“Ah. You’ve angered one of them. Welcome to the world of ballet.”
I sighed, wishing I dared limp to accommodate a throbbing spot on my hip. “Are they always this way?”
He shrugged. “I suppose they sleep at times.”
I laughed, then smothered it with my hand. What a child he must think me. But somehow this man had momentarily lightened the secret burden I carried of “not enough.”
“They’re not horrible. Most are quite helpful and supportive of one another, but a few at the top—they’re desperate. Scared.” He helped me on with my cloak, then turned me to face him again, those fathomless dark eyes snapping in the chilly air of the empty theater, and once again the butterflies danced in my belly. It was almost more than I could bear. “Where exactly did you come from?”
I blew out a breath, all my secrets piling up behind my lips, and one word escaped as I pulled on my gloves. “Paris.”
“I should have known,” he mused. “A vibrant city produces a vibrant dancer.” He laughed, slipping his fingers around the back of his neck. “Forgive me. What I should ask is, where are you staying?” He lifted my hat down from the hook and held out his arm. After I grabbed my carpetbag, we walked down the short flight of steps and out the stage door into the cold, quiet alley. “Would you allow me to carry your bag?”
Embarrassed at the broken handle, the very shabbiness of it, I held the old thing close. “Thank you, I can manage. It really isn’t heavy.”
“I assume you haven’t far to go, then. You still haven’t told me where you stay.”
“Soho, just off Haymarket.” I pulled my carpetbag into the folds of my wrap and tried not to cringe at the notion of him seeing my dirty little rooming house with its single soot-stained upper window. I hadn’t even unpacked my meager trunk yet.
He hesitated as we reached Craven Street, out in front of the theater. Raucous laughter and music from the pub across the way drifted past us. “So far? You’ll grow weary of such a journey, on top of dancing all day.”
“Decent rooms are not plentiful in Covent Garden. Not for a beginning dancer.”
Traps of all sorts rattled by, crunching over rocks and broken bricks. He spoke above the din of London, the passing voices louder and oiled with drink. I didn’t relish the late walks home, now that I was standing out here at night.
“There’s a place a few streets away that houses dancers. It’s safe and clean. Shared rooms, but only five shillings a week. Would that suit?”
“Oh yes, quite.” My face heated as my words gushed out, like a desperate woman accepting his invitation to dance.
He merely offered a bow with a most gentlemanly smile and led me along under the gaslights, allowing the snow to gather on his broad shoulders and felt hat.
Icy flakes whipped against my cheeks. “How is it so...”
“Modestly priced? It’s owned by the theater. The Great Fournier, as he’s called around here, likes to manage his ballerinas onandoff the stage.”
Fournier. Craven’s owner, if I remembered right. I’d seen that name in a flourish of signatures on all the pages of my contract. “What makes him ‘great’?”
He stopped in the snow. “Haven’t you met him? You’d certainly know the answer if you had.”
“Is he quite terrible?” I dreaded meeting him, dancing before him.
“Don’t let him scare you. The secret is to look just past him, never directly in the eyes. That’s where his power lies.”
I shivered.
He pointed to the east. “Come, I’ll deliver you to Mama Jo at the dormitory. She’s far more agreeable than those dancers. And Fournier, for that matter.”
We crossed onto Bleaker, and I doubled my pace to keep up, neatly dodging a horse and carriage clopping over the cobbled road as my carpetbag bounced against my shins. The odd mix of aromas—beached sewage and rotting food crossed with fine leather and horses—merely demonstrated what a blend of classes London was. The poor living separately, yet so near the rich to better serve them, launder their clothing, and drive their carriages.
I slipped my gloved hand farther into the crook of his arm and resisted the urge to lean into his warm wool coat, drinking in his nearness. The words between us that night were few and simple, but there was a weight to them that lingered, each dropped like a stone in a pond.
“You’ll have to send for your things, of course.”
“Yes, I’ll see to it.”
“I do hope you find the room comfortable.”
“If it has a roof and a bed, it’ll do.”
