John Chapman would auction off the rest of the furniture, and then he would sell the house. It didn’t matter. I had grown up here in Cornwall and I loved it, but already it was part of the past. I doubted that I would ever return. Brence and I would travel all over Europe, going from one exotic place to another. There would be hardships, too, as Inez had predicted, but we would weather them together.
Putting away the clippers in the musty garden room back of the kitchen, I took down a tall blue vase and arranged the roses in it, then carried them into the parlor. The French windows stood open. Rays of wavering silvery yellow sunlight streamed in. The white marble mantel was polished to a shine. Even if the nap was worn on the dark blue sofa, if the mahogany sideboard was losing some of its veneer, the flowered pink and gray wing chairs still looked good, and the oval mirror in its gilt frame added a touch of elegance. I set the vase of roses down on the sideboard and then rearranged them, touching the velvet-soft petals carefully.
It was after twelve o’clock. Brence would be here soon. How would he phrase it? What would he say? Would he be cool and matter-of-fact, or would he draw me into his arms and look deep into my eyes and tell me once again that he loved me? He might not even ask the question. He might simply say that he had made all the arrangements and tell me to start packing my bags. Lost in delicious speculation, I stood there by the sideboard with my fingertips touching the roses, and then, catching sight of myself in the mirror, I realized that I still wore my morning dress.
I hurried upstairs to my bedroom and, opening the wardrobe doors, examined the profusion of dresses hanging inside. Which one should I wear? I spent several minutes in indecision, rejecting first one and then another, and finally, smiling, I took down the dusty rose cotton frock I had been wearing the first time we met. It wasn’t particularly elegant, but he had found it quite fetching … How long ago that seemed.
Spreading the dress out on the bed, I took off the frock I had on and, wearing only my petticoat, sat down at the dressing table to brush my hair until it was shining with blue-black highlights. Finally satisfied, I applied a touch of subtle perfume behind my earlobes and in the cleft between my breasts, and then I slipped on my dress. Standing in front of the mirror, I adjusted the bodice, ran my hands around the snug waist, and smoothed the skirt over my petticoats. I wondered if he would remember the dress.
As I left the bedroom I could hear his carriage approaching the house, and I smiled, feeling the familiar rush of excitement. I started down the staircase, and suddenly, halfway down, my knees seemed to give way and I had to grab hold of the bannister for support. Everything shimmered in front of me, blurring, spinning, and there was a faint buzzing in my head. I was unable to breathe properly, and my pulses were leaping. Nerves. I had never in my life been so nervous. Terrible doubts assailed me, and there was a moment of sheer panic while I stood gripping the bannister so tightly that my knuckles grew white.
The carriage stopped and I heard the sound of his footsteps coming up the path. Panic still held me in its grip, and I was frozen, unable to move, as Brence knocked on the front door. Several seconds passed and then the buzzing stopped, the dizziness vanished. I took a deep breath, let go of the bannister and moved on down the stairs, composed now, that dreadful moment of apprehension behind me. I opened the door. He stepped inside. He was wearing his navy blue suit and a long black cloak, a traveling cloak. The hem almost swept the floor.
Smiling, I took his arm and started to stand up on tiptoes to kiss him. His expression held me back. His mouth was tight at the corners, his brows drawn together, his eyes dark and determined as though … as though he had a very unpleasant task to perform.
“You’re early,” I said lightly. “I just finished dressing.”
I stepped back and whirled around, displaying the dress. If he recognized it, he gave no sign. Why was he wearing the cloak? He’d never worn one before. Why was he so very grim? I felt a tremor of alarm, the merest tremor, but I refused to acknowledge it.
“I—I see you didn’t bring any food,” I remarked. “That’s all right. There’s enough in the pantry to do.”
I led the way into the parlor, feeling light-headed, trying to still that tremor inside.
“I’ll make us an omelet later on. I can’t cook, not really—it wasn’t included in our curriculum at the academy, but Fanny taught me how to make omelets. Aren’t these roses lovely? I cut them this morning. I wanted everything to look nice because—because I knew today was going to be special, and—”
I cut myself short, unable to go on, unable to keep up the pretense. He stood there in the middle of the room with the cloak draped back over his shoulders, his mouth drawn into a tight line. I turned my back to him, praying it wasn’t so, praying fervently.
“I have something to tell you,” he said.
I knew. Already I knew, and I didn’t think I was going to be able to face it.
“I was going to write a letter. I was going to send it after I left, but I couldn’t. I had to come myself. I’d rather face a firing squad, but I had to come.”
I turned to look at him. Why did I feel this terrible calm that was like a kind of death?
“You’re going,” I said.
“My train leaves at three. My bags are in the carriage.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Mary Ellen. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. God knows I didn’t. I’ve done you a terrible wrong, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
“Will you?” My voice seemed to be coming from someone else.
“I fell in love with you, Mary Ellen. Against my will, I fell in love for the first time in my life. I should have left as soon as I realized what was happening, but I didn’t. Would to God that I had.”
The sun still shone through the window, but it wasn’t nearly as bright as before. The draperies stirred as a gust of wind swept in. Petals dropped from the roses, making a velvety pile all around the tall blue vase.
“I thought you were going to marry me,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought you were going to marry me and take me away with you. I thought we were going to live happily ever after. I actually believed it. How naive I was. How naive.”
“Mary Ellen—”
“I loved you, Brence. How I loved you.”
He frowned, uncomfortable, eager to be done with it, eager to go. Another gust of wind made the draperies blow inward. The sunlight continued to fade. The blue sky was turning a soft gray, and clouds were building. I stepped over to the French windows and closed them.
“It’s going to storm,” I said. “You’ve never seen one of our famous Cornwall storms. They blow up out of the blue, without warning, and sometimes they can be quite fierce—”
“I have to do this, Mary Ellen. I have to think of my career. Marrying you would—” He frowned and left the sentence unfinished.
“Marrying me would endanger it,” I said. “When you take a bride, she will be very proper, very aristocratic, probably very wealthy, as well. Am I right? It wouldn’t do to marry the—the bastard daughter of a gypsy. It wouldn’t do at all. I understand, Brence.”
“I wish things were different. I wish—”
“Go. Please—just go.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long envelope.
“I intended to send this along with the letter. There’s enough money here to keep you for a year. You can set yourself up in a modest cottage. You’ll meet some nice young man. You’ll marry. You’ll have children, and you’ll forget all about this summer.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Take the money, Mary Ellen.”
“I shouldn’t. I should throw the money in your face, Brence, but I have the feeling I’ve earned it.”
Brence didn’t say anything. He placed the envelope on the sideboard beside the vase of roses and then he adjusted the folds of the cloak about his shoulders. He turned to look at me. T
he skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his dark brown eyes were full of regret.
“Goodbye, Mary Ellen,” he said quietly.
I didn’t move. Brence hesitated for only a moment, and then he walked briskly out of the room, the cloak belling out behind him. His boots rang on the floor of the foyer, and I heard him open the front door and close it behind him. I heard him driving away in the carriage, driving out of my life. I sat down on the sofa, watching the room grow dim and gray as the storm approached. I wanted to cry, and I couldn’t. Why couldn’t I cry? I prayed for the tears to come.
Time passed and all sunlight faded and there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. Colors melted into gray and the room grew darker, and still I sat, unable to feel the anguish, completely numb inside. Brence was gone. I would never see him again. Never again would he take me into his arms and hold me and smile and kiss me tenderly as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and grew weak with love. He was gone. Gone. It wasn’t true. I couldn’t bear it. I would wake up. This terrible nightmare would be over, and everything would be all right.
I lost all track of time. The thunder grew louder. The windows rattled violently. Soon the first drops of rain would splatter against the panes. Brence had long since boarded his train and it was speeding away, and he was beginning a new life and I was alone. Alone. There was no one. I couldn’t face it. I knew that. I couldn’t go on. Thunder rumbled and the wind howled around the house, and then there was a dreadful calm, the calm before the storm began in earnest.
Suddenly, I heard a horse neighing in loud protest, footsteps coming up the pathway. I stood up, startled, and then joy flooded me and I ran into the foyer, fighting back the tears. He had come back. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave without me. He couldn’t leave me behind because he loved me. The front door opened, and I was ready to dissolve into tears and throw myself into his arms.
“Brence,” I whispered. “Brence—”
John Chapman stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. It was dim in the foyer, but I could see his face, could see the look in those gray-green eyes.
“He’s gone,” Chapman said. “I was at the station on business. I saw him board the train. Your lover is gone.”
“You—”
“It seems he’s deserted you.”
“You—have no right to come here!”
“I’ve come to take what’s mine. I’ve waited, Mary Ellen. I’ve waited far too long. I. saw you with him in the carriage that afternoon. I saw the way you looked. I knew what happened. It was written all over you.”
“Get out.”
“I’ve seen his carriage out in front of the house every afternoon, every night. I suppose he told you to send the maid away so the two of you could use the house. Nice for him. He had it real nice, and now it’s my turn.”
I backed away, and Chapman chuckled, enjoying my alarm. A clap of thunder sounded. The whole house seemed to shake. The wind began to howl again, blowing furiously.
“Blood will out,” he said. “You might have a fine education, might give yourself fine airs, but you’re your mother’s daughter just the same. Stephens sensed that immediately, just as I did.”
“Get out,” I repeated.
“No, Mary Ellen. You’re the one who’s going to get out. You’re leaving tomorrow at noon. There’ll be a boy with a wagon to take you and your bags to the station. I don’t know where you’ll go or what you’ll do, but I imagine you’ll manage. You can always sell it on the streets.”
“You’re vile.”
“I had plans for you, Mary Ellen, such fine plans. All your problems would have been solved, but you toyed with me, strung me along, playing me for a fool. I don’t like that.”
He scowled. His red-bronze hair gleamed darkly, and his eyes were full of male hunger. He stood with legs apart, fists planted on his hips.
“I don’t like to be toyed with, Mary Ellen.”
He moved toward me, and I backed into the parlor.
“Don’t—don’t come any closer,” I warned.
“You don’t seem so sure of yourself now. You don’t seem so high and mighty. What’s the matter, Mary Ellen? Are you afraid?”
“Stay away from me.”
He laughed. He closed the distance between us in three long strides, throwing his arms around my waist, crushing me to him. I struggled frantically, raking my nails across his cheek, drawing blood. Chapman bellowed and gave me a vicious shove. The back of my legs banged against the sofa. I lost my balance and tumbled onto the cushions. The windows rattled noisily as the wind slammed against them. Chapman stood over me, breathing heavily.
“Tomorrow you leave,” he growled, “but tonight is mine.”
X
The air was fresh and clear and invigorating, the sky a vivid blue without a single cloud. Radiant sunlight spilled from above, becoming silver sunbursts on the water, sparkling on brown cliffs, and making everything sharp and clear. The storm had washed the earth, and the day was bright and pure. I walked carefully, picking my way along the edge of the cliff.
The boy with the wagon wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour, and my bags were packed, standing ready in the front foyer. They contained all my clothes with the exception of the dusty rose cotton. Early this morning after Chapman had gone, I removed the dress and destroyed it. I could never have worn it again. I had bathed and scrubbed my body and deliberately forced the nightmare out of my mind. It was over, part of the past. John Chapman would get his just reward one day. I couldn’t afford to think about him any longer. I was going to begin a whole new life. I was already a different person.
Walking helped. I hadn’t been able to bear the house a moment longer. Bags packed and waiting, I would return just in time to meet the boy coming to take me to the station. I would wait by the wagon while he fetched the bags. I would never set foot inside the house again. It was no longer the house where I had grown up under Aunt Meg’s loving supervision. It was the house where I had been betrayed and abandoned and violated. I was glad to be leaving. I couldn’t have stayed a day longer.
Only my clothes, my books, the watercolor of my father, and a few other personal items would leave Cornwall with me, and I would never again return to this part of England. Brence Stephens had given me the means of escape. I wasn’t going to move into a modest cottage, nor was I going to meet a fine young man and marry and bear his children and live the dull life women were expected to live, shallow, subservient, shut off from the world around them. I was meant for something else. I had a destiny, and I intended to fulfill it.
Land’s End jutted out into the water ahead. I had come here deliberately. I had to see it one more time before I left. Walking out over the rock to the farthest point, I stood there with nothing but air in front of me, jagged rocks and tempestuous waves below. Misty spray shot into the air, dampening my cheeks. The wind tore at my skirts, silk and petticoats lifting, billowing behind me, my hair swirling about my head.
I allowed myself to weaken. I allowed myself to think of Brence, and the anguish and grief swept over me as the waves swept over the rocks, threatening to demolish me. I loved him. I loved him still. He had used me and then abandoned me, but the love was still alive inside me, a constant torment. How could I go on without him? How could I endure life without the promise of his arms folding around me and his lips closing over mine? Brence. Brence. Why? I would never be able to forget him, never recover. Tears brimmed over my lashes and spilled down my cheeks, and I let them flow for several minutes, and then I brushed them away.
From somewhere within me strength came, and I hardened myself and held to that hard core, forcing the pain back down into the dark recess where it would remain, tightly contained. I wouldn’t give in to it, and I wouldn’t give up. I was going to survive. I was going to succeed. For Brence Stephens I had been ready to compromise, ready to give up my dream of glory for the dream of love. But I had been a fool, a naive fool, and I had only myself to blame. Never again woul
d I compromise. Never again would I depend on someone else for happiness. Standing there at the tip of Land’s End, the wind tearing my hair, the waves surging below, I made these vows.
I was going to London to study with Madame Olga. There was enough money in the envelope to pay for a year of study if I was careful, if I lived in the cheapest lodgings, if I watched every penny. A year with Madame Olga would make all the difference. I was going to work and work and work, practice until I dropped from exhaustion. I was going to become the greatest ballerina in all Europe, bathed in glory, a glamorous figure imbued with a special radiance, and Brence Stephens would see me and remember and beg me to be his. One day, I vowed, the tables would be turned. I clenched my fist, filled with steely resolution. I was going to make that dream come true, and nothing on earth was going to stop me.
LONDON 1845
XI
We gathered backstage like a cluster of nervous flowers, pink, white, and red tulle skirts billowing. Sarah remarked that she felt silly as hell being a rose and added that, if rose she must be, she’d rather be a red one. White didn’t suit her at all. Theresa, leaning down to tighten the ribbons of her ballet slippers, complained that all those tours jetés Madame expected us to do were too bloody much. She fully expected to go crashing against the brick wall on the other side of the stage and end up being crippled for life. When Jenny remarked that that might be a blessing, Theresa gave her a look that should have killed.
“What kind of crowd do we have?” Sarah wondered.
“It’s a sell-out,” Theresa informed her. “Madame’s productions are always a sell-out. You’d think the old witch would pay us a pound or two.”
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