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EASTER MONDAY, 8th April, 1833
“Again!” bellowed Monsieur Travere while the dancers in the corps moaned.
Refusing to give in to her exhaustion, Bria threw back her shoulders and moved to center stage. She would ignore the searing pain in her toes and her aching muscles no matter what. Yes, hours ago blisters had formed and by the way her toes stung, they were bleeding. She’d bled many times before, though now there would be no time to heal.
“The lot of you sound like a herd of goats! Where is your grace? You spend a week traveling and your journey wipes away years of study? Need I remind you our debut is tomorrow?” Red in the face, Travere stamped his foot. “We are already in jeopardy of losing our contract. Do you want to return to Paris in shame?”
Bria hung her head. Everything this day had gone wrong. The orchestra played all the wrong tempos, Chadwick Theater’s stage was narrower and deeper than Salle Le Peletier and it made the choreography awkward. The side seam on her costume tore, her wings had fallen off twice. Good heavens, if the ballet opened today, they would be laughed out of England.
“No!” she shouted. “We will not consider returning to Paris.”
In quick succession, Monsieur Travere rapped his baton on the edge of the stage. “You say that, Mademoiselle LeClair, and yet your performance today has been abysmal. Just like everyone else’s.”
She gripped her arms across her midriff, internally berating herself. The dance master was right. She’d been awful. If she didn’t pull herself together, she would let everyone down—the troupe, the duke, and, most of all, herself. If she danced like this during the performance, she might as well go throw herself in the Thames. She would be worthless, a fallen woman with nowhere to turn, as helpless as she’d been when she’d been cast out of her home by her assumed uncle. This was her chance. If she failed, Monsieur Marchand would never allow her to set foot in Salle Le Peletier again.
“Pardon me, Monsieur Travere,” said the conductor. “But the orchestra is done for the day. We’ve already exceeded our contract by an hour.”
“Are you out of your minds?” the dance master shouted, throwing his baton out to the parterre. “Your performance has been the worst of the lot. How can we open tomorrow with the rubbish you played this day?”
The conductor slammed his score closed. “You, sir, are a hothead, and I will remind you I will be standing here in front of the stage, commanding the tempo when the curtain opens tomorrow. Fear not. I am, and my musicians are virtuosos. We have taken your direction, made changes accordingly, and now we are leaving.”
While the musicians walked out, Travere kicked a music stand, sending it clattering to the floor. Then he glared up at the stage. “At whom are you staring?”
Bria glanced at the others over her shoulder. They all looked as haggard as she felt. “We go again,” she said, assuming her position. “That is what you asked.”
He swept his arm through the air. “One, two, three, four, five, six...”
Spinning across the stage, she steeled her mind to the pain. Her blisters had bled before, and it would happen again. Later she’d soak her toes in brine and tomorrow night she’d wrap them, but right now she would endure the pain and show the Duke of Ravenscar exactly how much she wanted, needed, desired to play the role of the Sylph. No one would smite her opportunity. Bria’s toes could bleed through her slippers and she would not utter a word of complaint. Grand jeté, fouetté and pose in attitude. On and on she danced, willing herself to be strong. After a simple pas de bourrée, she stumbled, her toes torturing her efforts. Recovering quickly, Bria didn’t stop. She didn’t grimace. She endured through to end of the finale. Only then did she dare to glance at the dance master.
Travere pursed his lips, disappointment broadcast in his stance, his frown, his sullenness. “Enough!”
Everyone exited the stage while Bria dropped to the floor and removed her slippers. Good heavens, six of ten toes were bloodied. I cannot allow a few tiny blisters make me founder. Not again. Tomorrow must be perfect!
“Do you have a salve for those?” She looked up to find Mr. Perkins offering her a stoppered jar. “Put this on after you soak your toes tonight, and then ensure you apply a healthy dollop before you wrap them for tomorrow’s performance.”
Accepting the gift, she stood. “Are you familiar with toe dancing?”
“No, but I am familiar with blisters.”
“Thank you.” She assumed the position to rehearse the scene yet again.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing. I cannot go home this night until I am satisfied.”
“You’ve practiced enough.” He offered his elbow. “Let us take a walk.”
“But—”
“Just a brief stroll through the theater. In my experience, an artiste who has been working all day will only see her performance decline until she has rested.”
“Your experience?”
“I’ve been involved with theater management all my life. Though, as I’m sure you are aware, this is the first time toe dancing has been performed in Britain.” When she took his arm, he strolled down to the parterre. “Why are you a dancer?” he asked.
Bria almost laughed aloud. “I love ballet with my whole being. I cannot imagine doing anything else.”
“I can tell you’re passionate about it by the way you dance from your soul. I’ll wager you want to be successful so badly you ignore your own needs.”
She nodded, deciding not to tell him about swooning into the Duke of Ravenscar’s arms.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
Had His Grace told Mr. Perkins about the swooning incident? She hoped not. “I ate a good breakfast.”
“So, you’re tired, you’re hungry, and your feet hurt like they’ve been branded by a red-hot poker. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, scraping her teeth across her bottom lip.
He took her by the shoulders. “I’ve been watching you rehearse all day. Believe me when I say the conductor has noted the musical issues, you are the most excellent ballerina London has ever seen, and if you do not go home and take care of your feet, Chadwick’s patrons will not witness what I have seen. Do you understand?”
No matter how much she wanted to object, she let out a long breath and nodded. As they turned back toward the stage, she asked, “Of all the operas, plays and ballets, why did Chadwick Theater choose to open with La Sylphide?”
“Ravenscar wanted a spectacle that would be unmatched for the Season. He saw the opening debut of the ballet last year in France and knew then he had to have it. I must say, however, I do not think he would have chosen La Sylphide if Monsieur Marchand had told him Marie Taglioni’s understudy would be taking her place.”
A lump the size of her fist expanded in Bria’s throat. If the ballet failed, only she would be to blame. “And I have disappointed him royally.”
“Not you, my dear. If the blame lies with anyone, it is Marchand.” When they arrived back at the stage, Mr. Perkins patted her hand. “Now take my salve, have a good rest, and give us a stellar performance tomorrow night. Promise?”
“I promise to do my very best. I give you my oath I will not disappoint you or the duke or the patrons of this theater.” She curtsied while her heartbeat rushed in her ears—her entire body tense with nerves. On the morrow she must face the most important day of her life. “Thank you, sir.”
