Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  She flashed the old pixie smile and, glancing at the clock, took down my costume. As I stood up, I slipped off my robe, and Millie helped me into the bold, dramatic garment designed for Elena Lopez. The blue satin bodice had full off-the-shoulder sleeves and was cut extremely low, over it a black velvet corselet, laced down the front, fitted snugly over bosom and waist and the top of my hips, flaring then into a skirt composed of row upon row of silk ruffles, red, blue, violet, and white, ruffles that billowed and blew as I moved. It was provocative and revealing, and when I danced the skirt would lift and whirl, exposing my legs.

  “I feel naked,” I said.

  “You look smashing. The men are going to go out of their minds.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten more minutes,” Millie informed me. “You nervous?”

  “Not really. Resigned might be a better word.”

  “You’re going to be sensational,” she promised.

  “I have to be,” I said. “My whole future depends on it. I don’t intend to fail, Millie. I can’t.”

  At the hard, determined note in my voice, Millie gave me a curious look. I was frightened, terribly frightened, but I wasn’t going to acknowledge the fear. I wasn’t even going to entertain the possibility of failure. I had to succeed. I had to make money, to make some kind of life for myself. If I couldn’t be a celebrated ballerina, then I could be Elena Lopez, and Elena was going to be a spectacular success. I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the dress over waist and hips, willing myself to be strong and self-assured.

  “Are you ready?” Millie asked, as she took my hands and squeezed them and then gave me a quick hug. I hugged her back, and then I picked up my castanets and left the dressing room.

  The music of Rossini swelled to a crescendo, and as I closed the dressing room door behind me there was one brief moment of paralyzing fear, a moment of incredible grief and loss that seemed to stab at the very core of my being, but I quickly pulled myself together and moved down the hallway past stacks of painted flats and a rack of shabby, fading costumes.

  Moving past the rusty iron staircase, I stood in the wings beside a huge pile of boxes. The music rose, swirling higher and higher as the final notes of the first act were sung. The stage was brightly lit, the strong lights somehow enhancing the cheap set and making the costumes seem almost rich. Magic was taking place out there, a golden illusion being spun, however poor the performers, however shabby the production. Here, beside the boxes, it was dark and dusty. High above, men in shirtsleeves stood on catwalks, ready to work ropes and pulleys the moment the last note was sounded. In a few moments I was going to create my own magic. I was going to convince that vast crowd of people sitting in the darkness that I was indeed Spanish and seductive.

  A sudden draft of cold wind eddied backstage as someone opened the stage door that led into the alley. My costume left much of my bosom and shoulders and almost all of my back bare, and I shivered as the icy wind swirled past dusty brick walls and besieged me, causing the ruffles on my skirt to flutter. The door closed. Footsteps approached. Anthony materialized out of the darkness and, seeing me standing there, moved toward me with that long, jaunty stride.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  “Hello, Anthony.”

  “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve been in a mad rush all day. It’s almost time, isn’t it?”

  “It’s almost time,” I said.

  He looked resplendent in his formal attire, dark satin lapels gleaming, white silk tie perfectly knotted, his manner breezy and casual as ever. I hadn’t seen him all day. He had dressed and slipped out while I was still sleeping. He hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. Last night might never have happened.

  “I suppose you saw the papers today,” he remarked, toying with his top hat.

  “I saw them.”

  “That incident in the restaurant made terrific copy, luv. It caused a whole new rush on the box office. Dorrance was delighted, by the way. No hard feelings. They spelled his name right.”

  I said nothing.

  “Say, I … uh … I hope you weren’t upset about my leaving like that this morning. I guess I should’ve awakened you, but … well, you were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You needn’t apologize.”

  “I had things to do, very important things. I had a meeting with some chaps I know. We’re going to make an awful lot of money, luv, and money means responsibility. You have to know how to handle it, how to invest it for the best returns. These chaps are involved with the railroads. They’re looking for investors, a few smart men willing to double, triple their investments in a matter of months. They explained the whole thing to me, and it’s a chance in a lifetime—”

  Aware that I wasn’t paying attention, he cut himself short and shook his head, and then he gave me an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry. I guess I got carried away. I should’ve realized this isn’t the time or place to discuss business. You don’t want to be bothered with details, anyway. I’m the manager. I’ll manage, and you just concentrate on being a sensation.”

  As the words left his mouth the music ended. The men above worked frantically, hauling on the ropes. The heavy gold velvet curtains rang down, slowly, smoothly, sending thin clouds of dust backstage. The audience applauded, and members of the chorus hurried offstage and up the staircase to their dressing rooms. A stagehand held the curtain back so the principals could step out in front of the lights for their curtain calls.

  Anthony took my hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “I’m not going to wish you luck, luv. You don’t need it. You’re going out there and you’re going to dazzle ’em. I’ve known it all along. I knew it from the first.”

  “Indeed?”

  “From the first.”

  He squeezed my hand again and grinned that engaging grin, and even though I knew him for what he was, I couldn’t help responding. I did so ruefully. Anthony Duke was the kind of man women would forgive over and over again, each time against their better judgment. As I pulled my hand free and fastened on my castanets, Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets, looking pleased and proud.

  The principals were still taking their curtain calls, milking applause now, the soprano outrageously grateful, smiling, bowing, blowing kisses, while behind the curtains in the darkness men were dismantling the set quickly and quietly. I left Anthony and moved nearer the stage. I was much calmer than I had any right to be. Perhaps it was a kind of numbness. The soprano took one final call to tepid applause, and then the baritone seized her wrist and pulled her back behind the curtain. The audience grew silent. Moments passed. The air seemed to be charged with tension. They were out there waiting, filled with expectancy, growing more and more restless as they stared at the brilliantly lighted gold curtain.

  The orchestra began the first strains of the Spanish melody, slow and sensuous music that suggested hot sunlight and cool balconies and smouldering passions. The curtain rose slowly to reveal a bare stage with a blue silk backdrop. As I waited, I thought of Brence Stephens. If I succeeded tonight he might one day come to a theater and see Elena Lopez and remember the girl he had abandoned. As the music grew warmer, more persuasive, I realized that I had done all this for him, to show him, to have revenge on the man who had given me such happiness and then brutally destroyed it.

  As the music swelled, I moved onstage with the grace of a panther, hips swaying, colored ruffles billowing. Proud, passionate, disdainful, I pouted my lips and glared at the audience and then tossed my head, giving them exactly what they wanted, wooing them even as I scorned them. I could feel their awe, their admiration, but I was Elena and it was no more than my due. I raised one arm, then the other, and I stared at the dark sea of faces and imagined a handsome Spanish youth with soulful eyes who must melt before me as I began my sinuous dance of love.

  Movement and music seemed to melt together into a burning expression of desire as I whirled and turned and sw
ayed, clicking my castanets provocatively, urging the invisible lover on. I had never danced as well before, my body lithe, movement liquid, the melody a part of me. He was melting me. His mouth grew tight. His nostrils flared. I beckoned him with my body, urging him on with my eyes. He moved toward me, and I moved away, toying with him now, taunting him. I smiled, delighted with my power over him. I drew him to me and swayed, slowly, slowly, and he was mine now and I parted my lips and lifted my arms to him as the last note of music echoed into silence.

  I had them. They were mine. I could feel it.

  There was the slightest pause as I stood there embracing my invisible lover, and then the music began again, all fireworks and fury. The savage melody caught me and transformed me into a fiery, uninhibited creature who stamped and whirled, the black velvet corselet slipping lower, the skirt sailing higher and higher. There were gasps from some of the women as my legs were revealed from ankle to thigh, but that only spurred me on. The music grew faster, more frenzied. I abandoned myself to it. As I danced, I remembered the gypsy camp and the moors and the cliffs and the crashing waves and the man who had brought me such elation, such joy, such anguish, and that spurred me on to greater heights until the music rose to a shattering crescendo and finally stopped.

  It was over. Damp with perspiration, I stood panting, waiting. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then deafening applause filled the theater. The building seemed to shake with it. Men were shouting. People were leaping to their feet. I bowed. They roared. I moved nearer the footlights and bowed again, smiling at them, and they were stamping their feet and clapping furiously and shouting their approval. I looked toward the wings. Anthony was beside himself with joy. He was clapping, too, as loudly, as enthusiastically as any of them. Men were running down the aisle with bouquets of roses. They tossed the bouquets and the ribbons broke and the air was filled with roses that fell all around me.

  I had been a rose once, a rose in red tulle who had dreamed of becoming a great ballerina. I remembered the girl I had been, and I felt a touch of sadness inside even as I smiled and acknowledged my triumph. The audience continued to roar. I gathered up the roses and began to toss them to the musicians who had been so kind to me, and then I tossed them to the audience, causing an even greater furor. It was dramatic and flamboyant, exactly the sort of thing Elena would do. I was Elena now. A great success. The past was over. The future was waiting.

  INTERLUDE IN PARIS 1847

  XX

  It was going to be a pleasant crossing. The Channel was calm and blue and there was very little wind so the boat moved slowly. Overhead noisy gulls circled against a pearl-gray sky faintly stained with blue. I stood at the railing watching the white cliffs of Dover grow smaller and smaller, trying to still the faint unease inside me. Anthony had insisted on going on ahead, setting things up, making our hotel reservations and “smoothing the path.” I would have felt much better if he had been standing beside me. He had been altogether too elusive and evasive of late, and I was beginning to wonder if our three weeks in Paris were going to be as restful and relaxing as he had promised.

  There would be publicity, of course. There always was. I would be interviewed, and I would be on display, but Anthony had given his word that I would have plenty of time to shop and see the sights while he made the final arrangements for my European tour. His word, I had learned, wasn’t nearly as reliable as it might have been. I had earned a rest, and I wasn’t going to let him spoil it for me with more of his shenanigans. I would grant a very few interviews, but I would flatly refuse to participate in any of the clever publicity stunts he and David put such stock in. He might grumble and complain, but ultimately I would have my way.

  Since we had become lovers, Anthony’s manner was even more proprietary and possessive than before, and it was frequently necessary to remind him that I had a will of my own. I was content to let him handle all the business affairs and direct my career, but I was no longer willing to let him bully me. I was Elena Lopez now, not his timorous little protégée. Though I was extremely fond of Anthony, I dared not love him and knew I must keep my guard up at all times. He could push me just so far before I rebelled, and we had had some rousing fights during the past eleven months. It irritated him that I usually won.

  During the past month or so I had seen very little of him. My fantastically successful tour of England had ended with two weeks in Bath. Once Millie and I were installed in the hotel and arrangements had been made with the theater, Anthony had gone to London to consult with his business associates about the railroad stocks. He hadn’t returned to Bath until the end of the engagement, and then he had been preoccupied, his ordinarily exuberant manner subdued. When I had asked him about the railroad shares he had been almost belligerent, informing me that it was his job to manage the money, mine to dance and dazzle and keep the paying customers happy. After we returned to London, he spent most of his time away from the hotel again, dealing with business matters, he said. Then he insisted on going on to Paris ahead of us.

  I couldn’t shake the vague apprehension I felt, and Millie insisted that something was afoot. But she didn’t trust Anthony, never had, telling me I had a soft heart where he was concerned and would ultimately be brought to grief. I realized that she was probably right, but I owed everything to him. I accepted Anthony as he was, grateful to him for all he had done, knowing he was unreliable, quixotic, an engaging rogue whose boyish charm and jaunty manner belied an essentially ruthless nature. He might be infuriating at times, might exasperate me and cause my temper to flare, but it was impossible not to forgive him. Best of all, Anthony was a superb lover, magnificent in bed, and I had come to depend on him in a whole new way.

  The Dover cliffs were barely visible now, melting into a misty blue-gray horizon. The slight breeze toyed with my hair and caused my skirts to billow. I was wearing a dark blue gown with long puffed sleeves, a snug, fitted bodice, and a very full skirt adorned with rows of fine black lace. It was a dramatic garment, as indeed were all my new clothes, designed to draw attention to Elena Lopez, and I wore them with aplomb. The public expected Elena to be bold and daring in her dress, and I knew how important it was to maintain their image of me. After almost a year, it was second nature to me.

  Passengers strolled up and down the deck, enjoying the salty air, the cry of the gulls, the brilliant sunshine. Most of them stared at me, for I was a celebrated figure now, immediately recognizable, a scandalous creature who caused women to exchange shocked whispers and men to entertain decidedly wicked thoughts. David Rogers had done his job well. He had accompanied us on the lengthy tour throughout England, and he had seen to it that everyone high and low knew about the legendary, tempestuous, and seductive Spanish dancer. Rarely a week had passed without at least one story in the papers. There were usually more. Tinted pictures and paintings of me had been circulated all over the country, sold in stalls and theater lobbies, and a reproduction was featured on the lid of a popular cigar box. I was constantly in the public eye, and I had grown accustomed to the stares.

  Few men had stared so openly, however, as the man in the bright maroon frock coat was doing at the moment. I had been aware of him for some time. He was a large man with dark, humorous eyes, dusky skin, and crisp dark hair that covered his head in tight curls. His black boots were polished to a high gloss, his maroon breeches unusually snug. His waistcoat was silver embroidered with black and maroon silk flowers, dashing indeed, and his neckcloth was of vivid turquoise silk. Probably in his early forties, he was quite handsome in an exotic sort of way, and he seemed to crackle with vitality and health. His lips were unusually full, undeniably sensual, and a smile seemed natural on them.

  He continued to stare, boldly, without real rudeness, and I noticed that people were staring at him, too. It wasn’t surprising. Any man who wore such outlandish clothes deserved to be stared at. He looked as if he enjoyed it, too. Aware that he had captured my attention, he gave me a friendly nod, dark eyes dancing with amusement. I
put on my haughtiest manner and turned away, ignoring him. He smiled and strode briskly toward me anyway. I braced myself for another unpleasant encounter. Because of my scandalous reputation, certain men felt free to approach me, and I had learned to deal with them with an icy disdain that chilled even the most ardent.

  “I think it’s time we met,” he said.

  “I think not,” I retorted, hoping my French would be adequate. I had recently had a tutor help me brush up on my schoolroom French.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “No, nor do I care to.”

  He chuckled, clearly delighted by my rebuff. “I’m dismayed,” he said, “positively dismayed. A bit deflated, too. I thought everyone knew me. Are you sure you’re not just teasing?”

  “I can assure you I—”

  “Have you heard of The Three Musketeers?”

  “I believe it’s a novel.”

  “A novel! It’s a phenomenon! It’s taken the world by storm. Such style, such panache, such heart. A masterpiece, believe me. A masterpiece. Come now, you’ve read it. Surely you have.”

  I shook my head, maintaining my cold demeanor with great difficulty. There was something immediately warming about this great, exuberant man with his twinkling eyes and rumbling voice. One sensed charging red corpuscles and incredible drive, strong appetites and a terrific zest for living. He seemed larger than life, the flamboyant clothes carefully tailored to display the hefty, muscular physique. Although he spoke the language perfectly, he did not look like a typical Frenchman. The dusky skin, full lips and tight, crisp curls were faintly African.

  “You do read French?”

  “I’ve read everything Balzac has written.”

  “Balzac!” he roared.

  “I read all George Sand’s books, too.”

  “She’ll be delighted to hear it,” he said grumpily. “You’re one of her current idols. George goes mad over colorful, independent women who defy convention and make a career for themselves—kindred souls. I’ll introduce you to her.”