At this, the man went dark and the woman’s gaze flickered, a long-standing ache dulling her features. She knew about us, it seemed, and was ashamed.
He wrapped a protective arm around the small woman beside him, then I heard my father’s voice, smooth and silvery, for the first time: “I’m sorry, I believe you’re mistaken. It is our distinct disappointment that we have not been blessed with children.”
“Yet.” The woman’s sharp whisper was almost inaudible. The feather in her hat trembled.
My spirit crumbled at the gaping loss on her face, and I could not hurt her further with the truth of who I was. “Please, could you just tell me—”
He held up his hand with a frown, his eyes dull and distant. “I can do nothing to advance your career, no matter the connection you believe you have. I’m sorry. I bid you good night,mademoiselle.”
“Wait.” I touched his arm and he turned, slight offensestreaking his handsome face. If only he knew who I was ... “Perhaps you will remember my mother. She was known for her red shoes.” I lifted my eyes with as much dignity as I could, hoping they did not resemble a desperate puppy with all the hope and angst and waiting bottled up inside.
His gaze hardened, which wasn’t what I’d expected. He breathed in slowly, his coat stretching against his chest, then let it out with a gusty sigh and narrowing eyes. “Delphine’s. You are Delphine’s child.”
“Yes.” I breathed out the word.
His breath swirled out before my face, but he said nothing—only studied me.
The woman tugged on his arm. “Come, Peter.”
“No, no. This woman will know the truth.” He turned to me, steel in his eyes, his voice low. “I’m even less inclined to help you, knowing you areheroffspring. No good can come from Delphine Bessette, and I don’t mind saying it. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
He turned and left, that man from the portrait, leading his pretty wife by the arm. I stood alone on that sidewalk, clutching my arms about me, all my shame replaced with disbelief and a slow-burning bitterness. The chill of the night suddenly snaked through me.
Crushing. That’s what this was. Unexpectedly so. I hadn’t ever needed a father, had I? Yet he’d always been a question mark. An unfinished scene.
Now I knew. Scene closed.
The moment shattered around me as I watched them go, my much-anticipated meeting with my father over and done.“He’s ashell of a human. He ceased to live that night.”
I studied the man handing his much-younger wife into theircarriage, and my gaze burned into his back. He was doing an awful lot of living for a dead thing. I turned and felt my cheeks flame on the walk back to the stage door, a sullen sense of rejection hanging about me. This is how the world was—especially in theater. There was always drama and conflict, tragedy and secrets. Otherwise it didn’t belong onstage, did it?
I paused to throw one more look over my shoulder, watching him grasp the handles on either side of the carriage door and swing his tall frame up, and then it happened. It was so quick I almost wasn’t sure, but he glanced back at me from inside. For a flash, our eyes held.
Then he slammed the door and rode away.
In the morning, the reviews were all over the table at Mama Jo’s. They praised Annika for her “perfect execution” and theMorning Chronicleclaimed she “exercised a singular power over every muscle of her slender frame.” ThePostcalled her “exquisite beyond compare.” All the girls at Mama Jo’s gathered ’round the prints to greedily skim for their names, eager for a small taste of honeyed praise on their tongues. Nothing was said of my little spotlight, but I’d already had the most unshakable rejection I could imagine.
Nothing had changed in my life. Not truly. I’d never had a father to begin with.
When the run finally came to a close after two weeks of performances, I began saying yes. I said yes to Annika whenshe offered more private lessons, yes to Tovah when she invited me out on our day off. That second found me experiencing a public bathhouse for the first time.
The water shimmered in my own private copper tub, clean and inviting.
“It wasn’t all bad, you know. Especially for your first performance.” Tovah’s lively voice carried over the half wall separating us as we undressed in our stalls. Somehow, its timbre matched her thick, spiraling hair full of springy joy. “You should be glad.”
“That it’s over? Oh, I am.” I peeled my chemise off and slipped into the tepid water, closing my eyes as I sank to my neck. Yes, this had been a wise use of our day, even though it cost sixpence apiece.
The run had been hard. Fournier had sought me out for special criticism again, and I wore his words around my neck, along with the memory of my father’s turned back.
“Something’s been bothering you for weeks, hasn’t it? More than the performance. Since the first night, you weren’t yourself onstage.”
I sank lower in the tub. “I happened upon my long-lost father on opening night. He was in the audience.”
Water swished in the next stall, then her face appeared. “Truly? You never said a word. Well then, what did you think of the man?”
I lifted one foot from the water, studying my ugly, calloused toes. “He’s wed to another woman.”
“Is he, now?”
