She closed her eyes and imagined herself on stage, wearing a beautiful costume, the lights hot on her skin as she floated over the stage in a graceful attitude derrière. Her fingers arched out in a gentle wave, soft, as the instructor demanded. She stretched her arm upward, pushing up onto her toes into a perfect petit fouetté.
It was flawless until her extended foot slipped and struck the metal can behind her. Water splashed over the floor, pooling at her feet. Her slippers slid and she collapsed, spoiling her only decent walking dress. The violinist stopped, then silence filled the room.
A painful gasp scratched up her throat, the pitiful sound of one succumbing to defeat. Minutes or hours might have passed. Time no longer felt necessary as she remained still. Minnie opened her eyes, the rest of the room staring back, judging her. She was left to sit in a cold puddle of chalky water, staining her new ballet slippers.
She spread her fingers out, pushing herself to her knees, then up to stand. Water ran down her skin, a shiver coursing over her as the water dripped from her body to the floor. Stifled giggles and whispers reached Minnie’s ears as she looked around and tugged at her dress. It felt too small. Or maybe it was the room. She cleared her throat to speak but she was interrupted.
“Again,” the instructor barked, pointing toward the door. “You’re to do that again, alone, until you have it correct or you will find no place in this ballet. You’re no natural ballerina, mademoiselle.”
You’re no ballerina.
The words repeated themselves in her head until she almost believed them. While everything within her wanted to flee, she stood tall and nodded. Again, she would practice until her feet bled, until her body was bruised and sore. She would give her life to be up on that stage, one way or another.
§
Minnie winced as she laced up her slippers, preparing for opening night of the ballet. Her feet were cracked and swollen. She could only wrap her injuries so much and still be able to fit her feet inside. As for her ankle, well she had sprained that nearly a week ago, and it wouldn’t be healing if she didn’t take time to rest. Minnie hadn’t, of course. She couldn’t. She tied the ribbons around it as tightly as she could stomach the pain, and wished for the best.
The other dancers didn’t complain, so she wouldn’t either. By the Grace of God, the instructor had allowed Minnie this far. She half-expected him to pull her away from the others as they were about to go onstage.
The excited murmur of the crowd beyond the closed velvet curtains filled her body with an excitement she’d never known in her seventeen years. Her heart raced, and though she would deny it if anyone asked, her stomach was full of butterflies. Nerves were natural, of course, she told herself, stretching and straightening as the murmur quieted and the first notes of the orchestra struck, plucking the tension in the air like a harp.
“Dancers, ready,” cried the call boy from the darkened wings. The stage manager and property man were amongst the fray as well. And so, to Minnie’s surprise, were a few gentleman.
“Why, you’re lovely,” an older gentleman said as Minnie stretched along with the other dancers. A few of the other girls giggled and flirted; Minnie was struck speechless.
“He’s a patron, you ninny,” one of the girls whispered to her. “You’ll do well by yourself if you remember to smile and give the man what he wants. Be innocent-like, be coy. They like that. He’s here to make us stars.”
Minnie peeked over her shoulder once more, eyeing the man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. His hair was dark and even in the limited light. The only true glimpse of his age was the dash of silver by his temple. His eyes were dark, his mouth unforgiving. So this was the price of freedom? She was to be beholden to yet another man, one who would pay for her career and would claim her body if allowed?
The lights on the stage flashed, drawing back her attention. The music rose and rose, then burst, and she twirled out on the stage with the rest of the dancers, with London before her. With one extended leg and a graceful flick of her wrist, she danced across the stage as though it were home, and perhaps it was.
§
In yet another three weeks, Minnie had grown ragged and exhausted. Her body was bruised and bloodied, the sole day dress she owned hung too loosely over her body. She ate little and slept less, and then there were the soirées dansantes she attended after every evening’s performance.
She had lied to the Mrs. Robards, convinced her that her uncle wished for her to be removed from the school. That lie had been large; one that was still ongoing, as she was sure her uncle had now caught wind of her rebellion. If there was anything Bly Ravensdale was good at, it was discovering the truth. He wished for his family to be held in esteem in London to make up for the poor reputation of the Ravensdale family. And now Minnie had disappeared to become a ballerina while at night she had to smile at wolves waiting to prey on her.
The patrons of ballet.
What a fool she had been to think she would be on her own for this journey. Men wanted pretty creatures to fawn over, to spoil and claim ownership to. They wanted responsibility for her spot on the stage. And above the other dancers, they wished to keep her.
She had fought off a kiss the evening before. The man responded by gripping her wrist much too tightly and tugging her close as she tried to brush off his advance. Her laughter infuriated him further.
“Miss Gibbons,” the ballet instructor called out. “You’re falling out of step again.”
She snapped to attention, her eyes burning from lack of sleep. She had allowed the man to kiss her cheek, and as a reward of sorts, he accompanied her to dinner with a group of others. Minnie hadn’t returned to her rooms until the rest of the neighborhood poured out of their clubs, boastfully singing opera and laughing. She had burrowed under her covers to the sound of such happiness and cried, because then, and just for that small sad moment, she missed home terribly. She missed the garden of Burton Hall, the sounds of her brother and sister, those of her cousins. The house was always busy and full of chaos. And here in her small rented room in London, living under another name, the world seemed much colder than she anticipated, even for a summer’s night.
Minnie paused, resting for a moment until she could mirror the other dancers. Her mind, her mind was in another place altogether today. She missed her darling sister Grace.
“Again, Miss Gibbons.”
The instructor stalked over. “One, two, three. Fifth position, Miss Gibbons. One, two, three…”
Minnie swallowed, her stomach fluttering under the hardened glare of the instructor. She was better than today, she was—
A hand grabbed hers, hauling her forward. “If you insist on dancing solo, then here is your chance.”
The violins quieted, and the other dancers stopped, their attention pinned to Minnie. She glanced nervously around the room, the instructor standing by her side.
“You’re no ballerina. I’ve said that since the moment you stepped in this room for the audition. Now please, do dance for us. Entertain us since you’re so in love with the idea of being a coryphée.”
He clapped his hands to a beat, the violin squeaky and hesitant to follow. Minnie stood paralyzed.
“Plié, Miss Gibbons. One, two, three…I said, plié.”
Minnie sunk, her knees bending not from command, but from sensing her world was tipping forward once again. The other dancers softly murmured in front of her. She felt their disregard piling upon her as though they’d just thrown her in a ditch, burying her along with her dream.
“Now arabesque. Good, assemblé.”
His hands clapped in front of her face, adjusting her body roughly. He pulled and twisted, fisting her hair in his hand as he brought her face round to meet. “Your form is pathetic.”
She straightened, freeing herself from his grip, her limbs now numb.
“Grande Jeté, arms lengthened in fourth position.”
Her muscles tightened, sore and overstretched. With the drag of a breath, she filled her
lungs and jumped, leaping in the air, her arms extended. Her foot slipped upon landing and she slid forward, collapsing onto the ground, her ankle radiating in pain.
“As I said, you’re no ballerina, Miss Gibbons. You no longer have a position as a dancer in this ballet or any other at this theater. Collect your things and leave at once.”
§
The waves were quiet by the docks. They gently lapped against the side of the ships and swished around the moorings. The Thames might be quiet tonight, but for Alex, the world was riotous.
“You got your gob smacked good, eh there Alex?”
He wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his shirt, now finally able to breathe after the stench of the warehouse. He’d spent all day unloading coal from a ship, then came for a fight. He got what he wished for—a fine beating.
Since he’d walked Anne over to the theater those weeks ago, he’d found a place for himself by the water. He’d also picked up some street urchins who seemed to look up to him like a big brother. He did share what he had for each meal, so perhaps they were right in thinking him so.
“I did.” He released the edge of his shirt, grateful for the brief cool slip of air that brushed against his middle before they all wandered out onto the cobblestone streets. The summer air was putrid, smelling of rotting fish and stagnant water. The rest of the boys were behind him, boasting about their bets against Alex, laughing at how he lost. He hadn’t given a damn about winning.
A body edged itself up against the wall across the darkened street. Everyone here was desperate for some money, but a woman selling herself never set well with him. His mother claimed it was love that saw her landed in that asylum.
“Are we going to the pub, Alex? Let’s get a pint to celebrate your loss.”
“Not tonight, fellas.” He straightened, watching as the body limped across the street, a sliver of light falling upon her strawberry hair and hazel eyes as she approached him, her head held high, as always. “Christ, Anne, is that you?”
“You’ve been beaten to a pulp, I see.” She winced, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hand clutched on the blue bag she had the day he met her. “What a cliché. A fighting Irishman.”
“Doing my part to live up to expectations.” Alex couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her face was filthy, her hair matted. The fine lady he had met had long vanished. She must have weighed a stone or two less. “They don’t feed you up in the nice part of London?”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
He knocked his bloodied hand under her chin, drawing her eyes up to his. “No, I haven’t even started. But my jaw is feckin’ sore. Let’s find you a place to stay. The rest can wait.”
§
Minnie kept her eyes focused on the ground before her, trudging after Alex as he knocked on doors, only to be turned away.
“There’s no room,” they’d said. “We can’t take another.”
All the while, she limped quietly, her stomach growling from hunger. Rain fell, first softly, then harder, pelting her and Alex as they ferried from one street to the next by the Thames in search of a place to stay. It’d taken two days to track him down by the docks, one alone just to find her bearings from the theater. Minnie wasn’t looking forward to another night spent out on the streets. Truth be told, she’d barely slept the first one. She’d spent most of a few hours curled up behind a stack of crates behind a haberdashery. And when the sun rose, she was face to face with a hat that could have been featured on a Paris fashion plate.
She had stared into the shop window, her sad reflection reminding her of the little girl she had once been, curled up in the hallway of a ship being tossed around by the sea. She wept into her knees as the ground heaved and dropped below her, and the ship groaned. She missed her home—India. She missed her parents, and Grace and James. She missed the magic in the air as she roamed through her botanist father’s conservatory as birds flew in and out, and their tiger Lucy prowled her cage beyond the colocasia and orchids.
“What’s this, pet? Why are you in the hall?” her uncle had asked, sitting down beside her. His legs were still folded to fit, much too large for the narrow ship hallway. “Come here, let me tell you a story,” he had said when she didn’t answer. She sniffled as he picked her up and placed her in his lap. “There are going to be scary things in our lives, Minnie. I can’t be there always, but if you keep your head up, you’ll find the sun after the storm. The bad is only ever temporary. Now let me tell you about your mother. Oh, what a grand ballerina she was…”
“Anne?”
Minnie tripped to a stop, bracing her hand against Alex’s shoulder. He winced, drawing back as she steadied herself.
“You look dead on your feet. You must be wrecked.” He grabbed her bag. “C’mere.” His hand drew her close again, pulling her around him through an open door of a squat stone house. A narrow staircase ascended before her, the path dimly lit with a few tallow candles. “Mrs. Bowen owes me a favor. We’ll be staying here for the night.”
Her eyes stung from keeping them open as she peered around, looking for another.
“I believe she’s in bed. No worries. I stay here if the work house is crowded. Go on up. All the way to the attic.”
It was always the attic with Alex. They were some secret to be stashed away, an idea yet to be had. She climbed the stairs, floating even as her limbs were heavy with exhaustion, and pushed through a heavily painted door. The wood floors were dark and roughhewn. The damp air smelled of rope and salt. There was a stack of empty grain sacks in one corner. The rest of the room was a dark shadow that the one measly candle Alex nicked couldn’t light up.
He tensed behind her, his breathing shallow as he led them further into the room. “There’s a lantern there in the corner. Can you find it?” It wasn’t until the lantern was lit and the room was washed in a dim gold light that he sighed, stretching his arms up to the low beams of the ceiling. He rolled his neck, assessing her, those eyes of his full of storms and questions.
Something between a shiver and a bolt of lightning chased down her spine as she brought her gaze to meet his. She hadn’t thought much of him while she was dancing, yet here she was, and the oddest thing of all was that it felt right. The pressure that had crowded around her chest as she navigated London on her own, the whirring thoughts of returning home, everything—it just stopped.
“Well,” she said, breaking eye contact. Her heart picked up its beat, as if her ballet slippers were still on and she danced across the stage, allégro. She limped forward, grabbing her bag from his feet, and set it in the corner by the grain stacks. Minnie sunk to the ground as if everything within finally imploded from the long hours and pain.
“You should go home, Anne. Whatever you need for a ticket, we’ll get. Have no worries there. You deserve more than sleeping on grain sacks in the attic of a fishmonger’s wife by the docks.”
She shrugged, pulling off the worn shoes she bought when she traded in her fine leather boots. These were dull and had holes. “You should learn how to protect your face when you’re fighting. I’d say your looks are the only thing you have going for you since you like to have your brains knocked about.”
He chuckled, electrifying the damp air. Alex let go of the beams and sat down beside her. “You didn’t lose your mouth with all that fine dancing, I see.”
A smile fought its way to the corner of her mouth as she peeled off the wet jacket of her dress. She shivered again, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or just exhaustion. Minnie longed for her bed, the one with fine sheets and thick down blankets. She never fell in love with Burton Hall as Grace had, but right now it sounded like heaven, that dreary house in Yorkshire.
“Needs must, Alex. Turns out I’m no ballerina after all.” She fell back onto the grain sacks, wishing she had something warm to drape over her. Alex followed, rolling over to face her. His body was longer, his arms more corded than she remembered. And that sickly pallor had begun to f
ade to sun-kissed skin. His hair, though. His hair was still that unnatural yellow.
“You won’t be heading back then?”
It appeared as if she would fit perfectly against his chest and though he was equally soaked by the rain, she bet he’d be warmer than she was. “If I go back, I lose whatever chance I have left. And if I stay…”
“Mhmm.” Alex rolled over onto his back, tossing his arm underneath his head.
She instantly missed his closeness, missed the his eyes taking in the details of her face as if he had been starving for the sight of them these past few weeks. “Even still, I’ll be just as lost if I go home. I may have a title, but it’s not who I am. I’m like those birds caged up. Something to be cooed over as the rest of the world walks by.”
“You’ve a flair for the dramatics.”
“And you’ve a flair for being a cad. I was trying to…”
Alex rolled back over, a smile stretched upon his lips, those eyes of his shining, even as one began to swell and close up. Minnie playfully slapped him across his stomach, the two of them laughing as soon as she withdrew her hand.
“You were saying?” His thick eyebrow was stuck from the swelling above his eye, unable to arch up to give his face that full charming quality it possessed.
And did it ever. Even bruised and swollen, there was something about Alex Marwick.
“I don’t know anymore.” She tried to pout, but couldn’t as he pulled her to him. Minnie rested against his chest on a heavy sigh, the rest of her suddenly wide awake. Alex was Turkish coffee on an empty stomach.
A Proper Scandal Page 5