A powerful weakness swept through my middle at that word, thoughts instantly fracturing. The lack of that particular person in my life had wound through my being with a taut thread of insecurity that left me anxious, always with something to prove.
“You see why you cannot be in the theater, Ella.” She grasped my hand. “Life there is so complicated, so ugly. No one can be trusted, for they all want something—and they all know how to play a part.”
“But you just said hedidn’t—”
“I said I didn’tthinkso.” She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “We ran away to be married, and we kept it secret. That’s how much we loved each other. So I cannot imagine... But things between us were not so simple. Especially at the end.”
“Perhaps I can find out if he did.” For her as much as myself. She had silently tortured herself over this, it seemed—the unknown—for all this time. Closure would be a gift. “I’ve never met him, after all, so he wouldn’t know me.”
She straightened, giving a glimpse of the regal dancer she’d once been. “You will go nowhere near Marcus de Silva, Ella. He must never have a chance to find out who you are.”
“Why ever not, Mama? You once gave up a great deal to marry the man, so I cannot understand why you will have nothing to do with him.”
She laid a slender hand over mine. “This is how it must be. Will you do that for me?”
There was to be no father, no answers ... no theater. I hesitated, but with the wan look on her face, I nodded. Of course I understood.I didn’tneedmy father. Truly, I didn’t. I was an independent soul. Fathers, for girls like me, were optional.
Truly.
But it came about that one day a miracle did occur and I returned to ballet, to Philippe Rousseau, and to Craven Street Theatre.
As a dancer.
3
COVENTGARDEN, LONDON, 1838, FIVEYEARSLATER
The silent question swept through the air in that pillared greenroom like the breath of Delphine Bessette’s ghost—Who is she?
Perhaps returning to Craven had been a mistake. I couldn’t dance with the special scarlet slippers here, for they’d surely be recognized. I glanced at my worn carpetbag against the wall, seeing the lump of them within—perhaps it was a bad idea to bring them back here too.
“Torso stacked. Body long.” Signore Bellini, our formidable instructor, swept his arms up with dramatic arcs, as if to will our legs higher and straighter. “Liftfrom the legs andexplodethrough the torso.”
In neat rows we lifted and arched, leaning forward to brush the floor with our fingertips and rise as one. It was a beautiful, synchronized picture—and at last I was part of it.
“She certainly has poise,”one whispered as we moved intopliésat the barre. I dared not turn to look.
“If that’s what you call it,” said another. “Where did she even come from? Look at her nose in the air.”
I gripped the velvet-covered barre and focused, chin lifted. A hard ball of fear existed behind the poise—did they know that? Not one second of that day went by when I was not fully aware of the many years of formal training these dancers had over me, and that I was here by a mere fluke. An odd series of events. God’s grace.
Sheer good luck.
The barre held my focused attention and I continued deep pliés, brushing the floor with my fingertips over and over, until the sun dropped low behind London and Signore Bellini released us from training.
The man took a cloud of tension with him when he left, and the room unwound, the air ringing with feminine chatter as dancers draped themselves across chaise lounges and discarded sashes, chitchatting and laughing amidst the after-dance stretches. Tulle and satin billowed everywhere, giving the room a celestial feel.
I leaned my lower back against the barre and glanced around at the coveted greenroom rich with dignity—its tall, papered walls; gilded mirrors on the east side; and marble columns rising to the ornately carved ceiling in the center. So much light and color, more than I’d imagined.
No, this wasn’t a mistake. I’d been given one chance and Ineededto be here. I felt the ache of it in my bones, ever since I’d received word of the scholarship. I’d had to give up the flat with Lily, leaving her behind in a rooming house with a job at a textile place, but this place felt like home. Dancing in this theater was a final link to my mother, now three years gone, and a chance to maybe—just maybe—catch the eye of my mysteriousdisappearing father. I’d promised not to find him, but I couldn’t help it if he foundme,now could I?
Then the double doors burst open and the gentlemen invaded, tall and swarthyabonnés, as they were called in Paris, with generous swaggers and a highly agreeable air as they looked us over, judging who was fit to be set up in a discreet flat in Westminster. I dropped my gaze to the scored floor as I continued to stretch, trying not to think about the men’s wives—women bustling in earnest about their homes, maintaining warm sanctuaries and an efficient household, sadly believing their husbands belonged only to them.
I knelt before my worn carpetbag, digging aimlessly through the contents simply to dissuade the men from approaching. My fingertips found the satin of Mama’s scarlet ballet slippers and I paused, caressing them and drawing them to the surface of my bag for a look. How I missed home, and Mama and Lily. I hadn’t yet seen my adopted sister since returning from training in Paris.
I stiffened, feeling a presence behind me, someone’s eyes on my back. I turned, and my gaze met that of a bent, aged woman collecting the shoes. Her face was gray with shock, gnarled hands trembling. I rose, dropping the red slipper back into the shadows of my bag and shoving it closed with my foot. With a small, strangled cry, she dropped her basket of slippers, satin laces tumbling across the floor. The room quieted and several others glanced her way.
The wrung-out old woman, clutching a slipper from the basket, stepped closer to me. Her head came only to my chin, but she stared up at me. “It’s you.” Her glassy eyes seemed to look everywhere and nowhere on my face.
