“Behold!” cried Cousin Henry. “This wooden O that shall contain our swelling scene!”
He led them out onto the stage at the Theatre Royal. The space itself was much smaller than Madelene had thought it would be. Not much bigger, in truth, than the dining room at home. It was only when she turned to what Cousin Henry called “the house” and looked out at the rows and tiers and clusters of empty, silent seats that she felt the enormity of the place open to engulf her.
Miss Sewell allowed Cousin Henry to lead her to the sofa at the edge of the stage. “Thus do we revive that ancient custom of allowing the audience to be seated on the stage,” he said with a wink.
Adele was in raptures.
“Romeo! Romeo!” she declaimed to those empty seats. “Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Deny thy father! Refuse they name!”
Helene rolled her eyes and strolled over to examine the sconce that had been converted to the new gas lighting.
“Now if I may have your attention, please,” Henry boomed. “We are here, I believe, for a lesson in the terpsichorean art, specifically its ballroom variety. Now. Shall I tell you ladies the secret of the dance?”
“Yes, please do,” Adele said.
Madelene stepped forward.
“It is this.” Henry spread his hands wide. “It is that the dancer must take control of the space around them. They must know where they are in the room, and no matter what that room, no matter where, they must feel that it is their own.”
“That makes no sense,” Helene said. “Forgive me,” she added.
“A demonstration, then. Cousin Madelene, if you would oblige me?”
Madelene walked forward. She didn’t like the empty seats. The shadows themselves seemed to be watching her. They might conceal anything. There might be people out there she couldn’t see . . .
Henry took her chin between his fingers and firmly pointed her face toward him.
“Ignore the seats. They are unimportant. There is a solid wall between them and you. What is important is here.” He walked a slow circle around her. “This space. This bit of the world around you. This is yours, always. Yours to shape with your personality, your presence.” He stopped. “And do not, Cousin, say you have no presence, or I shall have to be cross.”
“No, Cousin Henry.”
“Now. Close your eyes, and imagine. Imagine you can feel the air about yourself. That you shape it. For you, it is warm and comfortable. You own this space. You wear it as you wear your best and most comfortable gown.”
She tried. It was difficult. She’d never been any good at such games.
“Excellent. Now.” She felt Henry lift her arms, forming the frame for a waltz. “Don’t open your eyes. Just keep imagining. I will not let you stumble. You can trust your cousin. We begin. One, two, three . . . one, two three.”
Gently, Cousin Henry began to move. He was light on his feet. She knew the steps. It was awkward with her eyes closed, trying to think about the air around her, trying to imagine wearing the world like a dress, even for a moment.
And yet, and yet, while all that was happening in her mind, something else was happening as well. Her mind was so occupied with this concentration, she forgot to be nervous. Her feet, trained by years of dancing lessons, moved to Henry’s patient counting. Her body followed his lead.
And as soon as she thought about this, she stumbled.
“Oh!” Her eyes flew open, and she froze in place, waiting for Henry to scold her. But instead, he smiled.
“Excellent!” he cried. “You see, you can do it.”
Helene, Adele, and Miss Sewell all applauded. “You were beautiful, Madelene,” Adele said.
“I . . . Oh . . . Was I truly?”
“Truly,” Henry said, his eyes twinkling. “Who shall be next to try. Lady Helene?”
Helene lifted her chin, eyes bright and manner determined. She curtsied to Henry and he bowed, and Adele clasped her hands in eagerness, and perhaps a little jealousy. Madelene found herself holding her breath for her friend. Helene was so stiff, so bold, surely she’d try to lead or something . . .
But then the music played and Henry moved into the steps and Helene . . . Helene floated. Adele’s jaw dropped, and Miss Sewell arched an eyebrow. Helene stepped in perfect time, all her stiffness, all the brittle armor of her suddenly gone. There was nothing left except a spare and beautiful grace. Henry didn’t bother to keep counting; he simply moved them, turned them, and turned them again. Helene followed each curve, each figure, detached and graceful as a queen, as a swan.
When the violinist lifted his bow from his instrument, no one applauded. There was only respectful silence.
At least there was until Henry bowed, deeply. “I see that you have no need of my lessons. But please believe me to be your most humble servant, Lady Helene.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied seriously, but Madelene was sure she heard the edge of humor in her voice. How like Helene to keep the extent of this most romantic and ladylike accomplishment a secret.
“Now, Lady Adele,” Henry said cheerfully. “It is your turn.”
And so it went. Cousin Henry led them around the stage, with their eyes closed and their eyes open. He made them dance individually and together, with him and even with the violinist, who stumped across the stage like he wore hobnailed boots. It didn’t matter who the partner was, Henry told them. What mattered was the space and the awareness of it. They must be able to draw that sense around them like a cloak.
Slowly, it became easier. Madelene realized she could focus her attention on the space around her and her movement within it. Concentrating like this, she had no room in her thoughts for the shadows, or for who might be watching.
Her entire life, Madelene had focused on the people around her, on what they must be thinking and doing and wanting. She had tried so hard to please them all that there hadn’t been a thought left to spare for herself. But here, in this strange dance lesson, Cousin Henry was not only instructing her to reverse that habit of thought but was giving her the means to do it.
It felt entirely, terribly selfish. It felt oddly wonderful.
It felt like freedom.