7

 

“What you must remember, gentlemen,” Domitri said as he walked down the evenly spaced boys positioned at the barre, ranging in age from twelve to fifteen, “is that a man can exhibit both gracefulness and power at the same time. But the power must be developed, and it is developed by repeating these boring, and I quote Monsieur Devone…”

One of the older boys turned beet red in embarrassment.

Domitri had overheard him complaining to two others that barre work was unnecessary and boring. “…Barre exercises. So before we can cabriole and entrechat and partner a beautiful ballerina, we develop power. Are you—”

The door to the studio slammed open, a disheveled and mussed Charie staggering through.

He almost laughed until he noticed the moisture rimming her violet-gray eyes, her paleness, and her expression of absolute terror.

“You will practice your ronds de jambes until I return.” Quickly crossing the floor, he reached Charie.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and he feared she would faint.

Without hesitation, Domitri lifted her in his arms and hurried from the studio, aware of his staring, motionless students. Taking the steps up to his apartment two at the time, Domitri bellowed for Muzette.

The housekeeper had the door open by the time he reached the upper level, and he rushed through the room, entering his bedchamber. Lying Charie upon his bed, he quickly loosened the buttons of her fitted jacket and those around the high neck of her blouse.

Muzette waved smelling salts beneath her nose causing Charie to stir.

Coughing and gagging, she managed to open her eyes. Confusion darkened her expression until her gaze rested upon Domitri. Sitting up, fear shadowed her face as she grasped the front of his sweat-dampened tunic.

“Mira—is alone,” she choked out. “Chervenkof—” She coughed again and Muzette quickly thrust a glass of water at her. Cherie took it and drank gratefully. “Chervenkof followed me. I believe Mira got away.”

“Charie, what are you saying?” Domitri’s heart plummeted at the thought of Chervenkof pursuing either woman. “You’re not making sense. Take a deep breath. Start again.” He sat on the side of the bed.

“Mira and I visited a friend of hers, and when we left, the count’s carriage and Petrov had disappeared. We decided to take a cab home, but while we searched, Chervenkof appeared. He tried to force me into his carriage, but I slipped away.” Charie paused to draw a deep breath. “I told Mira to take a cab and go straight to the count’s residence. Then I traveled here by foot, hoping you’d be in. Thank God you were.” She threw her arms about his neck and sobbed against his shoulder.

His arms went around her, tightening instinctively and protectively. Something happened—his heart pounded as though he’d leapt circles around a stage a dozen times, and his hands shook. Holding her awakened his every nerve; heightened his every sense. Softness and warmth enfolded him, the hint of lilacs teased his nose, and her loosened chestnut curls covered his chest. Without thinking, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“You’re all right now, Charie. You’re safe.” Slowly, he pushed her away so that he could look into her teary eyes. “Why were you and Mira without an escort? You know what Olar said.” If he thought speaking to her sternly would alleviate the earlier sensations, he was sadly mistaken. He battled the urge to pull her close again.

“I know. But Mira wanted me to meet an artist who has asked her to pose for him, and Maman left with Fitz to sign contracts with Bauerhausen. We were supposed to go straight home in the count’s carriage, but I didn’t want to disappoint Mira. When we were ready to leave, the carriage was gone, even though I told Petrov to wait. I can’t imagine what happened to him.”

“I can,” Domitri said grimly as he stood. Walking over to the windows, he began to pace.

Muzette took his place on the bed and sponged Charie’s face while she reassured her in French that all would be well.

“What do you think happened?”

Looking to his side he saw that Charie had left the bed and joined him.

When he glanced at Muzette, she shrugged and shook her head.

No one could keep Charie confined if she chose not to be. It was an infuriatingly attractive characteristic; one that could easily land her in danger. It was his job to point that out.

“It’s possible that Olar’s driver was lured away.” He didn’t add that the man might have come to harm. “You sent Mira to Olar?”

Charie nodded, the movement loosening the last tenuous hold her fashionable hat had on her hair, and the elegant chapeau dropped to the floor. She didn’t bother to retrieve it. “I was certain Chervenkof would follow me, not her. And I knew that the count would help. Oh, Domitri, I never meant for this to happen. Maman will lecture me, and the count will be so angry.”

“I am angry with you.” His stinging words brought fresh tears to her eyes. Grasping her shoulders, he shook her slightly to emphasize his words. “What were you thinking to disobey? Was it that important that Mira visit this artist?”

“She’s in love with him, and he with her. I’m glad we visited.” Charie’s quavering voice held defiance. “I am sorry I’ve caused trouble and interrupted your class. But I’m not a child, Domitri.”

“Then stop acting like one. What would I have done if something had happened to you?”

“What?” Her eyes reflected confusion; the tears no longer spilling over her smooth cheeks. “Why should you care what happens to me? We don’t even like each other.”

“How foolish of me.” Domitri fisted one hand, wrestling with the need to shake sense into her and kiss her trembling lips. “You’re absolutely right. A spoiled, petulant ballerina is the last person on which I would waste my time.”

“And I don’t need an arrogant, unfeeling danseur trying to control my life.”

“Apparently, you need someone in control. You’re doing a poor job. It’s a miracle you can tie your laces without help.”

“Don’t insult me. But then, I suppose having been married to Sophia Stanislovna, all other ballerinas pale in comparison.” Her words wounded.

It was as though a blade had been thrust into his aching heart and twisted.

Domitri’s instinct was to lash out. “No one can compare to her.”

Charie’s eyes darkened with hurt and bewilderment, and she staggered back, breaking his hold.

The urgency to set matters aright made him reach for her.

She backed further away.

“Charie, I didn’t—”

“Domitri, Domitri!” Olar’s bellow preceded him before he burst into the apartment.

Grasping Charie’s hand, Domitri rushed to the parlor to find an enraged Olar and a wild-eyed Mira.

“Domitri, thank God you’re here. Charie…Charie, you’re here?”

“I’m so sorry,” Charie sobbed, pulled her hand from Domitri’s, and rushed to Olar.

He quickly folded her in a fatherly embrace.

“I know I did wrong. Don’t tell Maman. Please.”

“I’m only glad you are unharmed. When Mira arrived at my home shortly after Petrov, who was bleeding and beaten, I nearly lost my mind. Tell me what happened.”

“Why don’t the three of you sit here and sort things out,” Domitri suggested dryly. “I still have a class downstairs that I need to dismiss.”

The three did as he’d recommended, huddling together on the old couch.

Shaking his head, Domitri left them, feeling very much the outsider.

 

****

 

“You’re quiet tonight,” Matilda observed as she and Charie dined informally in the sitting room, a linen clad table and two comfortable chairs positioned before the fire.

Olar had delivered Charie to her frantic mother about an hour earlier, explaining that she and Mira had visited with him rather than return home. Another half-truth that was also a half-lie.

Charie struggled with her conscience as she pushed the food about her plate. “Didn’t you have a nice time visiting Olar? He does have a lovely home. I just wish you’d have shared your plans this morning.”

“We didn’t plan the visit; we somehow ended up there.”

“That’s an odd way of putting it. I want to forewarn you that the baron will be dropping by later. After spending time with him today, I really believe he’s changed.”

“In what way?” Charie was surprised by her mother’s words.

“I believe he’s sorry he frightened you. He’s not used to a young woman who is neither swept off her feet by his title, nor impressed by his romantic overtures. He truly seems fond of you.”

“What are you saying, Maman?” Anger raged through Charie as her fork clattered to her plate.

“I’m saying I believe he wants to make amends.”

“Is he a Christian?”

“The right influences could push him towards the path of faith. I believe he simply needs a friend.”

“You can be his friend, Maman, but I will not. You’ve struck your deal with him; now you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“That’s an unkind thing to say,” Matilda said sadly. “Are any of us fit to judge another?”

“All I know is that I can’t be his friend. He’s insufferable.”

“Don’t allow your infatuation with Domitri Auberchon preclude a relationship with another man. Ludwig Bauerhausen is wealthy and powerful. Domitri Auberchon is a penurious danseur who survives on an income provided by a teaching position.”

“Maman, it’s not like you to measure one’s worth by their bank account. What happened to love?”

“Love sometimes comes later, Charie, if you open your heart and your mind. I only want to make sure you are well cared for and cherished. Domitri is still entrenched in the past. I would not want you to constantly wonder how you measure up to Sophia Stanislovna, both as a dancer and a wife.”

“Maman, you are worried about something that will never happen. Domitri makes no secret of the love he still harbors for his late wife.”

Domitri’s earlier remarks had wounded. Deeply.

Charie would have little trouble quelling any and all romantic notions. “He considers me a child, much like some other people.”

The look her mother gave her assured her she’d made her point. “I know you’re not a child, but until this matter with Chervenkof is resolved, we have to be careful. Charie, I’ll never interfere in your personal life. But I can share my fears and concerns.”

“I accept that. But I’m in no danger of falling in love.”

“I told myself the same thing after I met your father. And look what happened.”

“But you did fall in love with him. We all make mistakes.”

“And isn’t it wonderful that we have a loving Savior who is willing to forgive us for all of those mistakes?”

“I hope you’ll understand if I stay in my room while the baron is here.”

“Certainly.” Matilda smiled and reached over to pat her hand. “Is there something else you’d like to share?”

Suddenly, the dam burst, and tears spilled over her cheeks. The words tumbled from her lips as Charie recounted the story of how Chervenkof had followed her and Mira, had the count’s driver beaten, and then tried to force her to go with him.

Her mother’s face paled, but she said nothing until Charie finished.

Now Matilda’s dinner remained untouched. Rising from her seat, Matilda went to Charie, kneeling beside her chair as she hugged her. “My darling daughter, I never meant for you to be drawn into this. I’m so sorry. And so grateful to God for seeing you safely to Domitri’s. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“For the same reason you didn’t tell me about Chervenkof. I didn’t want to worry you. I’m unharmed and so is Mira, and I’ve learned a lesson. But I made a promise to Mira. Do you think you could accompany us after church to her beau’s atelier? He wants to begin a painting of her.”

“Of course. And I can bring the script along and look through my lines for the new play. What a pleasant way to pass the afternoon.”

“Well, it might be a little chilly, because Pierre is extremely poor. And there are lots of cracks in the walls and around the windows.”

“Good heavens. Where does the boy live?”

“In an apartment building that looks close to falling into rubble. Pierre barely gets by. But he’s extremely talented. And charming.”

Matilda smiled. “Then we must see what we can do to help this young man, if he is as talented and likeable as you claim. Go upstairs and tell Lizzie to help you with a hot bath. Now that I think on it, your ensemble was a mess when you arrived. I should have known you didn’t pass a quiet, uneventful day with Olar. By the way, you weren’t wearing your hat.”

Laughter suddenly bubbled out upon Charie’s lips. “I believe the poor thing is roosting somewhere in Domitri’s apartment.”

They both laughed.

Charie’s tears miraculously dried.

 

****

 

Matilda kept her promise.

After the service at the small, but lovely, protestant church that Charie and her mother attended since taking up residence in Paris, they took a hansom cab to the flat that Mira shared with three other ballerinas from the company.

Mira was waiting for them on the stoop, clearly surprised to see Matilda with Charie. But the eagerness to visit Pierre overrode her uncertainty, and when she joined them, she was full of her usual chatter.

Upon arriving at Pierre’s derelict residence, Matilda gazed at it in horror.

“Your Pierre lives here?” she gasped.

“On the very top floor,” Mira announced happily. “He’s not the only one who resides in the building. There are others living on the lower floors.”

Her mother’s expression was so incredulous, Charie had to stifle a giggle as the driver came around to help them out.

Matilda remained silent on the climb to Pierre’s apartment, but she was obviously dismayed by the abysmal living conditions.

Pierre greeted them at Mira’s first knock, and within minutes Pierre had captivated Matilda. So much so, she promised to find him a more hospitable abode and even went so far as to suggest that Count Stanislov might want to see his paintings.

Mira changed into the costume for her role in Giselle behind a large screen in a corner of the chilly apartment, and Pierre spent the next four hours painting until the position of the autumn sun could no longer provide the light he needed.

Charie was fascinated by the man’s sure strokes and how, with just a few, he was able to capture Mira’s form, already bringing a hint of life to the undefined face.

By the time they made their farewells, Matilda had invited him to dine with them Wednesday night, insinuating that there might be the possibility of a commission.

When Pierre humbly declined the invitation, stating that his Bible group met on Wednesday evenings, Matilda promptly changed the invitation to Friday.

Once the times were established, Mira included in the dinner arrangements, the three women left with the understanding that Mira would return with her chaperones the following Sunday for another sitting.

Charie noticed that Mira and Pierre exchanged a quick kiss while her mother was exiting the splintered door, and there was no denying the devoted look that passed between them.

Matilda immediately assumed the role of mothering mentor on the return trip, commenting aloud that Olar would certainly take Pierre under his wing and assist in finding the young man a better place to live.

By the time they delivered Mira to her apartment, the girl was beside herself with excitement, certain that Pierre’s talent would soon be discovered, earning him well-deserved recognition.

Charie and her mother enjoyed a quiet ride to their townhouse, welcoming light pouring from the myriad windows.

Lizzie met them at the door, and the expression on her face told them something was very wrong. The woman was so upset she rambled in Swedish until Matilda calmed her enough so that she repeated herself in English.

“Forgive me, Madam Matilda, I am so shaken I cannot tink,” the woman said breathlessly, her hand pressed to her chest. “Come vith me and I vill show you vat vas delivered vile you vere out today.”

Charie and her mother followed Lizzie into the sitting room.

A portrait of her mother rested against a table. Red paint had been dashed against it, rivulets of the now dried liquid running down her mother’s lovely face. A card was attached.

Matilda removed it, her hand shaking as Lizzie talked on. “The man vho delivered it seemed nice enough, and the painting, it vas vrapped. Ven I pulled away the paper, this is how it looked. I am so sorry, Madam Matilda. I vould have sent the man avay vith this terrible picture.”

By now Matilda had opened the envelope and pulled out a single, folded sheet. She read aloud. “‘I warned you.’”

Three words that filled Charie with unspeakable dread.

The note slipped from her mother’s hand as she collapsed upon a chair.

Charie picked up the note. It was signed, “AC.”

There was no doubt as to the identity of the sender. And there was no doubt he intended Matilda Marin serious harm.

“Maman, we must contact my father. Perhaps he can help. He needs to know about this.”

“He already does,” she replied wearily, lifting a face to Charie that had aged ten years in a matter of minutes. “Olar is your father.”

 

****

 

Though the day had been pleasant for autumn, Domitri spent his Sunday restless and dissatisfied. He’d devoted the morning to Bible study and prayer. But no amount of prayer or scripture reading could erase what was inside him. He could no longer deny his attraction to Charice Marin. He could no longer deny Sophia was a fading memory. He was a man torn, angry, and confused.

When he’d told Charie she could never compare to Sophia, he’d hoped to hurt her as badly as she’d hurt him. What he’d really been thinking was that Sophia could never compare to Charie.

There—he’d admitted it. But no relief accompanied the confession. For Charie believed him to be egotistical, domineering, and emotionless.

“Lord,” he spoke aloud, “what do I do?”

There was no answer. Sunday was the day Muzette spent with relatives, and she’d not return until the morning. He felt the isolation; the loneliness. Leaving his seat by the parlor window, he walked to the door of his bedchamber.

He clearly recalled the vision of Charie as she’d lain upon the counterpane, her dark hair with its vibrant red highlights spread over the white linen, her face displaying an ethereal innocence.

It was impossible to deny the pull, the yearning that pounded in his ears and rushed through his blood, reminding him of the connection between man and woman.

Turning abruptly, Domitri fled the apartment and ran down the stairs as though pursued by ravenous wolves. Entering his studio, he shed his shirt and began to dance. His movements reflected the fury and angst that warred within him. Pushing hard, his heart felt close to bursting and his lungs burned. Faster and faster he spiraled until there was no control. Then he slipped. He landed on his bottom.

Domitri groaned, welcoming the pain for it cleared his head. He couldn’t care for Charie. Not now; not ever. Even setting aside the memory of Sophia, Charie presented other problems.

She was determined, stubborn, disobedient, willful…talented, beautiful, graceful. Angelic.

Running his hands over his face, he expelled a deep sigh. From somewhere came the words of a familiar and beloved passage from Psalms 30. O, Lord, thou hast brought up my soul from the grave: thou hast kept me alive, that I should not go down to the pit…weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning…Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness…

“Was there a reason I survived the wreck? Guilt consumes me, Lord. For so long I’ve believed I should have died, and Sophia should have lived. I never planned to care for another woman—not as I cared for Sophia. Charie is in danger, and I’m not sure I can protect her. What if something happens to her? I can’t involve myself. Involvement requires commitment. Commitment leads to a place I don’t want to be.”

Weary and spent, he leaned his head against the rough wall, draping his arms over his knees. His eyes grew irritatingly moist and he wiped his hand over them, disgusted by his weakness.

And I was with you in weakness, and in fear, and in much trembling.

The verse from First Corinthians eased his mind, steadied his pulse, and slowed his heart. He had to face this situation, without fear, without trepidation. He would clean up, dress, and pay a visit to the Marin home. He would apologize to Charie for his harsh comments and set matters aright.

She might choose to have nothing to do with him beyond a forced professional relationship. But at least he’d be right in his soul.

Rising with just a smidgeon of discomfort concentrated in the vicinity of his backside, he left the studio and made his way up the stairs, much more slowly than he’d gone down them minutes earlier.