the bodice, created a good impression with the ladies witnessing the ceremony. Her pale, beautiful face framed by the rich chestnut hair bore a subdued expression as we stood, side by side, listening to the Reverend Holloway solemnizing the marriage vows. When she raised her head up for the customary kiss from the bridegroom I considered myself indeed fortunate and a lucky dog to have captured such a pretty young girl for a bride.
In the evening, to celebrate our wedding, we had a dinner of Virginia ham, devilled turkey legs and creamed chicken hash, followed by endless heaps of waffles served with silver jugs full of hot maple syrup and side dishes of strawberry shortcake. After dinner we went on to a ball at the Park Theatre where we danced quadrilles and waltzes until nearly midnight, arriving back at my apartment pleasantly tired and ready for bed.
On Saturday afternoon we visited the harbour, walking along South Street looking with interest at dozens of ships moored there. Their towering masts and rigging rose majestically from the decks whilst their great bowsprits loomed threateningly over our heads. It was not a particularly salubrious neighbourhood, with its tenement workshops occupied by pinched-up women with shrunken cheeks and heavily bearded Jews sewing dresses or mending shoes. Life for some immigrants wasn't all it should be. On our way back we enjoyed the colourful Italian life of Mulberry Street with its variety of street stalls.
I pointed out to Dara some places of interest and remarked that there was some justification for New Yorkers constantly repeating what a great city it was to live in.
Although not as big as London, I imagine,' Dara replied.
'True,' I answered, 'but did you know that it's really a royal city?'
'Royal?' queried Dara. 'How do you make that out?'
'Simple,' I said. 'It is named after the Duke of York who later became James II, the last of the Stuart kings. If one can believe all that is written about him in the history books, he was a most unpleasant personage. Like many other kings before him he was an insatiable lecher exercising his royal prerogative to bed any of the ladies-in- waiting at court who took his fancy. When his wife died he sought details of all the unmarried royal ladies that might be available to him and chose a fourteen-year-old, Mary Beatrice, an Italian princess who was about to become a nun.'
'Did she want to marry him?' Dara asked me.
'Certainly not. She had no say in the matter. Princesses marry the man their parents choose for them. She burst into tears on hearing of the proposal and begged her parents to allow her to become a nun as she abhorred
