The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  What surprised you most throughout the plot? Which scene or line resonated with you most as you read?

  How did the setting—the coast, the house, the horses—play into the story?

  Do you think Golda truly had her children’s best interest at heart when she meddled in their romances? Did her meddling do more good or harm in the end?

  How has your perception of Gabe changed throughout the novel? Do you think he’s a fitting hero for Willa? What do you think their life together looked like?

  one

  The most beautiful moments of any ballet are the unscripted ones; yet we often waste these fleeting experiences by resenting their intrusion.

  COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, 1835

  He was so very blue. That was all my scattered mind could gather as he sailed past the window of the Craven Street Theater. Blue and sparkling under the glow of streetlamps shining down the alley. I ended my three-point spin with a soft landing and stared again. Curiosity drove me upstairs to the balcony doors to have a better look. Breeze from the broken window cooled my skin, rolling in pleasant waves over my body as I looked down upon him, straining to see. He was a shining streak in the night, gauzy cape billowing behind him. A dancer, in full costume. How curious!

  Then several colossal ogres of men barreled around the corner of the Lamb and Flag Pub, jeers trailing them in the night. They cornered him in the narrow alley below with harsh, echoing laughter that vibrated off the walls. They meant to rob the man. I crouched out of sight behind the doorframe, hardly breathing. A man with one suspender holding up his dirty trousers smashed a gin bottle on the brick, advancing with playful thrusts like a sword. I convulsed in anticipation of the plunge of glass into flesh, but I could not look away. A hoarse whisper escaped me as I watched the blue man. Run!

  But that dancer was trapped like a cornered pig, poor fool.

  Why wasn’t anyone coming? Another dancer, a passerby, a confounded bobby, for pity’s sake? But everyone around was safely cocooned in the theater, and there was only me, way up here. The almighty possessed a sense of humor, he did. Ella Blythe was not one for high balconies—especially nearing the edges of them.

  I stepped out onto it and forced myself to look down as I clung to the rail, my breath coming in thin gasps. I yanked off one beloved scarlet ballet slipper and held it up, but they were too far away. Climbing up on the low brick railing, I poised myself and focused on the small stair landing a little to the left and a few feet down. One glance down and my vision blurred at the sides, the familiar panic cinching my ribs. Fear be hanged—it had to be done. I sprang and crouched into a soft landing, still gripping the precious red slipper.

  I rose, and with a final goodbye squeeze, I whipped the shoe down, satin ribbons rippling behind it. It struck the face of a pursuer and tumbled to the street. The sloshed assailant stumbled back, bracing for an unseen attacker in the darkness, then lurched off. The others hesitated, and the blue wraith slipped silently into the safety of the shadows.

  I sank hard onto the landing and exhaled, trembling as I shoved hair off my face. Drunk as they were, they hadn’t needed much to be scared off—just one half of my pair of enchanted red slippers. I took the other one off and clutched it close, then pushed my way back inside through the window. I pressed my face to the glass once I was in, half afraid, but no one moved about in the alley now. Only the strains of the nymp de bois sounded from the ballet performance below, and my tension began to unspool.

  The rest of London may have forgotten about this old materials room hidden away above the theater, with its dust-laden crystal chandeliers lying on their sides and silk faille draped over wooden clouds, but to me it was a sanctuary. A haven for my own private dances.

  But there were footsteps thudding in the corridor below, echoing over hard flooring. Heart fluttering like a million trapped butterflies, I leaped behind a silk-draped ladder and waited. The door squealed open and there he was, filling the doorway, filling the room, his crepe de chine cape fluttering against his solid back.

  I didn’t know anything about men. I’d never lived with one. I seldom spoke to them. His presence here in my private sanctuary was unsettling.

  He strode in like a lion, glancing about for his prey. Awed at my close proximity to him, I looked into his magnificent face from the shadows, the sculpted and dimpled features highlighted by the dim light. The grease paint tried to cover the ruddy glow of his skin, disguise the deep vibrancy of his eyes, but it could only do so much. He moved on, then turned back, his roving gaze resting on me cowering like a little fool behind that ladder. I hadn’t any idea what one was supposed to do with one’s self in such a moment. Should I go to him? Smile and make introductions? How vulgar.

  Well, I was in the theater.

  He moved the silk aside like a curtain and smiled down at me, and it made my breath catch. I rose, blinking. I wasn’t prepared for the glorious sunshine that radiated from his masculine features, the stout chin pierced with the most perfect dimple into which one could fit a little fingertip. Merciful heavens.

  “Ah, here’s my gallant rescuer.” Rugged and warm at the same time, the man stood before me, my rescued shoe close against his chest.

  My poor heart. It thrummed like a drum about to pop.

  “I wanted to come up and thank you . . . and perhaps defend my masculinity.” But his deep voice proved it aplenty. “I was in desperate need of a small drink before my part in the third act, you see, and the theater’s supply sprang a leak this morning. I hated to run into the pub this way, but there is nothing for it when one is dying of thirst and every spare hand is needed. Not unless I cared to scrape up what’s leaked onto the cellar floor, which I didn’t.”

  I worked my jaw as his voice echoed about the room, but my head was a scatter of random letters that refused to form words.

  “That, of course, left me in the rather awkward position of dashing to the pub in costume, falling in with a pair of men deep in their cups, and thus being rescued by a . . .”

  “Girl.”

  “Ah, you can speak.” He folded his arms and looked intently into my face, his presence softened by the dark, glossy hair that all fell over his forehead in one boyish twist. “So tell me, dear rescuer, what brings you so boldly into this haunted part of the theater? And how ever did you learn to spring and land like a cat?”

  “I’m a dancer.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a way that somehow wasn’t mocking, bless him. “Are you, now? That explains this.” He held up my rescued shoe—that precious red slipper I’d given up. My hand itched to snatch it close. “I might have known it with a mere look, though. You wear dignity like a royal cape, even when you’re scared and hiding. A wild animal, perhaps.”

  I had no answer for such a response. No one had ever looked at me and labeled what they saw as dignity.

  “Which company do you dance with? Who is your manager?”

  I stiffened. “N-no company. No manager.” So many questions. I hated questions.

  “You’re a petit ra—forgive me, a member of the corps.”

  Miserable, I shook my head again. I was not even one of the lesser dancers on stage.

  “I’m curious, then, what makes you call yourself a dancer.”

  I looked at him solemnly, chin edging up. “Is artistry only validated by the presence of an audience?”

  His eyebrows shot up, eyes flashing, and I knew I’d won his admiration—and that I was in trouble. One solid look into his compelling eyes and I couldn’t look away. They were magnets at the soul level. He moved closer, as if drawn, and I backed to the wall.

  “Forgive me, but I simply don’t know what to make of you. I’ve never heard of anyone willing to take on the label of a dancer without any of the spoils of the trade.”

  “I’ve never admitted it before.”

  “But you practice.”

  “Every day.”

  “Hmm.” Then he shifted down onto his right knee, gaze still holding mine, and fit the slippe
r back onto my foot. Butterflies—oh, the butterflies. It struck me again how beautifully it fit as his solid hands slid it on and wound the laces, the small kindness wrapping itself around me.

  “Why do you continue to stare? Haven’t you seen enough?” I asked.

  “It’s just that . . . well, these do resemble a rather famous pair of slippers. One might wonder how you came to have them.”

  “Oh?” I steadied my gaze on the wall behind him. He knew these shoes, of course. He had to. They were legendary.

  “I’m speaking of the missing ballet shoes of the extraordinary Delphine Besseau.” He watched my face.

  “Oh.” I tried to act properly astonished, but he’d gotten it wrong. It was Bessette.

  He looked at me as if I’d stolen them, which I hadn’t, thank you very much. Not exactly. Three weeks of extra wash I did for the pleasure of owning her very slippers, my hands rubbed raw just so they could hold the gleaming satin shoes.

  Mrs. Boffin had scrunched up her face as she’d handed them to me, jamming her hair cloth back over her wiry wisps. I’d paid the woman my extra wages to filch them from that underground dressing room, since everyone seemed to have forgotten about them. “What do you want these for, anyway? Ain’t none of my never-mind, but you ain’t no dancer, Ella Blythe,” she’d declared. “You’re a regular churchgoer. A good ’un, you are.”

  Good, indeed.

  Supremely good was precisely how I felt as I slipped my other foot into its shoe, heart beating the rhythm as if it was already inside me, tapping away. Was dancing truly so divorced from God that they could not both be woven tightly into the fabric of the same girl? Something inside me resonated so deeply with the immensity, the vibrant beauty, of both. I had quite a weakness for beauty. Such as this man—the sight of him pulled at the core of me.

  He tied off the slipper and rose, gaze still searching. “Did you know, she died in a tragic gaslight fire in this very room, about ten years ago.”

  Longer, actually. Closer to fifteen years.

  “The room has been rebuilt, of course, but it used to be her private practice room, and the place where she died, and here is where people have claimed to see her ghostly figure. Which is why you’ll seldom find anyone in it.”

  I convulsed with shivers. “How awful.” I knew the story, of course, but it still affected me with every telling. All but the brick shell had been torn down in this space, but I could still sense the uniqueness of this room. I always had.

  “It’s said she’s looking for her famous red satin ballet shoes . . . and for poor Marcus de Silva.”

  “Marcus who?”

  “De Silva. The man who supposedly killed her, of course.”

  My heart skittered, mind turning that name over. “How do you know all this?”

  He laughed. “How do you not? Everyone in the ballet world, especially at Craven, has stories about being haunted by poor Delphine’s ghost. She is known for her tragic end, and for her red slippers.” He sobered, something odd flickering over his features.

  He went back to studying me again in that terribly unnerving way, my face and then the slippers. “Ones that look exactly like these.” His gaze dropped with wonder at the shoes, then at me, head tilted in question. Our gazes tangled and held, and I couldn’t breathe. Then he lifted one hand as if to poke me. “I’ve never seen her, though. That is, until . . .” His fingertips brushed across my face, a whisper-soft movement.

  I shivered, then ducked away, flustered and speechless.

  “Very well then, you’re not a ghost.” He continued to watch my face, a sparkle of wonder dancing on the shiny blue surface. “Care to try the shoes? I hear they’re special—the secret to her legendary success.”

  Normally I’d refuse, but moonlight softened my reason. It cast an intoxicating glow over this man who saw the ballerina in me, melting my insecurities. He stood there watching me, scrutinizing, his breath warm on my cheek, and I felt suddenly, for the first time, that I could not fail.

  The moment was brief but significant, sinking deep into my memories to remain forever bottled there as a most precious experience that would never quite seem real once we left this place. “All right, then.”

  I took his hand and we moved toward an open space. He pulled me directly toward his solid frame, hands resting on my waist, and with a thrill I finally understood why the finer folks of London declared dancing immoral.

  I could smell whatever made his glossy black hair wave so perfectly across his forehead and feel his breath across the part on my scalp. I felt his heart beneath his shirt. The moment was dreamlike, separate from my fruitless days in the washhouse, and I could not turn away from the gentle frame of his arms, the promise of my first pas de deux—a partner dance that, for once in my life, included a partner.

  Yet the minute we stepped into the muffled rhythm, moving through the familiar paces, my defenses melted in the cool moonlight. This was not carnal—it was art, and it was sacred. My feet arched easily into a series of tiny pas de bourree steps forward, propelling me into a spin with foreign hands bracing my waist for the first time in my young life. He was self-assured but in an easy, gentle way, and his touch was merely an extension of it. I became aware of my every curve in a manner that made me feel more alive, more comely, than I ever had before.

  We danced through discarded scarves, painted wooden clouds, and broken chairs, then he spun me with a lavish release, and the music below twirled me up in its magic. I arched my back and glided into the familiar precision of ballet, feeling that glorious stretch again in my calves. I lifted the warm air with my arms, and I was off, spinning and gliding, my patched skirt flipping against my legs.

  I twirled over and over, the air cooling my skin and the world fading easily away around the face that held my focus with each turn. As the music below crescendoed and faded, I finished with a small spring, folded down, and rose with a gentle curve back, chest high, arms overhead. When my vision centered on his painted face, the astonishment there was absolute.

  And utterly gratifying.

  Claps split the silence. A giant smile broke over his face and he stepped toward me, glancing at the shoes. “Perhaps they are enchanted.”

  I pinched my lips. “No, I told you, I’m a dancer.”

  That gaze was back on my face, studying. Assessing. “Indeed.”

  His reply sank into the silence, giving me courage. I’d said it. Claimed it. And it was sticking.

  I sat to remove the slippers and replaced them with my well-worn work boots, wondering how I could possibly return to work at the washhouse at five the next morning.

  He crouched before me, face vivid as if wanting to say more but not knowing what words to use. I wasn’t about to offer any information—he’d already gotten more out of me than most anyone ever had.

  “You’re quite blue.” I nodded toward his costume, desperate to divert the focus.

  “As the North Wind should be. Come to think of it, they’ll be expecting me on stage soon, so I should take my leave. Such is the life of a dancer. It’s a terrible flurry of—”

  “Of wonderfulness.” The words slipped out on a breath. “I envy you.”

  He paused, eying me. “Would you care to see it?”

  My mouth hung open. “The ballet?”

  “Come.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me out the door, into the dark corridor, then up narrow steps that led high into the rafters. “The third act will begin presently.” He stopped me in a narrow passage and pushed open a tiny peep that looked down over the royal blue auditorium glinting with gold trim and muted gaslights, over the upswept hair and top hats and smartly glittering jewels in the audience.

  I’d never seen it this way, so full and alive. “It’s magnificent.”

  “I used to watch from up here at times. Just keep quiet and no one will know. And watch out for Delphine’s ghost.” He winked.

  “North Wind! Get your sorry hide down here.” The muffled voice rattled the hinges on the door and the dance
r sprang up.

  He paused and cocked a half smile, seeming to sense the longing he’d magnified in me. “How’s about this? I’ll put in a word, and we’ll see where it gets you. One day we’ll be dancing together on that stage. I vow it. Keep that focal point as you spin through your days.” With a salute, he spun in a whirl of sheer organza and crepe but quickly turned back, grabbing the doorframe. “Oh, and keep those shoes in close, love. Wouldn’t want anyone else to know you have ’em.”

  Then he was gone, lighting like a gazelle down the stairs.

  I stared down at the red shoes in my hands, fingering the perfect stitching. Enchanted, he’d called them. But as I flexed the tingling hand he’d squeezed, I wondered if maybe it wasn’t the shoes.

  Soon, settling noises sounded below as the intermission melted away, musicians cuing up, then the orchestra eased gently into the third act. The heavy blue curtain parted and my face was plastered against that little peep, my nose pressed into the rough pine-scented wood around it. The music thrummed and so did my heart, matching beat for beat, then the dancers leaped onto the stage from both sides, two by two, trailing flowered ribbons and spinning pirouettes. Color. Beauty. Aristry. Symmetry and grace. My heart unfurled as a blossom in spring.

  The lead ballerina in bright red twirled into the center, her thick skirts whirling into a filigree flower around her. Amalia Brugnoli, favorite of the great composer Armand Vestris, had captivated my imagination since I’d glimpsed her through a window one day in the rehearsal room. Now here she was, dancing before me with acrobatic bursts of movement and the most complex footwork I’d ever seen. I squinted at her tiny slippers—how was she doing this?

  Everything about her was strength and perfection, from her smooth chestnut hair to her paces. Astonishment and jealousy wound in equal parts through my veins, thick with angst. With desire. When she landed in an arabesque and tilted to the right, the music rose to dizzying crescendos and suddenly there he was—leaping with bold precision onto the stage, springing forth and spinning in the air, his powerful legs propelling him across the stage again and again.