25
I did it to myself, really—ruined my chances of dancing Paulina. It was raining, and important events often seem to happen on rainy days, when we’re trapped inside and gloom leads to deep thoughts. I was terribly nervous too, having been summoned to the Great Fournier’s mansion to meet with investors and subscribers, and nerves always made me brave. Or brash, perhaps, depending on one’s outlook. I straightened, in that gown that held my every curve captive, and strode into the parlor when beckoned by a liveried servant. “They’re ready for you, miss.”
Fournier’s parlor was quite a French affair, with terra-cotta floors, striped parlor chairs standing at attention, and ornately carved wood edging the room. Five men in dark suits clustered near a piano. Coral-colored couches with walnut feet surrounded the lot of us, with matching tassels hanging from long curtains. I hovered near the fringes, invisible to them. Then I heard a nearby whisper on a familiar voice: “Well, if it isn’t Paulina herself.”
Well, almost invisible. I turned with a smile toward Jack. “Why are you here?”
After a few moments of listening, I gathered they were talking about a visiting king, and how to entice him to the theater—specifically, to Craven. It was a long shot, most seemed to believe.
“Who are they talking about?” I whispered to Jack, leaning close enough to smell some sort of cream on his skin.
“The king of Belgium. He plans to take a tour in Great Britain this summer. And where he goes, throngs of the art world follow. It would mean everything if he came.”
“Is it William?” The slender Prince of Orange, with nervous eyes and a balding head, had been one option to lead the fledgling little nation, but not a good one. Perhaps I held it against him that the late Princess Charlotte, Mama’s most ardent fan, had refused to marry him. Anyone she despised I could not help but do likewise.
“No.” His breathy voice relieved me. “No, it is Leopold.”
I gasped. “Leopold? As in . . .”
“The German prince. He reluctantly accepted the Belgian throne in ’31.”
King Leopold. What sweet irony that this royal, dashing, and darkly handsome Leopold, who’d fought in the Imperial Russian army, had dethroned that odious Prince of Orange both as Belgium’s potential ruler . . . and Princess Charlotte’s suitor.
“But . . . I cannot dance before a prince.” The room tilted as if I were staring down from a high balcony. I dared a look at Jack. “You put them up to it, didn’t you? You convinced them to give me that part.” I hadn’t improved that much.
“I figured you just needed a little . . . shove. I know you wouldn’t go out and grasp it for yourself, so I did it for you. Rather like shoving you off that loft.”
My fingers trembled. I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if Jack Dorian had thrown me onto the tracks of an approaching train.
“Listen, these are the investors, Craven’s business partners. They make decisions, give money, and take a share of everything the theater does—both losses and profits. It’s important that they like you.”
Fournier’s bold voice cut through my fear. “He’s been to Craven before, so it’s not out of the question.”
“What makes you think he’d ever visit the smallest theater in London on such an important tour?” said one of the men. “We’re not Drury Lane, nor King’s.”
“We must give him something truly special, then. Something personal that he cannot resist. A character named for his late wife, perhaps.”
Jack’s smile was smug and I knew his thoughts already. He saw me cast as Princess Charlotte. Fournier would never stand for it, though. I held to that little security. I simply wasn’t good enough for that.
“Theatre Royal is having a special box built for him.”
“Wood and nails,” Fournier grumbled. “Let them have their old box. We’ll find something better.”
I straightened, turned to the men. “What about a new ballet?”
A metallic silence lay across the room. They turned to look at me—the visitor, the mere woman, who had deigned to enter their conversation.
Fournier recovered the moment with his gruff voice. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Miss Ella Blythe of London, the other matter of business. She’s something of an experiment—a scholarship program I believe will make our theater solvent within the year.”
Experiment. Like a potion to cast a spell of good fortune over the hardscrabble seasons at Craven.
“I wanted you to at least meet her, and I’ll provide you with the business details later. For now, merely observe her poise and bearing, her dramatic appearance.”
They did. I stiffened. “How do you do.”
“That is all, Miss Blythe. Stay and enjoy, or depart, as you wish.”
“What’s this about a new ballet, Fournier?” A mousy little man with well-oiled hair looked at me as he asked the question. “What’s special about it?”
I stepped forward, pushing through the tingle of fear. I stood taller than I ought to. “I believe he could be enticed with a brilliant, sensational new ballet no one has ever seen before.”
The Great Fournier turned his massive frame, looming over me in a way that prompted flight in my heart.
Yet I remained, feet planted on the edge of that precarious platform as I looked up at the man.
“Plenty of new ballets are written every day.”
“This one is quite modern, with a flair of romanticism and the fantastic, which is all they’re speaking of in France these days.”
A pockmarked old man turned up his fleshy lips in a frown. “Who does this little—”
“But most important of all, it features a story he won’t be able to resist.” I dared not glance at this unwritten ballet’s author, whose tension I could feel beside me as an open flame radiating heat. I can play too, Mr. Dorian. “The great mystery of his wife’s most favored ballerina, one of Craven’s own—Delphine—”
“That’s quite enough.” Jack brushed through, shuffling me away. “I’m sure these men don’t wish to be bothered with absurd suggestions and fanciful ideas. Please excuse yourself and come along, Miss Blythe. These men have a great deal to discuss.”
“But—”
“Now.” His guiding hand was firm against my back.
“Hold on a moment, there.” Fournier’s voice ground our escape to a halt.
Jack stiffened, waiting.
I couldn’t help but smile. I’d always remember this as the day I’d bested the charmer.
“Delphine Bessette.” A tall investor in spectacles spoke up. “It’s quite bold. A real-life tragedy.”
“What’s on the docket now?” another said.
Bellini paced, throwing about his arms. “Shakespeare. Blasted Shakespeare. Everyone’s seen it a hundred times.”
Jack released me and took three slow steps away, his tanned face ashy gray.
“We might be interested in backing this new ballet if,” said the mousy man, “it’s as remarkable as the girl claims. If it’s worth our time, I for one could be convinced to raise my contributions by one hundred pounds. Provided the prince does, in fact, consider visiting.”
“Aye,” piped up another. “I’d wager on it too.”
Other murmurs like grumbles came from the other men. “How much will this brilliant ballet cost us?”
Jack’s voice cut through with saucy irritation. “Ten thousan—”
“It might be had for quite a bargain. Its author is already writing ballets for Craven.”
All those stiff necks swiveled toward Jack Dorian, and the thunking of the clock again filled the silence.
His eyes flashed, chin jutting as he attempted to formulate a response.
“Indeed.” Fournier rose, a tower of pressurized emotion, and turned his heavy gaze on Jack—poor Jack. “Have something for me to look at by next week. If it’s decent, we’ll have three, maybe four weeks to prepare the dancers. We’ll have to use familiar variations. Standard scores. It isn’t ideal, but neither is it impossible.”
“The dancers can wear costumes we have lying about, rather than sewing new, yes?” This came from a tall man in the back who’d been silent until now. “Shall we put it to the others?”
“Of course we should, but there will be new costumes.” Fournier was nearly growling. “New and spectacular. We can do that much in short order, at least. I want sensational sights, stunning dancers, everywhere he looks.”
“What if he does not come? We’ll have invested all this—”
“Then we’ll give London the most brilliant show it has ever seen.” He spun, punctuating the conversation with a firm period.
That was my cue to leave, it seemed. I slipped toward the tall double doors and lingered, looking back toward Jack—but he had disappeared. Clinging to the knob, I searched each corner of the room for him once more.
Then I was pummeled from behind, Jack’s whisper assaulting me. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
I spun on the man and lifted a demure smile. “Why, of course I do. You’re quite welcome, Mr. Dorian.”
“Jack. It’s Jack, for all that is holy. As in, Jack, the one you lately threw to the lions. Placed between the two iron jaws of a vice.”
“It wasn’t easy to speak out that way.”
“Congratulations on finding your voice at so opportune a moment. Now if you’d kindly undo what you have done . . .”
“Jack.” I placed my hand upon his chest, where it looked surprisingly tiny. “I knew you wouldn’t go out and grasp it for yourself, so I merely did it for you. A little shove off the barn loft, if you will.” I gave a wry smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return home.”
“Oh no you don’t, your ladyship. You’ll stay right here.” He spun and slid like a panther between me and the exit. “You’ve delivered me into a heap of trouble, and you can make up for it right now with a little favor to me.” He propelled me forward, one hand on the small of my back, and I braced myself, clutching a chair.
“What is this favor?”
“You shall see. Look, the subscribers have begun sneaking in the back. They’re the annual box seat holders, so you’ll want to impress them too. One most especially. I imagine you’re bright enough to figure out who.”
My smile faded. He guided me toward Bellini, who was speaking to a cluster of new arrivals in top hats and tails—including one who was the very image of the portrait hanging in the theater. Even from a distance, Marcus de Silva swept me with an accusing glare that made me want to shrink away.