Lauri didn’t wish to linger here with Maxim di Corte, but she had to because she wasn’t sure of the way indoors.
‘How did you enjoy your first ride in a gondola?’ he asked.
‘It was loaded with vegetables, so it wasn’t exactly a romantic ride.’ She drew back against a tree, and finding it a willow she put up a hand to finger its veil of leaves. Willow trees made her think of Downhollow and the little cottage where she had always felt so secure. Now she was out in the world, alone among strangers like this tall rather forbidding Venetian whom no one had ever humbled or hustled in his life.
Her fingers clenched on the willow leaves, for there was no denying the vibrancy about him which seemed to quicken one’s awareness of everything. Suddenly she was very aware of being alone with him in his Venetian garden, with the moonlight silvering the tips of the cypress trees. She glanced away from him up at the moon, a shyness clutching her by the throat.
He followed her glance, ‘The half moon upon which Pierrot rides through the sky,’ he murmured, ‘To drift in a gondola is like riding on the moon, do you not think so?’
‘As I said, my one was half loaded with vegetables.’ She tried to speak lightly, but her voice shook a little with an emotion that felt a little like fear. It quickened her heart, and made her bones feel strangely weak, and as though he sensed this he drew nearer to her and she saw the smile that gleamed in his eyes.
‘You must find yourself a companion among the other dancers to go exploring with,’ he said. ‘I insist on this.’
‘You are fond of insisting,’ her fingers crushed the willow leaves, ‘but I happen to enjoy my own company, signor.’
‘Do I understand from this, signorina, that you have never enjoyed the company of a boy, and the pangs of calf-love?’
She knew that he was teasing her, but all the same she blushed and felt very immature. Most girls of near-eighteen had been out with boys and been kissed. She could not imagine what a kiss was like ... and her eyes widened as the moonlight cast a shadow over the autocratic face of her Director, leaving only his well-moulded lips and jawline below the mask. The lower lip of that firm mouth was fuller than the thinly-cut upper lip, hinting at Latin passions held in rein but there all the same.
‘Innocence is an intriguing quality, Miss Garner,’ he said. ‘There are male dancers in my company who will quickly realize that there is about you this unique quality.’
‘I can take care of myself.’ The colour deepened in her cheeks at being taken for a prize ninny who didn’t know the first thing about men. ‘If you are referring to Mr. Lonza, then I can assure you that his interest in me is purely professional, signor. He told me last night that he was curious about my dancing ability.’
‘Surely he also told your fortune?’ There was a sardonic note in Maxim di Corte’s deep voice. ‘I believe it is one of his favourite gambits, and irresistible to the feminine temperament. What did he tell you? That a tall, dark man lurks in your path and that you must beware of him?’
He laughed, moon-masked as he raised a hand and released her fingers from the willow leaves they were crushing. ‘Tomorrow you begin work under my tuition, Miss Garner, and we will not get along very well if you are going to be as tense as this all the time.’
‘Your tuition, signor?’ She looked alarmed.
‘Yes, mine.’ He quirked a black eyebrow. ‘Any objections?’
She shook her head, dumbly, and hoped that tomorrow would never come, or that he might take pity on her and her hand over to that gentle teddy-bear, Bruno, his regisseur, ‘Come,’ he led the way indoors, turning upon her that searching gaze of his as they entered the hall where the Venetian lamps were now alight. The panelling gleamed like the light on dark armour, and the shabby grandeur of the Venetian furniture was gilded by the golden lamps.
‘A little alarm is justified,’ he said dryly, ‘but don’t overdo it. Your private life is your own, so long as it does not interfere with your dancing, but I should hot like to see your fledgling wings scorched and that is why I offer you a warning about Lonza. By all means let him amuse you, but guard your heart for greater things.’
‘For ballet, do you mean?’ She was amazed at her temerity in speaking up like this to a man who could intimidate with a mere glance. ‘I realize very well, signor, that you demand of a dancer that she give heart—and soul to the art of ballet—but I don’t know whether I can promise to do that.’
‘Indeed?’ He frowned down at her, and she felt her bones grow weak again. When he frowned like that he seemed capable of anything—of sending her supperless to bed, for instance. An absurd thought which made her smile faintly even as her gaze was caught and held by his dark one.
‘It is my opinion that you don’t know for sure what you do want,’ he said, a trifle grimly. ‘But you will grow up one day, and then you will discover that much of what we do in this life is not entirely in our own hands. We all fight against this, of course, but fate has its will of us.’
‘Even of you?’ she exclaimed. Even of this man of iron and black velvet, whose mastery over the will of others was something to marvel at.
‘Even I, signorina?’ His smile began in his eyes, a star-flash that made her draw back from his tall figure until she was brought up short by the baluster of the great staircase.
‘What a fatalist you are,’ she said shakily.
‘Che sara.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is bred into Latin bones, this awareness that destiny is not to be escaped—but right now I will let you escape to your room. Dinner is at eight-thirty. We dine late in Venice, as in all Latin countries where the evenings have a magic of their very own.’
He gave her a formal bow, then turned and strode into a room with double doors made for the entrance of a giant. Lauri ran all the way up the great staircase to her room, which was tucked away in the corner of the gallery. She hastened inside, closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it. Her heart beat faster than she had ever known it to beat. Her cheeks were hot, her hands cold as she pressed them to that fiery warmth.
Whatever was the matter with her? She had not felt so alarmingly aware and yet fragile since that bout of ‘flu she had had two years ago. She drew a long, shaky breath. It was Maxim di Corte who had made her feel like this, with his face out of the Roman past, and his way of talking ... as though destiny was something that stalked you, silently, until it pounced.
She switched on the light and gazed around the room in which she would be sleeping for the next few months. The massive 17th-century bed seemed to fill up most of it, with its carved posts almost reaching to the ceiling. The curtains that had once draped it had been removed, and it had the look of a monarch stripped of all glory but for a counterpane on which was embroidered a medieval lady in still gorgeous colours.
Hours of patient needlework by one of the ladies of long ago who had lived here; a bride of a Falcone di Corte perhaps.
Finding a jug of hot water on the wash-stand, Lauri stripped off her jumper and skirt and began to wash.
There was a bathroom a few doors away, but she had heard someone splashing in the tub as she had run by a few minutes ago. The best time to take a bath, she conjectured, was early in the morning when her companions on this gallery were still fast asleep.
Having dried herself and used her talcum powder with a lavish hand, she went to the big carved wardrobe and inspected her small stock of dresses. She didn’t know whether she was expected to dress formally and decided to compromise by wearing her wine velvet skirt and the white lace blouse which Aunt Pat had knitted her.
She braided her dark hair and arranged it around the crown of her head. This evening she felt an inclination to look a little older and more sophisticated.
She studied her reflection in the Venetian mirror, and wondered if it was the scrolling around the frame that made her look curiously medieval. Her cheekbones seemed higher, her eyes more tilting, and her lips fuller. Her neck, she decided, looked as vulnerable as a swan’s,
and she was about to let down her braid when a brisk tap on her door interrupted her.
Leaving her hair as it was, she went to the door and opened it. ‘Hullo!’ The gay, brown eyes of Michael Lonza swept her from head to toe. ‘Mmm, you look different. Not at all like the schoolgirl who stirred the bubbles in her champagne with the tip of her finger.’
‘When my hair is up like this I—I feel like Swanilda,’ she laughed, confused by his admiration and not at all sure that it was justified.
‘It makes you look a young lady of dignity.’ He smiled and bowed and offered his arm. ‘May I escort you down to dinner, madame?’
They walked towards the stairs, her fingers looking pale against the dark material of his dinner-jacket. The company’s first evening at the palazzo after a tour was always a form of celebration, he told her. They also dressed formally when important patrons of ballet came to dine, but apart from that they were more or less free of Maxim’s guardianship when their practice or rehearsal day was over. Quite a few of them, he added, went out to the Cafe Anzolo for ravioli.
‘I would have taken you out this afternoon, Lauri, if you had intimated that you wished to see something of Venice.’
‘I had a letter to post to my aunt,’ she explained.
‘I heard that you got lost.’ He slanted her an oblique grin. ‘Gossip of any sort travels like wildfire among a group of dancers, and from her window one of the girls saw you alighting from a gondola—straight into the hands of our Director. She said you looked ruffled, and he rather grim.’
‘He’s very bossy,’ Lauri said, a flush in her cheeks. ‘He thinks I’m a child and incapable of taking care of myself, and I’ve been ordered to get myself a friend to go exploring with.’
‘To ensure that you don’t go astray, eh?’ Michael’s eyes were agleam with devilry as they met hers. ‘It will be a pleasure obeying his order, don’t you agree?’
She looked puzzled, and he added teasingly: ‘I told you on the ship that we were going to be friends—have you forgotten so soon?’
‘You meant what you said? It wasn’t just the wine talking, Mr. Lonza?’
He seemed to find this remark highly amusing, and as he started to laugh, Lauri found herself joining in. Their laughter mingled as they reached the foot of the stairs ... just as the master of the palazzo came striding through a door set in a shadowy part of the hall. He paused, and stood gazing with intentness at the laughing couple who were as vivid against a background of dark panelling and marble columns as a pair of Tiepolo lovers.
There was a golden quality about Lauri’s eyes in laughter, but this quickly gave way to confusion as she caught sight of Maxim di Corte. In evening clothes he was even more overwhelming, his Roman distinction and air of cool command being thrown into prominence rather than tempered down by the sober black and white. Also he was gazing at her and her companion with his eyes fairly glittering under the black arches of his brows.
‘It is to be hoped,’ he said as he came forward, ‘that you dance as well together as you look. Tomorrow we will see!’
It was an order, and Lauri glanced in alarm at Michael as their taskmaster strode ahead of them into a large salone where most of the other dancers were already assembled for aperitifs. ‘Don’t look like that,’ Michael gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. ‘There is nothing to be nervous about in dancing with me. We are in accord, you and I, and we will dance like angels together.’
She smiled nervously and had no doubt that he could dance like an angel with the clumsiest of creatures. ‘But, Michael,’ his first name slipped out, ‘I couldn’t possibly dance with you in front of all the others. I—I should die!’
‘I wonder.’ They stood there in the hall of golden lamps and shabby grandeur, the young male dancer leaning down to the slim figure in wine velvet and a shell of lace as though about to lift her in a pas de deux. ‘Have you ever read how the divine Isadora Duncan danced impromptu with Nijinsky in a Venetian palace? They knew nothing of each other’s style, but when they rose to dance it was as one person because of their inborn knowledge of the dance, and the rapport that can exist between two people, sometimes for only an hour, sometimes for a lifetime. For Isadora and Nijinsky an hour was enough.’
‘I am only Lauri Garner, not one of the Divines,’ she said simply.
When they all sat down to dine, Lauri became separated from Michael at the long, feudal table, islanded with heavy silver, and flowers and wine in crystal containers. The dancers at either side of her couldn’t speak much English, and she sat silent, without much appetite, very aware of Maxim di Corte at the head of the table, with Andreya beside him dispensing wit with all the pointed charm of a woman of the world. Her hair was swirled to the crown of her head and secured by a calot of jade. Her medieval styled dress was sashed by more jade, the strange colour of her eyes.
‘Miss Garner,’ all at once Andreya’s voice floated down the table on a lull in the general conversation, ‘I hear that tomorrow you are to show your paces as a dancer—but why wait until tomorrow? We would all enjoy seeing you dance tonight.’
Lauri felt her heart turn over as she met Andreya’s brilliant, mocking glance. And then Maxim di Corte said crisply: ‘There is no need to look on the verge of flight, Miss Garner. You will not be expected to dance before an audience just yet.’
‘Why not, Max?’ Andreya lifted her wine glass and took a demure sip. ‘What is there for her to be nervous about? We will make allowances for her amateur mistakes.’
‘Get on with your dinner, Lydia.’ He was frowning.
His frown, however, held less power to quell when it came to his prima ballerina. ‘Are you afraid we will laugh at you, Miss Garner?’ she enquired silkily.
Everyone at the table was looking at the two, and even those who spoke no English were aware that Andreya was challenging the new girl, the shy little thing with gold in her eyes—and perhaps gold in her feet.
She felt small waves of sympathy coming from some of them, and knew that timidity would never be admired by a company such as this one. ‘Have you no other jester to entertain you at the banquet, Madame Andreya?’ The words leapt from Lauri’s lips, amazing even herself, and causing a suppressed giggle from Concha, who was craning round the muscular frame of the character dancer who sat immediately beside Lauri.
Andreya raised an eyebrow at this flash of spirit from Lauri. ‘I am merely inviting you to dance for us, little English Miss,’ she drawled. ‘Take a look around the table. See how eager everyone is to see what you can do—or not do.’
There was drama in the air and everyone was sensing it. Maxim di Corte’s frown had deepened, and Lauri knew that in a moment he would change the conversation in his decisive way. A demon of defiance seized hold of her. She would show him, as well as Andreya, that she was not a child who had to have a shepherd, and whose decisions had to be made for her.
‘Yes, I’ll dance tonight,’ she said clearly, ‘if Mr. Lonza is willing to be my partner?’
A gasp of excitement ran round the table. Michael was leaning back in his chair, his eyes agleam in his lean, swarthy face. ‘Of course I am willing.’ He raised his wine glass to Lauri, openly saluting her courage in not backing down to Andreya. ‘My Romany instincts must have warned me that tonight we would dance, Nijinka, for I have eaten as sparingly as a monk.’ There was a burst of laughter. Lonza a monk! The eyes of the girls sparkled with amusement as they looked at the lean, agile Tartar whose creed was that the brief feast of youth should not be wasted.
All at once Maxim di Corte was on his feet, a commanding figure who silenced the sudden outbreak of excited comment with a sweep of his hand. ‘Very well,’ his gaze settled darkly on Lauri’s pale young face, ‘if you wish to dance for us, Miss Garner, then indeed you shall dance. But let me warn you that you will have a very discriminating audience. Like the truffles most of us have been enjoying,’ he shot a sardonic glance at Michael, ‘dancers are born of thunder and have lightning in their veins.’
&nbs
p; ‘Their directors also, Max,’ Andreya gave a laugh that held a rather off-pitch note. ‘Did not a thunderstorm shake Venice the night you were born? Travilla writes an account of it in her memoirs.’
At mention of Travilla, his eyes blazed darkly, engulfing Lauri for a moment, then with a flick of his table napkin he sat down. ‘Let us proceed with dinner,’ he said. ‘All of us, that is, who will not be dancing a pas de deux.’
Lauri hardly knew how she got through the next half hour. She was conscious all the time of curious and eager eyes upon her, and it was with relief that she left the room at the end of the meal to go and change into a ballet tunic and dancing slippers.
Her demon of defiance had wilted a little by the time she had changed in her room and gone through her warming-up exercises. Oh heavens! She drew a deep, shaky breath. Suppose she made a fool of herself in front of Maxim di Corte!
CHAPTER FIVE
Lauri came alone down the grand staircase of the palazzo, a slim figure in a simple tunic, walking in her ballet slippers as though on sword points.
Her nervousness grew when she saw the entire company assembled in the hall, some of them seated on chairs and sofas, others sprawled on the floor in the graceful attitudes which dancers can achieve so readily. A fire of logs burned in the cavernous fireplace, and the gold velvet curtains were closed across the long windows, Maxim di Corte was supervising the laying of a felt mat across the floor, directly beneath an ancient tapestry that would serve as a backcloth for the pas de deux.
Andreya sat enthroned in a carved Italian chair, her long fingers drumming the ornate arms. Bruno Lanning stood beside her, but when he noticed Lauri at the foot of the stairs he came strolling across to her. Bruno was partly American, a brilliant ballet-master whose hair was always on end from a habit he had of thrusting his fingers through the grey thatch. He was a retiring sort of person, who was at his best, Lauri had heard, when he was teaching the dancers a new ballet or putting them through the paces of a traditional one.
Tender Is The Tyrant Page 6