‘The Sleeping Beauty is the first true ballet russe.’ Madame Belinskaya prowled along the front of the class. She wore a single egg-shaped emerald strung on a pendant, swinging heavy and pendulum-like over her heliotrope chiffon dress. A delicate tracery of diamonds cobwebbed over it and Marietta had already overhead several speculations on the priceless jewel’s history. Now and then, the soft thud of Madame’s cane adjusting legs, arms, hips and backs interrupted her oration. Marietta swept her right leg out in a circular motion, brushing the floor with her toes, moving in synchronisation with the class as they executed rond de jambes at the barre. ‘When you dance ballet, you are dancing through history and into art. It is steeped in culture and so you must understand what has led you to this point, where the dance has been and what it has represented. Within The Sleeping Beauty, we witness the departure of ballet from Paris and discover the shape the Russian Court has held since Peter the Great, its rules and forms as intricate as the inside of a Fabergé egg. An entire world contained within its jewelled shell.’ Her hand fluttered to her emerald pendant and Marietta wondered at its origins once more.
Madame Belinskaya had repeated this particular speech many times during rehearsals, and with each repetition, Marietta felt the words burrow deeper into her soul. Some nights she dreamt that she was a tiny porcelain doll, dancing inside a Fabergé egg. In those dreams she danced to music so ancient it no longer carried a name, her heart blazing hot and star-bright. The morning coffee sipped from her Sèvres cup tasted bitter after those dreams, her days were duller, the skies greyer and drowned in clouds.
Madame Belinskaya’s cane slammed into the floorboards. ‘Grand battements, ladies.’
The dancers faced the mirrors as one, assumed fifth position with their feet, their arms gliding out to the side, and swept their right legs up high in front of them. In front of Marietta, Harriet whipped her leg up at a dizzying height. Marietta strove to reach higher and higher until her leg strained its protest. She glanced at the windows but the darkness was too absolute to discern anything beyond the department store where she’d left the car before racing over to the studio at an inelegant speed.
‘Victoria,’ Madame Belinskaya called out, ‘show us the Bluebird variation once more.’
‘I dearly wish we possessed male dancers among our ranks,’ Victoria said, her plaintive sigh as affected as many of the mannerisms of the upper classes. ‘I long to perform the coda as Princess Florine without having to wrangle all these pas de deux as solo pieces. Imagine if we had a troupe of tramagnini to lift us, how we would soar. Then I should feel as if I were flying across the stage.’
‘This is not the seventies, nor are you a prima at La Scala,’ Harriet said as Victoria walked past. ‘Stay focused, there are men at the Company.’ She laughed. ‘I’m certain you’ll have your wings soon enough.’
Victoria gave her a coquettish smile and assumed her starting position, prepared to flutter into life as a bluebird.
Something deep inside Marietta’s stomach twisted. She had been permitted to attend classes once it had been ascertained that Madame Belinskaya adopted a strict female-only policy. Harriet’s light interjections served as a reminder that her parents would never allow her to set foot on the stage in a man’s arms. Yet how could she strive for greatness, aspiring to be recognised for her talent alongside the likes of Anna Pavlova, if she allowed her skills to perish in the studio. A flash of a thought, of that doll dancing within a jewelled egg, dusty and time-forgotten. She shuddered and turned her attention back to Victoria’s winged footwork, her legs beating hummingbird-heart-fast. A knot of anxiety nestled within Marietta as she watched a myriad of brilliant talent spill across the studio in the progression of the rehearsal. She couldn’t help fretting that, even if she risked it all, she might never rank among the Company after all. Each of her competitors was as ravenous for that spark of hope as she. They were a thousand untold stories and she was not the sole dancer with dagger-sharp aspirations.
Upon the drive home after class, her anxiety bloomed into a potent cloud of dread. As she rolled up the driveway, the automobile lights fell on Carlton, pacing outside. Frederick must have returned before her then. His expression melted into relief as she came to a stop. She exited the Rolls and strode towards him, the cold snap in the air evident from his pink extremities. ‘I’d rather you wouldn’t speak of my little outing to anyone, Carlton,’ she said smoothly.
The relief fell from his face. His bushy eyebrows clenched together. ‘The master expects a full record of my comings and goings, miss.’
‘Perhaps you could omit this one, just this once.’ Marietta dipped a gloved hand into the folds of her dress to retrieve a couple of crowns.
‘Alright, miss,’ the chauffeur said, taking the coins and darting a furtive look round the drive before giving her a curt nod and taking his leave.
Still, Marietta’s anxiety lingered as she stole back into the house and her bedroom. Sally promptly appeared to dress her in a Turkish-blue gown with soft sleeves draping off her shoulders and pearl beading forging a nacreous trim around the neckline. Long pearl necklaces tumbled down her bodice and soft elbow-length gloves in rich cream drew the ensemble together. Sally arranged her hair in a gentle wave over one shoulder, pinning it back with a sapphire comb. ‘You look lovely, miss,’ she told her, handing over dangling silver and pearl earrings, one at a time. ‘Now you’d best be quick, your father wants a word with you before dinner.’
Marietta’s hand stilled. ‘Did he happen to mention in regards to what?’
‘Sorry, miss.’ Sally shook her head, meeting Marietta’s eyes in the mirror. ‘He’s awaiting you in the library.’ She twisted her apron in her fingers. Marietta gave her a tight smile before making her way downstairs. Trailing her gloved fingers down the polished bannister, she kept her poise in place like a shield.
The library carried the scent of port and crisped, old pages. Mahogany bookcases lined the walls like soldiers, leather armchairs in verdant greens were grouped together around a low table on which perched a decanter of vintage red wine, Drosselmeier’s chessboard and a humidor. Glass-fronted cases in the low-lit edges of the room displayed valuable snuff boxes, a historic gavel Theodore had won at auction, rare editions of Dickens’s books and aged maps of their country estate, curling at the edges. Ferns clustered in one corner, a misplaced jungle. The fire was lit, shadows whirligigged on the crimson wallpaper and danced along the Anatolian carpet that a worn lion skin mooched on. When Marietta had been a child, she had ridden the lifeless creature, the carpet transforming into the topography of the African plains in her mind’s eye.
It had been Theodore that had exhorted the values of an excellent education. ‘Aristotle once said that “the energy of the mind is the essence of life”,’ he had told a young, beribboned Marietta. ‘See to it that yours does not perish.’ The words had been accompanied by a copy of Great Expectations, which Marietta had not appreciated the irony of until later.
Marietta stepped over the lion’s jaws, its glass eyes dull, and took the liberty of seating herself opposite her father, who was reading a newspaper.
‘This very evening I was informed by my household staff that my own daughter has become a thief.’
‘I merely borrowed the automobile, a necessity in order to—’
Theodore slammed his newspaper down. Marietta flinched, lowering her eyes. Headlines screamed out at her from the crisp paper he had his valet iron for him so as not to deposit ink upon his digits.
Arrested suffragettes on hunger strike! New line of the London Underground opened today! Workmen’s Compensation Act passed!
‘And that you bribed the chauffeur, no less. I am appalled by the behaviour you have so wantonly displayed today. Several of your mother’s acquaintances have sent word of your shocking carousing through the centre of Nottingham. She is quite mortified. I suppose your blasted brother instructed you in driving an automobile. I shall be having a word with him.’
Mari
etta retained her silence.
‘I cannot begin to comprehend the thoughts passing through your head. You displayed an utter disregard for both your own reputation and ours, not to mention attempting to handle such a machine by yourself. If your actions were not so thoughtless and infuriating, I might be impressed. You possess a sharp mind and not a little of my own penchant for strategising. You’ll make someone a fine head of household.’
He was becoming distracted. Marietta knew she ought to maintain her silence; retorts were sticky and invited further vexation, feeding the flames of argument. But her skin prickled, his opinions rankling. She raised her head and met his eyes. ‘I am worth more than that.’
Theodore held up a finger, a warning she remembered well from her adolescent days. ‘Do not test me. I am already severely disappointed in your actions today.’
Marietta’s flames of indignation ignited. ‘Women attend universities now,’ she said. ‘Some of us may own property, train as doctors, and one day in the near future, we shall attain the vote, too. For all women, no matter their class or skin colour. Your attitude is outdated. A relic better befitting your collection than seeing the light of day.’ She gestured at the glass cases.
Theodore’s forehead mapped his consternation. Clouds gathering before a storm. When he spoke, his voice was iron. ‘No daughter of mine will address me in this manner, do I make myself clear? I shall not tolerate such brazenness.’
Marietta stood. ‘You forget yourself, Father; I am no longer a child.’ She walked out of the library in a slow, measured manner. Only once she had shut the heavy door behind herself did she close her eyes, breathing deeply for a spell.
That evening, Marietta rang her bell and ordered a pot of coffee. It arrived with a slice of Victoria sponge, clouded with cream, and her favourite Sèvres cup, hand-painted in gold and Prussian blue. She sat on her bed-silks and poured cup after cup, thinking deep into the night by the light of a single candle. A plan began to form. If she engineered herself to be in the city centre at the opportune moment, she saw no reason why she could not evade Miss Worther’s close attention and attend her audition. She crossed the room to her dressing table and opened her jewellery box. She might not be a woman with an independent purse, but she was a woman of means. She ran a finger through the diamonds glittering back at her, contemplating their worth.
From her window, the gas lamps illuminated the street. A bank of clouds clustered on the horizon. When Marietta glanced up at them, for a moment she fancied she’d been transported to some faraway land with mountain ranges looming in the distance with great frosted peaks. Madame Belinskaya had told stories of such sights in continental Europe, where she had toured, dancing on stages across their grand cities. Marietta’s longing and ambition rent through her, fierce enough to tear the world in two. She pledged a silent vow to herself: that the plans she had forged over coffee and candlelight would be worth the risk.
Chapter Ten
Nottingham welcomed Christmas in style. The day December arrived, the winter market opened, spilling out from Old Town Square in twinkling lights and festive cheer. It was the kind of event that enticed old and young, rich and poor alike, out from their homes into the cold. The air was scented with iced gingerbread, sugarplums and mulled wine. The spectacle crawled all the way from Long Row and Cheapside, culminating in the centre of the square, where a gigantic Norse fir tree glimmered in strands of electric lights.
‘Two hours ought to do nicely. Thank you, Jameson,’ Marietta said, gesturing at the vast façade of the Griffin and Spalding department store that rose six generous storeys above her and Miss Worthers.
‘Right you are, miss.’ He doffed his hat and swung back onto his seat, his black and white livery blending with the carriage paint.
She watched the coffee-coloured pair of horses weaving around the Christmas market that was bustling under the dingy winter sunset. She steadied her nerves for the lies she was about to spin, sweet as sugar. The hour of her audition grew closer. She held onto her beaded reticule, the Italian silk-lined bag weighted down with her pointe shoes and ballet dress tightly rolled and fitted inside.
‘I am still failing to understand why it was so imperative we shopped today.’ Miss Worther’s words were accompanied with a disapproving sniff. Her beetle-eyes scoured the square. ‘The city is frightfully busy this time of year.’
‘I think it rather magical.’ Marietta feigned a look of delight. ‘Why, that vendor is selling the most darling boxes of marzipan. I simply must purchase one for Frederick’s Christmas stocking.’
Miss Worthers cast a doubtful look at the tangle of stalls and melee of crowds. Vendors shouted their wares, the crowds pressed in and smoke chugged up from the roasting carts. ‘I am not certain it is the proper place—’
‘Nonsense,’ Marietta said firmly, banking on her companion’s reticence. ‘Why don’t you collect your orders and I shall meet you in the tearoom shortly. There really is no need for both of us to venture into this madness.’
Miss Worthers patted the faded roses on her deep fuchsia hat. ‘I must admit, the temperatures are rather frigid for my liking. Perhaps a spot of tea shall set me to rights.’
‘Be sure to take your time,’ Marietta said. ‘I may indulge in a short wander to peruse what other wares might sweeten up the Christmas stockings.’ She fled into the glittering chaos before Miss Worthers could brook an objection. After pausing behind a stall, Marietta glanced back to see her companion vanish into the Griffin and Spalding foyer with the rest of the smart winter-coated and hatted bustle. Her pinch of guilt was washed away by a wave of empowerment; today, her future rested in her own hands. She then broke into a clipped pace in the opposite direction.
Cutting up Market Street and crossing onto Upper Parliament Street, she let a precious few seconds drizzle by as she gazed at the proud edifice shining before her. The Theatre Royal. The portico stared back at her in all its elegance, its six Corinthian columns holding up the weight of culture in the city. Marietta squared her shoulders and marched in. She was escorted to the back of the theatre by a prim woman who glanced at the rich cloth her coat was cut from in confusion. Ignoring her, Marietta claimed an empty dressing room for herself and changed out of her mauve velvet dress. Between its thickness and the winter coat she had worn, she had absconded a corset without notice. A fact she was grateful for, as no one was there to aid her in its removal. The chatter and gossip of other auditioning dancers filtered through the thin walls and Marietta felt the first nip of nerves.
Before the clocks could strike four, she was waiting in the wings, dipping her pointe shoes in rosin to ensure a better purchase on the stage. The woman who preluded her danced like a dream. Her limbs stroked the air as she coaxed an ethereal gracefulness from her final pirouettes, a bird taking flight. The judges passed no remark other than a desultory, ‘Thank you, we shall inform you of our decision in due time,’ and the woman nodded, walking across the stage and past Marietta, her neck and arms glistening with sweat, snapping her out of the illusion.
‘Miss Marietta Stelle.’
She walked onto the stage. Four tiers of empty seats stared back at her, heavy with expectation. She was framed by a tall column at each side, curtains draped above, electric chandeliers bright and hot on her face. Three judges were to witness her dancing. The tight, haughty expressions they wore did nothing to dispel Marietta’s nerves. Two women, imperious enough to rival even Madame Belinskaya, and a man whose attire suggested he had just stepped from Bond Street. He raised a monocle to one eye and peered at her through it. ‘A segment from the Rose Adagio, performed as a solo variation. My, that is an ambitious piece. I do hope your decision to adapt Marius Petipa’s choreography into a solo piece was a worthy one.’ He snapped his fingers at the partial orchestra, who began to play.
Marietta’s nerves swelled into a thing with teeth and claws. It left her stricken with a sudden paralysis, depositing her half a beat behind the music pouring into the theatre. Yet this was i
t. The single chance she had been waiting and hoping and fighting for. The world slipped away until there was nothing but Marietta and the stage she stood on. And so she danced, giving life to Aurora, lending the princess a voice.
No longer was the young princess promenaded by each of her four suitors, one prince giving way to the next in a ceaseless tide. No, Marietta forged her story anew as she pirouetted, unfurling her own free will onto the stage in a string of unsupported arabesques and attitudes. Soaring further into the dance, the music softened into a delicate touch that she fluttered along to, pursued by the strong, rising brass at the climax, the pinnacle towards which Marietta had been striving; that high, solitary arabesque en pointe. The moment crept closer and closer until it arrived in a grand swoop of music that set her soul alight with yearning. Elevating her leg high behind her, her supporting leg lifting her skyward, arms reaching out, Marietta held the position, her face tilted up towards the judges and an imaginary audience.
And there, sat at the very back in the previously empty seats cloistered in the shadows, was Drosselmeier. Yet there was no hiding his silver hair, gleaming like a beacon. Even from this distance, Marietta could see his gaze was locked on her. How had he known? She lost her concentration. For a precious second, Marietta wobbled. Fighting to hold her balance, she regained the precarious position. Then, as the music reached its conclusion, she pirouetted, spinning out of control as if her legs had run away with themselves. Her balance slipped and she fell out of the pirouette, attempting to disguise it with an impromptu glissade; gliding across the stage as the music ended. She tore her glance away from Drosselmeier, onto the judges. They looked glazed over and she was unsure if they’d noticed or were too fatigued with the long day of auditions to pay close attention. Either way, Drosselmeier’s distraction had wrenched away the wish she had danced her heart out for; that through ballet she might take flight. A gossamer-winged creature on a silver wind, light and free.
Midnight in Everwood Page 6
