He settled me in a chair, but I popped up the minute he went to fetch me a warm drink, and I paced before the old newsprint clippings tacked up on his far wall. “They’re guilty. They have to be. If I ever doubted it before, I don’t anymore. She talkedabout the kerosene lamp, but every single article talks about acandlebeing knocked over.”
Jack stood before me with a steaming cup, which I did not take. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going there? You shouldn’t have gone alone.”
I rushed on, right over his admonishment. “It’s true, about the lamp—Mama told me she heard it smash just before she saw the flames, but no one knew that’s how it started except for her. And, curiously, Lady Gower. Either she was told, or she was there.”
His face glowed. He was growing excited along with me. He dropped into a chair, rocking back and resting a notebook on one bent leg. “An astute observation. Yes, that does fit with what I’ve found.” He started writing.
“It still doesn’t add up, though. Lady Gower was jealous enough to rid the world of my mother, or cover up for her murderer, yet she has displayed Mama’s scarlet ballet slippers on her wall. It makes no sense for the scarlet slippers—thoseslippers—to be hanging in the woman’s own house. Or for her husband to go to the trouble of stealing them from me.” I thought of that green hat hanging in the hall of their house.
“Of course it does.” He dropped his chair forward on all fours again, his face solemn. He rose and dropped his notebook, taking hold of my shoulders as if to steady me. “Because the woman you just met withisDelphine Bessette.”
My mouth opened and closed, then opened again. “How ... how ...” My brain spun. I stood, agitated, palms on the table. “You’re calling my mother a fraud.”
“A backup. But not the only Delphine Bessette. After what you told me, and what I found in Gretna Green, it’s the only answer that makes sense. I’ve been turning it over in my headall day. Lord Gower has onlyonecertificate of marriage, and it’s to a Miss Jane Fawley, age twenty-eight years, dated two daysafterthe fire. A different woman named Viola, age twenty-two, is listed as the wife of Marcus de Silva, also married in Gretna Green two years prior. It seems they are not the same woman although they oddly shared the same wedding location.”
I braced my throbbing head with my hands, trying to sort it all out. “You’re saying she’s a fraud ...andthe mysterious other woman who stole him away.”
“I don’t believe Marcus de Silva was ever in love with the real Delphine. That’s why he spoke of her with such disdain.”
I shuddered as I recalled the look on his face when I’d told him I was Delphine Bessette’s daughter. He believed I belonged to this woman, Lady Gower—and had no connection to him.
“So that means the fire merely gave her an opportunity to fake Delphine’s death. Then she lit out of town and married one of her many admirers and lived out her life rather comfortably in seclusion.”
“She loved being Delphine, though. The way she spoke of her today ... Why would she have allowed all of that to come to an end?” The minute I asked, though, I knew the answer.
“Forced retirement. She must have been nearing the end of her prime, and this allowed her to fade away into memories.”
“But why the elaborate hiding? What was she trying to escape?”
He sighed and shrugged. “There’s a good chance your mother, since she also claimed to be Delphine, was a stand-in for the real one. A sort of last-minute back-up for emergencies. The good news is that the love letters, the sister, the manyadmirers, the terrible temper ... those all belonged to Jane Fawley, the true Delphine—not your mother.”
“A small consolation.” She was a fraud.Iwas a fraud, and I felt again my utter smallness.
His hands stayed steady on my shoulders. “I didn’t want to tell you all of this, but I felt I must warn you. I’ve no idea what Jane Fawley—Lady Gower—intends if she feels threatened by you. By us. There’s a good chance she herself set the fire, and she believes she’s guilty of murder. I’m writing a different ending to the ballet so she doesn’t know we’re onto her.”
I sank back into the chair, keeping my eyes on him. “This cannot be true.” All this time I’d known that Jack Dorian was many things, but I’d never considered him a liar.
Yet he must be. Because if he wasn’t, it meant Mum was. The notion left me feeling lost, and quite adrift. I’d always been Delphine Bessette’s daughter, even if I was the only one who knew it. I may be poor and less talented and less amusing than the others, but I had that secret in my pocket, like an anchor for my identity. I’d wanted to be more, to prove myself—to God and others—but I was truly nothing. No one. Just some poor wretch brought here on charity.
He urged me toward the table. “Come now, have a cup. I’ll let you pick the ending we use.” His voice was gentle. Almost apologetic.
I couldn’t do anything but perch on the edge of a chair opposite him and blink back tears over my untouched cup of tea. There was a sordid ring of truth to his conclusion. I recalled Lady Gower’s stiffness—almost a limp—the day she’d first greeted us in her garden. I recognized that gait. It came from extreme overuse.
Ofcourseshe was a dancer.
“It is thegreat paradox of art, ma petite. Ballet is all delicacyand grace, yet it brings out the barbaric side of every woman who dancesit.”
“Please. Trust me, will you?” His hand slid over mine. “There’s more to the story. I’m certain of it. I just have to find out what it is.”
I wasn’t certain I wanted him to. After a moment I straightened my spine, spun toward the table, and began to pile completed pages. “Right, then. Where were we?”
He sighed. “An alternate conclusion to the mystery, I suppose. What about this? She’s rehearsing. It’s the night of the fire. Someone sneaks in. Maybe ... several someones.”
I frowned.
“That’s the big secret. It wasn’t just one dancer. It was several, who all joined forces to rid the theater of her and then provide each other alibis. That’s how they managed to get away with it all this time. It works, yes?” He looked haggard.
I blew the hair off my face and tapped my teacup. “No. We need to do the real ending.”
