by Dilly Court
Clemency dressed herself in a plain white blouse and a black skirt. She tied her hair back in a severe chignon, in the fashion of the ballet dancers, and she attempted to keep her nerves at bay as she waited for Cécile’s return. Dorabella had to leave the theatre for a luncheon engagement, and Clemency was left on her own in the dressing room with strict instructions not to stray outside the door. When Cécile had not returned by mid-afternoon, Clemency was almost beside herself with worry. She could hear the sounds of the opera house coming to life outside the walls of the dressing room. The orchestra was tuning up and singers were practising their scales; there were the soft thuds of blocked ballet shoes on bare boards as the corps de ballet rehearsed, and the constant patter of footsteps going past the door. When at last Cécile breezed into the room, Clemency could have cried with sheer relief. ‘I thought something dreadful had happened to you.’
‘Bah! It would take more than a pig like Hardiman to frighten me.’ With a scornful toss of her head, Cécile took off her bonnet and shawl. ‘But you will have to take a care, mademoiselle. He is nasty, that one. He threaten me with his fist.’ She bunched up her fingers and waved them in front of Clemency’s face, dancing about on her toes. ‘But I spit in his face.’
‘Crikey! What did he do then?’
‘He chase me, but I run too quick for him. I am like the wind. I rush through the house and out into the street before he can catch me.’ Cécile’s triumphant smile faded and she clasped Clemency’s hand. ‘But he will come here. That one will not stop until he find you. We must hide you somewhere good. Yes?’
Clemency nodded in agreement, but she could not conquer a feeling of disappointment. She had thought herself to be free, but the reality was quite different. She was now in hiding; afraid to be seen outside the walls of the Opéra Garnier, and Hardiman was as great a threat as ever. She had no alternative but to follow Cécile, who took her up several flights of stairs to a huge, high-ceilinged room where the ballet dancers did their practice. The girls clustered around Clemency, eyeing her curiously as if she were an exhibit in a freak show. Cécile was obviously enjoying herself as she talked volubly, gesticulating with her hands to emphasise her words, none of which Clemency could understand. She could tell by their sympathetic looks that the dancers were on her side, but then a small woman, dressed severely in black, and with her hair knotted in a bun on top of her head, appeared as if from nowhere. She called for attention, striking the floor with an ebony cane. When she spotted Clemency, her winged eyebrows flew up into her hairline and she stalked across the floor, pointing the stick at her. The exchange of words between Madame and Cécile was fierce, but brief.
‘What was that all about?’ Clemency demanded as Cécile dragged her from the rehearsal room and up yet another flight of stairs.
‘Madame will not have anyone in her class who is not a dancer. You are not a dancer?’
‘No, I am a singer.’
Cécile stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘The best disguise is to look just the same as everyone else. Come.’ She hurried along a dark passage and ushered Clemency into a large dormitory. ‘This is where the girls of the chorus sleep. You stay here for now. I go and speak to Madame Darling.’
‘Wait.’ Clemency caught her by the sleeve. ‘What am I supposed to do here?’
‘You keep quiet like the little mouse. I speak to Madame and she speak to the director of music. Your pig of a man will come to the theatre – that is for certain. But if you are one of many in the chorus, he will not know you, and he will go away. Voila!’ She rushed from the room, and the sudden silence echoed in Clemency’s head. She sat down on the edge of the nearest iron bedstead, staring into nothingness.
That evening, wearing a thick layer of greasepaint, and the costume of a serving wench, Clemency went on stage with the rest of the singers in the chorus. She knew the opera inside out, although she had learned it in English. She mimed the French words, while attempting to memorise them, and it was not difficult to follow the actions of the others. None of the cast took much notice of her, and she could only assume that Cécile, who sang in the chorus as well as being Dorabella’s understudy, had given them a plausible reason for her being amongst them. In fact, Cécile seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drama of the situation and her new-found importance. She stuck to Clemency’s side, off stage as well as on, and when the evening performance ended, she guided her up to the dormitory and found her an unoccupied bed. It was littered with articles of clothing belonging to some of the other girls. Ignoring their protests, Cécile swept everything onto the floor, and went off in search of clean bedding.
As Clemency lay down to sleep, she could not help comparing the crowded dormitory, smelling strongly of perspiration, garlic and cheap cologne, to the perfumed boudoir that she had occupied in Marceau’s mansion. Uncomfortable it might be, but to her it seemed like heaven. Despite the lumpy palliasse and rough woollen blankets, she settled down to sleep, lulled by the sounds of gentle snoring and rhythmic breathing.
The next morning, after a breakfast of croissants and coffee, Cécile took her on a tour of the theatre, beginning at the top in the painted gallery, and working their way down the levels to the underground cavern and lake. The flickering light of the oil lamp was reflected in the dark green water as it lapped at the stone steps. The walls dripped with moisture and a cold breeze rippled the glassy surface. Clemency shivered. ‘Where do the tunnels lead?’
Cécile shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who knows? There is a stream, they say. Perhaps it goes to the Seine itself. This is not somewhere I like to come.’
‘No.’ Clemency stared down into the water. ‘It looks bottomless. It makes my flesh creep.’
‘Come. You have seen it all now. We will seek out Madame to see if she has thought of a way to get you back to your own country.’
Clemency needed no second bidding to leave the eerie subterranean cavern. She hurried after Cécile, who had broken into a run.
They found Dorabella in her dressing room, studying the libretto for her final performance at the Garnier. She looked up as they entered and a frown puckered her brow. ‘Not now, Cécile. Can’t you see that I am busy?’
‘But, madame …’
‘No. I cannot stop to think about Clemency’s problems at this moment. I will give it some thought later, when I have more time.’
‘You have been more than kind to me, madame,’ Clemency said hastily. ‘Perhaps if you could just lend me the fare I could get the train to Calais and the boat to Dover.’
‘My dear girl, you don’t speak a word of French, and you don’t know your way around Paris. Besides which, your bloodhound has been seen wandering about outside the theatre. He even tried to get inside, but I had warned the doorman to be on the lookout.’ Dorabella rustled the sheaf of papers in her hands. ‘Now, please, leave me to get on with learning my part. We will think of something, or else you will have to wait for your man to come from England to rescue you. Now go.’
Outside in the corridor, Clemency caught hold of Cécile’s hand as she was about to walk away. ‘Could you lend me some money, Cécile? I would see that you were paid back.’
‘Me? I haven’t got a sou. What little is left after my board and lodging is taken out of my wages I send to my aged grandmother in Rheims. If you could borrow the fare from someone else, I could see you to the station, but after that you would be on your own, and that pig of a man is just waiting to get his hands on you.’
‘But I cannot stay here forever.’
Cécile laid her hand on Clemency’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps the letter has arrived in London by now. Even as we speak, your Englishman could be on his way to rescue you. Come, we have the first rehearsal for the next opera. It looks as if you will be here for the Bastille Day celebrations after all.’
She had become one of the cast; attending rehearsals, eating and sleeping with the girls in the chorus, and they accepted her, some with better grace than others. She was quick to learn the words of the
operas in both French and Italian, and it was not long before the choirmaster singled her out for a small solo part. Clemency was aware that there were under-currents of jealousy, but, in some ways, not understanding the language was an advantage, and it was only a small minority who seemed to resent her presence. Cécile told her that it was always that way, especially with a foreigner, and she must not take any notice of the spiteful bitches. The rest of the girls tolerated her, and some even donated articles of clothing to boost her meagre wardrobe. Oddly enough, it was Dorabella, her former saviour, who seemed to resent the fact that Clemency had been singled out and her talent acknowledged. Cécile shrugged her shoulders and said that Madame Darling did not like competition from a younger woman, particularly one with a splendid voice that was not adulterated by smoking cigarettes and drinking absinthe: both of which, she confided, were one day going to prove to be Madame’s downfall. Clemency managed to keep out of Dorabella’s way, but she had to acknowledge the fact that she could no longer look to her for help. Despite all this, the days passed quickly enough, and she had little time to brood.
She made several attempts to leave the theatre, but each time she found Hardiman either lounging on the steps or pacing the forecourt. He could not, she thought, be there day and night; but on one occasion, late in the evening, she saw him giving coins to small boys who then scattered and took up positions where they could watch all the exits. Hardiman had always employed spies in London, and she could see that nothing had changed. She toyed with the idea of leaving in the middle of the night, but after a long day of rehearsals, fittings and the evening performance, she was only too glad to sink onto her hard bed and fall into an exhausted sleep.
Cécile told her to bide her time. Dorabella was now completely unapproachable, and Clemency had begun to think that Jared could not have received her letter or, worse still, that he had abandoned her to her fate. Even though she had been given a minor part in the latest opera bouffe, there was no guarantee that she could rise further. She could see herself being trapped in the chorus for months, even years, to come. Marceau would find another mistress, and Hardiman would eventually give up. She would end up like one of the shrivelled backstage women who had begun in the chorus, and, when their talent and looks faded, had been relegated to the sewing room, the kitchens or the wash-house. She tried not to dwell on thoughts of home. Ma and Jack must be frantic with worry, even if Jared could not be bothered to come looking for her. She had always known that men were unreliable and self-centred. He had probably forgotten all about her by now – at least she had her family and Augustus and Ronnie. Perhaps Augustus had found Lucilla and her child. If she could get home to London, they could start again, the Throop troupe, playing in the streets. She would get back to England, or die in the attempt.
It was early on Sunday morning, a week before Bastille Day, and there was a feverish air of excitement running all through the Garnier. Clemency had made up her mind that today she must make her bid for freedom. She had saved every last sou of her meagre wages to pay for her journey home. She would have to find her way to the Gare du Nord and board a train bound for Calais. Once there she would find a boat to take her to Dover, even if she had to work her passage.
A group from her dormitory were going out for a promenade in the sunshine, sporting their best hats and summery muslin dresses, intent on ogling the young men who were parading in their Sunday best after attending mass. Clemency decided that if she were to mingle with them, Hardiman and his young lookouts might not spot her. She pulled her straw hat down over her brow and kept her head bowed as they went down the steps and across the forecourt. She saw Hardiman, in his usual position at the foot of the steps, but he was leering at one of the more brazen girls, who was blowing kisses to him, laughing and swaying her hips suggestively. She held her breath, praying that he would not notice her amongst so many pretty young women. They had almost reached the relative safety of the Place Diaghilev when a hand clamped over her mouth and she was lifted off her feet and dragged to one side. A few heads turned, but the girls giggled, seeming to think that the man who held her was her beau, and they walked on.
She kicked and struggled but she was held by strong arms. ‘Hush, Clemmie. It’s me.’
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. The hand loosened on her mouth just enough for her to turn her head and she found herself looking up into a familiar face. ‘Ned!’
‘It’s me all right. I thought I’d never find you, and then I saw you and I couldn’t believe my eyes.’
‘Oh, Ned.’ She laid her head on his shoulder, hardly able to believe her good fortune. ‘It is you, isn’t it? I’m not dreaming.’
‘You’ve led us a fine old dance, my girl. We’ve been looking for you for weeks.’
‘We? Do you mean Jared?’
‘Who else?’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Is he here?’
‘He ain’t – but I am.’ Hardiman had come up on them unnoticed. He seized Ned by the shoulders and spun him round. ‘Get away from here, boy. I been stuck outside this bleeding theatre for weeks just waiting to get me hands on this little baggage.’
Ned brought his elbow back with a savage jerk, catching Hardiman in the ribs and winding him. ‘Run, Clem.’ He floored Hardiman with a punch to the jaw and stood looking down at him with a triumphant grin, rubbing his bruised knuckles. ‘You had that coming, mate.’
Clemency grabbed him by the hand. ‘Don’t stand there you idiot. Come with me.’ She broke into a run, dragging Ned behind her. She didn’t stop until they were safely inside the foyer. In the distance she could see Hardiman. He had staggered to his feet, and was lumbering towards the main entrance. She could not see his expression at this distance, but it was obvious that this time he meant business.
‘Come with me, Ned.’ She led him through the corridors and down the narrow staircase to the underground cavern. She paused just long enough to pick up and light one of the oil lamps that were left specifically for the purpose of showing visitors round. ‘He won’t find us here.’
Ned ran his hand through his hair as he stared into the dark water. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve never seen anything like it in me life.’
‘Never mind that now.’ Clemency balanced the lamp on a rocky ledge. ‘Tell me how you found me. And where is Jared? Why didn’t he come with you?’
‘We thought the Ripper had got you,’ Ned said, hooking his arm around her shoulders. ‘That’s what we thought at first, but then there was no murder reported, so we started scouring the streets, day and night.’
‘But how did you know? I mean, we weren’t on the best of terms when I last saw you.’
‘Jared came to the pub. Out of his mind he was with worry, and so was I come to that.’
‘But I wrote to him, Ned. I got Miss Dorabella to post the letter telling him that Marceau had taken me to Paris.’
‘It took more than three weeks to reach London. By that time we’d almost given you up for dead. When Jared realised what that bloke had done, he was hopping mad.’
‘But he didn’t come for me himself. Where is he now?’
Ned took her hand and held it. ‘He sent me to look after you while he took care of Marceau.’
Clemency’s heart jolted against her ribs. She shivered and it was not just the cold blast of air from the lake that made her tremble. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He challenged Marceau to a duel.’
‘No. He can’t have. Nobody does that nowadays.’
‘He said it was the only way to settle old scores. He didn’t want me to tell you until it was all over, but they were meeting at dawn this morning, in the grounds of a château on the outskirts of Paris.’
‘Oh, my God. He could be dead or injured. Take me to him, Ned.’
A shadow loomed over them. ‘He’ll be dead, all right. Monsieur Marceau is a crack shot.’ Hardiman’s bulk filled the entrance to the cavern and his harsh laughter echoed off the stone roof, coming back to them across
the water in a mocking chorus.
Ned pushed Clemency behind him. ‘You’re lying. Don’t take any notice of him, Clem.’
‘Lying am I?’ Hardiman advanced on Ned with his hands fisted. ‘Come on, young ’un. You caught me off guard just now, but let’s see what you’re made of in a fair fight.’
‘No, Ned. Don’t,’ Clemency cried, grabbing his arm. ‘He’ll kill you.’
‘That’s right. I’ll kill him and then I’ll take you back where you belongs, missy.’
Ned lunged at Hardiman with a roar, but was felled with a single blow to the back of his neck. Clemency stared in horror at his prostrate body. When he didn’t move, she was certain that he must be dead. Hardiman turned on her, advancing slowly and with menace, cutting off her escape through the theatre. Behind her the lake was smooth as glass, inviting her to dive in and allow its cool green waters to soothe away her grief and terror. She took flight into one of the underground passages. She could barely see anything except the greenish-yellow phosphorescence of the lake’s surface, but she could hear his footsteps coming closer and closer. She stumbled on the slimy rock path. Hardiman’s hands were round her throat choking the life out of her. With strength born out of rage and desperation, she brought her arms upwards and outwards, breaking his grip. Wild with fury, she twisted round and butted him in the stomach, pitching him into the lake. She leaned back against the dripping stone wall, gasping for breath and trembling violently. In the faint beam of light emitted by the oil lamp, she saw his head break the surface as his arms flailed about, sending ripples across the surface. He uttered a cry for help as the water closed over his head again, but she could only stare in horror at the death throes of a drowning man. Even if she could have galvanised her frozen limbs into action, she could not swim, and there was nothing that she could do to save him. The water was oily calm now, and there was silence, except for the slow drip, drip, drip of moisture oozing from the rocky ceiling.