“A roofanda bed?” His quiet smile warmed right through the cold of the winter night.
I allowed the conversation to remain on the surface while I studied him. So handsome, so reserved, compared to what he’d once been. The theater had used him up, it seemed, but hadn’t Paris done the same to me? Change had settled on both of usthese past years, but his both intrigued and worried me. There was a depth, a knowing sadness in his expression that made me want to ask him where he’d been and what he’d done. Or what had been donetohim. Life had worn down that boyish enthusiasm, paling the sparkle and dimming his eyes considerably.
He caught me staring and smiled. “Feeling better now?”
“Yes.” My cheeks were surely pink—from the cold and other things. “Thank you for the rescue and for escorting me.”
He gave a gallant bow and stopped before a rough wooden door. “My pleasure. And I’ll repeat the gesture whenever you find yourself alone at the theater come nightfall.”
I sensed many late-night rehearsals in my future. “Thank you.”
“I’ve done it for many dancers over the years.”
My smile froze. He’d gone and cheapened the offer. No matter, he was still the finest gentleman anywhere in the theater world, and it validated my years of infatuation.
Which was quickly hardening into something rock-solid.
The door opened and a dark-haired woman with classic, gently aged beauty looked out from the shadows. “Why, Monsieur Rousseau. A pleasant surprise.” Her voice carried the gentle upward clip of a French upbringing.
“My apologies for dropping a boarder on you so late.” He flashed a quiet smile. “The girls gave her a bit of a rough time tonight, and she was held up.”
I choked on a laugh, scrambled for a smidge of dignity. “Ella Blythe.” I curtsied.
“Come in, Miss Blythe.” Her wide smile was warm and generous, her nature magnetic. “Thank you, Monsieur Rousseau, and don’t be troubled over the hour. I’d much rather a new dancer here safe with me than wandering through London alone.”
“Shall I send for your things then, Miss Blythe? I’d rather see to it than have you trying to find a boy on your own at this hour.”
I could hardly stand to look at his gentle face—it was so gracious and refined and everything I was not accustomed to. “How kind of you, sir. I would be in your debt.” I scribbled my address in Soho, then after a quick bow, Philippe Rousseau was gone from my side.
The woman ushered me into the darkness that was pleasantly warm with the scent of honeyed cinnamon and yeast. “My name is Josefina Herrera, but the dancers, they call me Mama Jo.” Her low voice came silky smooth in the dark, skipping over thejat times with aysound. “It’s my task to keep you reasonably moral and your evenings exceptionally dull. Fournier hates for his dancers to be inflicted with ...immorality.” She paused to light an oil lamp on a small table and turn up the wick.
With childis what she meant, of course.
“You’ve had a taste of life at the ballet tonight, I understand.” She led me up the tightly curling steps. “Which of them was it?”
I racked my mind for the name on the edge of my memory. “She has blonde hair and little earbobs, and she always looks as though she’s laughing inside at some little secret.”
“Oui, Minna Frank.”
“Yes, that’s her. I suppose I said something to offend her.”
“Or not.” Shadows leaped on either side of us in the narrow stairway. “It is the great paradox of art,ma petite. Ballet is all delicacy and grace, yet it brings out the barbaric side of every woman who dances it. They are like starving wild dogs, fighting over the few choice pieces of meat.” She turned and inserted a long gold key, the light she held flickering between us, and pushed open a door. “One only has to worry if she is any good.”
I shivered at the words, an echo from my past. The womanushered me into my new home awash in blue-black dusk, her lamp heightening all the shadows hiding within.
It was a small, square room papered with a floral design and filled with two brass beds, twin wardrobes, and dressing tables. “Everyone wishes to be principal, Miss Blythe, or to lure the wealthiest abonné to sponsor her on the stage and ... beyond. A sparkling position on the stage and a generous annuity is all they dream of in this life. How else will the dancer survive, once she outgrows her youthful bloom?”
I shrugged, throwing a smile her way. “Become aMamanto the younger.”
She studied me in the flickering light, her knowing smile proving I’d pegged her accurately. “You will do well at Craven,Miss Blythe. You’ll not be in the corpsfor long.”
“Sujet, actually.” At her shock, I was struck by my mistake, but I was too late. “Lower tier, of course.” As if that fixed it.
Confusion shadowed her smooth face. “You are beginning in the sujet? How long have you trained?”
“Two years.”
More surprise, lifting her arched eyebrows. “And where are you from, Miss ... Blythe, is it?”
