I lowered my gaze, gave a little shrug at his on-the-nose summary. “It’s Fournier, actually. I cannot seem to please the man, and now he’s asked me to do extra training.”
“Ah, so that’s what’s got hold of you. Might I offer a word of advice?” He held the middle doors of the main theater entrance and ushered me out of the gloom and into the sunshine, the cold fresh air of a London winter tipping just a smidge toward spring.
“Of course.”
“Don’t let him trouble you. The Great Fournier is a man of few compliments but immense discernment. That’s what makeshimstand out in the theater world. Rather than being caught up by flashy smiles and polished poise, Fournier can spot raw ability in the simplest girl and fan it open like peacock feathers.So if he says two words to you, even harsh ones, it means he thinks you’re worth teaching, and you are most privileged.”
I huffed out a cold breath. “Privileged, indeed.” I tried to embrace his words, but there wasn’t a compliment big enough to outweigh the massive doubt that nibbled daily on my soul. There were simply too many threats to my future, my position too tenuous. And if I failed, what then? I would leave the theater, and ... well, everything. My past, my future, a large piece of who I was.
“I’m certain he sees what I see—a most stunning dancer.”
Stunning.I shivered at the shock of that word and tucked it away in my heart for later. He noticed my shiver and I ducked my head. “I left without my wrap. I should return for—”
“Take mine.” With a gentle swirl, his coat was off, its weight embracing my shoulders. “He was a dancer once too, you know. Fournier understands what he’s putting you through, and he knows what he’s doing.”
I let that statement hang without refuting it, and my mind lingered on the oddness of the great bear of Craven once having been a dancer.
Nearing the Strand, we followed the crush of vendors and pedestrians beneath the colorful hanging signs, and he guided me toward the square, where we stopped before a horse-and-rider statue of King George IV. A carriage veered and clipped close, and I fell against Philippe, but it didn’t jar him. Nothing did, it seemed. He was so solid. I needed solid.
He sighed. “Theater is not an easy life. The days are not cushioned with ease or kind words. Perhaps it would be bearable if it weren’t so lonely.”
My chest tightened at his admission. “Oh?”
He was quiet for a moment. Thoughtful. “Ours is the onlyprofession, it would seem, that is incompatible with marriage. No matter how much we wish for it, no one will have us in their parlors, or their hearts.”
Except other dancers. “Certainly there’s a woman out there who—” I bit my lip to stop the foolish words that were about to leave my mouth.
Silence cooled the air between us as we walked on, his hand lifting to swing a butcher’s sign overhead. At last he spoke, his voice low and timbered. “There was. Once.”
My head jerked up, so shocked I was to receive an answer to something personal. “What?”
“Several years ago, of course. Before I knew how downright wretched women could be—and how foolish, men. Forgive me, for I’m certain you would not trifle with a man.” He sighed again. “Serves me right, though. Love seldom ends well for dancers, and I shouldn’t have expected to be the exception.”
I let his words linger in the air and thought of the great theater love story of the past as I said, “All real love is rare.” We approached the Waterloo Bridge and the silvery Thames below, shimmering with the sun’s reflection on little shards of ice floating downriver. “You are more than merely a dancer, you know. You are a man like any other.” Only better, of course.
Something bobbed in his throat, but I dared not acknowledge this subtle show of emotion. “I’ve always been who I am. My parents were in theater, and I was born in a dressing room in Munich. I’ve never known anything else. It’s in my blood, like a curse. I knew it then, and I knew it when Florentine left me.”
Florentine. Even her name sounded exotic, and I suddenly felt homely.Ella. Plain Ella Blythe.
Yet I was here, plain or not—and unlike Florentine, I wasn’t leaving. A lump in my throat blocked the words, but I squeezedhis arm. Then we turned down a narrow street, quiet with modest brick-front homes, and stopped, Philippe facing me, and it struck me with a pounding heart—this was the perfect moment to tell him. The door was open, and we were alone. With an inhale, I summoned the best of my practiced speeches.
He spoke first. “I’m rather glad it’s over. I suppose I shouldthankthat Jack Dorian. There’s a lot of pressure involved in marriage and ... well, women. Begging your pardon again, of course. I simply haven’t found one I could trust.”
I looked up at his clean, handsome profile lit with sunlight, praying my heart was not glowing through my face.Yes ... yes you have.Yet it seemed as if he was warning me. Informing me of the truth about himself and what he’d never be able to give.I waited, afraid to break the tenuous spell that had opened him up. I sensed an ocean of story beneath the murky waves, and I wished to unleash it all. “You never tried to win her back?”
“Well, she married a marquis within the month and is now quite happy in her Berkeley Square home.”
“Oh.”
“Jack Dorian never keeps anything for long, you know.” He looked down at me, taking my hand and holding on to it. That gaze, the one full of warm syrup and poetry, lay heavy on me now. I could not look away. “Beware of the men who hang about the theater. They’re all a bit like Jack Dorian underneath, just waiting to take advantage. Some even ... place bets. I did catch wind of something of this nature afoot. You do understand my meaning, don’t you?”
Jack Dorian. I gave a dull nod, for no other part of my face worked. So I was now a game for them all. Including the man who had a say in casting.
But Philippe’s thumb traced a path on my open palm, andat that slight movement, thoughts of Jack melted away. I stared at our hands together. It was a solid step forward, a bridge crossed from feigned ignorance to acknowledging something more existed between us. I could barely manage to keep my head affixed, my arms from trembling. It was all so close, so new. So lovely and full of the scent of soap and comforting wool in the chill of winter’s wind.
“Ella, may I...” Glass broke somewhere in the distant alley and he straightened, breaking contact. A cat gave a strangled cry. “I beg your pardon. I’ve forgotten myself. We should return.”
I compelled myself back to reality, trying in vain to shrug off the disappointment. We walked back to the side entrance and just inside the door, Philippe bowed in his usual way with a tip of his hat. I forced a smile and took another look at his somber face. It wasn’t a thousand unwritten poems weighing him down, but a thousand unspoken sadnesses, and they’d break him as they’d broken Mama. As they threatened to break me. I’d only begun to hear his story, I was certain.What has happened to you, Philippe?
