Page 146 of The Duke's Dream
He went to the armoire and pulled on the aquamarine with puffed short sleeves. The flowing silk tumbled down his arm. “You could be a Sea Nymph, enchanting all with tales of the ocean’s depths and mysteries.”
“I know nothing of the sea.” Unless one counted the turmoil in her breast as experience… Still, it would hardly be suitable for party conversations.
“What about this one?” He caught the red velvet. “Helene, the Queen of Hearts, capturing all male attention.”
Helene forced a smile for her brother’s sake. “The only thing I would catch with that decolletage is a cold.”
“A bookworm and a prude? I fear that won’t do for Parisian society at all.”
Shaking his head, he chose another, an ivory silk gown with pearls and a simple line. “This will suit you better, then. You could be an angel, bringing light and purity to our racy gatherings.”
The white reminded her of La Sylphide's costume and the many times William had undressed her from it, peeling the layers from her skin slowly, like one savors a cherished gift, or fast, breathlessly, as if he could not bear to have any clothing between them. A wave of longing shook her, making her legs weak.
Closing her eyes, Helene sighed. “I cannot. Not yet.”
Gaetan sat by her side on the window seat and passed his arm over her shoulders. “Until when will you mourn that Englishman?”
Helene took a shuddering breath, her chin trembling. Unexpectedly, warm tears welled up and spilled over, their heat stark against her cheeks. “Oh, Gaetan,” Helene leaned her head over his shoulder. “My heart must have inherited the Beaumont’s stubbornness.”
Alark’ssonginvadedtheorangery, and Helene rushed to the window. Outside, the garden was alive with the drone of insects. The morning sun made the dew on the grass sparkle. Her gaze swept over the rolling hills as far as the village, her foolish heart conjuring the image of a tall tyrant and his commanding strides.
Would she ever stop waiting for him? Inhaling the citrus perfume, Helene closed the glass.
The girls had flocked inside, their delicate hands placed on the makeshift barre.
Helene nodded at Madam Campan. After arranging her glasses, the schoolmistress shuffled with the sheets and started theSerenade for Pliés, her elegant fingers flying over the piano keys.
Her pupils dipped into theirpliés, their arms moving in soft arcs, some too rounded, others stiff and angular, all glowing with the freshness of youth, filled with the hope and determination of dancers beginning their journey. In their crisp pinafores, they fluttered like petals in a gentle breeze.
Helene’s heart squeezed, and she brushed away a stray tear. Would she erase everything if she could? And go back to the barre, as fresh as them, a white canvas, untainted by the living? No. Helene rubbed her chest, and a shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Art was perfect, but the living was sublime.
Helene walked across her makeshift studio, correcting the girls’ positions. A touch on the shoulder, a gentle smile, a warm nod—it was all needed to give them self-confidence.
“When youplié, don’t let your posture slump. Keep the top of your head lifted to the ceiling, even as you are lowering to the floor. Ballet is about grace, but true grace comes when you know yourself. Even when you’re playing a part, remember who you really are. That’s what makes you shine.”
Aglaé brushed her blonde locks out of her face and gazed at Helene from her diminutive height, her expression crestfallen. “I can't be as beautiful as you are, Mademoiselle Helene."
Helene gently took her small arms, extending them gracefully. “The secret of a great ballerina is to find the beauty right here, inside your heart. Then, when you move, the world will see the beauty within.”
For her words, Helene earned a toothless smile and a flawless curtsy.
Madam Campan’s students came every day for her to teach them ballet, but Helene was the one who learned—learned to live through the pain, and learned that dance didn’t have to be showcased on a stage to inspire.
When the class ended, the girls gathered around her. “Can you show us? The turns?”
Helene had not felt like dancing since she arrived in France. But seeing their bright smiles... Perhaps it was time.
“Very well,” Helene said, positioning herself at the center of the orangery.
“When turning, whether it is a single soutenu or a whole diagonal of intricate spins, you must first find a spot.
“What is a spot, Mademoiselle?” Aglaé asked.
“The spot is the place where you fix your eyes on, and you return your look to that spot every time you spin. It is your safety, your balance. What keeps you moving.”
She caught Madam Campan’s eye, and with a swift nod, the invigorating notes ofLa Chasseburst forth.
Helene prepared a pirouette, choosing a blossoming vase of lilies as her spot. The bright melody pulsed in her, and she grinned, feeling alive for the first time in months. As the music picked up speed, the ground beneath her feet disappeared, her body aligning, ready to snap into action. Bending her knees in plié, she took impulse and turned once, twice, the momentum propelling her into a whirlwind of spins that flowed effortlessly across the floor.
