Sarah, Theresa, and Jenny groaned in unison. Regina wasn’t noted for her towering intellect. The others treated her with a combination of patience and weary resignation.
“It’s the Prince of Wales,” Sarah said.
“Oh? I’d love to meet him.”
“I bet he’d just love to meet you, too. He’s almost five years old. You’d have so much in common.”
“What does this Anthony Duke do?” Theresa asked.
“He claims he’s connected with the theater,” I replied.
“He looks like a bounder to me,” Jenny observed.
“They’re the best kind. You’re really not interested, Mary Ellen?”
“Not in the least.”
“I suppose you’d rather practice your dancing,” Theresa said dryly.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to practice a little more yourself,” Jenny remarked. “If you keep on clumping about like you’ve been doing for the past couple of nights, Madame’s going to put you out onto the street. I’ve no doub you’d feel right at home there.”
“Absolutely, pet.”
All three of them laughed in bright, silvery peals, Theresa the loudest. They continued to chatter, but soon forgot Anthony Duke and went on to another subject. Tuning them out, I brushed my hair and gazed at my reflection in the mirror, noting the changes a year had made. I was thinner, and my eyes were a darker blue, dark with the knowledge of life and loss and loneliness. My lids were brushed with faint violet shadows. My cheekbones were still too high, my mouth too large, too dark a pink. The features were the same as those of the eighteen-year-old who had gazed into her mirror a year ago, but there was a new maturity, a patina of disillusionment. The girl had vanished. The woman who had taken her place looked much older.
Putting the brush down, I turned around on the stool, slipped on my high-heeled violet pumps, and got up to dress. My blue-and-violet-striped cotton frock had long sleeves, a square-cut bodice, and a tight-waisted skirt that fell over my slim petticoats. It accentuated my full bosom and my slender waist. With my hair tumbling about my shoulders in rich, abundant waves as blue-black as a raven’s wing, I looked like a dark, exotic gypsy with a curiously aristocratic demeanor. Not beautiful, but undeniably striking.
“I’m off!” Theresa cried. “Wish me luck with my cousin, girls. He’s promised me a special treat tonight.”
“Let me guess,” Jenny said.
The dressing room began to empty out as the dancers departed, silks and satins rustling. In a flurry of excitement, Regina left, assuring her friend Martha that the Prince of Wales was waiting backstage. Discreetly rouged, sumptuously gowned, Sarah sighed wearily and bade the rest farewell. Jenny took down her cloak and told me she’d best get home to dear old Mum. Within a few minutes I was alone in the dressing room. The bright litter the girls had left in their wake glowed in the lamplight; soft gray shadows played over the damp tan walls.
I lingered for a while, putting away my brush and makeup in the drawer assigned to me, checking to see if my extra pair of ballet slippers was still in my locker. Finally, when Mattie came in to put out the lights, I left the dressing room and moved quickly past the backstage area, which was like a huge semidark cave festooned with bizarre black shadows. Hurrying down the narrow hall on the side of the auditorium, I ignored the stage door and stepped into the front foyer. The lobby had a shabby elegance about it with its worn red carpet and cream-colored floral wallpaper patterned in flaking gold leaf.
The chandelier was still ablaze. Todd stood in front of the doors, key in hand, face lined with weariness. Todd, caretaker of the theater and assistant stage manager, had his living quarters in the basement and he waited to see us all out every night.
“Evenin’, Miss Lawrence. You’re the last of the lot again.”
“Sorry, Todd. Mattie’s still backstage.”
“I know. She an’ me’re gonna stroll ’round the corner for a quick nip when she finishes up. Can I fetch you a ’ansom?”
“I think I’ll walk home, Todd.”
“You take care now, ya ’ear? It’s mighty late for a pretty young lady like yourself to be wanderin’ about alone.”
He held the door open for me. I smiled and thanked him, stepping out into the recessed area beneath the marquee. Carriages and hansom cabs rumbled up and down the street. Elegantly dressed pedestrians walked along the pavements, talking, laughing, enjoying the warm night air. Lamp lights created a soft golden haze, and there was no fog. Anthony Duke was nowhere in sight. I felt a wave of relief … and something absurdly akin to disappointment as well.
I started down the street in a pensive mood, a faint melancholy stealing over me as I thought of the lonely room that awaited me and the memories that invariably came to haunt me whenever I was alone and unoccupied. I had tried to fight them off for twelve months now, but still they came to torment me. The pain was still potent, the bitterness as strong, the longing worst of all. I hated Brence Stephens for what he had done to me, hated him with all my heart, and yet I longed to be in his arms, longed to know again that wild splendor we had shared.
As I reached the corner and paused to let a carriage pass before crossing the street, I heard the footsteps running toward me. I turned to see Anthony Duke hurrying toward me, his opera cape billowing behind him like dark wings, satin lining flashing. Reaching the corner, he stopped and grinned that audacious grin that was so engaging.
“I almost missed you,” he said. “I popped into the club to have a drink, struck up a conversation with a chap from the opera and completely lost track of time. Bet your heart sank when you didn’t find me waiting.”
“Hardly,” I retorted.
“You on your way home?”
“That’s none of your—”
“Of course you are,” he interrupted. “You never go anywhere else. I know. I checked it out, made inquiries. I know all about you, luv.”
“Mr. Duke—”
“I’ll just walk along with you. Who knows what evil these dark streets conceal? You’ll feel much safer with a big strong chap like me at your side. You might even invite me up to your room.”
“If you don’t—”
He seized my arm and, cutting me short, said, “If I don’t stop bothering you, you’ll call a Bobby. Right? Wrong. I’m a very persistent fellow, Mary Ellen. I always get what I want. I’ve been patient up till now, but my patience is fast running out. If you don’t behave, I’m likely to throttle you.”
He removed his hand from my arm and grinned again. I slapped him across the face, a resounding blow that stung my hand. Anthony Duke make a clacking noise with his tongue and slowly shook his head.
“Oh, luv,” he said. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
XII
He made no attempt to restrain me as I started across the street, nor did he follow me. Halfway down the street I turned to look back. He was still standing at the corner, rubbing his jaw, and his expression seemed thoughtful. The incident disturbed me more than I cared to admit. I had difficulty getting to sleep that night, for once not thinking of Brence, thinking instead of the audacious stranger who had come into my life so recently, who seemed to believe he could simply take over, order me about, treat me as though I were his own personal property.
At rehearsal the next morning, I was still thinking of him as we began our exercises. We wore black ballet slippers, black tights, and black cotton practice costumes that resembled petticoats with full skirts that swirled just below the knees. The rehearsal hall was warm and we were all perspiring. Madame was in a demonic mood, snapping orders in a chilling voice, clapping her hands together angrily, stamping her foot. She wore a long blue smock with full, flowing sleeves. Ropes of opals hung around her neck, purple; violet-blue, opal pendants dangling from her ears. She was very unhappy with us, dark eyes flashing, blood-red mouth tight with disapproval.
She was particularly displeased with me today. I could tell that. Madame Olga knew I was dedicated, that I devoted far more
time to practice than the others. She approved. Never friendly with any of us, she had always treated me with a modicum of respect which, though barely perceptible, was there nonetheless. This morning her manner had been frigid when I greeted her. Those great eyes had been afire with disapproval. She had not returned my greeting, but nodded curtly, instead, and clapped her hands and ordered us to get in line.
She had noticed my slip last night, of course. She watched every performance with eagle eyes, noting even the slightest discrepancy in movement and line. I assumed that she was furious with me, and rightly so, that I would have to work even harder to make up for it. Tonight I would dance better than I had ever danced before, but this morning I was finding it hard to concentrate. Madame’s harsh, icy manner upset me. And, no matter how much I tried to put him out of my mind, I kept thinking of Anthony Duke when I should have been thinking of the music.
Though I stumbled twice, Madame did not comment. Ordinarily when one of us made an error she stopped the rehearsal and flew into a rage, giving the offender a severe tongue-lashing. She did just that when Theresa missed a step. Ordering the pianist to stop, she upbraided Theresa with unusual venom and made us start all over again. It was almost one o’clock in the afternoon before we finally finished. Madame swept out of the room without a word, her blue smock flowing, opal pendants swinging. I was exhausted and, in the mirror behind the practice bar, I could see that my cheeks were pale.
We retired to. the changing room like a flock of blackbirds whose wings had been clipped. We towelled ourselves dry, removed our practice clothes, and took our street clothes out of the lockers. There was none of the merry frivolity and chatter that took place in the backstage dressing room. We were beaten down, dispirited, bodies aching from the ordeal Madame had put us through. Everyone had seen me stumble, but no one commented on it, not even Theresa, who had every right to feel resentful. I changed into my yellow cotton dress, eager to get home, to bathe, to rest until it was time to come back for the evening performance.
Sarah caught up with me as I was leaving.
“Your friend was here this morning,” she said.
“My friend?”
“Anthony Duke. I got here early, before any of the others, God knows why. I suppose my clock was fast. Anyway, just as I was passing Madame’s office the door opened and he stepped out.”
“He—he’d been in her office?”
Sarah nodded. “Evidently they’d been having some kind of conference. He looked very pleased with himself.”
I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.
“He swaggered on down the hall, humming to himself. He’s very attractive, Mary Ellen, and much too charming. It’s none of my business, of course, but—well, I’d be wary of him. Anthony Duke looks like a scoundrel to me.”
“I got the same impression,” I said dryly.
“He is connected with the theater,” she continued. “William and I stepped into the club last night for a drink after the performance—William’s the ‘brother’ I mentioned. Duke was at the bar, downing Scotch and holding forth with some out-of-work tenor. He dashed out a few minutes after we arrived, and I asked William about him. He told me quite a lot.”
“He knows Duke?”
We stepped into the foyer and paused beneath the chandelier. Rays of sunlight streamed in through the glass door panels, making bright squares on the red carpet and causing the gold leaf on the walls to glitter. Sarah touched her hair and gave me a wry smile.
“Not socially, but he knows about him. Duke’s connected with the Dorrance Opera Company. It’s a far cry from Covent Garden, but it’s still a professional company, however second-rate. Some of the best singers appear there between engagements at Covent Garden and La Scala.”
“I’ve heard about the company.”
“The sets are shabby, the costumes laughable, but the orchestra’s supposed to be tolerable. Dorrance will hire one good soprano to bring in the paying customers and surround her with has-beens and competent amateurs, and she’ll carry the evening. Dorrance isn’t the only company that does that, of course. Even if the tenor’s asthmatic and the baritone a drunk, opera lovers will endure any kind of production as long as they can hear their favorite hit those high C’s.”
“What does Duke do?”
“He handles the promotion. He’s chummy with the lads on Fleet Street; used to write for one of the papers himself, I understand. No matter how bad the production, he can always get plenty of coverage—spicy stories about the prima donna, backstage gossip about feuds, and so on. It’s sensational and tasteless, but it sells a lot of tickets.”
“I imagine it does.”
“He’s also in charge of the entertainment between the acts, William said. It’s Duke’s job to get some singer or juggler or acrobat to keep the audience occupied during the intermissions. I hate to think what kind of talent he’s able to find.”
Sarah shook her head, sighing wearily. “Anyway, Mary Ellen, you don’t want to get involved with Mr. Anthony Duke. I’d keep right on snubbing him if I were you.”
“I intend to. I … I wonder what he wanted with Madame.”
“God knows. Whatever it was, it didn’t cheer her up. I’ve never seen her in such a bitchy mood. The way she jumped all over Theresa, I thought she was actually going to draw blood!”
“She was unusually rough,” I agreed.
“Rough isn’t the word for it. Well, I’m off to the flat and a hot bath. I’ll see you tonight, and try to remember all your cues. We don’t want Madame committing mass slaughter.”
The sinking sensation persisted as I started back toward the rooming house. Carriages and lorries rumbled down the street. Hawkers cried their wares. A bell pealed from one of the churches. London was alive and bustling with all its customary noise and color, but the activity and the ever-changing drama of the streets held no fascination for me. Ordinarily, I would have paused to examine a store window, to inspect the wares on a cart, to watch pigeons circling an ornate spire, or watch a group of children at play. Today I walked briskly, a frown creasing my brow, a dreadful fear spreading inside me.
What could Anthony Duke possibly have wanted with Madame Olga? I could think of no logical explanation. Madame was far too grand to have anything to do with the Dorrance Opera Company. She would pale at the thought of one of her dancers appearing there. But Anthony Duke had come to see her about me, I was sure of that. His visit had upset her, and that was the reason she had been so cool toward me. I was Madame’s favorite student, everyone accepted that, and yet this morning she had treated me as though I didn’t exist. What had he told her that had caused her manner toward me to alter so abruptly?
Anthony Duke was persistent, and he was ruthless, too. His good looks and charm couldn’t conceal that. It was evident in the set of his jaw, in the curve of his mouth. He might be able to cause dozens of women to swoon just by cocking his eyebrow and flashing that boyish grin, but I had no doubt that he could be utterly unscrupulous if occasion demanded. Duke was the kind of man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and he wanted me. All that talk about putting me on the stage was merely an attempt to attract me.
I was upset, and angry as well. How dare he invade my life? I had enough to worry about without any new threats. Unless I found some sort of employment, I would be penniless within a few weeks. I hadn’t made nearly enough progress with my dancing, despite all my hard work. I needed at least another year before I would be ready for employment as a professional dancer … and this handsome, arrogant stranger with mocking blue eyes and breezy, determined manner had forced his way into my life, into my thoughts, adding yet another worry.
I was still angry as I reached the square where the grim brownstone rooming house I lived in stood amid a row of identical houses. Situated just off Marylebone Road, it was within walking distance of the theater. There were elegant squares nearby where the wealthy dwelled, but here children played noisily in the unkempt gardens beyond the wroug
ht-iron fence, and everything had the mellow patina of age. Though the neighborhood was only semi-respectable, it wasn’t a slum. I was fortunate to have found a room here, and I only hoped I would be able to keep it.
Climbing the flat white marble steps stained with neglect, I peered into the dimly lit foyer with its abundance of dusty green plants. Mrs. Fernwood’s marmalade cat peered back at me from the top of the refectory table, lounging indolently across the unclaimed mail and ignoring the chipped blue saucer of meat tidbits his mistress had placed nearby. I adored animals, but this particular creature had taken on the hateful, proprietary disposition of its mistress. His eyes seemed to accuse me as I moved toward the steps. I felt like an intruder and, remembering the unpaid rent, silently prayed Mrs. Fernwood wouldn’t hear me.
“There you are!” she cried.
Having made it up only four steps, I stopped as Mrs. Fernwood shuffled into the foyer. Stout, stolid, wearing a loose blue-and-gray-flowered wrap that only emphasized her girth, she tottered a bit before catching hold of the refectory table to steady herself. The cat hissed. Mrs. Fernwood chuckled, her dark eyes bright with malice, her plump cheeks flushed. A bright red paint coated her thick lips, and her hair, worn in short sausage ringlets, was a highly improbable shade of brassy gold. Millie claimed that the woman had once been the proprietor of a notorious brothel near the waterfront. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.
“’Ear you’re movin’ soon, ducks,” she said.
“Mrs. Fernwood, I know my rent’s overdue, but—”
“Oh, don’t worry ’bout that, child. Your friend paid, paid for th’ rest of th’ month, too, ’e did, even though you’ll be leavin’. Charmin’ lad, that ’un. Cheeky as they come. Teased me somethin’ awful, slapped me on th’ fanny as ’e was leavin’.”
I stood very still.
“When—when was he here?” I inquired.
“Couple-a ’ours ago. ’Andsome devil. You’re a lucky lass. A chap like ’im, ’e can take care o’ all your needs. Must be a regular demon in the ’ay, all fierce an’ greedy. I knew you’d find yourself a man sooner ’r later. All them fine airs never fooled me for a minute.”
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