3

 

If Fitz thought it odd that Charie trapped him in the sitting room, while her mother escorted Bauerhausen to the door, he said nothing. Taking a seat, he crossed his leg at the knee and adjusted the crease in his trousers.

Drawing a deep breath, Charie pushed the door closed, and then leaned against it. “Fitz, I had the oddest thing happen today at Maman’s theatre. As I was leaving, a man stopped me, saying he represented a party in New York who wished to become my patron. I told him he needed to speak with Maman, but he said this concerned me and my father. What did he mean? I know you handle Maman’s personal affairs, so I thought you might know the whereabouts of my father.”

Fitz’s composure evaporated as he tugged nervously on his flawlessly tied cravat. “What was this man’s name?”

“I don’t know. I was so frightened, I didn’t ask. Fortunately, Count Stanislov sent Domitri Auberchon to the theatre to bring me back to practice. When we left together, the man ended his pursuit.”

“What exactly did he say?” Fitz looked as pale as her mother had at dinner.

“He said that he wished to speak to me and my father about the interested party’s offer. I explained my father has no say in matters. Do you know where my father is? Does he live in the States?”

“I—no; I’m certain he’s not in America.” Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Charie had never seen Fitz perspire.

Why was he nervous? Perhaps her father was a criminal. Or worse.

“Would you help me contact him?”

“That’s not possible. Charice, speak to Matilda. It’s not my place to reveal this information.”

“I’ve asked before with no luck. Maman hates my father, and with good reason.”

“I can’t help you, Charice.” Fitz came to his feet and hurried up to her as though he couldn’t get away quickly enough.

Seeing she had no choice, Charie moved aside so he could open the door.

“I must respect your mother’s wishes. You’ll have to ask her about your father. But if you should ever be approached by that man again, let me know immediately.”

“Do you think he poses a threat?”

“Unlikely, but he has no right to give you a scare. Give him my name, and tell him to contact me. There’s no need to concern yourself with complicated matters. You must focus on your dancing.” Opening the door, he dashed out.

A few seconds later, she heard him speaking to her mother in the entrance hall. Then his voice dropped, as did her mother’s.

She was certain they were discussing her conversation with Fitz, and heat flooded her cheeks. Charie was old enough to know the truth about her father. She had no desire to reunite with him, but as he was apparently alive, she wouldn’t mind meeting him. Just once. Did she look like him or possess any similarity in mannerisms or temperament? What harm could there be?

Aggravated with her mother and the secrecy, she made her way to the kitchen, surprising Madame Jeaneau and Paulette, the scullery maid, now tidying up.

“I’m going out for air.” Taking her old cloak off a peg on the wall, Charie wrapped herself within its folds. After letting herself out, she slipped around the side of the townhouse and made her way to the cobblestone street. After hailing a cab, she was soon on her way to Count Stanislov’s. She would talk to him.

Perhaps he knew of her father’s whereabouts.

 

****

 

Jules’s announcement that Mademoiselle Marin had arrived to see Olar unsettled Domitri. And intrigued. And presented an interesting way to spend the evening. Having just finished a late meal with his former father-in-law, he rested on a divan in the count’s study, legs propped on the arm while thumbing through a journal devoted to the ballet.

Olar sat in his favorite chair, smoking his pipe and reading the Bible. At the announcement by the very proper English butler, Olar put his Bible aside and stood, while removing his pipe.

Domitri swung his legs to the side and sat up, discarding the journal. An odd excitement warmed him.

“Please show her in, Jules. And have Madame Orenska bring tea and those wonderful scones she baked earlier.”

The butler nodded and after delivering a quick, bobbing bow, returned to the foyer.

Domitri stood. “I’ll leave.”

“Nonsense. I’ve enjoyed your company immensely. I’d nearly decided you planned to ignore me during my stay in the city while preparing lessons for your mischievous pupils.” Olar’s voice held gentle teasing. “But certainly you could spare a few minutes to chat with a beautiful ballerina.”

Domitri shook his head. “It’s bad enough you tricked me into dancing with her.”

“You don’t fool me, Domitri. You weren’t ‘tricked’ into anything.”

Domitri withheld comment for Charice Marin chose that moment to enter the room.

As Jules assisted Charie in the removal of her well-worn cloak and revealed her stunning beauty, Domitri fought the urge to sink back down on the divan, his knees suddenly weak. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed her comeliness that afternoon, but her charm then had been her dishevelment; loosened curls, torn leggings, the same old cloak.

Now she stood before him as regal as a princess; dark red curls in obeisance, frock of gold and green highlighting a winsome form, and gold slippers peeking out from beneath her fashionably shorter skirts.

As soon as she noticed him, her eyes widened in panic, as though she would turn and flee. Who did she think he was? The big, bad wolf?

He nearly chuckled as he recalled dancing the part at the age of ten.

“I didn’t know you were entertaining.” Her shock made her breathless. “Jules should have told me.”

“Charie, what a marvelous surprise.” Olar’s voice conveyed warmth and sincerity as he bestowed a fatherly hug upon the statue-still Charice. Taking her hand, he led her to the plum upholstered settle near the piano. “Domitri has entertained me, regaling me with the antics of your esteemed peers from the pages of the Journal de Ballet. Did you know that Taglioni is rumored to be enamored of her Russian cobbler?”

“No, no—I didn’t.” She glanced uneasily at Domitri, and then looked back at Olar, managing a small smile. “I suppose a ballerina could form an attachment to a man who holds her feet in his hands.”

“Is that what it would take to win your affection, Mademoiselle Marin?” As soon as he uttered the words, Domitri wanted to kick himself.

To his amazement, she laughed, the sound like silver bells caressed by a gentle wind, stroking his wounded spirit. This isn’t good. Giving in to his weak knees, Domitri sat. He was much too interested; a heat flaring beneath his breast unrelated to his proximity to the blazing hearth. His heart, left behind in the carnage and twisted metal of the train wreck which claimed Sophia’s life, beat strong and rapid.

“It would take much more than that, Monsieur Auberchon. He would have to hold my heart in those hands, as well.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.” She was in jest, but her words ignited a spark.

Flaming coils knotted in the pit of his stomach. Averting his face, he pretended to examine the cover of the journal as Olar took a seat opposite Charice.

The count ended the tension. “Tell me what brings you out so late of an evening? You should be resting your toes.”

“Maman!” burst from her lips, and a torrent of French followed, spoken almost as flawlessly as a native.

His father had often discussed matters with his mother in his native French because he believed his little son could only understand his mother’s Russian.

But Domitri had understood words in both languages as young as two years of age. By the time he was six, he could read and speak Russian and French. He followed the conversation between Charice and Olar easily.

“She invited Ludwig Bauerhausen into our home to discuss ‘business.’ Can you believe it? Maman believes it’s acceptable to entertain the lecher if he offers to back a play even though he hounded me for months. I don’t understand her.”

“Did he insult you?” Olar asked, his jaw twitching in vexation.

Domitri had heard of the man, though never met him—a German nobleman known for his amoral pursuits and limitless spending. He was not the sort of man to respect an innocent maiden. Anger surged.

“He was on his best behavior. I know it’s wrong and not at all Christian to hold a grudge, but he was insufferable last year.” She shuddered.

Domitri clenched his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to comfort her.

“But I have intruded upon your quiet evening. I shouldn’t have come.” She started to rise but Olar reached out a hand to halt her.

“You have brightened what would have proven to be a dull evening.”

Domitri lowered his brows, unsure how to take Olar’s comment.

“Bauerhausen—he’s left your home?”

“Oui. He left before me. I’m disturbed by something else, Count Stanislov.” Now her eyes darkened, and her face paled. “Do you know where my father is?”

Silence descended, a silence broken only by the hiss and snap of the fire as it devoured the wood.

Domitri watched the emotions flit across the face of his father-in-law; grief, anger, love, regret. What in Charie’s question could have caused Olar to experience a myriad of feelings simultaneously?

“Why do you ask, child?” Olar’s voice was unsteady.

“Today, at Maman’s theatre, I was approached by a man who said he represented an individual in New York who wished to become my patron. I told him he would have to speak to Maman, but he insisted on speaking to my father. My father has nothing to do with me or my dancing. I’ve never met him.”

Olar’s expression was troubled, and he slowly rubbed his silvering Vandyke beard.

“This is the same man I spoke of to you earlier,” Domitri said, recalling the squat, irritating man. “When I found Mademoiselle Marin, this man was proving himself an annoyance.”

“Monsieur Auberchon helped me elude him. I was alarmed by the man’s persistence. I’m not sure I properly thanked you, Monsieur Auberchon.” Her words held a ring of sincerity as she met his gaze.

Domitri nodded. “I’m glad I could assist. Who do you believe sent this man to Mademoiselle Marin, Olar?”

“I’m fairly certain he was sent by Anapol Chervenkof. Chervenkof is an ardent admirer of your mother, Charie, and is looking for an opportunity to bring her back into his circle.”

“Maman has never mentioned him.”

“That’s because she doesn’t return his feelings. She has gone to great lengths to avoid him. I fear this is another ploy meant to encourage Matilda to reconsider his suit. The man is unscrupulous.”

“And what of Bauerhausen? She’d rather deal with a debauched noble than an unscrupulous admirer?”

“Perhaps,” Olar answered Domitri. “I only know that Chervenkof can be difficult, and he doesn’t like to be crossed. Rumor has it that he was once involved with Russian revolutionaries.”

An evasive memory tugged at Domitri’s mind while he silently repeated Anapol…Anapol.

“And he’s closely connected to Tammany Hall in New York City,” Olar added.

Though Domitri had lived in Europe all of his life, he’d read about the notorious Tammany Hall and the political influence wielded by those belonging to the organization. He also knew that funds collected by this same group were not always used appropriately.

Yet, for the most part, those incidents were deliberately and effectively hushed. Expected behavior for those brash, cocky Americans, he reasoned.

“But my father—how does he fit into all of this? Does he belong to this Tammany Hall?”

“Non,” Olar replied emphatically. “He has no connection whatsoever.”

“So you know him—you know where he is?” Charie’s excitement spread over her revealing face. She was like an artist’s palette, drawn and redrawn again and again as her emotions varied.

Domitri was mesmerized and openly stared.

“Why do you want to know, Charie?” Olar asked, drawing Domitri’s attention back to him. The count’s voice held a deep sadness.

“Why does Anapol Chervenkof think my father has anything to do with decisions that affect my dancing? Tell me where he is. Please.”

“I—cannot say. It is your mother’s wish that his whereabouts remain unknown.”

Charie stood, her expression angry and frustrated. “I expected such an answer from Fitz, but not from you. I knew you would be honest with me.”

“Charie, I wish with all my heart that I could be, but it is best this way. Do not be angry with me.”

“I am angry—with you and Maman. Did she make you promise not to speak of this, or are you being difficult because the two of you don’t get along? Whatever your grievance with each other, you should both put it behind you. I am sorry to have bothered you.” She started across the room, her head lowered as she struggled with what Domitri suspected was tears.

The urge to comfort returned with frightening strength, but he remained seated.

It was Olar who followed her, catching up to her before she left the room. “Don’t leave like this, Charie. Please stay until you’re composed and have some tea. I’ve already instructed Jules to ask Madame Orenska to make you a cup of the Russian tea you like so much. Don’t return to Matilda as you are now. She will have my head on a platter if she believes I upset you.”

That brought a slight smile to Charie’s lips.

Olar took hold of her chin and raised her face so that her beautiful, glistening eyes met his. “I would never intentionally hurt you. What I do or say is to protect you, and though you think you don’t need protection, you do. It is a joyous duty that our God above has assigned to me. And I take my duties very seriously. So, stay. Have tea and one of Rena’s English scones that Jules taught her to bake. She will be very disappointed if you don’t have one.” Olar spoke to Charie in a soothing manner reminiscent of the way he’d always cajoled Sophia when she was in a temper.

As Domitri watched the interaction, he noted Olar’s fatherly manner and Charie’s daughterly response to his overtures. Were they aware of the connection that existed?

For a brief moment he was envious, wishing that Charie held him in the same regard. Not as father to daughter, but as friend to friend. Or—perhaps more?

Once the tears vanished and Charie was laughing at something silly Olar said, the count led her back to her recently vacated seat.

Domitri excused himself, but he didn’t think they heard. He headed for the door, which Jules quickly opened, bidding him goodnight. An uncomfortable regret invaded as he commenced his walk through a cold, misting rain bound for his apartment and studio. Regret that he’d decided seven years ago to give up on love.

 

****

 

After receiving a stern lecture from her mother for leaving the house without telling her, Charie retired to her bedchamber. Before attempting to sleep, she took up her Bible and silently read one of her favorite passages in Psalms.

Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in His sanctuary; praise Him in the firmament of His power. Praise Him for His mighty acts; praise Him according to His excellent greatness. Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet; praise Him with the psaltery and harp. Praise Him with the timbrel and dance; praise Him with stringed instruments and organs. Praise Him upon the loud cymbals; praise Him upon the high sounding cymbals. Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.

“Oh Lord,” she whispered aloud as she pressed her Bible to her chest and closed her eyes. “I’m so unsettled. So much happened today that makes no sense. Yesterday, everything in my life was in order, but now this stranger, by merely mentioning my father, has caused uncertainty.

“There are so many questions I can’t answer, and no one is willing to share the truth. And I don’t know what to think about Domitri Auberchon. I know he was once a great danseur noble, and today, he danced with me as though we’d partnered many times before. It seemed as if he could sense my movements—as though we were one.

“I know that’s silly, Lord. But what if he agrees to replace Antoine? I’m not sure I can work with him. But I want to dance and do my best. What would You have me do, Heavenly Father? Maman always taught me to turn to You in all things, and I’m so uncertain. I know this request is foolish, Lord, but I’d like to meet my father someday. These things I ask in your Son’s precious name, Amen.”

Lying against her pillows, she sighed deeply. At this rate, she wouldn’t get any rest. And Lizzie would be shaking her awake just after dawn. Turning on her side, she looked out a window, watching the light rain splatter the panes of glass.

Why had Domitri left so suddenly tonight? Had her presence bothered him? Or had he other business? Perhaps a lady love was awaiting him somewhere. He was handsome enough to have many female admirers.

She wondered about his marriage to the count’s daughter and only child, the beautiful Sophia Stanislovna, who was still spoken of in revered whispers. It was just as Bauerhausen had said—Sophia floated on the stage, small and petite and ethereal; her face sculpted by a heavenly artist. Such a tragedy that she’d died. So sad for the count. And for Domitri.

Slowly, Charie drifted to sleep. In her dreams, she danced through an emerald green forest filled with woodland creatures. Just as she neared a brook, a dark, hulking figure emerged from the shadows and advanced, baring fangs. Turning away, she ran, but stumbled and fell.

Just when the monster was nearly upon her, strong arms swept her up and away. The hooded rescuer kept his face averted, but once out of the forest and into the sparkling sunlight, she saw his scar, running from temple to jaw—her gallant was none other than Domitri.

But leaving her frightened and unsettled was the monster that’d given chase. Who was he—the man from the theatre, the Chervenkof man from New York, or, much worse, perhaps—her own father?

 

****

 

By ten o’clock the next morning, Charie was feeling more herself, all the angst and confusion of yesterday nearly banished as she was comfortably surrounded by the sights and smells of the theatre, stage hands lighting the gas lamps which illuminated the dance floor.

Mira chattered nonstop in her lilting French, pleasantly lulling as Charie tied her slipper ribbons about her ankles in the exact manner taught to her by her ballet instructor, Madame Erlaine, eight years ago on her very first day of training at the Paris Opera.

It was the first of many things the dear woman had shown her through the years, and though Madame Erlaine was no longer living, every time Charie stepped out on the stage she sensed the woman’s spirit.

Adella Erlaine had never reached the greatness of Grisi or Taglioni, but she drew from each pupil their full potential, a fact not lost upon the prestigious le Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique.

Charie would always fondly recall those days.

“You aren’t listening, Charie.” Mira’s accusation forced Charie to look up and focus on her friend of nearly five years.

Mira had been a frightened girl of fourteen when she’d presented herself at the Paris Opera. A runaway from a rural area in southern France where friends and family had scoffed at her love of dance, she’d been destined for marriage to a middle-aged man who owned the largest sheep farm in the province.

Charie recalled her first glimpse of Mira—what a difference from the shy, scared child she’d been. “I’m not,” Charie confessed as she stood and adjusted her billowing skirts, giving Mira a smile. “I’m just so glad today is today.”

“Well, of course today is today,” she agreed impatiently. “I said isn’t Domitri Auberchon the most mysteriously handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

Reality crashed, forcing Charie to recall every painful, confusing, angering moment of the day before. She prayed she’d not say something regretful. “Why ask me that?” A tiny ache commenced above her left temple. And she’d been so sure this day would be normal.

“Because he just arrived with Count Stanislov.” Mira pointed to the stage where the count was shaking hands with Phillipe.

Domitri was standing next to him. And he was dressed to dance.

Charie quickly looked away, her face aflame with indignation and anger. What should she do? She’d thought after her long talk with Count Stanislov, he understood her feelings.

How could he do this? Why would the count, whom she’d considered her dearest friend, place her in this awkward position?

Now she would have to tell him, in front of everyone, that she would not dance with Domitri Auberchon. Not now, not ever.

Forgetting Mira, Charie hurried out on the stage before she lost her nerve. A little voice whispered inside her head, You’ve told Me you don’t want to dance with him, but you haven’t given him a chance. Don’t forget, he’s suffered. This could be his last chance. He has a gift—a gift I gave him. Let him use it.

Charie halted, raising her eyes heavenward but seeing only the beams and rafters of the stage ceiling. “Lord, don’t make me do this,” she whispered aloud. “I don’t like him—I mean, he’s tall and, and, really tall and—handsome.” A tiny sob escaped as she dropped her face in her hands. “I’d rather dance with someone I don’t like.”

“Then we should do well together.” The deep, stirring voice caressed her ears in charmingly accented English.

She immediately dropped her hands, looking up to see Domitri standing directly before her. Alternating chills and heat shook her. Surely this can’t be Your will, Lord.

“Are you all right?” There was a note of concern in his voice.

“I’m—quite—well.”

He has a gift—let him use it.

How would she feel if someone tried to keep her from dancing? How would she feel if she’d endured a tragedy similar to that of Domitri Auberchon? “I take it you’ve decided to accept the role of Albrecht.”

“That would be correct.” He gave her an irresistible grin, fueling her irritation. “I heard that Monsieurs Phillipe and Rubenevski convinced Valmiere last evening over a large bottle of wine that he’d be better suited for the lead male role in a new Perrot project. It’s rumored that Perrot is creating a ballet for Fanny Elssler.”

“I don’t believe there’s a bottle of wine large enough to make Antoine Valmiere relinquish a paying job for a ‘maybe’ job. How much did the count pay him?” Charie folded her arms disapprovingly as she awaited Domitri’s answer.

He chuckled. “And to think I was misguided enough to believe there was little happening here,” he tapped the top of her neatly coiled braids, courtesy of Lizzie.

Charie bristled.

“You know Olar far too well.”

“For your information, I am not an ignorant American. Nor am I a vapid ballerina who only thinks of herself. As for Count Stanislov, his actions are prompted by concern for me. He is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father.” She paused to draw a deep, shuddering breath.

“Forgive me for misjudging. I fear you hold a very low opinion of me.”

“I don’t have any opinion of you.” That was an untruth if ever I’ve uttered one. “It doesn’t matter to me who I dance with.”

He arched a brow.

I’ve uttered another lie. “Let’s just practice,” she sputtered in frustration, marching forward.

Domitri caught her arm, and she looked up. His emerald eyes ensnared, sending her heart into dizzying pirouettes. “Did you pray about this, about us?”

Charie was powerless to force a flippant remark through her lips. She had no choice but honesty. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So did I.” His voice was low. And warming.

“What did He say?” she asked.

“He said that you have a gift, and you should use it.”

Charie drew a sharp breath. His words duplicated those she’d imagined hearing just moments earlier.

When Domitri’s gaze fastened on her parted lips, his head lowered.

What was happening?

“It is good to see that the two of you have worked through your professional differences.” Monsieur Rubenevski barked close to where they stood, and they jumped apart. “Now, if the two of you would be so kind as to join us for rehearsal.”

Stunned by the unexpected exchange, Charie drew herself up and proceeded towards her spot on the stage. She dared a glance at Domitri, his expression unreadable from his position several feet away.

Looking out over the empty seats, she saw Count Stanislov seated in the front row, wearing an expression that reminded her of the cat that had just sampled the cream.