Page 13 of The Duke's Dream
Tenderly, Helene traced her mother’s cheeks and the hooped skirts—a fairy-tale princess.
“We were inseparable. Your mother and me," Katherina said. "When they dragged her to La Force prison, I went mad, I—”
“This is not about you. Can you, for once, pretend you care about us? Why leave us in the dark about our origins? Me, the others?” Helene’s voice broke as she clutched the miniature.
“Don’t be bitter, Helene. Once her heart sours, a ballerina can only dance the part of hags and witches. You know I’m—”
“Incapable of love. Robespierre robbed you of that, too. We all know.” Helene’s shoulders sagged.
Thank God Langley didn't believe her. Otherwise, they would have starved. Poor Langley’s unflinching hope in Katherina’s love had placed a roof over their heads.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I promised your mother. She thought it would make you perpetually angry. Since it was all lost—the estate, the Paris townhouse, your inheritance—it was best if you didn’t hear about it.”
Helene dropped to the floor, her legs stretched in front of her.
The theater’s first bell rang.
“Gaetan wants to take me back to France.”
“I see. Ballet or the family you never had… A dilemma to make even Shakespeare proud.”
Helene’s fingers stopped twirling her mother’s lock. “I have a family. The girls, you, Langley, the theater.”
“It is different. What happens on the stage… it is not true, Helene.”
For her, it was. In a dancer’s rehearsed moves lay a truth that no real-life clumsy attempt could mimic. She had lived inside that truth since she arrived in England. How could she live in any other place? Ballet was her identity. How did one walk away from one’s identity?
Katherina squeezed Helene’s shoulder. “You have been too sheltered. What do you know about life? What of the pleasures of being a mother, of having your own family?”
Helene averted her gaze. She hadn’t trained all her life for living out of ballet. The mere thought made her shiver. What if she failed? “Ballet is my life. Should I abandon it to be a tame lady in a Parisian home?”
“Times are changing. This new director, Verón, has strange ideas. Langley can no longer protect you girls from—”
“Times are changing for the best. Langley never gave us the leading roles in his ballets. The new director might give us a chance.”
The bell sounded the second warning.
Helene stood, her eyes darting from her family’s treasures to the door. She took a deep breath. “I love my brother and wish him all the glory. But my life is here.”
***
The box’s drapery was partially closed, muffling the cries of orange girls, chattering women, and the orchestra tuning their instruments. William asked the footman to dim the lamps, concealing his presence from the rest of the audience.
This early in the season, most of his peers were in the country, yet William wanted to avoid attracting a throng of well-wishers and social climbers. He told himself he came tonight to witness Verón’s improvements. But as the third bell sounded, his heart sped, and his mouth went dry. The same breathless exhilaration that coursed through him in his dreams, when he was about to catch the sprite.
Nonsense. Watching her dance would prove she was another face at the ballet, not the being who haunted his nights.
William grabbed the program, scanning the French names for the tenth time. Which one could be hers? He knew nothing about her. Not even her name. If she disappeared, he wouldn’t know where to find her. The lack of knowledge was intolerable. He shut the vellum.
The gilded lettering of the ballet’s name—Orpheus and Eurydice—flickered under the candlelight. Yet another tale of a man ensnared by love. Orpheus journeyed to the Underworld to save his dead wife. All he had to do was avoid looking at her. Despite remarkable talents and divine favor, Orpheus failed this most simple task and died, undone by his passion.
The curtains rose, revealing a pastoral setting with painted green hills and cardboard trees. Orpheus and Eurydice sauntered together, hands clasped. William knew the principals. The male dancer was Vestris, a virtuoso of jumps and turns, and the prima ballerina was Sara Parker, a company veteran.
While they danced a minuet, the corps de ballet hopped onto the stage.
Frantically, feverishly, William studied each dancer, searching for the girl. How could he find her? All moved alike, dressed alike, their Greek costumes flowing alike.
