by Kerri Turner
He was brought out of his reverie by a particularly ferocious shout from Legat. ‘Non! Why do you dance her so sourly? This is a ballet comique, and the Good Fairy is light, precise. She offers her help to Harlequin so le grand amour will triumph. Do you think anyone will be laughing at such a pinched expression?’ Legat waved his hand so close to Valentina Yershova’s face that the soloist took a step back, grimacing.
‘Perhaps they will laugh when I fall over from trying to keep up with this music,’ Yershova snapped back. ‘He’s deliberately playing too fast because he dislikes me.’
Luka shuffled forward to peer into the orchestra pit. The pianist was staring belligerently at the stage, a smirk on his lips.
‘You!’ Legat pointed at Yershova’s partner, making him jump. ‘Do you find the music too fast?’
The man shrugged, not wanting to be drawn into the argument. Luka thought him wise; it was best not to get on the bad side of the pianist. The man had the power to make a dancer’s life difficult.
‘It appears our Good Fairy is the only one with a problem,’ Legat said.
‘Of course it’s not difficult for him. In this moment all he has to do is stand there and lift me while I do all the dancing,’ Yershova shouted, stamping her foot.
Luka heard those around him draw in their breath. He, too, was shocked. He had never imagined anyone would dare speak to the ballet master that way.
‘Once I’m offstage, he will slow things down again,’ Yershova continued. ‘Just you see if he doesn’t. If you can’t hear he’s playing too fast now, then you must be a …’ Her voice died in a tight strangle.
As Luka watched, he saw the physical effort that went into changing her angry features into a smile.
‘I must be a what?’ Legat asked.
His voice now held a note of amusement, and the muscles in the soloist’s neck tensed as she widened her smile.
‘A great ballet master who knows when his dancers are simply being temperamental,’ Yershova finished smoothly.
Legat let out a bark of laughter. ‘From the top then, shall we?’
Yershova walked to where the pas de deux would start, ignoring the sniggers that came from the wings. As she waited for her partner to join her, she pushed a stray hairpin back into her honey-coloured locks, her eyes fixed on the auditorium. Luka thought he saw a tremble in her hand.
The music began again; it was undeniably just a touch too quick, but Yershova’s features stayed resolutely in a large, if somewhat stiff, smile.
Curious about what had changed the soloist’s attitude, Luka craned his neck to see into the auditorium. Standing in the front rows of the shrouded chairs was a man; the same man Luka had asked for directions to the class of perfection. One finger stroked his thick moustache, and Luka thought he saw him lick his lips. His skin prickled with distaste, and he wondered why the man’s appearance had affected Yershova.
‘Careful! If you stare any harder your eyes might fall out of your head.’
The speaker was a woman seated cross-legged just behind Luka. Her long hair, darker than Luka’s own ash-brown, was parted in the middle and tied neatly at the back of her head, and her almost-black eyes were carefully trained on her knitting. Luka recognised her as a fellow corps de ballet dancer, one of those who made up the bulk of the company. She was not in the class of perfection with him, but he had seen her on stage.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, moving further back into the black curtains of the wings. ‘I just wanted to see—’
‘What made our refined soloist switch off her temper?’ With a swift movement, she pushed the stitches down to expose the sharp ends of the needles.
‘Is she always like that?’ Luka asked.
Valentina Yershova was not in the class of perfection either, so he hadn’t had much chance to see her up close. But he had watched her perform many times before and knew that she came from a background similar to his own, which made her position as a rising star both on stage and in society all the more impressive. Both she and Luka had been expected to toil away in factories for little money instead of gracing the stage of the most famous ballet company in the world. They were perhaps the only two in the entire company who would ever understand what it was like to rise so far above their family and birthplace.
‘I’m Xenia Nicholaievna,’ the woman continued, not answering Luka’s question. She put her knitting in her lap and tilted her head, taking him in. ‘And you, I believe, are Luka Vladimirovich Zhirkov.’
Luka’s surprise must have shown on his face.
She laughed. ‘If you thought the Imperial Ballet School was bad for gossip, you’ll find it’s nothing compared to the company.’
‘I see.’ Luka didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t fond of the constant whispers that had lined the halls and studios of the school, and had hoped the company would be different—more focused on the art than the inconsequential. He glanced into the auditorium again. He couldn’t see the man any more, but somehow knew he was still there.
‘There’s a man out there watching Valentina Yershova dance.’
Xenia Nicholaievna snorted and picked her knitting up once more, winding the loose wool around the needles. ‘Unsurprising. Only a man could get that one to behave once she’s made up her mind not to.’
‘What do you mean? Nikolai Legat is a man.’
Xenia burst out laughing, earning her a glare from the ballet master himself. She winced apologetically, but a grin still danced on her angular features. ‘My, we have quite the malysh here, don’t we?’ she teased.
‘I’m not a baby. I just don’t understand what you mean.’
‘I wasn’t talking about just any kind of man, Luka Vladimirovich. I was talking about protectors—you know, men who bestow money and gifts, and influence the rankings within the company in return for exclusive use of a dancer’s body and bed. Like Victor Dandré did for Anna Pavlova, or Diaghilev for Nijinsky. You didn’t think they became so famous based on talent alone, did you?’
Luka had thought exactly that. He saw Xenia’s wide mouth curve up at the corners again, her dark eyes lit with amusement as she watched the expressions flitting across his face.
Thankfully, he was prevented from having to say anything further by a shout from the stage. Legat had finally called for the corps.
Luka took his place towards the back of the stage, rolling his shoulders. As Legat counted out the beat, he allowed himself a glance towards the wings where Valentina Yershova now stood. Her head was hanging low, her fingertips pressed to the bridge of her nose. He saw her take a deep breath, as if readying herself, then once again a change came over her. Her rosebud lips settled into a peaceable smile, her chin tilted at a challenging angle, and her delicate shoulders set to a square line. It was as though the curtain had lifted and Yershova was ready to put on a show.
CHAPTER THREE
Maxim was quick to begin exercising influence over the ballet. He mentioned Valentina to Grigori Rasputin when the monk asked him to assess some works of art, and through these whisperings got Valentina the role of Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn in the upcoming Le Réveil de Flore, when the company had earmarked her for the lesser role of Hebe, Goddess of Youth. There were also rumours that La Perle, which hadn’t been performed in five years, was going to be restaged with Valentina as one of the two Black Pearls.
Maxim had also gained her another meeting with the imperial family; the Grand Duchesses this time, as a favour to their mother who was concerned the number of hours they were devoting to their volunteer work in the temporary hospitals for wounded soldiers might not be healthy. Valentina had accompanied the four young women on a walk through the Lower Park of the Peterhof Palace. The underground pipes had not yet frozen, and the Chessboard Cascade fountain had been turned on at the special request of the youngest Grand Duchess, Anastasia. She chattered almost non-stop during the walk—about the father she missed, their ill younger brother, her desire to once again go sailing, and stories of all who had su
ccumbed to her pranks with the trick fountains.
When they reached the Monplaisir Garden, with its earthen paths divided into swirls and corners dotted with blue and white urns, Valentina had thought to make the girl laugh. She coaxed Maxim into sitting on a white bench set in the midst of a square of inlaid stones. The bench had a gilded smiling face peering out from the back of it, and Maxim was commenting on this when streams of water shot up in graceful arcs, wetting his shoulders. The Grand Duchess Anastasia had shrieked with laughter, and Valentina was gratified. This was a story the girl would likely tell her mother, and the Tsarina would look on Valentina with favour for giving her daughter a moment of enjoyment.
But Maxim’s smile had dropped; and as the small party, flanked by the ever-attentive eyes of their escorting guards, moved on, he grabbed Valentina by the elbow and held her back. ‘I do not expect a woman I am protecting to succumb to the kind of behaviour expected of children,’ he’d hissed, a muscle pulsating in the side of his neck. But a moment later he kissed her on the cheek and nudged her forward.
Valentina knew the fickle nature of men and their whims. She’d learned that at an early age, after her father had left her and her mother to fend for themselves. It was best to submit to their desires with grace while things were working in her favour, and keep any complaints to herself, where they couldn’t do any damage.
Now, Valentina sighed and turned away from the stage, where the corps was going through the galop generale that Legat had called sloppy and tired. She’d been watching them rehearse from the auditorium, and walked between the rows of chairs, careful not to let the material shrouding them touch her skirt. She was lost in thought as she came to the door, and didn’t see the woman on the other side until she’d almost bumped into her.
‘Pardon,’ she said, taking a step back so the woman wouldn’t tread on the hem of her dress. She looked up, a polite smile forming on her lips, then saw it was only a corps dancer. She was an older woman, already past the age of retirement in Valentina’s opinion. She wouldn’t have recognised her if the woman hadn’t been with the company so long. Letting the smile slide off her face, Valentina gave a single nod in greeting.
The woman didn’t return it. There was enough room for each of them to pass through the door at the same time, but neither woman moved. The older dancer raised one eyebrow pointedly.
Valentina knew she was waiting for her to move out of the way first. That was the way of the company: dancers who had been there a long time were to be treated with respect and deference, regardless of their rank. It meant that nobodies like this corps dancer could treat Valentina, a soloist, as if she were below her, instead of the other way around.
Valentina was already in a dark mood. She’d spotted the young thing she’d found out Dimitri had exchanged her for prancing about on stage as though she weren’t just an insignificant corps dancer relegated near the waters. To be confronted now by the insolence of yet another corps dancer made Valentina grind her teeth. If she were married to a man as powerful as Maxim, this woman would be afraid to assert herself so.
The woman sighed loudly, twitching her cheap-looking coat, then craned her neck to look past Valentina towards the stage. It was only a matter of moments before she drew attention to the stand-off, and they both knew Valentina could not win. Not only would she be reprimanded, perhaps even fined, there was every chance Maxim would find out about it. And his instructions to her about obeying the rules of polite society had been explicit.
Trying not to pull a face, Valentina stepped to the side and gestured towards the auditorium with a short flick of her wrist. ‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered as the woman passed by.
As she adjusted her clothing, as though it had been ruffled by the mere proximity of the corps dancer, she wondered whether a man as connected as her new protector could change the career trajectory of a dancer for the worse as well as the better.
Perhaps it was time to test how much Maxim Ilyn was willing to do for the woman he’d bought.
Valentina pulled off her sable-lined gloves as her dvornik, Madame Ivkina, let her into her house. The bite of approaching winter was in the air, and the warmth from dancing had long since left her limbs. She waved the housekeeper away and dashed up the timber imperial staircase in her entry foyer—not as opulent as the white marble stairs in Mathilde’s mansion, but not bad all the same. She would take off her hat when she was upstairs and the cold had faded from her skin.
As she made her way through her house, Valentina took pride in ignoring its finery—paid for by Dimitri, but furnished to her taste. Only poor people looked around them to admire beautiful things. It had taken her some time to realise that, but since then she had steadfastly refused to acknowledge the opulence of her own dwelling, only smiling humbly when visitors paid it a compliment.
She glanced at the wooden doors to her studio as she passed; but her legs were aching and she decided she was done with dancing for the day. Walking into her winter garden room instead, with its soothing vine-covered walls and shining wooden floor, she almost jumped. She had expected to be alone, but Maxim was standing there, fingertips stroking his moustache as he perused a painting that was leaning against the wall. Valentina bit down on her irritation. It wasn’t the first time Maxim had had a painting delivered to her home, and she didn’t like him treating the house as his own.
She reminded herself that was the thinking of a poor person, though, someone who thought that everything they had could be taken away by another. She forced herself to smile and kissed him on the cheek. At least now she could tell him of the older woman’s insolence.
He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it, his eyes never leaving the painting.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘The Doss House. By Vladimir Makovsky.’ Maxim moved to the side to look at it from another angle.
The painting was a winter scene: in muted colours, with soft edges and blurred faces, it showed a crowd of poor people waiting to enter a charitable lodging house. Valentina’s breath caught in her throat as she looked at it. These were her people, the ones she kept trying to escape. The child with her mother gazing at a crouched man could have been her, longing for both food and a masculine presence in her life. Valentina’s mother wouldn’t have rested a gentle hand on her daughter’s back, though; she would have spoken sharply to her for pausing. But still, it could have been her. She felt tears sting the backs of her eyes, and a muscle worked in her jaw to keep them back.
‘Look at the brushstrokes in the foreground,’ Maxim murmured. ‘And the way the buildings to the left are depicted. So real compared to the rest; almost like a photograph if it could capture colour.’
‘It’s very moving,’ Valentina said. She was proud to hear no catch in her voice.
‘Oh, I don’t care much for the subject matter. Too melancholy. I prefer something nobler.’
He wasn’t looking at Valentina as he spoke, which was probably a good thing as she was unable to keep her face expressionless. This was what she’d always wanted: to so completely erase her old life that no one would remember where she had come from. It seemed she had finally done it. Why then did she have this strange feeling? It was almost like loss, but that would be madness.
‘It’s certainly not my favourite either,’ she said, turning her back on the painting.
Pulling out a hairpin that was digging into her scalp, she lifted the round mink shapka off her head and held it in her hands. The fur was so soft she could have used it for a pillow. On one side she had pinned an elaborate diamond brooch that Maxim had given her, and she ran her finger over the smooth, cold stones. The feel of them underneath her warm fingertip gave her confidence. This was the life she’d always wanted, the life she and Mamma had worked so hard for. There was nothing to grieve over in her previous life. She needed to keep looking forward and gain all that would otherwise not have been hers. Just as Mamma had taught her.
‘Are you ready for tonight?’ Maxim asked, stil
l not looking at her.
‘Tonight?’
‘I thought I’d told you. I’ve tickets for the Imperial Opera. Chaliapin has come up from Moscow to give a rare performance with them. It’s Boris Godunov.’
‘I’ve just come from the Mariinsky.’
Maxim’s eyes flickered to her. ‘Are you saying you would have stayed had you known, and worn your daytime clothes to the opera?’
Valentina gave the softest laugh she could manage. ‘Of course not. I’ll bathe and dress, and make myself beautiful for you.’
‘Not just for me. For every important man who will be there.’
As soon as Valentina saw Grigori Rasputin ensconced in the imperial box, she knew the real reason Maxim had arranged this outing. He would use any opportunity to ingratiate himself with the monk—which was why, once the performance had ended, Valentina found herself hovering in the background while Maxim sidled his way up to him. He wasn’t the only one attempting to do so, but he won the upper hand when he pulled Valentina forward by the elbow and planted her in front of Rasputin, asking the monk if he remembered their previous meeting.
‘Hard to forget,’ Rasputin intoned, those fierce eyes boring into Valentina’s. She wanted to take a step back, but the small crowd pressed in behind her, preventing it. ‘You’re an imperial ballerina, correct?’
Valentina was answering when he reached forward and pretended to pluck something from her dress perilously close to her breast. His fingers flapped, as though ridding themselves of the invisible lint or dust. Colour rushed into Valentina’s cheeks, and even Maxim’s eyebrows had risen. She glanced at him, remembering his instructions on how to behave in society.