Beneath the Mask

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  The knob turned in her hand, its smooth movement reassuring even though she’d half expected the door to be locked.

  The door swung open, hinges groaning, a deep sound she hadn’t heard from so far away.

  “You came back did you?” The woman who spoke leaned out from one of the rooms, a smirk twisting her face. “Miss Fancy come to beg her way back into the troupe? You never expected the master would let you go, now did you?”

  The words stopped as the woman actually looked at the one who had opened the door.

  Daphne stared back, scared and embarrassed at her audacity. The courage she’d felt in the dark alleyway deserted her and her throat felt dry, all words to plead her case having escaped.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked after an awkward pause as she stepped free of what must have been a dressing room. “You can’t just come in here, you know.”

  Fully revealed, the dancer’s clothes seemed indecent, even more than the racy styles Daphne had heard tell some of the ladies now wore. She doubted damp underclothes caused the woman’s dress to hug her curves so closely and the material seemed quite insubstantial.

  Daphne reached out and fingered a bit of the skirt, barely registering the question. “Do all dancers have to dress like this?” she asked, her words soft and hesitant.

  The woman threw her head back and laughed, but the sound seemed more bitter than full of good humor. “I was more right than not when I thought you were her.” She jerked her head toward the door, indicating the angry dancer. “Only the line dancers wear this.” She jerked her skirt free from Daphne’s hand and spun on her heel. Calling back over her shoulder, she said, “You should get out of here before the master finds you. He’s not in the best mood and would love someone to take his temper out on.”

  Daphne watched the other woman leave, fighting the instinct to turn and run. She’d never seen Monsieur Henre in a rage and could not imagine it. Had she gotten confused somehow? Did someone else lead this troupe?

  She half-turned back toward the door, torn between her need to demand a place in the world of dancers and the realization her whole plan hinged on Monsieur Henre. Without him, who would accept a dancer off the street? She flinched away from the thought of what the dancer in her book had done, actions only hinted at to protect delicate minds like hers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “She’ll learn quick enough just how hard it is to find work.”

  The voice issued from an open door further down the corridor. A small cry of delight slipped from Daphne’s mouth. Even with anger hardening his tones, she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She skipped toward the sound, forgetting her purpose in the recovery of a friend. Without thinking, she stepped through the door, her arms thrown wide.

  “Whatever you think you can earn with that body, go do it elsewhere. I’ve no interest in your wares.”

  Monsieur Henre didn’t even look up from the desk, only glancing at the mirror in front of him to see her reflection.

  Daphne dropped her arms, stunned at this side of him. He didn’t resemble her dance instructor at all. Even the faint hint of accent had vanished from his harsh voice. She looked past him to the practice mirror, seeing not an elegant young noble, but a scruffy woman, her features covered in a simple black mask, her hair pulling free of a once-neat bun and a worn dress hanging limp from her shoulders. Oddly, the sight made her smile.

  “It’s me, Monsieur Henre. Your favorite student,” Daphne said, stepping further into the room and crossing to stand next to him.

  Her teacher frowned at the continued intrusion, raising his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. He fumbled as they met the spectacles he’d never worn in her presence, and he jerked them off his face in an almost vicious movement. After lowering them to the table in a controlled motion that made his hand tremble, he turned to face her.

  Daphne grinned, expecting his mood to change when he finally accepted it really was her.

  “I have nothing for you. This is not some whore house where you can twirl once and collapse across some gentleman’s lap. Dance is an art form well beyond the likes of you.” His voice grew louder with every word and Daphne cringed, suddenly fearing him.

  Monsieur Henre pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a harsh sound. She trembled when his hand tightened around her upper arm, the fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “Get out of here. Take your wares to Covent Garden. My dancers earn their keep on the stage, not in dark rooms with red bed sheets.”

  He jerked her toward the door as if to escort her outside. Daphne cried out at the rough handling, stumbling forward before her determination reasserted itself.

  “No,” she said, pulling against his hold. “It’s not what you think.” Reaching up with her free hand, she pushed the mask up to reveal her features. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  He turned to yell at her again, but stopped, a stunned expression taking the place of his anger. “Lady Daphne?” The words came out tentative and his accent crept into his tones.

  She tugged against the grip he’d obviously forgotten and smiled. “Yes, it’s me,” she repeated, relaxing as the teacher she knew returned, “But best you call me mistress when I’m here in case any overhear.”

  His eyebrows drew together and a frown pulled at his mouth. “You can’t be here. You’ll be ruined as will I. Put that mask on and get back home.”

  Once again he touched her, but this time just to press a hand against her back, forcing her out of his office.

  Daphne turned to face him and stretched her arms out until she blocked the door, confident he’d do nothing to harm her now that he’d recognized who she was. “I’m not going anywhere. I came here to dance.”

  Monsieur Henre shook his head, stepping back until he sat on the edge of his desk. “We already talked of this, mistress. It’s not possible. Even were I willing to take the chance, your father would storm my establishment and drag you home in disgrace. I have enough troubles of my own without inviting more.” He waved at the table, his shoulders slumping. “You have no idea how much all this takes. First I lose the extra income because of your ridiculous dreams and now I’ve lost my lead dancer. I don’t have time for your childish games.”

  Daphne tensed in indignation. How could he treat her this way? Even as the question stormed through her mind, she realized she’d have to accept this familiarity and worse if she convinced him. Letting her arms fall gracefully against her skirt, she wiped the belligerent expression from her face. “I could take her place,” she murmured.

  With a bitter laugh, Monsieur Henre dropped into his chair. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? Even if you could carry off a professional dance—”

  “But I can. You said so yourself.” Daphne crossed the room quickly and leaned against the desk, her hand on her teacher’s shoulder. “You need me.”

  He shoved back, shrugging off her touch. “I need you as much as I need some randy noble taking a liking to one of my dancers. You are trouble. More trouble than I can afford.”

  Desperation swept over her and Daphne snapped her mask back into place, refusing to give in. “You didn’t know me. If you, who has seen me dance, who knows me better even than my family, didn’t recognize me, who else will?”

  He stared at her masked face for a long, thoughtful moment before shaking his head. “No, it still wouldn’t work. This would be the first place they’d come looking when you slipped away. You made your intentions clear enough, and Lord Scarborough is not a stupid man.”

  Daphne smiled, feeling her plans finally coming together. “They think I’ve given it up,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “They think I’m focused on my coming out like any other young girl my age.”

  “Young noble girl, you mean,” her teacher said. “And so you should be. This is not natural. Not the way things are.”

  “You’d turn me away?” she asked, strain making her voice higher than it usually was. “You need m
e, and I want nothing more than to dance. You can’t really mean to make me go. Not after all I’ve done.”

  Her teacher looked worried. “What have you done?” he asked, his voice sharp.

  She blushed, knowing the answer wouldn’t speak well of her. “Does it matter? Can’t you just accept that I will do whatever necessary to get this chance?”

  “Oh mistress.” He took one of her hands between his. “I know how the desire to dance can burn in you—I feel it in myself—but you have a different life to live. A much better life than this one.”

  Jerking her hand free, she glowered at him. “As a governess?” she asked, throwing his suggestion back in his face. “Is that the better life you see for me? At the beck and call of someone else’s children, wilting away because I cannot dance?”

  He shook his head, a rueful expression crossing his face. “Do you truly think it will come to that? Some handsome noble will snatch you up and make you his own. You’ll have fancy dresses, parties with the best of the ton, and you’ll forget these childish dreams.”

  Anger whipped through Daphne. She forgot herself as she slammed her fists against Monsieur Henre’s chest. “You think so little of me, of my desire? I already have gone to a party with the best of the ton. That’s where my mother thinks I am right now. I hated it. All I wanted was to be dancing, not exchanging false pleasantries knowing they’ll laugh the moment my back is turned. I am not like them.”

  She stopped, breathing heavy in her agitation. With an angry swipe of a hand, she pushed the hair back out of her face and glared at her teacher.

  Again, he gave her that thoughtful look she’d grown used to as he considered whether she’d mastered a step. “Perhaps I have been hasty. Perhaps you are truly driven to dance.”

  Something about his tone kept Daphne from relaxing. She had not won the argument just yet.

  He shook his head, turning away. “Not that it matters. Your father would never allow it.”

  Daphne walked around the desk so she could look him in the face. “My father need never know. They think I’m bonding with some other young woman who will come out next year. Their paths cross so rarely, I needn’t worry about discovery. Don’t you see? This is my only chance.” Forgetting about dignity, she pleaded with him. “You can’t send me away. You need a dancer now and how are you to find one? Just let me try. Just let me dance while you seek a replacement. I swear you won’t regret it.”

  He looked from her clasped hands to her face and sighed. “True enough I have no dancer. You’re already here, and I certainly didn’t recognize you in that mask or those clothes.” He shoved back from the desk again, but this time a smile spread across his face. “Just how much harm can it do?”

  He spoke the last quietly, as if to himself, and Daphne held her breath, hoping against hope he’d give in.

  “Come. I’ll take you to Cynthia. She knew Joan’s wardrobe better even than Joan did.” His smile turned down into a grimace as he added in a mutter, “That was part of the problem.”

  Daphne let the air go in a long sigh. She’d won. Unable to restrain herself, she flung her arms around her teacher, giving him a tight hug. “Thank you, Monsieur Henre. Thank you,” she cried.

  He slowly pulled her hands aside and frowned down at her. “I meant what I said earlier. This troupe doesn’t go for that sort of behavior, mistress, and now you’re no different than any of them. You’ll have to practice mostly on your own because of your father, but when you’re here, you will be one of the troupe.”

  She backed up, his admonishment failing to dent her delight. “Of course. One of the troupe. You tell me what to practice and I will. Father hasn’t taken away the back ballroom so I’ve been practicing there.”

  A quiet bell rang through the corridor outside. Monsieur Henre tensed, then released his breath on a sigh. “I hope you have, mistress, because there’s no time to run you through your paces now. The dancers have started their routine and you’ll be on soon enough. I count my blessings that I taught you this dance though you’d never have the opportunity to use it.”

  Fear raced through Daphne as it all became real. She gave her teacher a shaky smile. “I know the movements by heart. I won’t fail you.”

  He raised her chin and smiled. “I never thought you would. Now follow me. I’ll show you the costumes myself. We have no choice.”

  SOOT RISING FROM THE OIL lamps used to light the stage tickled Daphne’s nose and made her want to sneeze. She could hear the rustle of people but could not see them from where she stood behind a side curtain. Her mind drifted to when her father had brought her to the opera. She’d been entranced by the actors down on the stage so far below their box, and even then the longing to be there herself had infected her.

  “From distant lands comes our newest star, never before seen on this shore.”

  “More like from Lancaster,” a voice called, breaking through Monsieur Henre’s introduction.

  Her teacher kept speaking, ignoring the interruption, but Daphne no longer heard his words. She swallowed, the wonder replaced with nervousness. Her hands crept up to make sure she’d attached her mask securely. What if she stumbled? What if she crashed into something? She didn’t know the stage. She’d never tried to dance with the mask on.

  Panic fed on itself until she could only hear the hard pounding of her heart. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out of here.

  A hand closed over her shoulder as she turned, ready to escape. “It’s always hard the first time. You just need to get out there and make your mistakes. No one is ever perfect, especially not on their debut, but until you get it over with, you’ll be stuck in this moment.”

  Daphne turned to look at her teacher, her lips trembling though she tried to smile.

  His stern expression dropped away, and a soft smile took its place. “Go. Your audience awaits you. Just remember how long you’ve wanted this. Nothing can take this from you now except your fear.”

  She stared at him for a heartbeat then firmed her chin, nodding sharply. As if in tune with her mood, the audience’s restless sounds stilled. The musicians started again, a familiar melody soothing her nerves. She closed her eyes, letting the notes wash over her and invade her body until it thrummed with the need to express the music through dance.

  “Go on,” Monsieur Henre said, suppressed laughter in his voice.

  Daphne didn’t look at him again as she moved away from the sheltering curtain, taking swift, graceful steps toward the center of the stage.

  As though in the distance, she heard some calls from the open seating at the base of the stage, but this time none of them bit into her. Instead, the violin pulled a spin from her and then the flute sent her into a dip until she continued through the routine she’d practiced so many times that her body required little reminder.

  The audience vanished, the oil lamps became the warmth of a bright summer day, and the music transformed into wind and waves. Daphne couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or closed. She only felt the exhilaration pounding through her as the shortened skirt swirled around her legs and the springy wood floor gave her steps more lift than she’d ever experienced. She never wanted it to end.

  The music slowed then stopped, only a single note of the flute remaining as Daphne collapsed onto the floor, unsure how much time had passed. Sweat dripped from her forehead, sliding between her lips. She licked the fluid, tasting her effort in its salty bitterness.

  Had she succeeded? Or failed?

  In the silence that followed the flute, she remembered every stumble, every time she missed a move or didn’t raise her arms high enough. A single cough cut through the quiet and seemed to provide her answer.

  When the sound first started, Daphne thought the audience was stampeding away, trying to escape her amateur efforts. Then, she realized the thunder held nothing of chaos. Daphne raised her head to stare into the darkness beyond the stage lights, and the noise intensified.

  A smile pulled at her cheeks and tears sli
pped down to dampen her mask. They were applauding. They loved her.

  The curtains came down from each side to close her off, but the thunder continued without faltering. She let the noise wash over her, let it wash away her doubts and replace them with a single certainty. This was her place. This was where she belonged.

  “They always did like a novelty. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  The sharp voice pulled Daphne back to reality. She turned to see the woman she’d met in the corridor. Her gaze drifted further and three rows of four dancers each now stood on the stage, ignoring her.

  “You’ll be trampled if you stay there,” the same woman said, the edge in her voice making it seem as if she hoped Daphne would wait.

  With none of the grace she’d shown before, Daphne scrambled to her feet, her knees shaking with exhaustion. She stumbled off the stage just in time as she heard the rumble of chain as the curtains pulled up out of sight.

  “You did well, my pupil,” Monsieur Henre greeted her, putting a robe around her shoulders before she even realized how the cold seeped into her bones.

  Daphne managed a tired smile, happy to follow him back to the changing room, unsure she’d be able to find it on her own.

  “I’ll call you a hackney,” he said as he closed the door. “You were wonderful.”

  She barely heard the click of the door latch. Her teacher’s words meant more to her than all the applause in the world. She spun around in a circle with her arms hugging herself, stumbled and almost fell.

  Collapsing into the chair, Daphne laughed breathlessly. She’d done it. Against all odds and with providence shining on her, she’d become a professional dancer.

  Daphne didn’t know how long she’d sat slumped in the chair, contemplating her success with a bleary exhausted elation, but she jerked upright when a heavy hand slammed against the door.