Dare to Love (11 page)

I squeezed her hand. “I'm all right,” I repeated. “I—I've been trying to lose weight, and I just felt a little weak.”

Sarah was thoroughly exasperated. “For heaven's sake!” she snapped. “Of all the—you go home tonight and get something to eat! You'd better get in line now, our
pas de six
is about to begin. And try not to disgrace us.”

I smiled again, amused. Sarah's friendly abrasiveness had been exactly what I needed. I got in line with the other red roses who, listening to the music, awaited their cue. I detested self-pity, and I had come very close to it tonight. For a year now I had pushed myself with drive and determination, ignoring the loneliness, the emptiness inside, ignoring the hardship, fighting the bitterness and the pain that swept over me each time I thought of Brence Stephens. I had been strong, but the strain had finally gotten to me. As the dancers in pink whirled offstage, I felt a new strength, a new resolution.

I would find some sort of employment that would still permit me to continue with Madame Olga. I would serve food in a restaurant. I would even sweep floors, if necessary. I wasn't going to admit defeat. I would work and work, and that quality, that charisma, would materialize and I would become a great prima ballerina one day. I had to believe that, for that dream was all I had. It was all that kept me going. Without it, I would be utterly lost and the anguish I had been holding at bay would destroy me.

I moved onto the stage, on point, floating on air. I was one with the music now. I was part of the magic, a rose caressed with bright white sunlight. One
tour jeté
, two, perfectly executed. The pink roses joined us, surrounded us, and then the white, and we whirled, carried on air by the breeze in the garden. The music grew softer, slower, and the sunlight melted into gold, dark gold, fading into silver, silver-blue, dimming into darkness as we sank to the floor, petals folding.

The music ended. The curtain fell on the same tableau the audience had seen when the curtain rose. We maintained our positions as the curtain rose again, fell again, and then we hurried backstage to the sound of enthusiastic applause. The stage was bathed in blazing light. The heavy velvet curtain rose again, and we took our curtain calls just as Madame Olga had staged them. We were relaxed and elated, smiling as the audience continued to show its appreciation with hearty enthusiasm. Then Madame Olga moved regally on stage and acknowledged the applause with an imperious nod.

As Madame Olga left the stage, the curtain fell for the final time and the house lights came on. We adjourned to the dressing room. Though it was small and cramped and poorly ventilated, an atmosphere of bright frivolity prevailed. It was always like that after a performance. The dancers chattered vivaciously and laughed and dashed about like lovely, exotic birds, turning their costumes over to Mattie, changing into their street clothes, gossiping merrily as they sat at the mirrors lining the long dressing table. The air was heavy with the smells of sweat and powder and perfume. The two small windows opening onto the alley in back of the theater permitted only an occasional suggestion of fresh air into the room.

Taking off my costume, I handed it to Mattie and grabbed a towel from the stack she had placed on one of the benches. I patted myself dry, put on my petticoat, and sat down at the dressing table to unfasten my hair, letting it cascade about my shoulders. I removed my stage makeup and dried my face. Bone weary now, but in a much better mood than I had been earlier, I felt determined once again to succeed against all odds. This was my world, my life, and no amount of adversity was going to defeat me.

“I think it went very well,” Theresa exclaimed. “We were marvelous, just marvelous! All except Mary Ellen, of course. It's encouraging to know even she makes an occasional error, and it was a dilly!”

“I was terrible,” I admitted.

“That's all right, pet. I almost landed on my backside twice tonight. All right, who's got my rouge? First someone steals my box of powder, and now my bloody rouge is—”

“It's right there in front of you,” Jenny told her. “I'd be very careful how I use it. Madame might still be around, and you know how she feels. Only prostitutes wear makeup offstage, she says, and her girls must be above reproach.”

“You'd think she was running a bloody convent,” Sarah complained. “My brother brought me to the theater this afternoon, my brother, mind you. Madame saw us and I got such a lecture. Her young ladies must conserve all their energies for the dance—”

“I didn't know you had a brother,” Theresa said.

“She doesn't,” Jenny remarked.

“I do as far as Madame Olga is concerned. He's ever so nice. Dreamy brown eyes, dark red hair, and such shoulders! He's rich, too. Let me borrow a spot of your rouge, Theresa. I'm meeting him tonight.”

“I'm meeting my cousin,” Theresa informed us. “He's an Earl. At least he says he is. Has a divine flat in Kensington, servants and everything.”

“Is he the one who gave you the diamond bracelet?”

“That was my uncle, pet. The bastard went back to his wife two weeks ago, before I even got a necklace to match!”

The others burst into gales of merry laughter. I smiled and continued to brush my hair.

“Speaking of relatives,” Theresa said, “that man was out front again tonight, Mary Ellen. You know the one I mean, the divine-looking fellow who's been pestering you.”

“She saw him,” Sarah told her. “She's not interested.”

“I wish he'd pester me,” Theresa sighed. “I'd give up my cousin in a minute. Who is he, Mary Ellen?”

“His name is Anthony Duke.”

“Duke?” Regina trilled. “Did someone say there's a duke backstage?”

Sarah, Theresa, and Jenny groaned in unison. Regina wasn't noted for her towering intellect. The others treated her with a combination of patience and weary resignation.

“It's the Prince of Wales,” Sarah said.

“Oh? I'd love to meet him.”

“I bet he'd just love to meet you, too. He's almost five years old. You'd have so much in common.”

“What does this Anthony Duke do?” Theresa asked.

“He claims he's connected with the theater,” I replied.

“He looks like a bounder to me,” Jenny observed.

“They're the best kind. You're really not interested, Mary Ellen?”

“Not in the least.”

“I suppose you'd rather practice your dancing,” Theresa said dryly.

“It wouldn't hurt you to practice a little more yourself,” Jenny remarked. “If you keep on clumping about like you've been doing for the past couple of nights, Madame's going to put you out onto the street. I've no doub you'd feel right at home there.”

“Absolutely, pet.”

All three of them laughed in bright, silvery peals, Theresa the loudest. They continued to chatter, but soon forgot Anthony Duke and went on to another subject. Tuning them out, I brushed my hair and gazed at my reflection in the mirror, noting the changes a year had made. I was thinner, and my eyes were a darker blue, dark with the knowledge of life and loss and loneliness. My lids were brushed with faint violet shadows. My cheekbones were still too high, my mouth too large, too dark a pink. The features were the same as those of the eighteen-year-old who had gazed into her mirror a year ago, but there was a new maturity, a patina of disillusionment. The girl had vanished. The woman who had taken her place looked much older.

Putting the brush down, I turned around on the stool, slipped on my high-heeled violet pumps, and got up to dress. My blue-and-violet-striped cotton frock had long sleeves, a square-cut bodice, and a tight-waisted skirt that fell over my slim petticoats. It accentuated my full bosom and my slender waist. With my hair tumbling about my shoulders in rich, abundant waves as blue-black as a raven's wing, I looked like a dark, exotic gypsy with a curiously aristocratic demeanor. Not beautiful, but undeniably striking.

“I'm off!” Theresa cried. “Wish me luck with my cousin, girls. He's promised me a special treat tonight.”

“Let me guess,” Jenny said.

The dressing room began to empty out as the dancers departed, silks and satins rustling. In a flurry of excitement, Regina left, assuring her friend Martha that the Prince of Wales was waiting backstage. Discreetly rouged, sumptuously gowned, Sarah sighed wearily and bade the rest farewell. Jenny took down her cloak and told me she'd best get home to dear old Mum. Within a few minutes I was alone in the dressing room. The bright litter the girls had left in their wake glowed in the lamplight; soft gray shadows played over the damp tan walls.

I lingered for a while, putting away my brush and makeup in the drawer assigned to me, checking to see if my extra pair of ballet slippers was still in my locker. Finally, when Mattie came in to put out the lights, I left the dressing room and moved quickly past the backstage area, which was like a huge semidark cave festooned with bizarre black shadows. Hurrying down the narrow hall on the side of the auditorium, I ignored the stage door and stepped into the front foyer. The lobby had a shabby elegance about it with its worn red carpet and cream-colored floral wallpaper patterned in flaking gold leaf.

The chandelier was still ablaze. Todd stood in front of the doors, key in hand, face lined with weariness. Todd, caretaker of the theater and assistant stage manager, had his living quarters in the basement and he waited to see us all out every night.

“Evenin', Miss Lawrence. You're the last of the lot again.”

“Sorry, Todd. Mattie's still backstage.”

“I know. She an' me're gonna stroll 'round the corner for a quick nip when she finishes up. Can I fetch you a 'ansom?”

“I think I'll walk home, Todd.”

“You take care now, ya 'ear? It's mighty late for a pretty young lady like yourself to be wanderin' about alone.”

He held the door open for me. I smiled and thanked him, stepping out into the recessed area beneath the marquee. Carriages and hansom cabs rumbled up and down the street. Elegantly dressed pedestrians walked along the pavements, talking, laughing, enjoying the warm night air. Lamp lights created a soft golden haze, and there was no fog. Anthony Duke was nowhere in sight. I felt a wave of relief … and something absurdly akin to disappointment as well.

I started down the street in a pensive mood, a faint melancholy stealing over me as I thought of the lonely room that awaited me and the memories that invariably came to haunt me whenever I was alone and unoccupied. I had tried to fight them off for twelve months now, but still they came to torment me. The pain was still potent, the bitterness as strong, the longing worst of all. I hated Brence Stephens for what he had done to me, hated him with all my heart, and yet I longed to be in his arms, longed to know again that wild splendor we had shared.

As I reached the corner and paused to let a carriage pass before crossing the street, I heard the footsteps running toward me. I turned to see Anthony Duke hurrying toward me, his opera cape billowing behind him like dark wings, satin lining flashing. Reaching the corner, he stopped and grinned that audacious grin that was so engaging.

“I almost missed you,” he said. “I popped into the club to have a drink, struck up a conversation with a chap from the opera and completely lost track of time. Bet your heart sank when you didn't find me waiting.”

“Hardly,” I retorted.

“You on your way home?”

“That's none of your—”

“Of course you are,” he interrupted. “You never go anywhere else. I know. I checked it out, made inquiries. I know all about you, luv.”

“Mr. Duke—”

“I'll just walk along with you. Who knows what evil these dark streets conceal? You'll feel much safer with a big strong chap like me at your side. You might even invite me up to your room.”

“If you don't—”

He seized my arm and, cutting me short, said, “If I don't stop bothering you, you'll call a Bobby. Right? Wrong. I'm a very persistent fellow, Mary Ellen. I always get what I want. I've been patient up till now, but my patience is fast running out. If you don't behave, I'm likely to throttle you.”

He removed his hand from my arm and grinned again. I slapped him across the face, a resounding blow that stung my hand. Anthony Duke make a clacking noise with his tongue and slowly shook his head.

“Oh, luv,” he said. “You really shouldn't have done that.”

XII

He made no attempt to restrain me as I started across the street, nor did he follow me. Halfway down the street I turned to look back. He was still standing at the corner, rubbing his jaw, and his expression seemed thoughtful. The incident disturbed me more than I cared to admit. I had difficulty getting to sleep that night, for once not thinking of Brence, thinking instead of the audacious stranger who had come into my life so recently, who seemed to believe he could simply take over, order me about, treat me as though I were his own personal property.

At rehearsal the next morning, I was still thinking of him as we began our exercises. We wore black ballet slippers, black tights, and black cotton practice costumes that resembled petticoats with full skirts that swirled just below the knees. The rehearsal hall was warm and we were all perspiring. Madame was in a demonic mood, snapping orders in a chilling voice, clapping her hands together angrily, stamping her foot. She wore a long blue smock with full, flowing sleeves. Ropes of opals hung around her neck, purple; violet-blue, opal pendants dangling from her ears. She was very unhappy with us, dark eyes flashing, blood-red mouth tight with disapproval.

She was particularly displeased with me today. I could tell that. Madame Olga knew I was dedicated, that I devoted far more time to practice than the others. She approved. Never friendly with any of us, she had always treated me with a modicum of respect which, though barely perceptible, was there nonetheless. This morning her manner had been frigid when I greeted her. Those great eyes had been afire with disapproval. She had not returned my greeting, but nodded curtly, instead, and clapped her hands and ordered us to get in line.