by Amy Jarecki
When the curtain opened to a danseur dressed like a Scotsman sleeping in an armchair, the tension eased a bit. But everyone in the theater gasped when Britannia LeClair danced onto the stage with a pair of graceful leaps. Though flawlessly executed and extraordinarily lofty, her grands jetés mightn’t be the reason for the audience’s reaction. The hem of her winged costume was so short, it almost revealed the ballerina’s knees. Yes, in France, Taglioni had shortened her skirts a bit, but LeClair’s gossamer gown, in and of itself, was scandalous.
Along with Drake, everyone in the theater leaned forward, their jaws dropping while the Sylph flitted about the sleeping Scotsman on the tips of her toes, barely skimming the floor. Her leaps were like watching a feather sail on the breeze, her feet only to brush the stage before flowing into twirls and arabesques—a nymph with wings.
A London crowd had never seen such precision, such effortless grace. Drake gulped. Neither had they seen a woman’s skirts so short. His mouth grew dry—such shapely and muscular legs. What would such sleek calves feel like wrapped around him? He glanced to the faces he could see. Every man in the theater was thinking the same, and every woman looked thunderstruck, including Ladies Anabelle and Eloise. Only Her Grace smiled, her hands folded, poised like a queen.
The reactions were expected, though Drake’s trepidation didn’t ease. He wanted to strangle every last man for their lewd thoughts. How dare they? Miss LeClair was an innocent, performing only to delight Chadwick’s patrons with her grace. Fortunately for the women in the audience, the danseur in his kilt showed more of his legs than did Miss LeClair. His leaps were high and exciting, though his candle was but a flicker compared to the torch that shone when Britannia commanded the stage.
By intermission, he’d heard everything from tepid applause to gasps to cheers. Miss LeClair’s dancing thus far had been vigorous, though somewhat more reserved than a few days prior. Then again, the scene with the sylphs which Drake had viewed at rehearsal was in the second act. He rubbed his fingers, anxious to see her dance it again. Was she as stupendous as he’d remembered?
Britannia. The name does suit her.
As the curtain closed for intermission, the theater erupted in an uproar. Drake couldn’t make out a single conversation from down below because everyone was talking and shouting. The gallery was louder than a boxing match.
Mother leaned in. “I see what you mean. The young lady certainly is no Englishwoman.” She patted her chest. “Heaven forbid.”
“She is quite talented,” said Mr. Peters, his eyes glazed.
Both Lady Anabelle and Lady Eloise looked on as if they were tongue-tied. Most unusual for the pair of chatterboxes.
Drake stood. “If you’d care to join me, I will venture down to the vestibule and brave the critics.”
No sooner had he offered his hand to his mother when the Earl of Fordham and Viscount Saye filed into the box. Her Grace remained seated.
“Ravenscar, you dog!” piped Fordham. “When I read this morning’s paper, I was certain the theater would be empty and the only good use for it would be firewood.”
“What happened to Taglioni?” someone hollered from the corridor.
“Is it true you only found out she wouldn’t be honoring her contract when the ship moored?” asked Saye.
“It is true.” Drake raised his voice while the box was mobbed. “Our only option was to carry on with Miss LeClair. I say from experience, she is as talented as Taglioni.”
“The same?” Saye asked. “I may need to book passage to France.”
“As good, but different. Livelier and more graceful in my estimation.” Drake grabbed his friends by the elbows and whispered, “What is your opinion? Will I be crucified come morning?”
“I like her,” said Fordham.
“But will polite society?” cautioned Saye.
Drake gave them each an exasperated look. “We are polite society.”
“Monsieur Bonin is quite good,” said Lady Annabel from her chair.
“I agree, he is very dynamic.” Drake returned his attention to his friends. “Perhaps the male lead is proficient enough to interest the fairer sex.”
“Then I feel sorry for the ladies,” said Fordham with a lecherous grin. “Will you introduce me to Miss LeClair after the finale?”
Splaying his fingers, Drake regarded the earl with a furrowed brow. “You’re coming to my mother’s soiree are you not? Did you receive my missive?”
“Saye and I will be there...and Miss LeClair?”
“She has been invited along with the other principals.”
Fordham grinned and thwacked Drake on the shoulder. “Perhaps it is time for me to acquire a new mistress,” he whispered.
Clenching his fist, Drake considered how the earl might look with a swollen nose. Thankfully, Mother and the ladies were engaged in conversation. “What happened to Mrs. Walpole?” Drake asked, his whisper straining through his teeth.
“A man can have two mistresses.” Fordham smirked like a lecherous cur. Regardless if he’d been Drake’s roommate at Eton, the man could be as shallow as a mudpuddle. “Where is it written we must keep only one?”
“Agreed,” said Saye, who was between mistresses, and also a miserable rake.
A blast of heat spread across the back of Drake’s neck. “Give it a rest, gentlemen,” he said, raising the tone for all hear. “Chadwick’s ballerina has only just arrived in London. Let the poor dancer have a chance to settle before you wolves start chasing after her skirts.” He started for the box’s exit, but the corridor was still mobbed with people voicing their opinions quite openly:
“I didn’t know a woman was capable of leaping so high.”
“It is remarkable.”
“It is scandalous!”
“It is obscene,” said a lady.
“You’re only saying that because you are a prude.”
“Well, I’ve never!”
“Ravenscar,” someone hollered, Drake had no idea who. “Are you sending them back to France?”
“No!” yelled a man. “I’ll be back on the morrow. You cannot see this ballet just once.”
“I’m cancelling my box,” complained a man with a gravelly voice.
“I’ll take it!”
Drake scratched his head and sank back into the chair beside his mother.
She patted his arm. “I venture to guess you have a success on your hands.”
“Good God, I hope so.”
MR. PERKINS’ SALVE had worked wonders. With her toes wrapped, Bria focused on the dance, her breathing, the music. This was her chance—possibly her only chance—and she would do her best to show all of London she was worthy of being the Sylph just as much as Marie Taglioni who was preforming this very night in Paris. Pulling from the depths of her soul, she danced as a woman possessed. Nothing else mattered, not the other dancers, not the crowd, nothing but doing her best to please and, as the second act progressed, so did her effort.
Bria’s only distraction was the presence of His Grace in the grand-tier center box. The intensity of his stare cut through the darkness of the gallery. And every time she stepped on stage, she heard the power of his voice:
“You are not the only one who will be ruined if La Sylphide is a failure.”
“Your opening performance must be flawless...”
“The nobility are like dogs to a bone when it comes to gossip. And they will be gnashing their teeth to see me fail.”
She couldn’t fail. On stage this night, she wasn’t dancing for the love of ballet, she was dancing for her very breath.
Dancing for him.
Dancing because he had made her see the grave importance of this single night.
Monsieur Marchand had repeatedly told her to build her performance and save the crescendo for the end. Bria had learned that lesson well, and by the final scenes, her leaps had grown higher. Her arabesques were perpendicular with the floor rather than horizontal. Yes, all of society expected an arabesque lower than the
hips, but she could go higher—craved to stretch the boundaries of her abilities. That is why Marchand and Travere had chosen her for the lead. That is why she was on stage in a fabulous new theater in London. Marie Taglioni had shocked Paris by dancing on her toes and shortening her skirts. Well, Bria did the same and more. On the road to success, a woman must prove herself to be exemplary. To push margins and deliver a performance from the depths of her soul.
When she pirouetted and dipped into her final curtsy, Bria’s breath rushed in her ears. The strings played their final note. Listening for applause, the air in the theater grew heavy with silence.
Silence.
Bria’s heart sank to her toes as she dared to glance up.
Straight ahead, Ravenscar stood in his box. “Bravo!” he bellowed, clapping his hands.
As if his acceptance was what the patrons needed, they followed his lead. Suddenly, with a raucous cheer, the entire theater erupted in applause. Her eyes stung as she straightened. Smiling at His Grace, she blew him a kiss, praying all she had given was good enough. Praying he would not send them home in shame.
Gérard Bonin, lead danseur, grasped her hand and pulled her off the stage for the curtain call. “You were fabulous, ma chérie.”
“You as well,” she said, catching her breath.
After the corps, Bria followed Gérard on stage to take her final bow and the applause grew louder. Even people in the boxes were on their feet. Five curtain calls were made before the applause faded. And when it was over, Gérard wrapped her in a smothering embrace. “After that performance, I doubt Ravenscar will be shipping us back to France before our contract ends.”
Monsieur Travere hastened on stage from the wings. “Bravo, both of you. Change quickly. The principals have been invited to a soiree at the duke’s home.”
Bria glanced to Pauline. “Only the principals?”
“Oui, you, Gérard, Florrie, Nanci and Claudio.”
Pauline shrugged and turned away. The rest of the cast was heading to the Welcome Inn to celebrate the opening. Dashing to catch up with her friend, Bria grasped Pauline’s hand and pulled her toward the dressing room. “I’m sorry.”
“I feel sorrier for you.” A sad smile turned up the dancer’s lips. “You have to endure Florrie and Gérard for the night.”
“Not to mention the nobility. They make me feel so...so inadequate.”
“Do not even say it.” Pauline thrust her finger in the direction of the stage. “You just gave the most sensational performance of your life. Don’t let those dragons make you feel any less than a queen ce soir. You may not realize it now, but you are already a diva.”
“And your head is full of stars.” Bria slipped the costume from her shoulders and held up her best gown. The India muslin looked like a rag compared to some of the finery worn by the women in the audience, though she had added pink ribbons for flourish. “I wish I had something more suitable to wear.”
“Perhaps we should pay a visit to the modiste.”
Bria stepped into the frock and slipped in her arms. It had been difficult to make ends meet when living on corps wages. Others had parents to help them gain a start. No one had helped me. “Perhaps after we receive our wages.”
Dutifully, Pauline began tying the back laces. “Just smile. One smile from you is worth more than silk.”
“But not more than diamonds.”
“Stop. You’ve been invited to a soiree in the home of a duchess. Enjoy yourself.”
“Britannia!” Monsieur Travere’s voice rumbled through the door.
“A moment,” she replied then glanced over her shoulder. “Nearly done?”
“Just finished the bow.” Pauline gave her a pat. “Rouge your lips and primp your curls. The task master can wait.”
Chapter Seven
A STRING QUARTET PLAYED Mozart while Drake stood in the entry of the reception hall where he could keep an eye out for Britannia’s arrival. Beside him stood his boyhood friend from Alnwick to the north of Peak Castle, and Drake’s favorite sparring partner. Hugh Percy, heir to a dukedom and Drake’s closest ally. “The success of Chadwick Theater must last throughout the duration of the Season. One night of perceived success in no way validates our wager.”
“Those were the terms,” Drake agreed. Though he hadn’t lost his fortune this night, the coming weeks would prove him a king or a pauper. He had made his wager with Percy when Chadwick Theater was only a whim of an idea, though after he’d returned from Paris he’d been convinced he was bringing a sensation to his new theater. Perhaps Percy was the one person who wouldn’t throw him to the wolves if his venture failed—though he would insist Drake make good on their wager. “What is your opinion? Do you think sales will sustain?”
“My guess is they will. The men will come for the spectacle, and the women will come to keep an eye on the men.”
Drake took a hearty sip of his champagne, wishing it were something stronger. “I think Miss LeClair gave an exemplary performance.”
“Remarkable for a foundling. I never would have guessed her beginnings were so crude unless I’d seen it in the papers.”
“She could be the daughter of a chimney sweep,” said Lady Eloise, glass of champagne in hand.
“Or the daughter of Tsar Alexander,” Drake countered. “The point is we have no way of knowing.”
“That is correct,” said the Duke of Beaufort, who at the age of seven and sixty had purchased two boxes at Chadwicks for the Season. He was both wealthy and proliferous which was financially beneficial for London as a whole. “Tell me, Ravenscar, where—”
Beaufort’s words were swallowed by the steward’s announcement: “The esteemed Monsieur Travere, Mademoiselle LeClair, Monsieur Bonin, Mademoiselle Bisset, Mademoiselle Caron, and Monsieur Gagné.”
The crowd applauded politely. Drake stepped forward, took Britannia’s hand and applied a brief peck. As he straightened, a bouquet as wild as an enchanted forest draped with wisteria washed over him. Good God, now the woman had been rested and fed, up close she looked stunning—gorgeous. In fact, there weren’t words. Where had his dormouse gone? It was far easier to resist a plain, half-starved foundling. “Welcome,” he croaked, gesturing to all the artistes. “May I offer you congratulations on a splendid opening performance.”
She turned cherry red. Was there a hint of unease in the lioness’ eyes? But before he could offer assurance, Miss Florrie Bisset who played the supporting female lead, painted on a faux smile and wrapped her fingers around Drake’s arm. The woman’s gesture was inordinately brash, adding credence to the promiscuous reputation of professional women dancers. “We are delighted to be here, Your Grace.”
Drawing his arm away, he led the party inside where a footman offered them their choice of champagne or port wine.
As expected, Britannia chose the champagne, giving a soft thank you to the footman. She sipped while turning full circle, taking in the reception hall painted in ivory and trimmed with gold. Above, mirrored chandeliers were all alight with wax candles, making the room nearly as bright as a summer’s day.
“This is the mansion you mentioned?” she whispered.
“Yes, but Ravenscar Hall has nothing on Peak Castle.”
“And where might that be?” asked Gérard Bonin, strutting forward as if he’d been responsible for the five curtain calls. He sipped his port and blast it if the Frenchman didn’t flutter his damned eyelashes.
“Northeast of York,” Drake explained. “On the coast in a remote area known as The Peak, not to be confused with the Peak District near Sheffield.”
“Ah.” Bonin clapped a hand to his chest and sighed, acting flippant even for a Frenchman. “Je suis en amour.”
Fordham elbowed his way in front of the danseur. “I was wondering when the artiste of the hour would arrive. Thomas Newport, Earl of Fordham at your service, but I like my lady friends to call me Tom.” He grasped Britannia’s hand and planted a lingering kiss, then drew her fingers over his scheming heart. “Mademoi
selle, your dancing was stupendous.”
Grumbling under his breath, Drake followed as Fordham led Miss LeClair toward the doors to the orangery where, if left unattended, the fox would be able to make a quick exit.
“I am positively dying to know how you manage to extend your leg so high.” Fordham continued with his flattery, which Drake knew all too well was intended to endear himself to the poor innocent in order to make her think he was smitten.
“Yes, I’ve never seen such a thing.” Saye muscled in, taking Britannia’s other hand and introducing himself with much the same flourish as his partner in crime.
“Perhaps we can engage you for a private demonstration,” Fordham said.
Britannia glanced between the two lords. “I think—”
“Absolutely not.” Drake squeezed Fordham’s wrist, forcing the earl to release Miss LeClair’s hand, then stepped between them with a genteel smile. “What I find astonishing is the toe dancing. Does it not hurt?”
Britannia nodded, looking back at Drake, as if pleading with him to stay nearby. He followed, admiring the way her curls bounced and shimmered like copper in the candlelight. “It does, but my toes have grown calluses.”
“Truly?” Fordham again pushed his big nose between them.
“Yes, and in the past year, the company’s cobbler has improved on Mademoiselle Taglioni’s design by reinforcing the slippers with glue and wood. And I use lamb’s wool for padding.”
“There she is, the woman who dazzled us all.” Bless Mother, she approached Britannia with a radiant smile, her hands outstretched. “Welcome to Ravenscar Hall. My son told me about your interesting dance style, and I must say tonight’s performance did not disappoint.”
“Thank you. You are too kind, Your Grace.” Britannia curtsied deeply, keeping her chin lowered and looking uncomfortable. “And thank you for inviting us to your immaculate home this evening.”
Lady Calthorpe, a petite woman, peeked around Mother’s shoulder. “Your dancing was astonishing, Miss LeClair. I for one am an instant admirer. I adored your vitality.” One of the Duke of Beaufort’s seventeen children, Drake had always looked fondly upon the baroness, aging well and in her late thirties. “My, your English is impeccable, my dear.”
