Daphne
La Traviata
“T
he Devil stalks the streets of Whitechapel!” the boy shouted, shoving a newspaper in my face. I shivered in my thick wool coat. “Do you want to read about it, sir?”
I pulled the top hat lower to hide my face. Sir. That’s what I was posing as tonight.
A woman should never walk the streets alone, my brother always said. Too bad I’d never been good at listening.
“London’s women fear the night, for the fiend walks among us, still.” The boy’s voice dropped, and he winked at me. “Pictures of the latest crime scene inside, sir! The Ripper doesn’t stop! Scotland Yard is baffled!”
I picked up my pace as the newspaper boy lunged after another potential customer. “Aren’t you afraid to walk alone at night?” His bare feet slapped against the wet pavement, and he disappeared into the mist.
I pulled my collar higher. The night was chilly, and the buttons I’d torn loose during my escape did little to keep it out. Ahead, the milky lights of the Royal Italian Opera House rose from the fog like the gate to another world. The voices and clatter of hooves grew louder. I paused in the halo of a gas lantern to catch my breath and checked that the fakemoustache was still in place. “Damn and blast,” I muttered, wincing at the scratches that stung across my hands. My climb from the window had taken its toll. The ivy blanketing the old stone walls gave me enough footholds to climb down, though freedom came at a price. It wasn’t the bruises I feared—it was my brother’s punishment for recklessness. Sneaking out at night without a chaperone would get me a bad beating. And I was wearing his best suit as if to add insult to injury.
“Why do you have to be like this, Daphne?” he screamed when I asked to see Nellie Melba sing La Traviata. “Why must you always be so difficult? Can’t you be gentle, like the other ladies? You should be courting a suitor, not wasting time on nonsense like opera!”
When he locked me in my room, I didn’t bother screaming or pounding on the door. We’d been through this too many times. I knew it wouldn’t change his mind.
The click of the lock was worse than when he chopped my piano into firewood. Worse than when he forbade me to sing. His need for control had shattered the girl I used to be—and in her place, I’d built someone new. Resourceful. Resilient.
So the first thing I did, once the bolt slid into place, was hatch a plan.
And when I told Tilly that I intended to escape and attend La Traviata disguised as a man, her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“If Sir Arthur finds out, m’lady, he’d surely kill you this time. And I cannot watch this. Or he’ll kill us both,” she whispered, nervously twisting the hem of her white apron.Still, Tilly did as I asked, loyal as ever, and brought me one of Arthur’s suits along with my meager dinner.
As I stood in the lantern’s light and watched the crowd entering the Opera, my lips stretched into a smile so wide that it nearly unglued my moustache. I made it here. I won. It was a bloody grand plan. I smirked, drinking in the shimmer of diamonds and silks, the rustling of dresses and the scent of perfumes and cigars. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I rushed up the stairs to the entrance, looking down to avoid any curious looks. The last thing I needed was to walk into an acquaintance now. Or even worse, some of Arthur’s friends.
Being caught in trousers—let alone in public—would be enough to destroy our family’s name in every parlour from Mayfair to Malta. My blood chilled at this thought, but I forced one foot in front of the other. The perfumed crowd around me was lost in its vanity, and no one spared me a glance. At least, I prayed they didn’t. Each step felt heavier as if my limbs were full of lead, but I was inside.
Ushers hurried around with trays of sandwiches, petits fours and champagne. My stomach growled. These past few months, Arthur had given me only half portions because “a lady must be thin and ephemeral like a forest nymph to attract a good husband.”
Blend in, don’t attract attention, don’t act weird, I reminded myself and ignored my desire to fill the pockets of Arthur’s coat with sandwiches for later.
Good job, Daphne. Now, quickly to my box.
I pointedly ignored the coat closet, already crowded with visitors. Staring at the black-and-white tiles beneath my feet, I headed to the staircase that would lead me to—
“Sir,” someone behind my back called. “Lord Draymoore?” I froze when I heard my family name. “Do you want me to take your coat before you head to your seat?” A white-gloved hand stretched before me, barring my escape. An usher appeared, dressed in an immaculately tailored burgundy waistcoat. He squinted, noticing my narrow, freckled face and my eyes, so different from my brother’s. A wrinkle appeared between his brows.
“I mistook you for Lord Arthur Draymoore.” He cleared his throat, scanning my clothes. Noticing the missing buttons. And probably that ridiculous moustache that Tilly insisted on. My blood turned to ice. He’d surely start shouting and draw everyone’s attention. My muscles tensed. I glanced at the door. It wasn’t far. If I ran now, I might still get out of this mess without getting recognized.
“May I see your ticket, sir?”
His tone shifted so suddenly that the air itself seemed to change. A few curious glances turned our way. Gathering every ounce of composure, I drew the ticket from my pocket and handed it to him with the cool indifference of an aristocrat who clearly had somewhere more important to be.
“Oh, I will escort you to Lord Draymoore’s box, sir.” He paused, eyeing me with suspicion. I stared back without saying a word. “I have expected Lord Draymoore. He asked me to purchase this ticket months ago. He was keen to watch Madame Nellie perform. Are you…family?” His eyes lingered on my bloodied hands, still holding the ticket. I shoved them deep into my pockets. Oh, how tempted I was to tell him the truth about Lord Draymoore! My brother’s name rolled off his tongue with such admiration and servitude.
Arthur was busy having one of his episodes, I wanted to say, like any other night since the death of our parents. It started with alcohol, then locking himself in Father’s study. Our servants were smart enough to flee the house when he started breaking furniture. He’d have probably forgotten about the ticket he bribed this man to buy.
“I’m a friend,” I said in the deepest tone my voice could produce.
“Very well. Follow me, sir.” With one final suspicious look lingering on my moustache, he headed to the stairs. My knees nearly buckled with relief.
All my fears melted like snow in April when we reached the box. The usher offered a reserved bow and left. I sank into the chair. My fingers brushed over the gilded carvings, and I inhaled the scent of wood, rose water, and melted wax. I felt like that little girl again who saw her first opera with her mother. How much had changed since those days when I heard Verdi for the first time!
