He held up the little box, opening it so she could see the letters. “Her daughter gave me this. It’s how I found you.”
She poked one dirty finger through the pages. “Did she, now?”
“What can you tell me about Jane? What was she like?”
Her mouth worked, chin jutting as she retracted her hand from the box. “Determined. Broken by life like the rest of us, just a mite prettier. She had her windfall, she did, and never let a one of us forget it.”
Jack probed further, and Etta told the story of Jane Fawley, an unusually pretty girl who used to take injured animals and sick children into their home even when they hardly had enough to eat. “She always wanted better, that ’un. For her, and for everyone. Wanted more than anything to leave town, go out into the country. Have a quiet life in a great big house with a garden and a few pets. Perhaps a husband, if he didn’t get in the way too much.”
“There was actually a secret marriage. I’m not sure if you’re aware. It is said that she was quietly wed to her dancing partner, Marcus de Silva.”
At this, her mouth went slack, hand to her chest. She took two steps back.
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but—”
“No, it isn’t that. It’s just ... well, it seems he ain’t the only bloke she married.”
25
Idid it to myself, really—ruined my chances of dancing Paulina. It was raining, and important events often seem to happen on rainy days, when we’re trapped inside and gloom leads to deep thoughts. I was terribly nervous too, having been summoned to the Great Fournier’s mansion to meet with investors and subscribers, and nerves always made me brave. Or brash, perhaps, depending on one’s outlook. I straightened, in that gown that held my every curve captive, and strode into the parlor when beckoned by a liveried servant. “They’re ready for you, miss.”
Fournier’s parlor was quite a French affair, with terra-cotta floors, striped parlor chairs standing at attention, and ornately carved wood edging the room. Five men in dark suits clustered near a piano. Coral-colored couches with walnut feet surrounded the lot of us, with matching tassels hanging from long curtains. I hovered near the fringes, invisible to them. Then I heard a nearby whisper on a familiar voice: “Well, if it isn’t Paulina herself.”
Well,almostinvisible. I turned with a smile toward Jack. “Why are you here?”
“Why not?”
After a few moments of listening, I gathered they were talking about a visiting king, and how to entice him to the theater—specifically, to Craven. It was a long shot, most seemed to believe.
“Who are they talking about?” I whispered to Jack, leaning close enough to smell some sort of cream on his skin.
“The king of Belgium. He plans to take a tour in Great Britain this summer. And where he goes, throngs of the art world follow. It would mean everything if he came.”
“Is it William?” The slender Prince of Orange, with nervous eyes and a balding head, had been one option to lead the fledgling little nation, but not a good one. Perhaps I held it against him that the late Princess Charlotte, Mama’s most ardent fan, had refused to marry him. Anyone she despised I could not help but do likewise.
“No.” His breathy voice relieved me. “No, it is Leopold.”
I gasped. “Leopold? As in...”
“The German prince. He reluctantly accepted the Belgian throne in ’31.”
King Leopold.What sweet irony that this royal, dashing, and darkly handsome Leopold, who’d fought in the Imperial Russian army, had dethroned that odious Prince of Orange both as Belgium’s potential ruler ... and Princess Charlotte’s suitor.
“But ... I cannot dance before aprince.” The room tilted as if I were staring down from a high balcony. I dared a look at Jack. “You put them up to it, didn’t you? You convinced them to give me that part.” I hadn’t improvedthatmuch.
“I figured you just needed a little ... shove. I know you wouldn’t go out and grasp it for yourself, so I did it for you. Rather like shoving you off that loft.”
My fingers trembled. I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if Jack Dorian had thrown me onto the tracks of an approaching train.
“Listen, these are the investors, Craven’s business partners. They make decisions, give money, and take a share of everything the theater does—both losses and profits. It’s important that they like you.”
Fournier’s bold voice cut through my fear. “He’s been to Craven before, so it’s not out of the question.”
“What makes you think he’d ever visit the smallest theater in London on such an important tour?” said one of the men. “We’re not Drury Lane, nor King’s.”
“We must give him something truly special, then. Something personal that he cannot resist. A character named for his late wife, perhaps.”
Jack’s smile was smug and I knew his thoughts already. He sawmecast as Princess Charlotte. Fournier would never stand for it, though. I held to that little security. I simply wasn’t good enough for that.
